I just wanted to clear a few things up before the story really gets started... I kind of pictured Violet's Maren like the Southern plantations pre-civil war/abolition of slavery... and her accent the accompanying charming drawl. I'm just not sure how well I describe that... :)
Disclaimer: I don't own... most of this. Tamora Pierce does... and I'm jealous.
465 H.E.
The day was one of those heart-breakingly lovely late summer days. A slight breeze rustled the boughs of the cherry trees. The fruits had all been picked just a few weeks earlier, and were now being mashed and mixed into luxurious wines and dyes. This beauty, though, did not register in my mind as I flew through the deserted orchards, a dark blur, searching for the perfect tree to climb up into.
Under normal circumstances, I was called Violet L'Cerisier, but at the moment I only felt as part of the breeze, the trees, the soil... I did not particularly want to be Violet at the moment. So I ran.
Eventually I began to slow down, and at last I stopped running, choosing a sturdy tree to clamber up. Finally I became still, curled up in the fork formed by two thick branches. I became Violet again, and began to think. Absentmindedly plucking a stray cherry and placing it between my lips, I related to myself the events of the morning.
The morning had begun as usual. I had been woken by Clarita's soft, firm hand shaking me awake. When I finally rolled out from under the blankets, the Carthaki woman shook her head and said, as she had every morning for the past eleven years, "Miss Vi, one o' these days you're gonna get married, an' you won't have dear old Clarita to rouse you, and you'll be late to all your appointments!"
And I had said, as I had every morning for the past eleven years, "You're not old, Clarita, I'm just a lot younger 'an you. An' if I do miss all my 'pointments, they'll just say, oh, there goes ol' Vi again, missin' all her 'pointments, and no one will be able t'say I warn't bein' myself."
But of course, I'd always get dressed and pad down to the breakfast room, where a little plate of toast with cherries baked into it, cherry jelly, and a little glass of diluted cherry juice would be waiting. There was always a surplus of cherry products in the weeks after harvest, even with most of the goods being shipped out to other lands. After a few weeks I would start to gag at the sight of the dark red stuff, but I was not at that point yet and was still enjoying all of the sweet food.
The L'Cerisier plantation in Southern Maren was the cheif producer of Sangria Cherries and the resulting byproducts, such as wine, dye, pastries, and too many other dark red products to count. Nobles all over the world enjoyed the beautiful, delicate, blood-red cherries, but nowhere else in the world were the cherries able to grow so lavishly. My family had gone from dirt poor to filthy rich in a matter of fifty years or so.
It had all started with my grandfather planting two cherry trees on the small farm he lived on with his wife and only son, my father. As the trees gave such wonderful results, my grandfather started selling the cherries, and over the years that sapling of a business grew into a vast forest. Those two original trees still stood out front of the sprawling mansion which had once been a modest farmhouse for three.
But, although we were rich beyond belief, my father still had not attained the one thing he sought; nobility. And I would soon find out that he would resort to almost anything to gain the title of Lord of Cerisier.
I finished my breakfast before anyone else came downstairs, then slipped onto the patio that was just off the breakfast room. I picked from a basket my soft leather slippers, a small round hat that my father insisted on us girls wearing in public, and a light wool wraparound jacket, as it was crisp and cool outside. After doing this, I padded out onto the dirt road that wound its way through our vast plantation, more of a town, really. The trees still were covered in little red dots (picking the orchards clean would be unhealthy for the trees and the people, and would take much too long), and I jumped up to pick a particularly juicy-looking one that dangled from a low branch. Soon the road widened into the main part of town, where all the houses, shops, and artisan workshops were. There were as many artisan slaves and servants at Cerisier as field workers, sculpting beatiful cherry-wood furniture, sewing lavish, dark red clothing, and blowing the famed and unique Cerise glass.
