The little girl ran to her mother's bedroom in the dead of night, shaking like the feeblest blade of grass. "What's wrong?" her mother asked, concerned. Her husband was not in the bed with her, and hadn't been for several months. "Mama, mama, I had a terrible dream that papa's ghost was back at our home! His…his…what do you call it? Apparition?" The mother lifted the child into her arms and stroked her hair softly. "It's okay, child, your father is fine. Even if he doesn't come back from these battles, he'll still always be in our hearts." The little girl, wide eyed, looked up at her. "Then why, right now, is he out of mine?"

                I breathed, not really hearing them talk to me; talk to themselves. All I saw was my father and this woman, whispering ever so quietly to him, hand on champagne glass, stroking the neck thoughtfully. He said something to her, shaking his head in the process, and she tossed her head back victoriously and laughed. She was one of those people that had very wide eyes when she laughed, as though his words were shocking. I shuddered to think just what they were. And where my father was dressed quixotically (yet wonderfully) in a willowy white shirt, rich black pants and insets of opulently colored garments, she was arrayed in a dark, sort of jade-colored dress, very loose and tight in certain places, and a gold chain linked belt hung limply on her hips in a Medieval fashion. It contrasted nicely with her scarlet coils, which were free flowing and idealistic for a girl. And like mine, her skin was light and milky, with a healthy, shimmering complexion.

                It was hard to guess how old she was. I would say mid to late thirties, though I wouldn't have been surprised if she was still in her twenties. Ageless was the word. And she had very dazzling green eyes where my father and I only had honey or coffee colored…depending on what we're wearing. She was tall. Perhaps 5'10, and her build was graceful and flowing, so she looked forever as though she were a wispy painting. As for her face, it was stunning. Her chin was short and she had a petite countenance. Her cheeks, as were mine, were ruddy, and her eyebrows were permanently arched, even as she was giving him her friendliest face. Her lips were generous, and sort of dark, in a cushiony fashion, coordinating well with her small ears (which were pierced in three or four places), and finally, those emerald colored orbs were placed in two almond-shaped crevices, very large and fitting for her. She was the contrary to my father's classically straight, symmetric face.

                Slowly I excused myself, leaving them to their conversing and dancing as a vivacious song started up, complete with vocals and a rhythm I immensely enjoyed. They were sort of off in the shadows, away from a majority of us all, and I wondered if he wanted me to see him there. No one stands chatting near the corner unless they prefer to be secreted…should I have gone over? Yes…no…I was very confused. But I kept walking. Everyone was into the dance; no one saw me leave.  And I felt sort of lonely the action, surprisingly. From an aerial view I would be surrounded vastly on all sides by the marble floors, for this room was very large, and the bristles in my back weren't just from the tight straps of my dress. When they saw, me, the woman stopped talking for a moment, staring passively, and my father's eyes lit up. He grabbed my hand and spun me around charmingly. "Happy birthday, mon chéri. You look beyond lovely. It's hard to imagine you this grown up. I know I already gave you several things…" he produced a tiny white box from his pocket, enclosed in pink silk ribbon that matched almost impeccably with my dress. I took it slowly; it was palm sized, and carefully removed its wrappings, opened its clasp….

                "Oh Papa, it's wonderful!" I cried, examining the magnificent, purple jewel, flecked with sparkles, in the middle of a gorgeous silver band, with my name carved in quite an ancient language. It was large, but not overly so, and fit on my fourth finger as though it were a part of me. "Where did you get this?"

                "Far away from Belle. Not even in Ange Beau…it was your mother's ring. Well…sort of…she had it made for you. But the band and the jewel are so old they're timeless."

                "I see…" I said, lost in thought. My mother had touched this ring.

                And it was then that I noticed the woman with him, looking down at her hands, I'm sure feeling sort of awkward since the mention of her. She had tried to make her presence fall back among the shadows, and it worked for a moment, but when I swallowed hard, looking slowly at my papa, he looked from me to her and back again, smiling subtly. "Oh Nicolette, I want you to meet someone. Mademoiselle Vivianne, this is my daughter, le princesse."

