Disclaimer: I am NOT Charles Dickens. I am a simple female whose only gifts are a somewhat witty mind, writing, singing, acting, humility, perfection, hair, loveliness… You see how self-degrading I am? I could never be Charles Dickens!

Author's Note: I have written an author's note in at least most of my chapters, if not all. That is why this is here. I am not the one to mess with tradition.

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Click. Click. Pause. "Ouch" Click. Click.

Aster quickly composed herself before entering the breakfast room. Even though she had been wearing deadly high-heeled shoes and "ladies'" clothing for a week, the awkward boots and long dresses made her feel less like a lady and more like a clumsy clown.

She continued wearing the hooped, foot-long skirts and corsets only because they were lovelier versions of what she wore when she was gypsy girl…and Edward liked them.

A revelation of truth had hit Aster, making her slowly realize how much she needed compliments and pretty things to hide her unrefined self behind in this fresh world. Her new beginning was a place of manners, elegance, dancing, intrigues and romances. It was a strange but delightful, new world.

The manservant, Richard, opened the door to the breakfast room, surprising Aster and forcing her to back up into a desk.

"Oh, dear. I'm so terribly sorry, Miss. I was just about to send one of the girls to tell you that Master Edward has prepared a picnic lunch for you both to enjoy in the park." His slightly nasal and aloof changed as he winked and whispered, conspiratorially. "I heard him talking about a surprise for you, also."

"Thank you ever so much, Richard," Aster replied, allowing her voice to drift up in the air like a lady's was supposed to and trying not to laugh. "I am honored."

Richard grinned at her as she slipped into the breakfast room to grab a plain biscuit and honeyed scone before charging back up the stairs to read while she waited for lunch time to arrive.

~~+++~~

Most "civilized" people believe that gypsies are barbaric and know nothing of politics or literature. The truth, however, is very different. Based on studies and stories, Aster has concluded that the first gypsies were simply ridiculed and called names until someone took these names and false characters as truth and made the gypsy stereotype.

The main reason people subconsciously dislike gypsies is because they actually do know too much. They are everywhere.

Main meat seller at the market—a gypsy.

Bartender at the Wet Whistle—a gypsy.

And quite a few gypsies make their home and money as ladies of negotiable affection in places of ill repute—the perfect place to hear about new happenings. (A/N: If you don't understand, move on.)

Because they are so unpopular, gypsies have become even more perceptive and spread out…But Aster is the first so far to live in an uncommon, rich place without being and having a bad reputation.

And Aster is very observant.

And Aster reads in to many hidden things.

And something strange drifts its way through this house.

~~+++~~

The picnic had been a delightful mix of salads and fruits—light but very filling. Finally, the smacking sound emerging from Edward ceased and he smiled to Aster.

"Tonight, there will be a masque in honor of one of our neighbors. The boy is Mr. Brownlow's grandson, Oliver, and it is his coming of age party. The maids told me how interested you are in his story, so I've decided to take you with me."

Aster's mouth dropped open in surprise at this announcement. Amused, Edward pushed it closed.

"I've asked Gabrielle to make us costumes that matched in coloration and I think she's done a swell job. She finished mine last week and yours two days ago. So? What do you say?"

Aster smiled happily. "Of course I'll go! It sounds amazing!"

Quickly, she jumped up and pecked Edward on the cheek, not noticing him give a slight, almost harsh smile as they started to clear up the plates.

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"That rat calls himself "Edward" now! I can't believe she trusts him. Even..."

"—Even if he seems to be a quite jolly chap who just enjoys making her happy? Sounds like you're a bit jealous, Dodger."

Liam began unstitching another handkerchief as he waited for another stream of curses. Instead, however, Dodger smiled fanatically.

"You're right. Maybe he has stopped. Still, we're going to that masque to see Oliver and check up on this chap."

Liam sighed as he put down the napkin. "Alright, Dodger."

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Are you happy now, Mother?

No, Star, there's something wrong about you going to London. I don't care if Rone's taught you everything he knows, Old Woman Inter says something is going to happen to you.

Mother! You told me yourself that she is just uneducated and can't really read that crystal ball.

Yes, I did, Star. But that doesn't mean she can't see things that we can't.

You can't keep me here forever.

I know, but it doesn't make it any easier. Stay tonight, please? And take this box. Your father carved it. You can store your memories in it.

Oh, thank you, Mother! ...And, ok, I'll stay tonight.

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The last memory Aster stored in her box was the night she left. She ran from the caravan, followed by enemy raiders and the smoke drifting from the burning wagon where her mother's ashes lay.

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Aster clicked the box shut for the last time and shoved it into one of the drawers so she wouldn't have to see it again and be reminded of her dying mother and Old Woman Inter's last prophecy… Something was dreadfully wrong.