London, England

Gwyna sat on the steps behind her expansive London home, reading a book of riddles. At this time of day, most fifteen year old girls would be in school. Gwyna had never set foot outside the street side of her home. Her mother had died after her birth, and to the rest of the world she was dead. Or at least,Reese ReneeRoberts was dead. Gwyna was the name she had given herself after reading it in a book. It was an odd name for an odd girl.

Her father had added her name to the obituary because of her "deformity." She had seemed like a normal, healthy baby girl, but upon closer inspection a small, arrowhead tail had been discovered protruding from her lower back. It was the same reddish color as her hair. As time wore on, full, bat-like wings grew between her shoulders. They were also the same reddish color as her hair. It was apparent from the start that she was no ordinary girl.

Gwyna's father had only kept her because of how closely she resembled her mother. She had her same bright green eyes. She had her mother's trademark reddish tresses. Her father had grieved her mother's death horribly and thought that the child could ease his pain. She instead made it worse. She was so like her that he sometimes thought that his love was still alive. And she was, in the form of her daughter.

"Bairn, git indoors now.'Tis cold outside," Cook called from the kitchen door. Gwyna's eyes didn't leave the page as she stood. She made her way into the kitchen and automatically walked to her stool in the corner by the stove. Growing up, she had spent countless hours there reading or talking to Cook and her helper.

"Now what're you readin', my dear?" Cook's helper, Martha asked.

"Riddles." Her eyes still did not stray from the pages.

"A brilliant mind like yers should no go t' waste in th' dark o' this house," Cook huffed, pulling the tea kettle off the stove. Gwyna giggled and Cook and Martha looked at each other. They had been the mothers to the girl ever since she was brought to the house. They both pitied her, but knew that if they showed it, the girl would scold them. She didn't want to be a burden to anyone anymore since her father had begun ignoring her.

"Come now, my dear," Martha said, "'tis time fer tea. Cook and I made ginger men."

Gwyna looked up. "Can we ice them?"

"'Course, bairn," Cook laughed. "I dinna ken tha' you still had a likin' tae such things."

Gwyna scurried over to the big table in the middle of the kitchen. She grabbed a ginger man and began icing his outline. She made his face cheery and bright, a deep contrast to her surroundings. It was nearing Christmas, but no decorations had been put up yet. Usually Cook's husband, Sandy, did that. But he was visiting his sick aunt back in Scotland.

"Cook, can you not sing us a song?" Gwyna asked.

"Och, lass. You dinna want t' hear me sing," Cook said blushing. Then she bustled over to get the cream and sugar.

"Aye, she warbles worse than th' carolers tha' come round ev'ry year," Martha teased.

"Now you see here ye auld maid. I've a singin' voice tha'd make the hounds sing along!" Cook said, turning around.

"Then sing a Christmas carol," Gwyna chided. Cook threw her hands up in the air in defeat and began to sing.

Martha and Gwyna giggled as they frosted their gingerbread men. Then they proceeded to sing some more songs. They were having such a good time that they did not hear Gwyna's father come home from the office.

"What's all this?" he demanded from the doorway of the kitchen. He only looked at Martha and Cook; his gaze never rested on his daughter.

"We tho' we'd have a bit o' holiday cheer, sir," Cook replied.

"I will not tolerate any more of this," he said. Finally, he actually looked at Gwyna. "You, child. Go pack you're things. You're leaving tonight."

"But sir!" Cook cried. "Where'll th' wee lass go? An' who'll look after her?"

"That is none of your concern," he replied coldly. "Now go."

"Don't worry," Gwyna said. She hugged Cook and Martha and went to her room.

First she grabbed her favorite books. Then she grabbed her everyday necessities. She poked around in the corners and in the backs of drawers; the whole while she was utterly confused. Her father had rarely spoken to her for the past ten years. Now he was sending her away. Had she done something wrong?

My very existence displeases him, she thought sadly. Pushing her thoughts aside, she made her downstairs.