I tried running away once. The idea was to see how far I could go before anyone stopped me. In the end I stopped myself. My fathers mansion was out of sight and the road was muddy. I looked down at the delicate filmy cloth of my dress and my carefully embroidered silken slippers. I looked back up at the road ahead that seemed to lead to nowhere. And then I turned around. I knew then that leaving was against my nature. I didn't have the right kind of courage to leave. So I turned around and went back to my fathers mansion. I had always regretted that.
No one had even noticed I had left.
My father, General Pier du Bois had seven daughters and no sons. A predicament that led to a simultaneously stricter and looser upbringing than many other noble girls in the kingdom. Probably across the continent. The eldest was Marchina du Bois. Then came April. Then May. Then Junis. Then Julianna. Then me, Agustina. Then Septemera. Each named for the month of their birth.
It was years after I had tried running away that the king announced he was holding a ball to welcome home his only child, the prince of the land. At the time only Marchina and April were married. Septemera had just entered society. I mention these facts because it was this ball that, I believe, was the start of everything but to understand the full impact you must first know more of my family.
Marchina was the epitome of heir perfection. Her words, her very expression, held power that I've only seen held by those meant to lead. It was she who chose her husband, not the other way around. Hardly a single one of us sisters could bear to disobey her. Or maybe that was my own delusion. She was poise and power and solemn strength.
April was known across the kingdom for her arts. She spent her days painting or at the piano. I've yet to meet a musician who could match her on the violin, or an actor who's tears were as convincing. Her story is a happy scandal to the Du Bois name. She caught the eye of a young doctor who had come to see May (I'll get to her in a moment) and nearly revoked her title right then and there. After meeting secretly for a year or so, unable to get our fathers approval, they eloped. Father pretends that she is no more to him, but I often catch him glancing through a playbill or gallery opening review that just so happens to feature my sisters works.
May was always the quietest of us. She had an illness of the lungs that kept her from strenuous exercise and overtime her eyesight deteriorated as well. She found solace in gardening and soon proved herself such a green thumb that our strict general of a father placed her in charge of the estates grounds. Though she remains in the background at social events her soft graces and beautifying talent soon drew to her many hidden admirers.
Junis was May's opposite. Where May was quiet Junis was loud. Where May was soft Junis was coarse. In our younger days she and Septemera would often leave the house in the morning and not return until late evening, covered in mud. She was the closest my father ever got to a son and so he allowed her to learn the sword and archery along with his own men. Before we knew it Junis was the jewel of training grounds and she pushed herself further. Soon she was aiming for the impossible, female knighthood.
Julianna was smart. As a general my fathers library was filled mostly with military records and books on tactics and Julianna read through them all. When she ran out she re-read them. When she finished again she set out to find more. Soon our library was filled with books on history, cooking, science, gardening, clothing patterns, biographies, and even law. Like May, her eyesight started to deteriorate and she soon was seen very little without her spectacles. At first glance she seemed quite quiet but as she was well read she could hold her own in a conversation with anyone and was very well regarded in social circles. Some of the young men scorned her, unwilling to admit they feared she who knew more than them, but there were some who genuinely valued the weight of her words and actively sought her out with admiration (and often a little more than that) in their eyes.
In age I am next, but I will spare such detail on myself till a later time as it will quickly come into light as the situation unfolds. Instead I shall move on to the youngest of us sisters, Setpemera.
Septemera was the last of my father's children. With her life coming into the world our dear mother left her life behind in exchange. She had something similar, I think, to the eldest Marchina. Marchina held her grace with power, drawing people to her with what I suppose should be called charisma. Septemera had neither grace nor real power and yet still people migrated to her. I suppose her talent was charm. She was nothing great with her studies, preferring to run off and play instead. She loved the outdoors but never took to weapons or gardening. She had only vague interest in the arts. More than once have I seen our shared tutors scold her harshly for skipping lessons or getting the course work wrong only for them to relent or crack a smile when her back was turned. There was something roguish in her clumsiness and dear to her laughter. She hated injustice and did as she pleased. In the end I was jealous of her. Had she tried to run away, as I had, she would not have turned back. Everyone would have known that she was gone.
I spend so much time describing the character of my sisters, Septemera in particular, because I need you feel nearly as keenly as I the differences between myself and my siblings. You see right away that they are all strong in who they are. They all have people who love them more dearly than any other, feel their presence strongly in their life. If they left suddenly someone would feel their absence and be empty because of it. There was no one to feel as such for me, though at one time I thought there was. But I am getting ahead of myself.
I shall establish my own character and lead to the story beyond this from there. I am, as all my sisters are, pretty. Pleasing to look upon. We carry the traits of our father, dark hair, dark eyes. We carry the traits of our mother, pale complexion, slender frame. I am no different. I can sing well enough I suppose, and can do a very little on the piano. I can sketch a likeness with a very few awkward lines disrupting the form. I read a little, enough to converse. My embroidery is fine and I can keep a potted flower alive. I've no trouble conversing with others and I keep up with my assigned studies. Perhaps I am near the idea of a perfect lady but I have no power, no presence, and no real personal expression. Or at least no personal expression that can hold anyone close and dear.
It is this culmination of traits in every single one of us sisters that led to that humiliating night. That humiliating night led to my humiliating circumstance. And that humiliating circumstance led to the rash opportunity that I don't believe anyone saw aside from the one who presented it.