As they arrived at Count Taverin’s abode, the entire retinue below the butler appeared to be in a state of utter chaos. It seemed as though every prominent lady in existence had congregated here – from the illustrious Queen to the Duchess of Sethang and the Marchioness of Laisan, to other notables whom Iris did not even recognize.
Countess Taverin had passed away prematurely, and her eldest daughter, Justina, now held the reins of the family. Overwhelmed by surprise and astonishment, she dropped a curtsy as she greeted her queen:
“Your Highness, Justina of Taverin, welcomes you.”
Even the most obtuse among us could not fail to sense the palpable tension that hung over the entire mansion. Iris was left flummoxed as she considered whether her petulant outburst had contributed to this atmosphere. Silently pondering the situation, she looked to Justina, whose pace hastened under Iris’s expectant gaze.
“Why, why are you behaving like this?” Justina wondered, desperately attempting to figure out where she had erred in her etiquette.
Elena, perceptive as ever, gently apprised Iris of Justina’s predicament. Iris winced in regret:
“I apologize for my sudden visit.”
She quickly surveyed the surroundings, her eyes alighting on a multitude of noblewomen standing around her.
“I should not have come. How many people have I inconvenienced?” she wondered to herself, anxiously flicking her eyes around.
It was then that Elena spoke up on Iris’s behalf: “Your Highness, what transpired at the Taverin household this time was due to Miss Rosalyn’s condition. She is unwell.”
“What ailment afflicts her?” Justina’s eyes widened in alarm as she heard the news. Bedridden? Rosalyn? That woman!
Justina frowned, her patience worn thin by the sight of her sister locking herself away in her chambers, Margaret and Sarah looking rather uncomfortable in her presence. Gazing at Rosalyn’s haughty face, Justina found herself struggling to suppress the urge to slap her.
“I possess a certain aptitude for magic. I would like to see Miss Rosalyn, if I may,” Iris interjected, her voice trailing off uncertainly.
At a loss for words, Justina – much shorter than Iris – led the way, guiding her through the mansion’s halls to the drawing room. “It is rather shabby, but please wait here. I will go and fetch Rosalyn,” she said.
“She’s a patient, and I just wish to see her in her room. It’s alright, if that’s okay with you,” Iris replied.
Justina was taken aback by the request, unsure of what to do. Of course, it was alright. In truth, Rosalyn was not doing well, but Justina had no other recourse but to put on a brave face. Would it not be an affront to her queen, the one favored by the king and loved by the entire nation, if she did not allow her to see Rosalyn in her room? After all, it was a foregone conclusion that Iris would want to visit her.
As a clever maid ran upstairs to prepare Rosalyn, Justina attempted to pass the time by showing Iris around the mansion. However, her efforts were met with laughter from Elena, who quipped, “Of course, it’s alright. The visionary’s heart is always full of compassion, is it not?”
“Behold, My vision shall grace us with its presence, be it under the sunny skies or amidst the darkest of tempests, and it shall only bring honor and glory to the House of Count Taverin,” declared the Duchess of Sethang with an air of haughty pride, as she turned to Lady Justina for affirmation.
The atmosphere grew frigid, so cold that Justina shuddered like a quaking aspen. She could not fathom what wrong she had committed to have caught the scrutinizing gaze of the powerful Duchess and the Marquis of Laisan. Fear gripped her, making it impossible for her to even glance at her friend, Margaret, as she forced a trembling smile.
“Yes, of course, Your Grace. It is indeed a momentous occasion,” stammered Justina, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Miss Justina, are you feeling unwell? You seem to be suffering from some facial cramps,” remarked the queen, her delicate hand poised to touch the young lady’s cheek. But Justina recoiled as if scalded, petrified by the menacing aura emanating from the two queen bees. They smiled, but their eyes held a bloodcurdling warning.
How dare she cause concern for the queen? Did she wish to meet her doom? Justina could sense their unspoken threat, and her heart pounded wildly in her chest. She had spent many years in society as a lady, and yet she felt like a trembling child before these powerful figures.
“Oh no, Your Majesty, I am perfectly fine,” she stammered, desperate to escape their scrutiny. “I have never suffered from any stuttering before!”
“Let us proceed then,” commanded Justina, hurrying away from the group as fast as she could. She cared not whether Margaret was dressed in her nightgown or in her birthday suit; she would sell her soul for a moment’s reprieve from the watchful eyes of the Duchess Sethang and the Marchioness Laisan.
