It was mid-day when Abreigelle woke from her sleep. A shaft of white light filtered in through the only window in the room—a rectangular hole which was situated just inches from the ceiling. She might have been able to squeeze through it if it hadn't been fitted with iron bars.

Her back hurt. Her feet hurt. Everything felt sore. The thin blanket she had found and laid on the floor was a lousy excuse for a bed, and all night she had shivered from the frigid breeze that blew in through the open window. The dress that had once been clean and beautiful had transformed into a dirty, burdensome piece of fabric. When she couldn't take the chill anymore, she had torn off the outer layer of her skirt and used it as a blanket. Even after that, it hadn't been much easier to get to sleep.

That day was a lot of waiting, and a lot of regretting.

Things would never be the same after this. Beshna might never trust her again, and Abreigelle would never trust herself to keep her promises.

At age eight, all of the young children born to the other servants were assigned a job which they would carry out until the day they died. It wasn't a completely random process--sometimes, if the administrator saw that a child possessed a special talent, she would place that child into a position that could compliment that talent. Lenore, for instance, had a particular inclination to keep everything straight and orderly, so she was placed in the sewing and knitting room, where she could stitch up the Varner's clothing with the finest precision. Other children were not so lucky, and were stuck cleaning out the horses' stalls or scrubbing the floors for the rest of their lives.

Abreigelle never knew why she had been chosen to work for Beshna, though it was something that she always wondered about. Side by side, Beshna and Abreigelle had grown up--one, as an aristocrat, and the other as a servant. For ten years Abreigelle had fetched her Lady's water, helped pick out dresses, and combed through silvery hair about hundred thousand times. And they'd talked and talked, and laughed together, but despite that, their relationship had always been something just short of a friendship. Beshna was never afraid to put Abreigelle in her place.

Still, Abreigelle understood that she had been blessed with a job that not only let her talk and bring joy to another, but also to read and write and learn about things that other servants never could. She had heard all sorts of stories from the library, and hells, she'd even been able to attend the New Year's Ball. She was the luckiest little girl in the servant's household to be chosen as Lady Beshna's personal handmaiden all those years ago. Although, with everything that had happened, her luck might have just run out.

Abreigelle spent the rest of the morning rummaging through the crates, trying to look for something that would make living down here more bearable. A blanket, some warm socks, or some food would be nice, but there was nothing here except old pewter dishes, bottles of wine, and a bunch of books that had gone moldy and unreadable. She didn't dare look at her hidden stash—those memories wouldn't serve her well at this time, especially since one in particular was still so fresh.

After hours of sitting on the floor aimlessly, Abreigelle suddenly heard a sound—a voice calling her name. She surged onto her feet and ran over to the window, clamping her hands around the metal crossbars. Lenore.

Lenore had to stoop down and sit on her knees just to reach Abreigelle's eye level. She wore an angry frown on her face as she caught a glimpse of the cellar's interior. "Are you ok?" she asked.

Abreigelle nodded. Sort-of ok, besides the fact she was locked in a makeshift prison.

"Monfreid told us what happened at the ball." Her head bobbed. "I can't believe that Lord Varner did this to you. He was probably drunk last night and didn't know what he was thinking."

"No. It was entirely my fault. I was the one who accepted Rashtar's invitation."

"Don't you say that." She hissed, her brown eyes flashing, "If it is anyone's fault then it's Rashtar's. He shouldn't have asked you in the first place."

That sounded reasonable, but Lord Varner wouldn't accept any excuses. "I can't undo his orders. No one can, Lenore. I'm stuck here for two weeks."

"Not if I break you out."

"No." Abreigelle insisted. "We'll only get into more trouble. I can handle myself, and I have to show them that I can endure this. If I suddenly run away not only will Lord Varner take it out on you, but he'll get the impression that I'm cowardly as well as disobedient."

A look of pure distaste crossed Lenore's face. "If you could only hear yourself." She shook her head, reaching behind her back and pulling out a twine-bound package. "Take this." Lenore slipped it though the bars. "Fresh clothes and a blanket. You'll need it."

Abreigelle sighed with relief. Lenore always knew what she needed and when she needed them. "Thanks." She whispered, setting the package down on the top of a nearby barrel.

But when she turned back to the window, there was someone else there next to Lenore, kneeling down and gazing inwards. The woman's hair was bound tightly in a bun, but the split ends sticking out created a halo around her head in the mid-day light. She had warm chestnut eyes, tanned skin, and gentle wrinkles on her cheeks from smiling too much. It was a face Abreigelle knew by heart. "Mom." she breathed.  There was something about seeing her mother there that broke her heart into pieces.

