"Marinette!"

"Yes?"

Chloe Bourgeois furiously flapped her fan, frowning. The windows were wide open, trying to welcome the slightest whisper of wind. The sun shone in streaks through the balcony into her bedroom, casting light on the rolls of rayon and cotton sitting, standing against the walls and on the floors of her bedroom.

"Hurry it up! I haven't all day to wait."

"Yes, ma'am."

Standing in front of the blonde lounging on her chasse lounge, was Marinette pinning a motley of fabrics to a mannequin. A sheen of sweat shimmered on her forehead in the shine of the sun.

"How, is this, ma'am?" Marinette asked, half-sighing.

"Hmm…" Chloe jutted her bottom lip out, squinting. But in less than a second, she said, "No. It's terrible. I'll look fat in that dress!"

She threw her fan across the room, frustrated. "Ughhh!"

She rested her forehead on her fist, and sighed.

"If you can't clean my house, neither can you even make me a decent dress to wear," she groaned through gritted teeth, "you are the worst housemaid and seamstress in the country!"

Marinette's eyes stared into the ground. It felt as if her eyes were going to roll out of their sockets.

Well, it's not like you have any taste… your servants always pick what you wear…

"Talk about dreams, Marinette. Talk about being the best seamstress in the kingdom," Chloe went on relentlessly. "Talk about designing the dresses of the future queen and princesses to come."

Marinette's chest tightened, as if the screws sealing her anger were trying to suppress her growing anger.

"Tsk, tsk," tutted Chloe, and with a 'bam!', she knocked the mannequin to the ground.

"Clean."

Chloe chassed out the room, giggling to herself.

What a spoilt brat.

Marinette groaned and got to work, picking up the pins and needles.

Why is she so mean…

The mayor's a nice man, and he's got this… nasty girl for a daughter…

She heard a chorus of cackles from downstairs.

Sabrina's come over. More work to do…

Once she had finished, she huddled the rolls in her arms and steadily stepped down the stairs. She would return for the threads and the needles later.

Her eyes caught a glimpse of Chloe and Sabrina having tea in the living room. It smelled of jasmine. They were laughing away at something Chloe said, probably about Marinette's dumb dresses and dreams. Marinette rolled her eyes and made her way to the basement, where all the cleaning supplies were.

It was evening. The sun had begun to set; shades of orange, yellow, violet and purple layered beneath and on top of each other like a layered cake. Marinette walked in the shadows of the shops cast by the dim, eerie flames of the gaslights. Her hands held her sooty skirts, avoiding catching as much as possible the dust being kicked up from boots on the streets and the clopping of horses down the road.

The air was musty, dusty, and dirty with smoke from the chimneys. The folk were setting their hearths aflame, the wives and daughters preparing either stew or soup for dinner. Marinette tried not to breathe as much as possible as she hurried her way home to her father's bakery, remembering her father's fresh bread and her mother's amazing mushroom soup.

"Mama! Papa! I'm home!" she shouted as she slipped into the safety of the cozy warm bakery from the tide of the crowd. She walked to the back of the shop, through the baskets of buns and trays of pastries. Behind, was a kitchen, where the warmth wafted from. There, she saw her father removing a loaf from the oven.

"Papa!"

"Marinette!" She walked into her father's half-embrace as he slid the loaf on a rack to cool. "How was your day?"

"It was good," answered Marinette, remembering Chloe's little outburst. "Where's Mama?"

"Mama is delivering some loaves to the mayor's, honey." Her father wiped the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. "Dinner will be ready soon. Go wash up."

"Okay." Marinette was going up the stairs, built on one side of the kitchen. Beneath the staircase were shelves storing flour, sugar and jars of spices and herbs.

In the building of the bakery, the first floor was the shop. The second floor was where most of the living quarters were: a living room, a small bathroom and her parents' bedroom. The third floor was Marinette's bedroom; filled with fabrics, mannequins and drawings. Her bedroom was connected to a small balcony upstairs, where rarely any plants grew, save for the little weeds waving during the winds – Marinette didn't think any flowers would grow in the pollution of Paris.

Marinette stripped off her skirts, kicked off her knickers and began to start the shower. Warm water was a luxury for the moderate, middle-class Parisians. Unfortunately for Marinette, she shivered as the shower spilled down her back. She began to daydream again…

She was living in the quarters of the castle, with the other famous seamstresses. Everyday, she would be in demand to make measurements and modifications to the designs of the dresses, drawn specially for the ladies of the court and castle. She would sew the most stunning of dresses for the princesses and suits for the princes, the pride of every ball in France!

Then, her family would work in the castle as the royal cooks, probably, if they wanted to move from their life in the cramped city.

And, oh, Prince Adrien Agreste… That boy, the prince, is a popular one among the Parisian, no, of all the girls in France!

Aah…

"Marinette?"

Marinette snapped out of her daydream. "Marinette?" her mother's voice called. "Marinette?"

"Mama?!"

"Marinette," her mother's voice called. "Dinner is ready!"

How long had she been daydreaming? Her fingertips were wet and wrinkled. She wrapped a towel around and ran up the stairs to her bedroom.

"Yeah, Mama! Five minutes!"