                I curtsied and extended my hand, letting her take it as we both shook daintily. She curtsied back, and gave me a generous smile as she towered above me. "Hello Nicolette. What a lovely daughter you have, Monsieur Alexandre." She turned back to me. "I hope you're having a wonderful birthday."

                "I am. Thank you, Mam'selle. And are you?"

                "Quite indeed. I too have a present for you, oh, but it's not on me. One of my sons has it."

                She began looking past me, narrowing her eyes to scan the room. Her arms were down and her fingers were perked out very femininely. My father was back to watching her.

                "Oh please, you shouldn't have. I didn't really want anyone to bring gifts, just to be here."

                She smiled at me, her eyebrows perched. "No, don't want that, because they're more than gifts. They're blessings. And even the smallest one means something more than just a pretty thing." Before I had the chance to respond—even contemplate—she waved a graceful hand and called, "Oh, Nicolas, there you are. Have you met Nicolette's acquaintance?"

                "No mother," he said, not taking his eyes off me the entire time. He was very handsome, with strawberry blond hair, and eyes of my color. Tall and no older than twenty, he was significantly darker than his mother, yet still had that light, healthy glow. He spoke a few seconds past, although his gaze was beginning to make me wary, no matter how attractive he might have been. "How are you, Nicolette?" He sort of half-smiled and kissed my hand as I curtsied. "Happy birthday."

                "Thank you," I said, "I'm fine. And you?" I watched as he produced a red velvet jewelry box, and his mother nodded, and he opened it, revealing a dazzling comb. In its handle, diamonds arrayed here and there across a lush, metallic blue background, made the shape of falling rain. I stared at it for a moment, stunned, my hand frozen in place. I could feel all three pairs of eyes on me…and I could do nothing. "I…."

                Vivianne nodded her head. "This is my gift to you: that you will always prevail." She paused, thoughtfully. "And that you will feel deeply. Once again, ma princesse, happy birthday."

                Slowly, I took the comb. For this to be really happening was an anomaly…I had no idea who these people were, past formal introductions; she said she had sons, and I had only met one, and for them to give such a valuable piece of jewelry was…. "Mademoiselle…thank you so much!" I said in a fluster, and my eyes fell on Nicolas, "Thank you, monsieur, I…." My eyes flew on my father. He was radiant, smiling genuinely, and I gave him a grin. "Mam'selle, I cannot tell you how thankful I am."

                "It's quite alright, Nicolette. I'm happier to give the gift." She glanced at my father. "If you'll excuse me, now, I must retire to the powder room."

                Before any of us could comment, my father stepped in. "I'll show you the way, Mademoiselle."

                She curtsied, but her eyes held no formalities. "Thank you."

                And with that, they left us, arm in arm (as in a courtly sort of way), with Nicolas glancing indifferently towards one of the large exits, the doors that they were headed for. He turned back to me—instant sparks forming in his eyes, and reached for my hand—seeming to not notice that I flinched; I detested being touched by those who didn't know me. His grip was strong, and his smile mirthful. "Care to dance?"

                I didn't accept at once. He was a little too sure of himself, and I was a princess—his princess, and he seemed to have no respect at all for me. I blanched at the thought of what his mind tells him he can and cannot do, and when you let them consume you, suaveness and good looks can do no good. I was going over this in my mind, enjoying making him wait, and when I finally decided that I would say yes to dance—and only to dance, another boy crept from behind me, mouth slightly parted, eyes gawking to make Nicolas look as though he were blind, and finally took his place next to the blond boy's shoulder. My insides were tightening…I wanted Clement.

