Arabella

Blanchard Mansion’s dining room is chaos dressed in luxury. It looks as though every renowned emporium in Sky Citadel’s fashion district had emptied its wares into the room in an attempt to dress up this old hall into something it hasn’t been in a long time.

Silk dresses, extravagant gowns with too many frills, and glittering finery are strewn everywhere. Servants scurry back and forth, their arms laden with garments. Their heads are bowed as if doing so might hide them from Isolde Ashford Blanchard’s cold gaze.

She stands at the center of it all, commanding the chaos like a queen in her very own court. Not that I could ever see His Majesty King Ildris III willing to accept the hand of such a controlling woman.

The king is said to be a man of battle, a warrior rather than a politician. Then again, my father had accepted her hand in marriage, and if there was any man in Stormvalla who was one of battle, it was my father—Commander Henning Blanchard. Perhaps it's not as far-fetched an idea as I wish it to be. Perhaps men like the king and my father would consider it another type of battlefield to conquer.

Isolde’s icy-blonde hair is pinned in an elaborate style with every strand in its place. She's dressed in a silver gown weighed down with so many jewels it borders on the absurd. It gleams in the sunlight streaming through the towering windows.

She doesn’t raise her voice once. There is no need. A single glance from her sharp, silver eyes is enough to send anyone into a flurry of action. I linger near the doorway, wanting to be anywhere but here, yet not willing to seek her wrath by leaving without permission.

Isolde gestures imperiously to a group of servants carrying in yet another collection of dresses. “Lay those out properly,” she commands.

“Arabella.” Her voice cuts through the air, her gaze locking onto me.

I step forward, careful to keep my expression neutral and my thoughts to myself. She doesn’t need to know I think that she’s wasted far too much of our limited funds over the years on this pathetic collection. “Yes, Lady Blanchard?”

She points at the batch of gowns, her sharp eyes narrowing as though she’s daring me to displease her. “Display these properly. Corinna will need to review them.”

“Of course.” I curtsy, making my voice soft, deferential—the way she likes it.

Years of practice have taught me that resistance only makes her dig her claws in deeper. Besides, Isolde no longer punishes me when I fail. No, she punishes the servants, and I can’t bear to see that happen again.

Stepping forward, I take a few dresses from a struggling maid. The fabric is cool and smooth. It's far too expensive for something Corinna will scarcely wear more than once. “Careful,” I say to the maid, keeping my voice quiet. “We’ll get through this.”

Her smile shakes at my reassurance. She must be new. Between the dwindling budget and Isolde’s nasty attitude, it's become hard to keep servants. There are better households to work for. If I could, I would have joined them all in leaving. At least in another noble household I’d be a paid servant.

We work together to drape the gowns across the mannequins. My father would never have stood for this. He wouldn’t have allowed Isolde to behave this way, not toward the servants and certainly not toward me. Losing him in the Battle of Brecan wasn’t just the loss of a father—it was the end of my freedom.

Isolde’s attention shifts to her very own pride and joy, Corinna Blanchard. She is perched on a fainting couch she must have had a servant bring in, looking like a porcelain doll come to life. Corinna is another icy-blonde, a younger clone of her mother.

Her own silver eyes sweep over the dresses with a practiced air of disdain. Unlike her mother, Corinna is more tolerable, which might not last long, as she’s unfortunately becoming more like Isolde with each passing day.

There was a time in our girlhood where we used to be close. We would play together all hours of the day, but that was when we were still young, when Father was alive. Back then, life was far better.

She’s dressed in layers of lace and jewels—the kind of outfit that screams, Look at me. Who exactly she thinks she’s impressing I’m not sure. The servants? None of them are impressed with her. They’re more likely to ridicule than praise her—out of earshot, of course.

“Fix this one,” Isolde snaps and points to the dress I’ve just arranged. “It looks like you dragged it through the streets.”

Corinna glances at the dress as well and frowns. “Mother is right. Can you never do anything properly, Arabella?” She gives a dramatic sigh, as though dealing with an unruly child.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from rolling my eyes. Isolde has spent months preparing for this moment. She’s groomed her daughter to dazzle the eligible young men of Sky Citadel.

Marriage is the cornerstone of the aristocratic circle Corinna wishes to enter. It's the ultimate prize for her and her mother. It feels like some silly game to me, one they relish in playing, even if it’s as hollow and empty as the mannequins holding her frivolous gowns.

