Psh, here I was moping/ panicing about a lack of reviews, begin convinced that I was an awful writer and that I shamed the craft by even touching a keyboard, and lo and behold, I get four wonderful reviews! Thank you guys, especially for the constructive crit. I appreciate all of it!
And as for concern about chapter two, I agreed with the critique, and have decided to at somepoint (hopefully soon!) to revise it and split up a lot of that info-dump into later chapters, as well as that jolt-y kind of switch from 14-year old Fin/Funeral scene to the current day one.
So, once again, thank you to my wonderful reviews (who read through my rambling author's notes!) : .TwilightXx, Maginisha, Kuestro, and Blood of Sanguinius. You lot are the bee's knees :)
The next morning, Finley was jostled awake none too gently by an over-excited Belinda. She twitched beneath her blankets, groaning, as the younger girl continued to shake her violently, halting any more sleep she planned on getting.
"Cinders, get up!" At this, Finley rolled over and sat up, yawning and running a hand through her mussed dark hair. Belinda was sitting on the end of her bed, looking torn between a frown and an excited grin. Finley sighed and reached over to her night table, searching for a pocket watch. She couldn't possibly be late again could she? She knew she wasn't the most timely girl, even by a mage's standards, but she seemed to be making a habit of this. Flipping open the lid, she noted the shorter hand pointing at the eight. She closed it with a snap and gave an inquiring look to the blonde staring expectantly at her.
"It's Saturday. You don't normally want to eat until nine-thirty." She said, but Belinda shook her head, light brown curls flying around her face. Her blue eyes were shining with excitement, and Finley had to take a moment to remind herself that this was Belinda, a petty, spoiled brat with a penchant for pinching, not some child excited by the prospect of a treat.
"Today's different, Cinders." She exclaimed, grabbing her stepsisters arm with five well manicured- and thus piercing- fingers. "There's going to be a ball!"
Finley of course, failed to see anything different about this at all. There was always some noble holding a ball for some silly reason or another, just so people with more money than brains could try and prove that they had more wealth than anyone else. Incredibly tacky, she decided, and she had no interest in being a part of it. Not that she was invited anyway.
"And this concerns me...why?" She questioned. Belinda wasn't exactly known for running to her squealing when there was news or gossip or some such. Belinda let out a long suffering sigh, crossing her arms and pouting her lips, a move that she apparently thought made her seem more attractive and had taken to doing constantly.
"Do I have to explain everything to you Cinders?" She complained. Like why you have to say Cinders every sentence? Finley mused, smirking slightly. Belinda's look told her she was certainly not amused. "It's not just a ball, it's going to be the biggest social event of my life! It's for the prince for his birthday, and every eligible young woman is invited! "
"...Yeah, still not seeing why you had to come tell me that." Finley finally said, letting loose another yawn and beginning to let her head descend towards the pillow. She was stopped by Belinda grabbing her tightly by the upper arms. She stared intently at Finley, her blue eyes unblinking as they gaze intensely into Finley's own. Finley, for her part, was confused and most definitely uncomfortable. She wasn't exactly sure what this stare meant, but she did wish that it would end.
"Every. Eligible. Young. Woman. Cinders, don't you know what this means?" She exclaimed, breathless. Finley thought of some possible options. Fantabulous slumber party? Someone's made a move to many on taken women? "A wife! He's looking for a wife!" A faraway look came over Belinda as she daydreamed of luxury and crowns, jewels and more people to order about than just Cinders and Ainsley (who became the accompanying 'Sootgirl. Soot for short.)
Finley, for her part, was trying to remember what she knew about the boy. Surprisingly, considering her political inclinations, she actually knew very little about the royals as people, only the extent of their power and what they'd done with it. (The king, for his part, had gotten a very poor grade.). Frankly, the only thing she knew was that he was somewhere around her age, and was involved in something of a power struggle in IF a few years back. However, that had been when Elois yanked her from school, so she hadn't payed much mind to it as it happened. She made a point to ask Mitras about it later that day when she escaped to work.
"Oh, so he's too lazy to find a girl himself, and insists that everyone be paraded in front of him. Fantastic." She finally commented, her words biting. Hey, she may not have known him, but she had a reputation of cynicism to keep up. Belinda threw her a disgusted look as she was interrupted from her fantasies of flowing gowns and courtiers abound bowing to kiss her perfect hand.
