She let the sugar cubes drop into the cup of bitter chamomile and they dissolved with the stir of a dainty silver spoon as she pored over the book of fairy tales. Happy prince, indeed, she thought, but still, her heart grew heavy, even after she'd read it more times than she could count. All of the stories have unhappy endings, she thought, and pondered her own unforeseeable fate. Forgetting her story, she held her lacy, gloved hands in front of her face. What these could do…She thought drowsily, fate has nothing in store for me unless it is that I sit discontent all day in a dreamy parlor filled with sandalwood smoke and read children's stories. She closed the book slowly; life will not end this way. It will not continue this way, waiting for something to happen, waiting, waiting, barely able to breathe, much less laugh or even cry. These hands could move the waters of the Nile to the Amazon and back, but she did not have the will even to cry; she didn't dare. She heard the front door burst open and then a desperate cry, "Mom? Dad? Dorian?" The cry faded after her name, but she imagined the name of her younger brother Ronnie being called as well.
I'll wait for him to come to me, she thought. And then, angry at her own indifferent laziness, she rose to her feet and hurried to answer her older brother's voice.
"Bobby? Bobby? Is that you?" At first, it came out soft, but with her quick certain steps came a growing confidence in her escalating voice. Her white mary janes clattered against the marble tile, their frantic patter echoing the beat of her heart. This is no hallucination, she thought, certainly I hear Bobby calling to me. As she navigated through the labyrinthine halls of the Drake mansion, petticoat rustling and breath quickening, she wondered at Bobby's unannounced arrival. Boarding schools didn't release students without at least some notification or parental permission, especially not a school for them. She shuddered involuntarily, and then mentally chided herself—Bobby is one of them, too. Does he accept it, she thought. She couldn't imagine Bobby wasting his life away in a musky parlor, half-immersed in fanciful daydreams.
She recalled his own stories, real stories that he'd spoken to her about breathtakingly; even in his written letters she could sense his excitement, his vitality, his fearlessness in the face of action. He was too gentle to ridicule her for the self-imprisonment she imposed upon herself. But even his careful prodding could not pry her from the depths of her perfect delusions; much less coax her to come with him to the Xavier place. She convinced him that she would unchain herself from this self-inflicted bondage, but the desolate look in his eyes betrayed his verbal encouragement.
She rounded the corner which led to the lavish foyer, where her parents could greet their guests in a display of luxury and affluence. As one walked into the front doors, the first object to catch their eye would be the family portrait, a seven week ordeal of complaint and boredom for Bobby and Ronnie, but the stillness and silence allowed her to drift away into her delicate illusions. Her painted expression clearly showed this—the distant look in her eyes and faint smile betrayed her inattention.
She glanced around the open hall in search of her brother. She saw no one, only the tapestries swayed with a slight draft, the torches cast dramatic shadows and dizzying reflections from the extravagant chandelier. Her eyes scanned the room and widened at the stranger whose back faced her, his head lifted toward the portrait which rested above the great fireplace. A slight gasp escaped from her lips, almost imperceptible, but he turned his head and gazed at her through the empty hall.
An expression of surprise and curiosity mingled together on his face, making his youth seem even more childlike. She walked hesitantly toward him, propelled by her own curiosity, and as she came closer to him, she inhaled sharply. In the torches' glow, his eyes blazed luminously; dark gold orbs like wildfire peered at her through the semi-darkness. His hair glowed like a wild flame too, and it wove and twisted past his ears in a long rebellious style, the same hue as his eyes. His whole body, not a few inches taller than her own, seemed to radiate a fierce heat. She rested a palm on her brow in surprise, and partly to wipe the sweat that was forming from his intense warmth.
"Dorian," he said, without emotion. Her mind raced frantically for something to say, his fiery presence had overwhelmed her, and she longed to retreat back to her parlor and rid her mind of this hellish demon. But his gaze held her firmly to the floor.
"That is my name, stranger," she spoke, composing herself and straightening her shoulders stiffly, "But how did you come by it and how did you get into Drake Manor?" He seemed amused at her boldness and his shoulders moved with silent laughter.