“Better?” I ask after fixing the nonexistent problems with the dress.

“Barely.” Isolde clicks her tongue. “The ball is Friday night. We don’t have much time to prepare the perfect ensemble.” She shoots me a glare. “And it must be perfect. This is Corinna’s first proper presentation at the royal court, and she must make an impression. Every eligible young nobleman in Sky Citadel will be watching.”

Corinna sits straighter, preening like a cat under a sunbeam. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll be the star of the evening.”

I focus on adjusting the hem of another gown, wondering if any of said noblemen would notice that these dresses weren’t the newest on the market. If they didn’t, well, they would be a good match intellectually for Corinna.

She probably already has a list of the wealthiest, most sought-after suitors memorized. I snort softly to myself. I want no part in this silly charade.

I glance up, catching my reflection in one of the mirrors lining the wall. My flaming red hair and pale skin are a contrast to Isolde and Corinna’s icy beauty. I’ve been told countless times by some of the older servants—the ones loyal to House Blanchard—that I am the spitting image of my father.

His portrait hangs in his old study. It was moved there at my request after he passed, and the room became my sanctuary. I often go there to feel close to him, to remember the warmth that used to fill this house.

“Arabella.” Corinna’s shrill voice cuts through my thoughts, and I resist the strong urge to sigh. “Fetch the perfumes and fans. I want to see what matches best.”

“And the shoes. We’ll need to see them all together,” Isolde adds, without even looking at me.

“Yes, Lady Blanchard.” I curtsy again, then turn, motioning for a few servants to follow me.

As we make our way to Corinna’s room, I feel their pitying gazes. This is not the first, nor will it be the last time, I’ve endured such glances. Pretending not to notice, I smile and ask, “How has your week been?”

One of them—an older servant named Peter—speaks up. “The markets have been bustling this week, my lady. A number of performers and foreign traders have passed through Stormvalla.”

Another servant—Helena, who was once my personal maid—nods and smiles joyfully at me. “There was even a storyteller weaving tales about his travels through all the kingdoms in Altheim. You would have loved it, my lady.”

Slowly the others began to chime in, recounting their own merry stories of their time outside the mansion, which has become my prison cell. The world outside these walls has begun to feel distant, but their words make it seem a little closer.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone out there even remembers me—the daughter and heir of Commander Henning Blanchard. I remember the days I would stand tall and proud at his side. Now I’m just a servant in my own home.

We return to the dining room with our arms full—perfumes in ornate glass bottles, fans painted with delicate scenery, and slippers embroidered with tiny pearls.

We set them in the first clear space we can find on the dining table. Corinna rushes over to inspect them. I spot a particularly beautiful fan amongst the dozens. The surface is hand-painted with a scene of a garden in twilight—undoubtedly done by some famous painter. I open it to see the image better.

Corinna takes it from me and flicks it open. She fans herself with over-the-top elegance. “This fan is far too pretty for someone like you, Arabella.”

“Of course.” Without looking up from the shoes she’s inspecting, Isolde adds, “Plain and filthy as she is, her mere touch would stain it.”

I stiffen and Corinna shifts, discomfort briefly crossing her features. Corinna seems to shake whatever decency came to the surface for that short moment and sighs dramatically. She looks at me with faux sympathy. “You must be so jealous, left behind while Mother and I attend the ball. I suppose it’s for the best, though. You’d only embarrass yourself.”

The only embarrassment to this household is their untamable greed and ridiculous scheming. And jealousy? I would much rather spend the evening in the study with my father’s painting, reading a good book—perhaps The Fall of Ilem Isola.

I began reading the book—a historical account of an empire conquered through the use of magic—and had been forced to put it down in order to attend to my duties. I longed to learn more about the island country but hadn’t been able to find time.

Magic is a dangerous subject, one that could get you shunned or worse, but the stories fascinate me. I would trade all the gaudy silk and jewels in this house for a quiet evening alone reading about it.

But before I can escape into that perfect fantasy, Isolde’s voice cuts straight through it with no mercy. “No. Arabella will be coming with us.”

My head snaps up in shock. Surely, I misheard. Isolde has not taken me anywhere since my father’s death.

The woman smiles, making my stomach churn with the realisation that whatever is about to come out her mouth will be no good for me. “She’ll come as our maid, of course. Someone has to serve us in case we need anything.”