                This one was handsome, not quite so as Nicolas, but possessed a rugged charm about him. He was taller, broader, and had close shaven red hair, with icy blue eyes and a way of breathing so slowly that it lured you in. But I was seething! How should they like me to look at them that way? Were they not aware that they possessed no consent to act like perverts? I almost stamped my foot in rage. I could feel my face growing hot—I knew I would blush with rage—but I kept my posture. I retrieved my hand from Nicolas (a little forcefully) and curtsied toward our new companion. "Bonjour, monsieur, may I ask your name?"

                He bowed. At least he was further than Nicolas was. "Louis, my princess, and you are Nicolette, no?"

                "Yes. How do you do?"

                "Quite fine. I hope you are having a happy birthday?"

                "Yes…." I tried to think of something—anything—to say, to break the monotony. "So. You are your mother's sons?"

                I had gone to bed at five the next morning. I had asked the Lord to bless me with multiples of seventeen years more—maybe three or four, so I might actually live to be almost seventy, or close to it. Who knew. I could even be past a hundred when I would pop off, leaving my legacy to new children, just like me, who had seen fine days and a secure home to live in. I only hope they could be in such care as I have.

                I thought of nothing when I finally rested, pulling warm covers around to meet with feathery pillows. What was there to contemplate—for me? Other than education, political choices and leading a charmed life, I had to do nothing. I wasn't even out to spook myself over this old castle we presided in, my ancestors "haunting the halls" and whatnot, as all children do at night, but I just wanted joy…what I had.

                And this Vivianne who was so charming. I had nothing against her, and she had given me a mesmerizing comb, so I suppose it was my own selfish feelings that didn't want her to be in my father's room right now. I hadn't seen them since they left me, conversing with her two sons: Louis being nice and simplistically boyish—so obvious that he thought I was lovely—and Nicolas being sly, sexy and pulling at my very nerves. He thought of so many excuses to touch me, that I finally grabbed his hand, pierced a stare to his heart so vile it could break unity, and released.

                No, I didn't like him, so I could have been biased. But it was like she and I were in competition to see whose beauty could win my father's heart more.

                But were they in love? They were only talking.

                Maybe not; maybe she had used that powder room to fix her nose, and then gone home to her wealthy manor (as I understood it) and played with her large barrels of money, inherited money I may add, that thrust her into the tiring position of a baroness.

                But she didn't. I was as sure she was under this roof as I was that I was winter's epitome, even though I didn't like to admit that—but I had never seen someone so…framed by its imagery.

                These thoughts were wild indeed, but they were nighttime thoughts, so they were legitimate, at least by my standards. And as I drifted off to sleep, watching Luna slip through my window pane (a large, silver frame of crafted flowers that Marianne and I painted a sort of lax blush color), I began to think of sticks, millions of sticks, piling up inside the castle, filling from base to brim. I know it's wicked to think of sticks; all the things they represent…cruelty, oppression, anything heinous…but again, I was drifting, and I couldn't control them. I had a dream that I was part of a tree, its leaves etched in gold, but they were weeping. I wanted to cry as well…. And when they—those with no faces—when they began wounding the bark with their instruments, silver, thin and shiny, I remembered the distinct, horrific fragrance of blood, and the sight of a million rose petals.

                "Knock, knock," a small pound or two followed, then the creaking of the luminous door, and, a few seconds later, the pulling of warm, Indian blankets from my grip. I awoke lazily. Luna had vanished, and in her place stood a giant tree, leaves like flowing ginger, and several branches low and wispy.

                I knew it. Vivianne was there, hair tied halfway back in all her glory. It made her curls fall out and wild behind her face, though it was not messy, and it went perfectly with her ivory gown, silver designs of flowers and streaming plants entwined. This too, as her dress the previous night was, was streaming and slenderizing, and provided no hugging with the exception of her chain-linked belt. She didn't dress as other's did, all risqué and showy, but with a sort of medieval charm that belonged in this time no matter what the look was.