"Shut up, Cinders." She snapped, huffing. Finley shrugged. Not an uncommon reaction to anything she said, she was used to it. However the girl didn't leave her room, and Finley was still confused as to why she came down in the first place. Normally the two girls avoided Finley's quarters like the plague, complaining of must and gross bugs. Finley, of course, didn't mind this in the least. She wasn't exactly interested in interacting with her step-siblings more than necessary anyway. However, she was still quite curious as to why Belinda was telling her this.
"So, are you inviting me or something?" She asked. Not exactly a move she'd expect from Belinda, and she couldn't say she was actually interested in attending, but if this was meant as a gesture to open up sisterly dialogue, who was she to refuse? The look on Belinda's face started off as shocked, then turned confused, until it finally settled on a conceited, smug kind of scorn.
"Of course not Cinders." She finally giggled, practicing that annoying behind-the-hand technique that all her friends seemed to utilize. Finley always felt the urge to tell them that it was laughter, not flatulence, and there was no need to hide it, but managed to restrain herself. "Estelle, Irielle and I are going into Stormwind to shop- there's no time to waste, you know- and need someone to help us carry our things."
Sisterly gesture? Hardly. Packhorse duty? Of course.
"Sorry to disappoint, but I have to work today," Finley responded airily, throwing off her covers and swinging her bare legs over the side of the bed. Belinda "hmph'd" slightly when the bed shifted due to the absence of her weight as she stood.
"Oh, don't worry. We already sent Ainsley to tell Mitral that you wouldn't be there today." She said with a smile that didn't exactly read as friendly. Finley paused in her painstaking decision of which oil stained shirt to wear today to grimace. Sometimes they were determined to torture her, weren't they?
"It's Mitras, not Mitral." She finally said with a sigh, replacing the shirts and reaching instead for a blue tunic and gray breeches. Not that it mattered in the long run, but she took a moment to add another day to her so-called 'prison sentence'. Most of her salary went straight to Elois, to help with the house's upkeep, even though Malbur's estate was sizable enough so that even his great grandchildren wouldn't have to work. However, Mitras did set aside a little each week for her 'Dalaran Fund', so that eventually she could re-enroll in school one day without- Elois's permission.
Belinda, meanwhile, had risen from the bed, straightened her blue skirts and moved to the doorway. "We're leaving in an hour, and you still have chores, Cinders. Better hop to."
xxxxx
Finley didn't think that in her nineteen years of life she had ever seen Stormwind this busy. Concerning the always bustling city, that was saying something. The event was on short notice, only two weeks from now, and it seemed the whole female population, young and old, short and tall, slim and fat had emerged from the woodwork to descend upon every apparel shop in the area. They were vicious too, shoving each other, snarling rude comments to one another and quite a few toe-stompings. Finley was not impressed, and had jabbed more than one person out of her personal bubble with a well placed ice barb.
It was mid-afternoon now, and things had calmed quite a bit since the morning. By that she meant that she could at least take two steps without feeling uncomfortably close to another person. At this point, she was convinced that group was simply running around for the sake of running around, flitting in and out of shops without buying anything. While Finley loved finery as much as the next girl, there was only so much oohing and ahing she could manage without feeling sick.
Thankfully, though, they had just stepped into a promising looking tailoring shop on a secluded road near the canals. The owner ushered them in quickly and slammed the door shut behind them, watching warily for any crazed shoppers who might throw themselves in her way. Before that day, Finley would have been skeptical on that happening. Now, she wasn't so sure.
The owner and her staff visibly relaxed and became markedly more pleasant once the door was locked, offering the group, which consisted of Belinda, Estelle, and Elois, along with Irielle Avatten, seats. Finley was the first to take this offer, sinking into the cushion gratefully with a loud sigh, ignoring any dirty looks from Elois. The others followed, though much more politely and gracefully than she did.
The master tailor, a middle aged woman by the name of Imalin had the look of a someone who was not given to idle chatter when there was work to be done. So it was that the expression on her face soured a bit once the small group had settled down and began to gossip about what they had already seen throughout the day. However, she was also looking to make a profit, so she quickly waved over one of her apprentices with a pot of tea, while handing them pattern books.