About ten years ago one of the wine batches had been boiled at too much heat, and when they had cooled, did not stay at the watery consistency of wine, but had instead turned hard. My father had been raving mad until he had realized the potential of the glassy material. He had bought as many glassblowers as he could and began making the beautiful red glass. Now no lady of worth in the eastern lands could be taken seriously unless she had at least one piece of the glassy jewelry.
I made my rounds as I did almost every morning, looking in on my friends and admiring the work of the artisans. Soon, too soon, I knew it would be time to go home and attend my lessons in being a 'proper lady'.
This morning, though, as I walked into the music room, Mlle. Burcet was not waiting at the cello for me to learn another scale; instead, my father was sitting in an armchair by the window, admiring a doily sewn by my sister, Iolanthe. When he saw me walk in, he gestured at the armchair across the small coffee table from him. So, I sat. No one disobeys Blaise L'Cerisier, not even his daughter.
My father was a handsome, imposing man, his thick chestnut hair showing no signs of silver as yet. Today, he looked pleased about something, his curly mustache curved up and his bright blue eyes clear and happy, though they could become as cloudy and dark as the clouds before a lightning storm. He had always been volatile, but had become even more so after my mother's death, when I was nine years old. But that was six years ago, and although she was missed, life had gone on without Adalia L'Cerisier.
I sat with my hands folded in my lap, my expression polite and demure, waiting for what he had to say. Finally, he set the doily down and looked up at me. "Your sister has quite the skill with a needle."
"Why, yes. She has always had more patience than I or Vignette for the detailed work." My accent lost much of its character when I was around my superiors, that much I knew and was glad for. The well bred folk my father often brought to the house would not appreciate the 'local charm' coming out in the voice of a young woman who was supposed to be as fragile and cultivated as the impractical cherry trees that did not bear fruit, only blossoms, the trees that grew in our greenhouse.
My father studied my face, which I had been told looked much like my mother's, what with the auburn hair, mossy green eyes, and high forehead, before speaking again.
"Violet, I have some good news for you. You'll be presented in the Tortallan Court by the end of the month, and you will stay there for quite a while. Hopefully, you'll find a noble husband."
I'm afraid to say that a very un-lady like expression crossed my face. I'm certain my mouth hung open for a second before I managed to close it.
"Excuse me, sir?"
"That's right." He beamed, as if I were squealing with joy, which, I must assure you, I was not. "A noble lady, presented in the court of a grand and powerful country. Vignette will be doing the same in Carthak, and Emilo in the Copper Isles." He sobered a bit. "Now, there is a development with our gracious King Iven. He has contacted me, and wishes the three of you to, ah... pay attention and write often, especially when concerning the affairs of their Majesties of Tortall."
It took me a moment to register what he was saying. He was still smiling, but his eyes were elsewhere, and I knew I'd be able to think a moment before giving a suitable response.
King Iven of Maren wanted me to spy on the monarchs of Tortall. And report. To him. What he would do with that information, I did not know.
Vignette, my sister two years older than I, would be doing the same in Carthak, and Emilo, my younger brother, in the Copper Isles. I felt as if I could not breathe.
Of course, I had to say yes. Iven was a finicky king, prone to shout treason at tiny things, although he was clever. And after all, I had a duty to my country. It had served my family and I well, and it was time to show my gratitude. I refused to think any more on it, composed myself, and said to my father, "Of course. I would be honored to serve my noble sovereign. When do I depart?"
After hearing details that did not stick to my memory, I excused myself and ran to the orchards, seeking comfort among the trees who did not ask me to do things I did not want to for reasons I did not understand.
As twilight began to reach across the sky, I lowered myself from my perch, a practiced maneuver I had been skilled at since I could walk. I was proud of my long muscles. It set me apart from the other heiresses, made me feel stronger. Right now, I could use all the inner strength I could get, to face my father and siblings with a smiling face. I was sure Vignette would be completely composed as always, whatever she thought about everything, and Emilo would be truly excited, not seeing the dangerous consequences of the task the king would have set him.
I hope you enjoyed... more to come, soon. Please review, it would make me so happy :)