                "I hope you don't mind the intrusion…" she looked down at me, slightly smiling. Before I knew what was happening she had hold of my hand, and dragging me to sit up, plopped herself on my bed beside me. I looked at her dazedly—I know my eyes were narrow and confused, scrutinizing her slowly, wondering what in the Lord's name she was doing—what kind of audacity she had! "Mademoiselle, it's ten in the morning. Princesses shouldn't slumber so late." She reached to grab a piece of my hair, still thick and coarse from the land of dreams I was only just shaken from. It gleamed in the morning's gorgeous light to look like auburn. "And…they should always brush their hair before bedtime, no?"

                I said nothing, just watched her, mouth open in shock, eyes blinking. I was still very out of it. After a few seconds, I mouthed words quietly, and then whispered, "V…Vivianne?"

                I wanted to make her realize that I didn't know who she was—a stranger! —And that she shouldn't be even in the castle, let alone my room. On the inside I was screaming a million things…mostly images. Images of her leaving at once, and taking her two sons with her. Put them in her pocket—I didn't care! I was a feline; I wanted her out.

                She cocked her head and smiled sweetly. "Mam'selle Vivianne, please, Nicolette. I am your elder."

                "I'm sorry…Mam'selle." I took a hand and furiously rubbed my hair, making it poof up even more.

                "Thank you, mon chéri." She looked down at the blankets, which I was still surrounded by, and twirled her finger along with a vivacious design. "I…want to talk to you about something, okay?"

                I said nothing.

                She looked up in a caprice, smiled her most triumphantly, and cocked an eyebrow. I nodded.

                "Very well, Nicolette. Get dressed and come down to breakfast." Breakfast? "We're almost ready to sit down." She rose. "Oh, and Nicolette, try to look nice. I'm…not sure how you usually dress, but you looked very beautiful last night. I'd like to see that taste again."

                And with nothing more, she left the room.

                It was silent for a very long while. I stayed in the same spot, staring at my door, which was shut tight and quickly, for she was expecting me to jump up right then and rush to fit her schedule. Prepare myself. I hopped out of bed. I would prepare myself.

                It's not that I didn't like Vivianne, (Mam'selle…it's just so informal, wouldn't one agree?), but she was acting as though she lived here, and had so for a thousand years, not paying any attention to the girl who really did reside in the castle, or her feelings. I strutted to the lavatory (a jasmine scented, purple bathroom tailored by only the very best) as I contemplated this, and ten minutes later pranced out relieved and with shiny teeth. She was nice, and at least physically fit enough for my father, and she talked to me as though she could identify…if she really could was another story. I looked at myself in the mirror, plugging a brush through my hair, through its darkest and vilest areas, and through the simplistic wisps of the front. But why was she so bold about coming in here this morning? Shouldn't she be sheepish; start out slow, and work to gain my trust, rather than just drawing it from me? It was beyond exasperating! And as I brooded, I used my heavenly anti-perspiration stick, perfumed myself (l'rose), broke out lotion, and plucked discreet hairs from my arching eyebrows. Happily, I could finally gravitate toward the closet, hungering for my chance to prove myself. How could she say something so vulgar to me? I always look nice. She had only seen me once…did she not know that I knew I was Princess Nicolette de Neige le tiers? No, no, she obviously hadn't a clue.

                I smirked. I would give her one.

                I chose a dark green velvet dress, a Rococo one, which came to just above my knees…it was sort of juvenile, but oh so lovely, and I enjoyed it terribly, for it was lacey and frilly and everything a girl should take pleasure in. From the top, it sat upon my shoulders, streaming down to my elbows until it was intercepted by white ruffles—those coming down to the midways of my forearms. The neckline was very low cut, dipping down to starched frills mid-chest, and that going down into a straight-laced bodice of dark green. Near the tunic area, a lone section of white, delicate laces made it tight and gorgeous. The skirt mushroomed from there; a bustle of dark green was hooked in three sections, its massive outer lace of pure white, and because it was so short, it had extra bounce when I walked. It divided in the front by wavy frill, and in between it (the real skirt) was dark green velvet, intercepted by lace, and back to velvet. The finishing touches were the matching, dark green button shoes, and an inch thick green ribbon I tied at my neck, making a large bow at the nape. I tied my hair halfway so they could view that detail.

