Yes my little pony is growing up fast
She corrects me and says
"You mean a thoroughbred"
A look in her eyes says the battle's beginning
From school she comes home and cries
I don't want to grow up Mom at least not tonight

"She's just a girl with her ribbons undone," shouted Franzen, and of course Sandry heard him through the door and the tapestry. She found the end of her single, womanly braid and stroked the ribbon there, a ribbon that would never betray her and come undone.

"She has done twice for the realm in her twenty years than you have done in your forty," remarked the Duke, surprisingly calm. Sandry knew that she shouldn't be eavesdropping, that she should just go in the room and make herself known, but an old fear seized her; something she couldn't name. "You'll still have your allowance and your lands, you won't have the realm."

"You don't want it anyway," said Gospard, the Duke's eldest son, Admiral of his Navy. "You've taken after Uncle Mattin. You want the money but not the responsibility -- you've never taken any responsibility in your life, you shirked your duties in the Navy, you can barely keep your wife."

"She doesn't even have a proper husband! She hasn't even done her duty as a noble woman. She should be producing Namornese heirs, not taking my inheritance." Franzen's voice made Sandry remember her old fear. She was good for naught, but to be waited on and married. She buried her face in her hands, and kept herself from crying by breathing the way Niko taught her when she was 10.

There was a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, and Baron Erdogun fer Baigh, the Duke's seneschal and Sandry's friend, smiled at her. "You should undo his ribbons," he said. "But try not to tie him up in the remains." While Erdogun had braced her, she wished that she had Lark on her elbow, or Tris. Where was the bravery her siblings seemed to expect from her? Why was she ten years old again?

Erdogun nodded towards the door, "Marchioness," he said. "It's time you made your entrance."

Sandry came into the room, resplendent in her gown, stitched by her own hand. Gospard bowed, recognizing her as the heir to the throne. Franzen sneered. Sandry curtsied in reply. "I understand that you both must have many concerns," she said, as kindly as she could.

"I am concerned with a dispossessed Narmonese wench who upstarts her place!" cried Franzen. The Duke stepped across the room and slapped him.

"I am a Great Mage, trained at Winding Circle, with professional ties to every land surrounding the Pebbled Sea. I am the Cousin of the Empress of Namorn, and though I am not personally in favor, my cousin Landreg has the assembly of Nobles mostly under his control. I have served the people of this realm in the matters of law, matters of state, matters of purse since His Grace, the Duke, took ill six years ago. This is my place. Where is yours?" She was not just a girl. She was a woman, a mage, and a Marchioness, heir to the throne of Emelan. The people loved her. They didn't know him.

"Landreg ass," he muttered. Gospard moved towards him, manner threatening.

"Thoroughbred Emelan horse," she corrected. "I cannot see how you might make the mistake." She didn't want to alienate him. But perhaps she could afford to. The last six years of being the Duke's hostess gave her many professional and personal connections to most of the Duke's other nobility -- her nobility. They should not rally around Franzen. She didn't want to grow up, at least not like this, but it seems that her hand was forced.

Franzen's jaw clenched, eyes flashed. He did not reply. Perhaps he would never be gracious. But he'd have to grow to accept it. Sandry curtsied, as a noble of higher rank did to those who were their elders in age or wisdom. It was often a mocking symbol of respect. "If you'll excuse me," she said. "I must see to last minute preparations for tonight's ball and dress." She turned to her other cousin. "Gospard," she said. "It's good to see you again. We must speak soon, perhaps tonight?"

As she turned to leave, she saw Erdogun's approval. She smiled at him, and as she left, she undid one of Franzen's ribbons and frayed the edge. She knew it was wrong. But she didn't want to grow up completely, not yet.

A/N: The heirs to dukedoms are often called Marchionesses, if they're female.

Written for LJ's tammydrabbles

LJ -- mobiusmods if you want to get in on some RP action.