Behind her, Iris cocked her head curiously. Had Justina always been a stutterer? It was a peculiar observation that nagged at her mind.
Rosalyn knew her sister, Justina, well. Even as a child, Rosalyn had been aware of her sibling’s emotional nature, and so she had tried to rein in her own more impulsive tendencies. With two younger sisters to care for, Justina bore the burden of managing their household in the absence of their mother and father. Rosalyn had done her best to assist, but she was acutely aware of the limits imposed by their age difference.
When Rosalyn became the queen’s handmaid, she harbored many personal doubts and fears, but she resolved to be a pillar of support for her sister. It was a duty she took seriously, and when she was chosen as the Marchioness Sethang’s lady-in-waiting, Rosalyn was determined to excel in her role. But on that fateful day, she had made a grave mistake by not acknowledging her friend Margaret, a fellow daughter of the Taverin family.
Margaret had been standing beside her, a dignified young lady, but their fortunes had been vastly different. While Margaret had her sights set on becoming Duchess Jennes, Rosalyn knew that she could not hope to compete with such a formidable rival.
They had met by chance at a dress shop.
The dress shop was a haven of opulence and grandeur in the heart of the capital, but to Margaret, it was more than that. It was a symbol of her ascendance from rejection to adoration, a personal conquest of pride that she was determined to maintain at all costs. But her elevated status did not translate to magnanimity or grace. On the contrary, she was an exacting guest, demanding perfection from the dress shop workers with a cruel indifference to their humanity.
“Polish my shoes! Bring the car around! Where do you stand? Get on your knees!” Her words were laced with contempt, and the workers felt the full weight of her disdain.
She scoffed at the warm tea water, berating them for their incompetence. “I know next time I’ll be doused with cold water!” she sneered. Her demands for the finest dresses were unrelenting, always pushing for something more beautiful, and perfect than the last.
The workers were fed up with her constant berating, but they knew they could not refuse her. Margaret was on the cusp of becoming the Duchess, and they were merely living, earning their keep by connecting with noble society. So they endured her wrath, hoping that someday they could be free from her tyranny.
As they arrived at Count Taverin’s abode, the entire retinue below the butler appeared to be in a state of utter chaos. It seemed as though every prominent lady in existence had congregated here – from the illustrious Queen to the Duchess of Sethang and the Marchioness of Laisan, to other notables whom Iris did not even recognize.
Countess Taverin had passed away prematurely, and her eldest daughter, Justina, now held the reins of the family. Overwhelmed by surprise and astonishment, she dropped a curtsy as she greeted her queen:
“Your Highness, Justina of Taverin, welcomes you.”
Even the most obtuse among us could not fail to sense the palpable tension that hung over the entire mansion. Iris was left flummoxed as she considered whether her petulant outburst had contributed to this atmosphere. Silently pondering the situation, she looked to Justina, whose pace hastened under Iris’s expectant gaze.
“Why, why are you behaving like this?” Justina wondered, desperately attempting to figure out where she had erred in her etiquette.
Elena, perceptive as ever, gently apprised Iris of Justina’s predicament. Iris winced in regret:
“I apologize for my sudden visit.”
She quickly surveyed the surroundings, her eyes alighting on a multitude of noblewomen standing around her.
“I should not have come. How many people have I inconvenienced?” she wondered to herself, anxiously flicking her eyes around.
It was then that Elena spoke up on Iris’s behalf: “Your Highness, what transpired at the Taverin household this time was due to Miss Rosalyn’s condition. She is unwell.”
“What ailment afflicts her?” Justina’s eyes widened in alarm as she heard the news. Bedridden? Rosalyn? That woman!
Justina frowned, her patience worn thin by the sight of her sister locking herself away in her chambers, Margaret and Sarah looking rather uncomfortable in her presence. Gazing at Rosalyn’s haughty face, Justina found herself struggling to suppress the urge to slap her.
“I possess a certain aptitude for magic. I would like to see Miss Rosalyn, if I may,” Iris interjected, her voice trailing off uncertainly.
At a loss for words, Justina – much shorter than Iris – led the way, guiding her through the mansion’s halls to the drawing room. “It is rather shabby, but please wait here. I will go and fetch Rosalyn,” she said.
