Disclaimer: All of the characters in this story belong to Matsuri Hino. No copyright infringement intended; this story is strictly for entertainment and not for profit.

Chapter One: The Silver Doll

"They're toys, Sara; never forget that." Her mother hadn't meant to be cruel. She was simply stating a fact of life. Still, looking out her window that day, she couldn't help but think that her mother was wrong. They were people. They laughed and cried and breathed and played—and lived. It was more than she was able to do.

So who was it, again, who was the toy?

"Sara," her mother's voice held a hint of warning in it, and she turned towards the sound obediently. The Lady of the Shirabuki household was radiant, her pale hair falling like a corona around her perfect face, but her glassy eyes held anything but compassion for her twelve-year-old daughter. "Are you even listening?"

"Of course, Mother," her voice was soft, like the wind teasing its way through bells, but it wasn't hesitant. She knew exactly what she wanted to say, exactly what she wanted her mother to hear. Everything about her was as soft and white as new-fallen snow, but that didn't mean that she was understated or pale—quite the opposite, in fact. Her hair curled about her shoulders and down to her waist like spun platinum, letting off an ethereal glow. Her face was round and seemingly flawless, her lips the pale pink of shells by the ocean side. Her eyes heavily-lashed, glassy, and wide, their stark color utterly at odds with the paleness of her complexion. As her father liked to say, laughing with a gleam in his eye—"My beautiful daughter, my little doll."

Weren't dolls toys, too?

"Just remember, my dear," her mother continued, her voice louder than Sara's had been, and more commanding, "this is you debut to our society. Every single person in that room tonight is beneath you. They mean nothing except for what pleasures you can wring from them. If they pay you a compliment, you accept it with a nod and a word of thanks; do not give them real smiles or gratitude. If they ask a favor of you, pretend to think it over before politely refusing. Understood?"

"Yes, Mother." Apparently satisfied, the older pureblood turned and left the room. Sara returned to staring out her window, examining each guest as they arrived. The delicate silks and finely-tailored suits they wore would have made them seem like mainstays at any corporate or high society event, but Sara knew them for what they really were. Anything but the docile nobles they appeared to be, beneath those facades of perfect features, wide eyes, and half smiles, were the hearts and minds of monsters. Pure instinct taught them to kill, and yet at times like these they accepted the yokes of society, making themselves appear proper and polite as they arrived to pay tribute to one of their princesses.

Her. She couldn't remember ever being told that she was a pureblood; she had always just simply known. And yet, looking at them arrive, seeing a husband placing a possessive and yet affectionate hand on his wife's shoulder, watching as children raced ahead, laughing, Sara knew for certain that her mother had been wrong. They weren't here for her amusement.

She was here for theirs.

"Sara-sama?" A low knock came at the door, and she rose begrudgingly to her feet, knowing what was coming next. "They're ready for you now."

Silver silk trailed behind her in a train as Sara left the room. Her dress was simpler than it seemed; a square-cut gown with an empire waist, and no embellishment apart from the edging of snowy white lace. Still, against her magnolia-petal skin and pale pink blush, it seemed like she was a goddess reborn, descending upon her subjects from the heavens.

Before she descended the staircase, Sara schooled her face into a blank, icy mask, just as she had been taught to all her life. A pureblood could show nothing of emotion, or pain—neither happiness nor sorrow was allowed to them. She knew this, and had accepted it. But it was still disconcerting to spy her own face in the hallway mirror as she passed—the face that stared back was not her own. It was the doll's, the perfect doll that belonged to her father and was trotted out at times like these to prove Sara's worth, even though it wasn't her.

Like a doll sitting on a shelf, she was picked up, dusted off, and put on display when it was convenient and necessary.

Ah, yes. The life of a pureblood princess certainly was enviable, Sara thought scathingly as she descended the steps. Her glass heels clicked against the white marble floor, and Sara found herself focusing on her own shadow. She heard the intake of breath as she became visible to everyone in the main hall; she saw them all deferentially lower their heads in respect. She was like an idol, a totem; they were seeing the latest Shirabuki princess.

They weren't seeing her.