"These," She explained, "are some of our more popular dress designs. Very beautiful and appropriate to the event. I'm sure you'll find something to your liking there." Belinda and Estelle fell upon the books squealing, an action that seemed to put off Imalin for a moment. She covered the reaction quickly, however, and continued on, her eyebrows slightly raised.
"We also have a wide variety of samples, if that's what you'd prefer. We can alter them to fit your daughters, ma'am, seeing as the time constraints would make four new dresses a rather impossible task." She explained, gesturing to racks full of colorful dresses against the far wall. Elois pursed her lips for a moment, and then nodded.
"This would be best." That was the only encouragement the girls needed to practically attack the rack, pulling out each garment with renewed enthusiasm. Estelle disappeared into a changing first, and Finley caught a glimpse of yellow silk, followed by Belinda in bright pink, and lastly Irielle in green.
"I think this may work well on you, always a very pretty color." Imalin said, starting towards Finley, a silvery, flowing dress in hand. Finley tilted her head, considering this. She supposed trying one gown on couldn't hurt, and this one did look rather pretty. However, before the attendant could reach her, she was intercepted by Elois's pale arm.
"She will not be attending the ball." She said coolly, and Finley felt the familiar pain in her chest cavity as her cheeks warmed up. Imalin looked somewhat confused, glancing in between the two women, and Finley could practically read the thoughts on her face. Is she related? A servant? Finley crossed her arms and stared determinedly into a corner.
"Step daughters." She muttered past the lump in her throat. "They're the best sort of hired help around." She couldn't see the look on the older womens' faces, nor did she care, though she could imagine what Elois's look meant for her later.
"As you can see, this is why she is not accompanying us." Elois said after a brief, awkward silence, her voice as cool and smooth as ice. "It would surely reflect poorly on our family." Finley tried to ignore the hot tears prickling the back of her eyes, but they were insistent. She ducked her head to avoid showing them, and wiped them away with her sleeve, determined not to let Elois see her cry.
She was saved by the reentry of the three girls, now clad in wildly different ballgowns.
"I like it, mother." Estelle said sounding pleased, stepping up to the mirror and turning, looking over her shapely curves. The dress didn't quite scream propriety, with a portrait neckline that fell far to low to be considered modest The only sleeves to speak of were barely-there ribbon-esque strips that hung off her upper arms. From there it clung close to her, leaving remarkably little to the imagination.
"No." Was the only word out of Elois's mouth when Estelle looked to her in askance. "Absolutely not."
First Estelle tried pouting, crossing her arms across her bust. "Please mama? It looks amazing, doesn't it?" Elois narrowed her eyes, never one to back down to anyone.
"It does not. Now take it off." She hissed. Estelle moved on to stamping her foot in a huff.
"Don't be a prude mama. I'll be the center of attention, won't I?" She asked, taking another long look at her figure in the tall gilded mirror. Elois's voice was harsh and stern, the kind Finley learned not to argue with.
"For looking like a harlot. I will not have such things said about my family. Now remove it, or we go home with nothing." She snapped, and Finley couldn't help but let a small, mirthless smile creep onto her face. It was nice to not be on the receiving end of that voice for once. Unfortunately, Estelle found nothing to smile about as she stormed back to the dressing rooms.
"What are you smiling about Cinders? At least I'm going instead of spending my night in the ashes." She sneered, and the smile slid off her face. Imalin's eyes widened as she looked to Elois to reprimand her daughter for the insult, but her cobalt eyes were staring nonchalantly ahead, where Belinda had taken her place in front of the mirror.
The gown was a creation like no other, made of layers and rolls and tiers of horrifically pink fabric, ending up with a diameter the size of two grown men. Two giant bows sat on her hips where the fabric flared out, giving it a somewhat comical effect. The garment was slightly less offensive on top, but that may have just been compared what it was paired with. It had a sweetheart neckline, and elaborate silver embroidery edging it. Two puffy sleeves completed the gown.
Finley quirked an eyebrow at Imalin, as though to ask why the dress was even in the store to begin with. The woman simply shrugged and shook her head. There was some clientele that she couldn't even begin to understand, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.
"Do you like i-" Belinda began, but her mother wouldn't even let her finish.
"You are eighteen, Belinda, not seven." She intoned, her expression extraordinarily nonplussed. "Do not try my patience."
