Special thanks to Gotta Dance 88, Kates Master's Sister, Frogster, Eilean Donan, and Thai Libre for reviewing! (And sorry it took so long!)

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Apple tugged on the sleeves of her dress as she huddled in the back row of the village church. Before her father's death, it had been her winter church dress- a soft mossy green velvet frock trimmed with real Valenciennes lace. But the lace was gone, leaving rows and rows of tiny pinprick holes, and the velvet was a streaky black. She knew she didn't look respectable anymore; she looked like…like a maid.

She glanced up at Meg and Jonathan. They sat in silence, listening to the vicar. Jonathan's eyes closed heavily and Meg nudged him awake. She caught Apple looking at her, smiled kindly, and turned her attention back to the sermon.

Apple stifled a sigh. She gazed idly around the church. The villagers she had known since babyhood sat in the same pews their families had sat in for generations. She glanced towards the front. The Chandler family row was still empty, and she was glad. She could still remember when her grandfather sat there, and her mother, and her father. Now she was the only Chandler left, and if she couldn't sit there, no one else could sit there.

Apple looked up and down the rows. Fathers nodded off, their big work-worn hands folded across their stomachs. Mothers bounced fretful babies on their knees. Pretty girls in crisply ironed dresses pretended to ignore the gawking boys making sheep's eyes at them from across the aisles. She recognized all of them.

The Leadbetter row was completely full. Mr. Leadbetter stared blankly at the vicar, his saggy-jowled face reminding Apple of an old bloodhound, while his wife kept tabs on the six little Leadbetters filling the pew. Apple was glad to be out of the row. She had had to sit between Patsy and eight-year-old Ronnie, and the two bickered so much she couldn't get a moment's peace.

Patsy reached up and fluffed the large hair ribbon on the crown of her head; her sleeve drooped over her round elbow. Apple froze. Four inches of soft lace fluttered from the end of the sleeve with stitches so wide and crooked she could see them from her seat- soft lace that she remembered well. It was the lace from her dress.

Apple's blood ran cold. She could feel the sudden angry flush flashing on her cheeks. Her lace, the lace from her Sunday best frock sewn on Patsy's cheap dress. Lost in her temper, she didn't hear another word of the sermon.

The second the benediction was announced she bolted for the door. Apple stumbled into the front lawn and hid against the side of the church. The cold autumn wind stung her cheeks, but it felt good against her hot skin. She pressed herself flat against the wall, the bricks scraping her bare forearms, as the congregation exited slowly.

She knew where Patsy would go. The village children always played under the branches of the three maple trees on the corner- the girls on their best behavior in the prettiest dresses, the boys swaggering in front of them and swapping marbles and penknives and other miscellaneous treasures in their pockets.

Apple drew closer as Patsy turned around in the center of the circle, showing off the lace hastily sewn to her maroon wool dress. "It's so pretty," one of the girls said, touching the frill lightly. "You're so lucky, Patsy. My mother said we can't afford any new trims for this fall's dresses."

"It's imported," Patsy boasted. "Mama said that I could have it if I sewed on myself. Isn't it grand?" She waved her arm, making the lace bounce and flutter. "Even Jack Casey noticed it, and he's the handsomest boy in the village. I think he's going to ask me to the harvest festival."

"I wish my mother found lace like that," another girl sighed. "When she went to the city, all she found was some silly striped braid. I look like a sailor."

"Maybe next time," Patsy said in a voice that clearly meant to be kind, but only sounded haughty. "It's hard to find lace like mine."

"It's not yours," Apple said before she could stop herself. The girls stopped and turned, their mouths gawping. In a few quick steps she was facing Patsy, her fists clenched. "It's mine. My papa bought that lace from a mantua-maker in the city, and it was put on my Sunday dress, until your stupid, silly mother took it off because she didn't think it was right. But what's really not right is that she gave it to you!"

Patsy's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Apple seethed, her teeth clenched. The other girls drifted back, escaping to the safety of their mothers' sides. Patsy looked like she might be sorry, but then her expression changed to almost a sneer. "Maids don't wear lace, Anne Paige Chandler," she said. She looked Apple up and down; Apple stared straight ahead, ignoring the hot embarrassed flush rising to her cheeks. Patsy leaned back and crossed her arms, flashing a self-satisfied smile. Apple just stared. Everything about Patsy was round: round face, round palms, round blue eyes. Even her shoulder-length yellow hair seemed round. Apple wanted to prick her with a pin and watch her deflate.

"Oi, Apple," a village boy called. He dropped out of the maple tree. "I didn't know you were still around."

Patsy stopped sneering as she blinked her round blue eyes at Jack Casey, the blacksmith's son. "Oh, she doesn't live in the village anymore, Jack, she's a maid at Rosethwaite," she said.

Jack's thick brunet brows shot up. "Is it really haunted there?" he asked.

"No," Apple snapped.

