Oh hark, do you hear it? The sound of the roosters song, morning after morning, as always. The years have passed gently as springs wind, with not even winters biting cold to put a damper on her growth — for she had become every bit the young Lady that her mother wished her to be : growing tall, body slim, hair retaining its lustrous sheen, wafting rose scented oils with each breeze and bounce the girl ventured to make. Trained to hold a countesses manners, in table and in conversation, when her mother was around. Stalking over her, clutched into the slender shoulders so as to prevent mistakes from being spoken, athirst as vultures over the rotting carrion. Qistina could feel the gaze boring into the back of her head, burning all lessons and trials into her mind. The snap of the wooden cane against her small, innocent knees, in attempts to keep her back straightened, the pattern lessons in various fabrics she'd never even heard of ( the silks, taffeta, velvet, alpaca ) with different hand-cramping techniques and devices to keep her occupied from all other desired ventures.

Various scarves, vests, socks, blouses, trousers, belts, caps and gowns for bed dressings, tablecloths, blankets and patchwork — her hands were so pinched together day to day it felt as if they would remain that way for the rest of her life! Granted, her embroideries had become less crumpled and sloppy since she'd begun a few years prior, now rivalling even mothers, but she would have rather played amongst the other children her age, or even beside Agatha and Thomas, before even Thomas grew too old to want to play with her. According to mother, it was all in preparation for her upcoming bridal days, hopefully in several more years time. After all, she still did not know how to read. She still did not know Alchemy, but she would know a husband before she reached too old of an age. If becoming a wife would lead to learning, then she supposed it would not have been so bad to give it a try.

For who is to maintain her when her father is dead? Why, myself, she thinks, myself. If able to read, surely it would be her that cares for herself. For she was taught how to keep the home clean, sewn the holes of their poorly tailored cotton and cloths, knowledgeable in cooking to some degree ( capable of making decent meals for the family ), honed in the daggerwork involved with skinning game and preparing fish — indeed, Qistina could certainly do all the caring for herself that any husband could! Even with coin, she could have her work cut out for her surely, but —

thoughts cut short as mother enters the room with more linens to sew, this time another dress for her to wear with the ever-horrible wimple that she had hated so very much. Hair was meant to be free, as were her hands and feet. Mother had complained constantly of her daughters choices but this was a hill that Qistina had been willing to perish upon. Always she would argue 'if we were meant to wear wimples, god would have made sure I was born with them! ', showing her age, and mother, unable to do battle with her daughter and a ridiculous argument such as that, would acquiesce and set upon the table more things for her daughter to practice on. Today it was family patterns, akin to the pattern sewn into her favorite kaftan.

Unfortunate that the kaftan had not grown alongside her, so she had been forced to place the pattern on different cloth. After her begging and pleading not to wear the normal tunics of girls her age went unnoticed, Qistina had been plucked from the safety of that loose kaftan and fitted into a kirtle. The hue was a pale, blushing pink, and the fabric hinted at patterns of rose buds throughout, so subtle that one had to stare closely at her clothes to make it out. The color suited her fine, pairing up against her deeply brown skin and silvery long plait. She wonders if she would look like a princess if given a diadem, or the daughter of some rich alchemist from outside the kingdom, not the daughter of a farmer and hunter for the village.

Nevertheless it was a beautiful kirtle, one fit for her newly budding body, hem long to reach past her heels so that she could grow comfortably, but it was not something she wanted to wear everyday. In fact, she'd rather wear her smock than that kirtle. At least with the smock she could properly play.

" Stop dawdling, child. Your needlework still needs improvement. " mother says, finishing her sewing on the lower hems' frays.

Qistinas' ruby red eyes had drifted listlessly to the large, open window that lead outside. With its warmed air breezing in scents of ginger, peat, and delicate breads, spring seemed to mock her desire to leave the home.

" I do desire some food before I continue. "       she says, promptly adding,     " Keep my hands steady. They'll fall off if I don't keep myself healthy, and I've gone and ruined this pattern not once but thrice, mother. Can't I? Can't I please? "

Her mother gave her a deeply troubled sigh in response, waving her hand as if to say 'if you must '. cautiously, she rose from her seat and gently placed the fabric back on the table, needle and threads settled in the middle like precious jewels, and made way for the outside, slipping on shoes as she left.

Now free, she greets the day with new fervor. The birds singing no longer sound as mockery but soft tunes that not even the bards could muster to repeat. Her arms stretch far and wide whilst making her way through the familiar paths to Mrs. Castiglioni and her bakery, taking in that air, appreciating her freedom for the hour. If only her siblings were here. Agatha who was still in lessons, Thomas who lie sickly in bed, and Edward, who had not been seen for years. She'd be riding on his shoulders, he'd be holding Thomas and Agatha with each hand, and they would be happy.

The once beaming smile sunk like rock upon the lake, its ripples felt across the heart and throat as a storm. She stops in her tracks, tranced by her own sadness, but is just as suddenly reprieved by the barking of a small animal — a dog. A small dog with a smaller face and eyes like buttons, its pointed ears skyward and curly tail fluffed up and swayed with happiness. How moments like this make one forget all their problems. . .

Qistina reached forward to allow the dog to sniff her, as was taught by her father and Edward when she was a girl, but the dog turned and trotted off through home and business until she could hardly see it anymore. She beckons the dog to return but it only spins and continues to dart back and forth. The dog runs, and so she runs after it. Running. Running until her chest had begun to pound rhythmic warnings against the cage of her ribs, laughing loudly as the chase for the dog was near meeting its end, running directly toward the wall until there was no other path but left and right.

Even when getting to the wall, thinking she is triumphant in their little race, the dog turned and suddenly ran left and into the wall itself! But she had not been seeing things, twas only the hole in the wall that the dog disappeared, not her imaginations. Time seemed to stand still at that very moment, but not even this could stop the manic thrumming of her heart, loudly proclaiming that she must win this little race. She steps forward. Turns her back to the wall. And then finally, turns back toward it. The hole was a perfect circle — just big enough for an adult to bend his body and enter, but perfect enough that she could lower her head and enter without issue. The true issue of entering the hole would be the outside world that lurks beyond it. Full of all manner of creature. Of bear and deer and fantastic monsters, just like the one that nearly stole her life when she was a child. The dog appears again, yipping at her with its high bark. If she were to turn her back now, how would the dog survive? It was so small. So very very small just like her. If Edward had been with her, she knew he would not have hesitated in protecting it.

She lowered her head, held her breath, and disappeared through the hole in the castle wall.