Belinda sighed but dutifully stepped off the stage, dropping into a chair in a dramatic huff, somewhat obscured by the clouds of fabric that flew up around her. Irielle was the last to look in the reflection, but was ignored in favor of other issues. She blinked, her delicate hands holding up yards of spring green fabric as Imalin began talking budgets and prices with Elois, Belinda complained about her mother being mean and how this was entirely unfair, and Estelle emerged from the dressing room, still disgruntled and wanting to make sure the world knew it. They all quieted for a moment as she coughed lightly.
"Oh!" She said, not expecting her cough to attract that much attention. "I was just wondering whether-"
"Awful." Estelle sneered immediately. "You look like a bush." Belinda voiced her agreement not long after, and the girl looked crestfallen. Finley raised an eyebrow. She, for one, thought the girl looked quite nice in it, and wasn't entirely sure where the hostility towards Irielle was coming from. She thought they were friends. She debated on voicing her own opinion of the garment, but decided against, seeing how this day was already going.
"Finley, I'm hungry." Belinda complained, mind already on other matters, namely her stomach. "Go get me some food, okay?"
"Me too," Estelle chimed in. "Go get us all some food. I'm sure you can manage that, can't you?" Finley gave a long suffering sigh and heaved herself from the seat, walking over to fiddle with the locks. Imalin looked as though she wanted to protest food being brought into her store, but finally just sighed and shook her head. She had given up with this lot. With any luck, they'd ruin a dress, and have to pay for that along with their intended purchases.
The last thing Finley heard was a faint "Thank you!" from Irielle's lyrical voice as she shut the door, and the she was freed into the bright sunlight. She blinked in the natural light, letting her eyes adjust. There was a fruit stand a few stores down, but she bypassed it. She supposed that it would have been an acceptable snack for them, but she couldn't quite go back just yet. Instead, her wandering took her past the Mage Quarter, where she stood and stared longingly for a bit. She then doubled back to the Trade District, allowing herself to be carried by the current of the crows, soaking in all the noises and people and smells.
This was one of her favorite places as a child; she would love to look out at the bustling scene in awe from her special perch atop her father's shoulders. She would be amazed by all the sights he would point out to her, whether it was the bearded dwarves to warriors in glinting armor or gnomes with their strange machinery. Her favorites were the rare Night Elves who came to the city. They fascinated her, with their long ears, glowing eyes and oddly toned skin. She would excitedly point them out when she saw them, and her father would laugh his booming laugh, though, looking back, she wasn't entirely sure that the elves appreciated it. The day would invariably end with the two sitting on the side of the cobblestone street, eating cinnamon buns that Malbur proclaimed the best in Azeroth.
She smiled at the memory, and glanced around the district, wondering if the bakery still stood. She had to fight against the crowd, nearly stepping on a few gnomes in the process, but reached the other side of the square. Her efforts were rewarded as her eyes fell on a homey looking building with a large glass window and aging sign naming it as "Lastral's". She couldn't stop from grinning as she hurried up the steps.
For a moment as she stepped inside the warmly lit interior, she just savored the smells that wound their way into her nose; warm bread, fresh croissants and gooey fruit sauce. There were few other patrons in the store, just a man she vaguely recognized from the cheese shop nearby, a young blond man, a night elf woman studying the pastry selection and a female gnome munching happily away on a puff pastry.
"Can I help you dear?" a voice called, and Finley glanced to see a matronly woman wiping her floury fingers on an apron. Finley was aware of how silly she probably looked, with the ear-to-ear grin that she couldn't wipe off her face, but it wasn't going anywhere soon. She remembered the woman from every trip she took, she was always very friendly and made a fantastic cannoli. She may have been a bit grayer now, but she was most definitely the same woman. Realizing the woman was staring at her with a bemused look on her face, she shook herself out of her stupor.
"I-uh, do you still have cinnamon buns?" She asked hopefully. The older woman's face relaxed into a smile.
"Of course we do, I've a batch fresh out of the oven." She said, smiling. "I take it you'd like one?" Finley nodded eagerly, and the woman patted her on the shoulder, leaving floury finger prints.