"How dare you mock me? I am lady of the house, since my mother is away!" He glanced at her clothes—the long sleeves and high ruffled collar, the short petticoat and lacy stockings—without subtlety and with obvious insult. She blushed at his audacity, and then noticed his unusual manner of dress; no decent young man of reputation and stature would go out into society in such raiment. She smiled secretly; her wealth and rank were her advantage, her weapon against his shortcomings as a gentleman.
"And what does a commoner think he is doing in this noble house?" she sneered icily, embarrassed at her previous, but still gnawingly present, fear of him, humiliated by the enamor she felt as she stood in his feverish presence only moments ago.
"Commoner? What the hell is wrong with you, girl?" he demanded, his anger flaring and his radiance growing with violent emotion. She was taken aback by his coarse language and rude address.
"Know your place!" she snapped and turned to find someone who would rid her of his pestilential presence. She heard footsteps upon the stairs and glanced up at Bobby's tall frame, his long legs carrying him swiftly down the staircase. A girl stood at his side, wearing a pair of lacy gloves, her own, Dorian noticed with dismay and with even more disapproval, noticed her clothing, which was even more unusual than the devil-boy's manner of dress. A girl in man's trousers, she thought in vague horror, and wondered at Bobby's guest. Bobby hurried toward his sister; his hands clamped on her shoulders and asked with worry, "Are you alright? Dorian, I was looking for you. I heard you shout." Bobby glanced over the boy with the golden eyes, and he seemed wary of his fiery poise.
"John, what did you say to her?" Bobby moved closer to him. "You know I told you she's fragile and—." Their conversation was drowned out by the girl's voice, which was musical and sweet, and almost persuaded Dorian to forgive her mannish appearance.
"Bobby told me about you." Her lilting voice registered in Dorian's mind; hadn't Bobby mentioned a girl he favored, whose voice was clear with a tint of a Southern accent? Her red hair too, he had described, had been streaked white by a freak accident. Still, Dorian thought, she could have the decency to be ladylike and cover the irregularity with a shawl.
"Your dress is beautiful, it's so lacy and…white, yes, white! All you seem to be wearing is white, like a doll or an angel…" Dorian smiled smugly at the compliment, and wondered why the girl didn't dress the same. She shrugged her shoulders, and then suddenly remembered the girl's name from Bobby's letters.
"Marie, thank you. It seems you've taken the liberty of wearing my gloves without my permission." She blushed and stammered, "Well, I…Bobby, he said…you see—." Bobby had ended his conversation with John and faced Dorian with suppressed anger.
"You do remember, Dorian, Rogue has to have some protection from touching others." Rogue, what a silly name, Dorian thought, a name for a thief or a scoundrel.
"Yes, brother, I understand. You needn't address me as if I were a child." A hot flush of anger rose in his cheeks.
"If you would treat my friends with decency and courtesy, I would not feel the need to, sister!" Dorian shrank back at his implications, and tears filled her eyes.
"Bobby, I was only trying—I didn't mean to—." Dorian broke into sobs and leaned against Bobby's chest. He patted her softly and spoke comforting words, and then drew her away, lifting her chin so that he could look at her straight in her eyes.
"But you must learn to treat everyone equally and fairly, as I have learned." He broke off his speech. Did he intend to tell her that she was delirious for not leaving her parlor? Did he dare mention how she had never left the confines of the mansion and its grounds? He shook his head faintly. She would know soon enough what the real world was like, even if she still seemed to live in a century past. As he looked at her pityingly, he thought of his parents and rage boiled within him. How could they raise a child like this, confuse her, brainwash her into thinking she lived in an era that had ended before they were born, playing upon her brain as if her life was a science experiment? He shook his head again to rid himself of those vengeful thoughts. He would wreak his revenge upon their parents though, and Dorian would be conscious, she would be aware enough to understand his fury and she would surely bear her own wrath, she would want to see them suffer—those villainous monsters.