                Once I slipped in hoop earrings, not too large, and applied coffee lipstick and a minuscule amount of other makeup, I nodded approvingly to my reflection (Venus would be proud!), grabbed a color-coordinated fan from the basket near my door, and strolled out.

                Everyone was already waiting for me when I got to the large banquet hall, its table, taking up a good deal of the behemoth room, streaming with colorful things and fried foods I would never touch. A grand chandelier hung around ten feet above it, though it remained off, as there was more than enough light from the wall-length casements surrounding it. Outside of the room, which was exquisitely decorated with paintings and cushiony furniture, our grand courtyard spread about for what seemed like forever. I think of it as our private Masse Velours, complete with a lake and a maze.

                They all stopped midway through their conversation as I walked in, taking a place next to Nicolas, whose eyes were wide (yet faraway…), and his finger rested on his temple in thought. Vivianne was smiling approvingly. I knew she was beaming on the inside—or else seething—for I had proven that I knew how to look "nice" all the time. Louis was staring at one of the pins that divided the skirts of my dress. My father, sitting at the head of the table, opposite Vivianne, had a broad grin on his face; this was nothing new to him. I was doing cartwheels inside, as I acted so prim externally, because I could see the joy in his eyes, and I knew he was truly proud of me. I flashed him a close-mouthed smile and leisurely turned my head toward Vivianne. "Mademoiselle Vivianne," I acknowledged, eyes burning against her own fiery ones. We both had thoughts, wild thoughts, though neither of us knew them.

                "Monsieur Louis, Monsieur Nicolas…." My last stop was my father. I flashed another smile. "Papa."

                "Ma petite princesse," he acknowledged back, raising his glass as I did mine, and we both laughed—my belle like giggling against his smooth, low one.

                I turned to Vivianne. "You needed to tell me something?" I asked nonchalantly, picking up the kettle of rosemary tea.

                "Yes, well…" she glanced at my father, who pursed his lips (at least it looked that way from my peripheral vision) and nodded. "Yes, well," she began, more confident this time, "we know that, you've just met me—met us in fact," she acknowledged her offspring, Louis, who was talking to a servant girl next to him (I had to look twice at that), and Nicolas who I ignored completely, opting to pour the tea gingerly into my porcelain cup instead, "but we want you to know that, even though we do seem like strangers to you, we aren't, not for long…because…because…. Your father and I are getting married."

                I stared at her for a long moment.

                "Nicolette, your tea!" my father shouted, and I gasped down in horror as it overflowed, right onto the napkin Nicolas had whipped out for a safety net above my beloved dress. The tablecloth around my area was soaked, and as a decoy, I stood up, thanked him (finally he acted as a gentleman), and took a lightheaded step or two back. "Ma…rried, father?" I tried to look at them, but my vision seemed all out of proportion. Vivianne stood up…but from where I stood, she didn't look concerned, not even perplexed, just the slightest bit angry. I said nothing to her—to Mam'selle Vivianne—just stared. She was positively overstepping her boundary on this—horribly overstepping it. "How…can this be?" I demanded, clasping a hand on my forehead, forgetting that I had a closed fan in the other one.

                "It is not a curse, it's a blessing," she said curtly. "Look how childish you're behaving! I," she stood tall, pounding a fist over her heart. "I, am making an effort for this to work. Now…I know it's a shock. But if you can't handle this—then I suggest—we all suggest—that you take a little time to heal yourself, because you're very weak." Her eyes narrowed. "Did you hear me? You—are—weak."

                Was this happening?

                I wasn't sure. I looked at my father, studied his face for a long while. He was very concerned for me; I could tell. But he said nothing. Nicolas and Louis, and his servant girl—they said nothing. Vivianne's malevolence vanished from her face, and it was replaced by silence, waiting for my move. How had she lashed out at me? …Why did she? I only poured too much…I only swooned, I only…I only….

                I only ran.