"Oh Honey," the older woman said, reaching through the bars. Abreigelle stood on her tip-toes, grasping her mother's hand in her own. Both of them were crying. "I'm so sorry."

Seeing her here now, felt so, so strange, and so comforting, but it hurt so bad. Her mother had aged in the past few years from all of the extra work that had kept her away from dawn until dusk. Streaks of grey now drowned out the lightness in her brown hair, and there were permanent dark circles under her eyes. All that her mother had done...it was all for Abreigelle and Lenore, to keep them under a roof at night. Abreigelle recognized that love in her mother's face today, and burned straight through the look of weariness that she wore so often.

"I'm okay. Really." It was a struggle to smile.

"I know." Her mother's grip tightened. "Annaliese let me out of the kitchens for an hour, just so I could come see you. Lenore told me about last night, and how beautiful you looked. Your father would be so proud."

Abreigelle was sobbing now. My father. My father...

"You have to stay strong. For him." Said her mother, "Never give up hope, remember? He was a dreamer just like you are, and he dreamed that one day his daughter would dance with the highest of stars.

One weepy laugh escaped her throat.

"He dreamed that his daughter might define happiness for herself, and not let others tell her what she should and should not feel." A warm hand cupped Abreigelle's cheek. "You shouldn't be afraid to be yourself."

Abreigelle choked, "But what if everything I really am... what if...what happens when I've make a mistake?"

The older woman shook her head, "Nobody's perfect, Abreigelle, so don't define yourself by what you've done wrong and what you cannot change. Only work towards a better future."

The words stung somewhere deep inside, which was how Abreigelle knew that they were true. She was right. There was nothing to be done about Beshna. The world would not stop turning—life would go on. Somehow or another, she would have to make the best of whatever was to come.

An hour passed, and Lenore and her mother left. Their visit had been too short, but Abreigelle knew that they'd come again as soon as they were able. Abreigelle slunk back onto the floor, and waited in silence, thinking not about who she had been, but about who she was going to be.

Never give up hope. That phrase kept repeating itself in her head.

....

Each morning, the cook would come down to drop off breakfast, which usually consisted of burned bread and a couple hard-boiled eggs. There was no lunch...and dinner was just the undesirable scraps from the Varner's meal. Abreigelle's stomach hurt from the lack of nutrition—she was skinny enough as it was, and this certainly didn't help.

Only two weeks in this hell-hole.

And hell-hole it was. On the third night, a rainstorm hit, sending blasts of icy wind into the cellar and sheets of water onto the floor. Thunder-blasts kept her up all night, and the next day, smelly, hot mud oozed down over the window sill. The food remained terrible and scarce. Abreigelle felt sick and weak the whole afternoon.

On the fifth day, Lenore visited her again, and brought her a cup filled with hot chicken broth. They talked for hours, Lenore complaining about suddenly having to work longer into the night, or about the bedroom they shared being too quiet and too tidy for comfort.

Before she left, Lenore gave her a scarf that she had knitted in her rapidly decreasing free time. Some of the stiches were sloppily done--a real departure from Lenore's usual impeccable work--but Abreigelle didn't mind one bit. The scarf was dandelion yellow, thick, and warm. It was like her own little ray of sunlight, and during the day, when it became too hot to wear around her neck, she wrapped it around her waist. After a few hot nights, she just decided to wear it around her waist all of the time.

As the seventh day dawned, she woke to find more visitors. Beshna's Swordfellows, dressed in their usual brown coats, stood outside her window. Abreigelle talked to each of them, thanking them for putting up with her at the ball. Evadrian, Asfounder, and Monfreid had each brought her a flower. But in the back...in the back of them stood Sid.

Now, Sid was shorter and scrawnier than the others, so his coat appeared almost ridiculous on him. He looked be too young to be in the army, and he always had this look on his face like he was in pain. Especially now he looked like he was fighting back something, even when a smile managed to creep across his face.

When Sid bent down to give Abreigelle his flower, he didn't say a word, there was only gentle acknowledgement in his eyes—those droopy eyes which were a mismatched blue and amber. There were things between them that she knew he would never speak of in front of the others. Abreigelle respected that, and she smiled back, accepting the rose.

That night, Abreigelle fell asleep next to a bouquet of fragrant flowers, thinking about her friends and her family. After she got out of this cellar, she swore that she would never cause trouble again, less they suffer by her actions. It was time for her to grow up, and time for her to move on. This was going to be a turning point in her life, she knew it. And she slept better than she had in days.

Until a sudden fluttering sound woke her—hundreds of fluttering sounds.