"Well then, you have a seat and I'll be over with it in a moment. It'll be two silver, if you wouldn't mind, dear." She said, smiling. Finley obediently took a seat at a corner table, pulling out her coin. As promised, the woman returned a moment later, setting the bun in front of her on a blue plate.
She picked it up and took a small bite, intent on making this experience last as long as possible, and savored the wonderful cinnamon-y buttery taste.
"I've heard those are the best in the world." A voice commented from the opposite side of the table. Finley opened her eyes to see the young man she saw earlier smiling at her. She placed the bun back on the plate and smiled back.
"You sound as though you have a reason to doubt that." She said light-heartedly. He shook his head with a laugh.
"No, no. I've just never verified it." he explained, and she gave him a look of mock-horror.
"Blasphemy!" She declared, and pushed her plate towards him. "Here, try a piece." He obliged, breaking off a piece. As he chewed thoughtfully, she took a moment to study him. He may have been dressed in relatively plain-clothes that branded him as a commoner, but something seemed...off to her. He was entirely too clean, for one. There was hardly a speck of dirt marring his appearance, and his clothing looked freshly sewn. She tilted her head, suddenly interested in this man's story.
"You're right," he said, finished. "I don't think anything can best that." She nodded, grabbing a piece for herself.
"Told you." She responded, before popping another bite in her mouth and giving him a thumbs up. "The best bakery, ever." He bobbed his head in agreement.
"I'll have to come here more often, then." He stated.
"I'd settle for moving in." She said, laughing. "Where are you from, anyway?" He blinked.
"Redridge," he said quickly, "I'm visiting my uncle, he lives here." She raised an eyebrow, but decided to let it go.
"Shame you ended up here now, though," She commented, "What with the city being turned on its side by this whole ball extravaganza. I don't think I've ever seen the place so crowded."
"Oh? What's happening?" He asked, and she leaned back with a sigh.
"Apparently the prince is having a grand ball," She said, rolling her eyes. "And every girl has interpreted that as a personal gesture asking for her hand in marriage." His eyebrows moved upward as he gulped.
"Oh." He answered, tapping his fingers on the table. "That must be awkward for him." Finley made a face and he looked at her inquiringly. She shrugged.
"Forgive me if I don't pity a boy who's had everything handed to him on a silver platter." She replied, working on tearing off the edges of the cinnamon bun so that the center would be saved for last, missing the transition on his face as he first looked affronted, and then interested, leaning forward a bit.
"I'm sure he can't be terrible." He reasoned. "Do a lot of people think that way?" Finley shrugged once again, wiping her fingers on a napkin.
"I'm not really sure." She said, and then gave him a smile, not wanting him to be scared off by her attitude. "Don't mind me, really. I'm just incredibly cynical. I've been told it's not an attractive quality, but I just can't seem to make it go away."
He returned the gesture reassuringly. "We need all types to make the world turn." He said, eying the center of the bun still remaining on the plate. She nudged it towards him.
"It's alright, I was taught that sharing is caring." She said, and after a moment of hesitation, he broke off another small piece in the lull in their conversation. He glanced at her sidelong as she finished it off.
"So, are you planning on going to this event?" He asked. She blinked at the question. She thought she had made her disdain for the idea fairly clear, but apparently not.
"Well, no. Duty takes priority I suppose," She said. She wondered what the etiquette was concerning the remaining sugar left on one's fingers in polite company -which she was quite sure this young man was- and decided against licking it, instead opting for a napkin. Then her hand stilled. Duty. Crap. How long had she been gone? More than an hour, she could guess that much.
She stood abruptly, pushing back her chair, resulting in a confused look overtaking his face.
"Hey, it was really nice meeting you, but I've got to- Do you think you could put four pastries in a box?" She asked, switching addressees mid sentence. "Yes, anything's fine. Just whatever you can grab first."
He stood, concern evident on his open face. She suspected he wasn't one for hiding emotions. "Are you quite all right, miss?" He asked, and she nodded, tapping her foot impatiently as the woman behind the counter tied the string to keep the container closed. She desperately hoped that they were too caught up in the dresses to notice her extended absence.
"Yes,yes, just late." She said, grabbing her purchase while digging all the silver she had left in her pockets on the counter. "Thanks!" She mentioned to the baffled woman behind the table, who swept the coin into her apron.
