The ballroom was crowded; immediately, Sophie was uncomfortable. Her lace sleeves covered anything she would possibly be worried about, but still, she was nervous: nervous her secret would leak out, nervous she would lose control.

Her gown rustled in a wide radius around her waist, which was cinched in to its absolute smallest point. Her voluptuous breasts were pushed high on her chest with a low cut neckline and lacey trim, and the black silk matched her hair perfectly. She walked through the mess of people towards the head of the room, where King George II and his wife sat and overlooked his ball. She stopped in front of him and curtseyed gracefully and deeply. His eyes narrowed, then widened again.

"Mademoiselle Josephine DeLancret! Why, I remember your mother quite clearly!" He stated jovially, his attempt at a French accent horrid.

"Actually, your Highness, it is now Countess. I have become of age," Sophie said politely.

The king nodded enthusiastically. "Ah, yes, taking your mother's place."

Yes, Sophie's mother, Soleil, was the pride of France. The husband of a Count, the beautiful young woman was partly responsible for saving an alliance with Italy as well as helping said King when his wife and son were extremely sickly.

Her mother was now passed on; when Isabelle was only nine years old, she passed away from a chest infection. Her father, Phillip, was too busy for her and sent her to her Aunt, Nadine, to be cared for. Her Aunt Nadine immediately sent her away with her cousin Galvin into the Orient; she didn't like children. There, they were separated. Isabelle was taken in by a monk to a special training academy for Geisha. She knew not of what happened to her cousin, whom she cared for deeply.

"She helped my son and wife just after you were born. What an angel she was! What a loss!" Next to him, his wife, Queen Caroline, smiled and nodded in agreement.

Sophie nodded politely. Sometimes, she was sick of hearing of her angelic mother.

King George read her mind. "You look just like her. You've grown into a beautiful young woman, Sophie. I am so glad to have you. I'm sure my son," He coughed, "will be excited to see such a lovely mademoiselle at his birthday ball!" Again, Sophie cringed at his detestable accent, but before she did, she remembered the rumor that the King and his first son did not get along so well.

As if on cue, Prince Frederick walked into the ballroom.

"Frederick! We were just speaking of you," said his mother animatedly.

"Were you, Mother?" His voice was smooth and drawn.

"Indeed we were," his father answered. Suddenly, he shifted his attention again to Sophie. "Frederick, I'm sure you remember Josephine DeLancret?"

He looked blankly at her for a moment before the connection was made in his mind. "You mean, as in, the daughter of Countess Soleil DeLancret?"

Sophie nodded and smiled politely again, again hiding her annoyance. It seemed she would never grow out of her mother's diplomatic shadow.

Frederick's face lit up, but the light was dull. "Lovely! My, you've grown."

"As I would imagine, so have you, my lord, though I can't say I remember at all." She fought to remove any cynical sort of tone from her voice. She put a placating smile on.

"Yes. You were barely a year old. I was only six years old myself." The prince was obviously oblivious to any implications in her tone, anyway. He went on, "And that would make you, say, eighteen now, would it not?"

Sophie nodded.

"Ah! And married?

"No, my lord."

"I'm surprised," He said, then babbled on about how he was searching for a wife and how his duty as the Prince of Wales neglected him the priviledge of searching for one, then on longer about something that Sophie didn't catch. Without even knowing it, she was convinced into conversation and company, then it was demanded that she stay the night, or as long as she pleased.

Sophie had not yet removed her dress, and she was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring into space. The night had been long and grueling, the company witless, and the food dull. Now, despite the tiring hours of standing, sitting, and dancing stiffly, she could not bring herself to undress. She looked around the room. In the middle of the wall opposite the bed was a giant wardrobe. Other than that, a nightstand, and a giant chandelier, the room was scantly decorated. The moon shined brightly through the glass doors to the balcony that overlooked the garden.

The reluctant Countess despised the world she had been thrust into upon her return to Europe. Not that she would go back into the Far East; never would she return there. But she hated the falsity and pretenses and drama of the noble world of Europe, the fake clothes and bodies and personalities.

Suddenly there was a heavy knock on the door, and without her even going to it, it was pushed open. She was surprised to see the Prince, Frederick, on the other side.

"My lord?"

He didn't reply. Instead he stumbled in and fell onto her, pushing her mercilessly onto the bed.

"I. . . can't. . .breath. . ." She gasped as she tried to push him off of her. He didn't move. Her corset dug into her abdomen and she cried out in pain. Frederick grinned stupidly

"You're quite a pretty lady. I wonder what you taste like," He stuttered.

At the sound of his slur, Sophie's adrenaline began to pump. As he slid down her body and found the hem of her skirts, she kicked him away with all of her might. "Stay away from me, you drunken idiot!"

Her resistance only inflamed his alcohol-instigated conquest, and he fought harder. Becoming desperate, Sophie eyed the sword around his waist. She pushed him back roughly with one great burst of power, and the inebriated man fell against the wardrobe. She ran up behind him and grabbed his sword as he began to get up.

"You wench," He cursed as he stood, hunched over. "Ye'll pay for that." He reached for his sword and pointed at her, without it in hand.

Again he cursed. This time, he pulled out a pistol.

"Ye've angered me for the last time, wench!" The trigger pulled back.

But a shot never hit her. She cut his arm off at the elbow before the trigger was released.

The shot echoed through the halls of the estate. Suddenly, fear ran cold in her blood. She heard the clattering of armor. The guard was on its way.

Sophie knew she had to move, fast. She took the prince's clothes and two dresses from the wardrobe, as well as a pair of soft leather boots and slippers, threw them on the bed, and wrapped them in the top sheet. She tied the ends of the sheet, took the prince's sword, and ran out the glass doors onto the balcony. She stood on the stone railing and heard the guards clanging up the stairs shortly outside her room's door. She wasted no time and ripped open the back of her dress, which was simple enough; the part she needed to come off was made of lace. Beneath the lace there was a tattoo of delicate iridescent wings. Sophie closed her eyes and whispered, "Volatilis", and the tattooed wings on her back began to flutter. Soon, they ripped off her body and grew, and she cried out. Her concentration didn't lessen, and by the time the first guard got to the doorway, she was airborne.

This was her curse.

(A/N: This is the first chapter of it all, then! I just wanted to let you know that everything is based strictly in history, from the king and queen and prince to the costumes. The only thing that is not, thus far, is the prince getting his arm cut off. That's a bit of poetic license. Reviews, flames, criticisms, all welcome. I hope you enjoy; the next chapter will come soon!)