Arabella

Corinna stands in front of me, glittering under the weight of what seems to be an entire jewelry store draped across her neck. I avoid looking directly at her. The sheer excess makes my stomach turn. It must be heavy, and I wonder if her neck aches or if the discomfort hasn’t quite set in yet.

A faint, unkind part of me is glad I am spared such burdens. I don’t have to endure layers of accessories, nor the judging stares that follow. Is it the latest trend? Are they expensive enough, or is the family embarrassing themselves with cheap trinkets?

But my relief sours quickly. Appearing at such a grand occasion dressed as a maid feels like humiliation has been taken and stitched into every thread of my plain dress.

The hooded cloak, at least, is a small victory, shielding me from prying eyes and the whispered judgments of the nobles. Not that any noble would care for the identity of a mere maid. Still, what if someone did recognize me? What shame would I bring to my father’s name appearing as a maid? The shame is likely what Isolde wanted with this idea of hers.

She had nearly forbidden me from wearing the cloak, insisting that I go without. It was one of the times I did not bow my head to her. Instead, I insisted that my hair would draw too much attention. Red hair is not common in Stormvalla. People would recognize me as the daughter of Henning Blanchard.

If the nobility—or worse, the king—saw me dressed as a servant, it would not only bring shame to House Blanchard but ignite a scandal that would tarnish her precious reputation, not just mine. That finally swayed her. She agreed, though not without a sneer and vicious comments on her most recent grievance against me.

I would not be surprised if she wanted people to see me, to recognize me. Isolde would delight in hearing gossip and slander about how far Arabella Blanchard has fallen. She rarely thinks these things through properly. Her obsession with making me miserable and ruining me, blinds her to how often she trips over her own schemes.

Isolde doesn’t look back as she sweeps in, Corinna trailing in her wake. A flick of her hand dismisses me. I blink, startled, and realize they have already been announced while I stood there brooding.

I slip away from behind them, clutching the ridiculous satchel she made me carry. It holds spools of thread matching the silver of their dresses, needles, pots of rouge and perfume, and other small necessities to tend to whatever whims they might have tonight. If Isolde or Corinna needs something, a servant will summon me, and I will fulfill my role as the dutiful dresser.

Escaping through a door, I find myself in a quiet garden. The ballroom looked suffocating, the short glimpse of it I caught before running away. Too many people and too many eyes.

I’ve spent most of my life like this, lingering in the background, trying to stay out of Isolde’s way. Even when Father was alive, he was rarely home. A battle here, a war there, always some meeting or celebration to attend. He was a hero to the kingdom, a hero to me. Yet, in his absence, Isolde was left free to shape the household into her personal fiefdom.

When he did return, when he picked me up and asked me how my days were with that loving smile, I could never bring myself to tell him what a cruel woman he had married. How could I? He had loved her, or at least thought he did. His image of her was so far removed from the truth that I feared shattering it would ruin him.

Instead, I endured. I told myself it was fine as long as I had him. I could pretend I loved the wretched woman for him.

My mother’s death when I was four left me with only fragments of memories. I remember her soft voice, a warm smile, and the words I love you. It is not much, but for me, it is enough. Better a few cherished moments than nothing at all. At least I know she loved me, even if Isolde never has.

Corinna, though, has a mother who loves her fiercely. There are often times it causes me envy. Isolde’s devotion may be suffocating and controlling, but it is still devotion.

When Corinna and I were still young, we were close. We used to sneak away from Isolde's watchful eyes to play. My sister had been freer then, more willing to smile and laugh.

We had promised to stay best friends forever, in the naive way only children can.

That was before. Before Father’s death shattered what little balance we had. Before Isolde’s control tightened like a vise around our lives.

After we lost our father, Corinna drifted away. She slipped into the role of her mother’s perfect daughter. Now, we rarely speak. When we do, it’s often insults from her. The few conversations we have had were strained and brittle.

Our bond is a fragile thing now—almost gone. Isolde’s abuse has fractured it beyond repair. I find it better to let it wither quietly than pretend it can be salvaged and pay the price for any failed attempts. No. I would rather avoid the girl’s company altogether.

