Prologue
She sat next to her father, perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the stage below them. She saw the people's motions but she did not observe them; she heard them singing but did not know what they were saying. In the seat next to her, her father leered at a woman in a box across from theirs. She slid an uninterested gaze over the lady; she was wearing an expensive red velvet dress cut to nowhere and excessive jewelry. No wonder Father was looking at her like that.
She sighed heavily, then winced when her father smacked her with his fan.
"Be quiet, brat. Ugly little monsters like you are to be seen, not heard."
She nodded. The red mark across her face stung viciously, but no tear fell from her eye. She had learned a very long time ago that crying resulted in beatings – painful beatings, with long, whippy sticks.
The first act of the opera ended, and her father rose to go visit other boxes, telling her to stay where she was. Even though she knew better, she raised her head in protest.
"But, Father, I -"
He whirled around. "You what? Do you have an opinion on the matter? Little brats like you do not have opinions on subjects. They are told their opinions, and they stick by them."
She stood up and took a step towards him. "But Fath -" She broke off when he shoved her violently backwards.
"Don't come near me!" he said, affecting a horrified expression. "Don't approach! You filthy thing, I don't want you close, do you hear me?"
Aware that they were attracting attention, she stumbled backwards and turned around, only to trip over a chair. Falling forward, she slammed her head against the marble column in the box and fell to the floor. Her father bent over her, to find her bleeding and apparently quite unconscious. He shrugged carelessly.
"Oh well," he murmured, "she'll awaken eventually. If she doesn't, I daresay someone will find her." And with that, he left the box.