"I heard that there was a whole part of the manor that no one can go into anymore," Patsy said. "Isn't that true?"

Apple hesitated. A gleeful smirk spread across Patsy's face. "It is true, isn't it?" she said.

"Nobody goes in the west wing," she defended.

"I bet you don't go in there just because you're scared," Patsy jeered.

Apple rolled her eyes. "I'm as scared of the west wing as I am of you, Patsy Leadbetter, and that means not at all," she shot back.

Patsy screwed her round mouth up and scowled. "You're just…you're only…" she sputtered. Then she paused and tossed her yellow bobbed hair. "You really think you're brave enough to go into the west wing on your own?"

"Of course," Apple said loftily.

Patsy smoothed her hair. "Then you can spend the whole night in the west wing, and tell us all about it," she preened.

Apple dug her fingernails into her palms, the pain distracting her for a moment, and then she let go. "Only if you give me my lace back," she said.

Patsy opened her mouth to argue, but Jack interrupted. "Sounds fair," he said. "Bring something from the west wing. It'll be an even trade."

"What if I bring back just any old thing?" Apple shot back.

"You're the one who's always talking about your stupid Chandler pride," Patsy sneered. "You wouldn't lie about something that puts your precious family name to shame."

Apple opened her mouth, then closed it with a thin-lipped glare.

"Anne Paige!" Meg called. "Come along."

"Yes, Anne Paige, run along," Patsy said. Apple turned on her toe and stormed away.

Meg and Jonathan stood by the pony cart. "We're going to get lunch at the inn," Jonathan said. "Do you want to come with us?"

"I'm not hungry," Apple said in a low voice.

"Are you sure?" Meg said. "It'll be quite a while until dinner at the manor."

"I'm sure," Apple said.

Meg studied her sharply. "All right," she said. "Meet us here at three o'clock." Apple nodded and walked away.

She knew where she was going, and she knew the path so well she could walk it in her sleep. Apple walked fast, taking long angry strides.

Even before her father died, she didn't like visiting in the village. It was too strange there. People were too nosy, too opinionated. She preferred the quiet, solitary ife at the orchard.

It took a good fifteen minutes before she saw the first sign of the curving stone walls that marked the orchard's boundaries. Her grandparents' grandparents had erected the tall fences when they first founded the apple orchards. As a little girl she would clamber up the sides and sit on the top; when she was older and had her first pony she learned to jump them.

Apple climbed up the fence easily, hitching the skirts of her black dress out of her way. She sat on the top and surveyed the fields below. The Crimson Griffins were turning a brilliant shade of red by now, nearly ready to harvest. They were always the last ones, she remembered. And they were planted on the southern fields, so they could get more sunlight. Apple dashed at her damp cheeks with the backs of her palms.

"You there! Off the fence! This is private property, you!"

Apple struggled to her feet, standing on the top of the fence. "Roxam!" she called. "It's me, Roxam!"

The grizzled old groundskeeper dropped his pruning shears. "Little Missus?" he gawked.

Apple dropped from the fence and ran to him. "Roxam!" she shouted.

He caught her up in his arms, holding her up like he did when she was just a little girl. "Little Missus, I've missed you something fierce," Roxam said, grinning broadly. "It's not the same, what with you and your father both gone."

"Are you harvesting the Crimson Griffins?" Apple asked.

Roxam bounced her up a little bit; she balanced her hands on his shoulders. "That's our little missus, always keeping a calm head," he said. "Yes, yes, we're harvesting the Griffins. The landlord is having us ship them into the big town at the end of the month." He shook his head. "I can't believe those guardians of yours. They don't care to live here, they don't let you live here, and now our own little missus is someone else's servant."

"They're kind to me, Roxam," Apple said.

He set her down as cautiously as he would a piece of glass. "Don't matter," he said. "You're a lady. You've been our lady since you were four years old and your dear mother died. You shouldn't need to work for anyone else."

Apple shifted awkwardly. "I know," she said quietly.

"And it's best that you stay careful," Roxam warned. "I've heard things about that Rosethwaite place. You're not doing anything dangerous, are you?"

Apple thought briefly about Patsy's sneer and the sagging lace. "Of course not," she said. "I'm always careful."

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Author's Notes:

It has been a hectic couple of weeks. Seriously. Crazy.

So now we have seen Patsy in action. And now we know why Apple punched her.

I think I want to explain a little bit about Apple. I wanted her to be a little bit spoiled, a little bit bratty. She's used to being the mistress of Candlewick Orchard, not a scullery maid. I think it'll make the dynamics between Adam and Apple even more interesting.

I've started posting my original novel on fanfiction too. (Shh, don't tell the mods…). It's called Beatrice and the Cat, and so far…no one has reviewed it. Oh, well. Only the prologue is up so far. But if you enjoy this…I hope you enjoy Beatrice too!

And hopefully I'll update TWORM soon. That's a silly acronym…oh, well.