I draw in a deep, grounding breath. Finally, my mind stills, and I glance around. My heart catches in my chest as I realize exactly where I’ve wandered. The famous Sky Gardens.

The stone paths wind gracefully before me. The edges are framed by golden poles that hold lanterns high above. Their soft, warm light falls over the scenery, casting gentle shadows among the flora.

To either side, there are vibrant blooms in beaming blues, reds, and purples. I’ve heard of these flowers. They were chosen and carefully tended so that they would always be blooming, no matter the season.

I spot what I think is a Zair growing nearby, which is a flower named after Ildris I’s wife. She is known as the most beautiful queen Stormvalla has ever seen, and if any woman deserved a flower named after her, it was Zair. It’s said she discovered the flower in her travels and no one truly knows how it stays in bloom, only that it does.

There is a legend told of how the flowers in Sky Garden were a gift from the gods to show how pleased they were with our will to survive and to build a home in a place no one else could. The flowers were meant to be a symbol of our resilience, staying strong and beautiful, blooming impossibly, no matter the situation.

Of course, the legend has never been confirmed as true.

I walk slowly, each step feeling almost reverent. My fingers trail over the smooth back of a wooden bench. It is obviously cared for with as much attention as anything else in the castle, but there is a well-worn edge to the wood, as if countless visitors have paused here, marvelling at the beauty just as I am now. Did my father ever stop here? My mother? Would they have touched this bench as I am? Or would they have chosen to sit on it instead?

Reaching up, I push back my hood. The cool night air brushes against my face, and the wild tangles of my red hair spill loose. The strands are more unruly than usual after being confined. I tuck a few strands behind my ear, but most of it remains a fiery halo.

I had long since given up hope of ever seeing this place. Sky Gardens has always been spoken of in hushed and awed tones, from nobles down to the lowest of servants. It is said to be a marvel of engineering and persistence. That it exists at all, perched high on the mountains where soil must be hauled with great effort, feels like a miracle. That I stand here now feels like another.

I move further along the path, the soft taps of my slippers against the stone the only sound in the garden—except the wind through the leaves of the trees. The scents of the flowers mix with the crisp mountain air, a blend so unlike the oppressive confines of the mansion. If this scent could be distilled into a perfume, it would command the highest price, and I would gladly pay it.

My father once promised me he would bring me to see the gardens personally on the night of my debut. I can see it—my father and I walking through the gardens, hand in hand as he tells me of his vision for our future. The image is bittersweet.

If my mother were alive as well, I could imagine her fussing over my gown, her voice gentle but insistent. Nothing at all like Isolde’s high-pitched, demanding tone. Mother would have made sure I looked perfect. She would have been proud, I think.

I stop and wipe my eyes. My chest tightens with the ache of loss, of all the things I will never have. A shadow moves in the corner of my vision. I turn my head sharply. Had I been followed after all? Or did Isolde send a servant to call for me? I hope not. I want to be as far away from her and Corinna as possible right now.

My gaze scans over the garden behind me. Nothing. Just the soft flicker of lanterns and the sway of flowers in the breeze. I breathe out, letting my gaze linger for only a moment as I settle my heart. There is nothing to be nervous about. Walking in the garden is not a crime.

I shake off my unease and continue walking. My thoughts drift back to what I’ve lost. I will never have my parents back. No matter how much time passes, it is a wound that does not heal. My life now is one of drudgery, every day dictated by Isolde’s whims. She controls everything—my comings and goings, my reputation, even my future.

Corinna might escape. She’ll marry some wealthy nobleman and move far away. But me? I have no such prospects. No dowry, no freedom, not even the faintest hope of a future beyond servitude.

My fingers clench the strap of the satchel slung over my shoulder. It is a weight I’ve grown accustomed to, much like everything else.

A sudden glimmer catches my eye. I stop, turning to face the source. Light spills from elegant windows carved into the mountain’s rock. The light inside illuminates what seems to be a gallery, and something gleams within.

The flash of gold has my attention. Trying to peek in, I take a step closer.