“She’s a patient, and I just wish to see her in her room. It’s alright, if that’s okay with you,” Iris replied.
Justina was taken aback by the request, unsure of what to do. Of course, it was alright. In truth, Rosalyn was not doing well, but Justina had no other recourse but to put on a brave face. Would it not be an affront to her queen, the one favored by the king and loved by the entire nation, if she did not allow her to see Rosalyn in her room? After all, it was a foregone conclusion that Iris would want to visit her.
As a clever maid ran upstairs to prepare Rosalyn, Justina attempted to pass the time by showing Iris around the mansion. However, her efforts were met with laughter from Elena, who quipped, “Of course, it’s alright. The visionary’s heart is always full of compassion, is it not?”
“Behold, My vision shall grace us with its presence, be it under the sunny skies or amidst the darkest of tempests, and it shall only bring honor and glory to the House of Count Taverin,” declared the Duchess of Sethang with an air of haughty pride, as she turned to Lady Justina for affirmation.
The atmosphere grew frigid, so cold that Justina shuddered like a quaking aspen. She could not fathom what wrong she had committed to have caught the scrutinizing gaze of the powerful Duchess and the Marquis of Laisan. Fear gripped her, making it impossible for her to even glance at her friend, Margaret, as she forced a trembling smile.
“Yes, of course, Your Grace. It is indeed a momentous occasion,” stammered Justina, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Miss Justina, are you feeling unwell? You seem to be suffering from some facial cramps,” remarked the queen, her delicate hand poised to touch the young lady’s cheek. But Justina recoiled as if scalded, petrified by the menacing aura emanating from the two queen bees. They smiled, but their eyes held a bloodcurdling warning.
How dare she cause concern for the queen? Did she wish to meet her doom? Justina could sense their unspoken threat, and her heart pounded wildly in her chest. She had spent many years in society as a lady, and yet she felt like a trembling child before these powerful figures.
“Oh no, Your Majesty, I am perfectly fine,” she stammered, desperate to escape their scrutiny. “I have never suffered from any stuttering before!”
“Let us proceed then,” commanded Justina, hurrying away from the group as fast as she could. She cared not whether Margaret was dressed in her nightgown or in her birthday suit; she would sell her soul for a moment’s reprieve from the watchful eyes of the Duchess Sethang and the Marchioness Laisan.
Behind her, Iris cocked her head curiously. Had Justina always been a stutterer? It was a peculiar observation that nagged at her mind.
Rosalyn knew her sister, Justina, well. Even as a child, Rosalyn had been aware of her sibling’s emotional nature, and so she had tried to rein in her own more impulsive tendencies. With two younger sisters to care for, Justina bore the burden of managing their household in the absence of their mother and father. Rosalyn had done her best to assist, but she was acutely aware of the limits imposed by their age difference.
When Rosalyn became the queen’s handmaid, she harbored many personal doubts and fears, but she resolved to be a pillar of support for her sister. It was a duty she took seriously, and when she was chosen as the Marchioness Sethang’s lady-in-waiting, Rosalyn was determined to excel in her role. But on that fateful day, she had made a grave mistake by not acknowledging her friend Margaret, a fellow daughter of the Taverin family.
Margaret had been standing beside her, a dignified young lady, but their fortunes had been vastly different. While Margaret had her sights set on becoming Duchess Jennes, Rosalyn knew that she could not hope to compete with such a formidable rival.
They had met by chance at a dress shop.
The dress shop was a haven of opulence and grandeur in the heart of the capital, but to Margaret, it was more than that. It was a symbol of her ascendance from rejection to adoration, a personal conquest of pride that she was determined to maintain at all costs. But her elevated status did not translate to magnanimity or grace. On the contrary, she was an exacting guest, demanding perfection from the dress shop workers with a cruel indifference to their humanity.
“Polish my shoes! Bring the car around! Where do you stand? Get on your knees!” Her words were laced with contempt, and the workers felt the full weight of her disdain.
She scoffed at the warm tea water, berating them for their incompetence. “I know next time I’ll be doused with cold water!” she sneered. Her demands for the finest dresses were unrelenting, always pushing for something more beautiful, and perfect than the last.
The workers were fed up with her constant berating, but they knew they could not refuse her. Margaret was on the cusp of becoming the Duchess, and they were merely living, earning their keep by connecting with noble society. So they endured her wrath, hoping that someday they could be free from her tyranny.