"It was nice meeting you! Really!" She called, backing out of the doorway, leaving a bewildered young man in her wake.
xxxxxx
"Pastries, Cinders? Really?" Estelle chided, holding up a cream puff to her inspection. "Do you want me to get fat before the ball? I can't even believe you sometimes." She gave a long-suffering sigh, and carelessly dropped the offending food item back into the box, turning to admire her purchase instead.
Thankfully, her absence had largely gone unnoticed. By the time she had returned, the two sisters had settled on deciding what to wear, and were now examining the supply of masks that the owner had ordered in once she heard tell of the event- it was a masquerade after all. Irielle, however was still torn between a scarlet and bright yellow.
"I told you, Elle. The yellow one is best." Estelle snapped when she saw the girl debating by the window. Finley raised an eyebrow at this statement; hadn't she heard Estelle, a natural blonde, complain about not being able to wear the shade without looking awful before? "Even Cinders can see that. Right, Cinders?" She asked, giving her a meaningful look.
Ah. So sabotage was the name of the game. Finley paused to consider her options. If she agreed, then she would perhaps be relieved of a few snide comments, and hopefully Estelle would let her absence slide. The opposite would likely happen if she did not. 'Yellow' was on the tip of her tongue when she made the mistake of glancing at Irielle's guileless face, turned to her with a smile.
She never really understood how the sisters and Irielle Avatten were friends. Irielle was all the things she imagined that ladies were taught to be; gracious, kind, demure and caring, a stark contrast to her friends' catty behavior. She always had a kind word for anyone, even if it was a 'hello', 'goodbye' or 'thank you' to Finley was she visited. Finley sighed, yellow still stuck in her throat. She was perfect, with a perfect life, and she really wanted to hate Irielle for it. However, that would be asking the impossible. She was too damn nice.
"Red." She said, noting the narrowing of Estelle's eyes. She really hoped her step-sister had a short memory. She didn't want to have to deal with this later.
xxxxxxx
"Get Elle's things, Cinders." Belinda ordered, and Finley was awakened rather rudely from a delightful little nap she had decided to take on the carriage ride home. She blinked a few times to bring everything into focus, and then glanced out the foggy window. Sure enough, they had returned to Goldshire and sat outside the Avatten Estate, where a well-dressed man waited for them. Upon seeing him, Irielle's face split into a wide grin and she leapt from the carriage, unassisted by the driver, and threw her arms around her father. Finley frowned and averted her eyes at the sight of him winging her in a circle.
"Papa!" She cried happily. "We didn't think you'd be home for ages!"
"Business was cut short, blossom." He answered, setting her down as Finley grabbed the other articles of clothing she had bought, as they had done more shopping than just for the ball, from where it was strapped to the back of the carriage. "And I rushed home so I could see my daughter off to the ball."
"That's great! I've so much to tell you, papa." She said, still smiling. He smiled gently back and patted her hair lightly, and then turned his bearded face to Finley as she approached with her things.
"And I can't wait to hear it, pumpkin." He said, giving her a little push towards the entrance of their grand home. "Wait for me inside will you? I'll help Miss Bardolf with your things." She nodded happily and did so, humming a little tune as she waved goodbye to the stepsisters and entered the house.
"How are you, Finley?" He asked, unloading some boxes that she was struggling to carry. She forked them over gratefully, rolling her shoulders a bit. She never imagined shoes would be so heavy.
"Better now," She mumbled, and then added as an afterthought wondering whether it was the right way to address a member of the House of Nobles, "Milord."
"Good," He said absentmindedly. "Home and work treating you well? It was Mitras you work for, correct?" Finley nodded the best she could over the hat box, but he barely seemed to mind the gesture. "Strange fellow, to set up a engineer's shop here, of all places."
"Mm-hmm." Finley responded. She had heard that statement enough to no longer pay it any mind. Mitras said he set up shop here because he saw that he could profit from the gnoll infestation, as well as the decent mining in the region.
"And...your friend, Naelle. Is she well?" He questioned, holding the door open for her. This question threw Finley slightly off. Why in the world would he ask for her? Eyeing him criticaally, she nodded.
"As far as I know," She answered as he led her into a lavish sitting room, furnished with cloth, and furniture of the highest quality one could desire. Finley felt somewhat out of place in her worn, albeit clean, clothing, standing here amongst ornate claw-footed chaise and velvet curtains.
"Place it anywhere," he said with a wave, and she complied, glancing around for the most stable area before setting her load down on a black walnut table between two luxurious couches. When she straightened up, Sir Avatten had advanced towards her, drawing a small drawstring pouch from his belt. Finley raised an eyebrow; did he think to tip her, like a bellhop?
"I have a proposal for you, Miss Bardolf," He began, speaking in hushed tones and placing a hand on her shoulder, steering her towards a quiet hallway, putting Finley on edge, balking. He sighed. "Not of that sort." she relaxed somewhat and followed a bit more willingly, though from her tense posture it was obvious she was still wary.
"Well?" Finley prompted once he shut the door. He rubbed his graying beard thoughtfully. Finley imagined that he must have been quite handsome in his younger days, with his honey colored hair, broad stature and chiseled face. She supposed his money would have been a draw as well.
"My daughter is very...shy." He began, and Finley nodded. She had heard tales from Belinda and Estelle about how silly they thought she looked, stuttering when having to give a presentation or when meeting a stranger. "It's not a trait she revels in. I'm sure you can understand how it pains me to see her so unhappy." Finley nodded again, wondering where this was going.
"As a father, I would like to hear that she had a pleasant time at this event." He continued, "And perhaps even met the man of the hour himself." Finley suddenly knew where this was going and raised her hands to stop him.
"Sir, I wish I could help you, but I'm not going to the ball." She said, and he frowned. "Good luck, though."
"I trust my daughter far more with the likes of you than the women sitting in that carriage right now, Miss Bardolf." He said, and Finley felt like asking why exactly he let them be friends. It was like leaving a lamb with a pack of wolves and hoping they all became the best of friends.
"Look, I like Irielle, and I hope she has a fantastic time. But there is no way for me to attend the ball." She restated, backing away somewhat. Before she could move too far, however, his large hand reached out to encompass her wrist. She started to struggle, but stopped when he plopped the drawstring bag in her hand. It was remarkably heavy, and she had a good guess as to what was inside. Sure enough, when she peered into it's depths, a pile of gold coins glinted back at her. She raised her head to look at Avatten.
"Seventy-five gold." He said earnestly. "And that's only half. If you complete the job, I'll reward you the other." Finley hesitated, wondering exactly what she was getting herself into. She had no means of attending the event, no way of recognizing the prince, especially at a masquerade, and no way to escape the stern gaze of Elois. However, the lure of one hundred and fifty gold tempted her. In combination of what she had saved over the last five years, that would pay for almost half of her tuition in Dalaran. She licked her dry lips, and then sighed, taking the Baron's hand.
"Deal."
xxxxxxxx
Later that night, Finley hummed happily as she scrubbed the used pots- not two actions she would coordinate under any normal circumstances. However, everything seemed to be falling into place for her (and of course, for her acquisition of one hundred and fifty gold.) As she sat beside Estelle at dinner, she listened in on the conversation being had.
Apparently, the three planned to stay the night in Stormwind. They would head in on the afternoon of the ball in order to have the preparations made my profession- hairdressers, makeup artists and the like. They wouldn't return until the following morning, in order to avoid the traffic of all the attendees- leaving Finley with the house to herself. There was still the matter of getting a dress, but she was sure she could figure it out. Perhaps she would filch a lesser-used one from the back of the closets upstairs. Or maybe she would request one from Irielle somehow. It was the least Baron Avatten could do. The girl was curvier than her boyish figure, but it was nothing a few pins couldn't fix. She wasn't aiming for perfection, anyway, just to blend in with the crowd.
She was still humming as she dried her hands. She loved it when a plan came together, especially when that plan brought her closer to Dalaran.
Her reverie was interrupted by a few harsh raps on the door of the service entrance. She paused, throwing the dish rag over her shoulder. It was stormy outside, gusting harshly and raining heavily. Who would be here in this kind of weather. She opened the door to see a darkly cloaked figure. It took her a few moment to recognize the waterlogged creature as Naelle.
"Naelle!" She greeted in surprise after a moment, ushering the shivering girl inside. Her friend was a miserable huddle, shuddering and dripping all over the freshly swept floor.
"Why are you here?" She questioned as the other girl unhooked her cloak. Finley took it from her hand, spreading it over the table to dry.
"I need your help, Fin." She said through chattering teeth. Finley stopped in her work to give her a concerned look.
"Help? With what? Are you okay? What happened?" She asked, the questions falling out on top of one another. She had never known Naelle to be one to ask for help, from when they were children and she was stuck in the upper branches of a tree to the leering sort of men that occasionally accosted her while working. She was a strictly 'I can handle my own problems' sort of girl.
"I'm not in trouble. It's with a...job., per se." she said, glancing down at her interlocked fingers, and then back up at Finley, her worried brown eyes trained on her face. "I trust, you, Fin, you know that right? You know that I would never ask you something if I didn't absolutely need you to?"
"Of course." Finley agreed immediately.
"Well I think need your help with this job." She said, and then took a deep breath and launched into her explanation. "Dom's a rogue, and you know that he resorts to pick pocketing and petty thievery, right? Well he tried to pick-pocket off this one guy- and Finley, he offered him a job. A big one. Except he needs a woman to help him out." Finley crossed her arms, looking skeptical.
"Why? And how big is big?" She questioned, not quite sure if she trusted the sort of people Dominic would ever associate with.
"Five-hundred and fifty hundred gold, Fin. We'd split it of course, about one-eighty each I figure, but subtract the supplies we'll need to do it. But Fin, this could pretty much get you out of here combined with what you have already, you could leave Goldshire and study magic to your hearts' content and-" From the way Naelle was trying to convince her to join, Finley got the feeling she wasn't going to like the objective.
"Wait, wait, wait. Naelle, what is this job?" Finley interrupted, and Naelle cringed.
"Well, we have to go to the ball and-"
"I'm not committing treason, Naelle." Finley snapped. "Or murder or anything of the sort."
"No, no, it's not that. It's just...keys." She said, and Finley raised an eyebrow. "We just have to grab a set of keys."
"What, so someone else can commit treason?" She asked, "And wouldn't someone notice a missing set of keys in the home of our country's leaders? I'd rather not have my head on a pike."
"It's nothing to do with them!" Naelle cried, and Finley shushed her sharply. Remanded, she lowered her voice. "It's only to the cellars. They don't want anything to do with politics, just to steal some old jewels down there. And that's where we need you; you showed me this spell once; you used it to make a total copy of something. You could do it again, right?" She pleaded, and Finley had to resist the urge to recoil.
"No. Naelle, I can't. This all sounds incredibly shifty." She said firmly, crossing her arms. "I don't want to be to blame for- or even be remotely involved in- some sort of plot. At all." She turned away from her to lift the cloak off the table, ready to shove it in Naelle's hands and push her out the door, when a delicate hand curled around her upper arm.
"Fin. Please." She pleaded, her eyes welling up with tears. "My mother is doing worse, far worse than she was doing."
Finley hesitated, her hands lost in the wet fabric of the cloak.
"I've talked to so many healers, I can't even number them. And they're expensive. Really expensive, Fin. I can't afford one, no matter how often I work. I just can't support us and pay for her healing. You know what it's like to need something you can't have."
Finley bit her lip, clenching her hands in the cloak.
"I-...I don't want to lose my mom, Fin." She said, her voice small, and sniffled. "You of all people should understand that." Finley visibly flinched. She understood. And oh Light, she wish she didn't. With a frustrated sigh, she turned back to the crying barmaid and shoved the cloak into her hands.
"Fine. Just...If I end up in prison for this, it won't be pretty." She hissed. Naelle wrapped her arms around her, still sniffling.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you." She whispered, her voice trembling. "It won't be a problem for you, I swear."
If only she knew how wrong she was.
So there's that! I feel like this chapter was inordinately long, which is weird, because this was originally going to be a fairly short story. Not anymore, apparently. I'm not a short-and-sweet kind of person, I suppose.
Also, plot! I see it! Wonders abound!
So, speaking of plot, I'm kind of in the market for a beta, both in terms of plot, characterization and the technical stuff. (and if I want all that, perhaps multiple betas.) Does that whole beta-finder still exist? Or perhaps some of you may have suggestions on where to find a good one? I just really feel I need to talk plot with someone, and none of my friends play WoW. A tragedy, I know.
So, anyway, review; any and all constructive crit is welcomed :)
-Penguin