01

I suppose I should begin from the basics that you never knew.

My real name is Satine de la Croix, and I was six years old when my mother died. Because she had constantly been ill from the moment I was born, I had never really known the sweet English lady my father had wed. To me, she was "Mother" -- a lady I must be careful around, speaking softly and treating her gently. She would ask me questions about my days and schooling, and I would gaze into her soft eyes, thinking of the sea, and answer every question, untiring.

I was fond of her, although I couldn't say that I "loved" her, per se, for I didn't understand her significance to me.

My father, Eugené de la Croix, fell into a deep depression after her death, and he treated me with more tenderness than before. A wealthy man, my father was known for his kindness towards his tenants, and he was treated with deep respect in high society, even if he had wed an English woman.

He showered me with gifts -- pretty dresses, lovely ponies, and new books. Giving me everything my little heart desired, he spoiled me, always chastising me whenever I grew haughty, constantly stressing that I was no better than a poor, homeless child we encountered on the streets of Paris.

And, so, for three years, I was quite the little princess.

After my ninth birthday, my father began to spend more time in Paris, and I spent many long, lonely days in the kitchen with the head cook, a kind lady who had known my father since he was a child. She taught me how to cook lovely little delicacies, in case the day may come when I wished to make them for my husband. Against the thought of marrying another man, I stubbornly shook my head each time she, or any other servant, spoke that word, but she only laughed, patting my cheek and telling me that I could only marry the best of the best.

One day, my father returned from one of his long trysts in Paris. Excited, I ran out to meet him at the gate, and he jumped off his horse to sweep me off my feet into an embrace.

"You are to have a mother again!" he cried, ecstatic. "And two sisters -- one who is older, and one who is younger."

With a grin, he set me back down, reaching for my hand and walking quickly towards the big house, shouting out the names of his familiar servants to share his good news. I was lost in the excitement, and I pulled my hand from his, appalled at the sound of "mother."

Would she have the same beautiful sea green eyes I had inherited? Would she gaze at me with the same loving eyes? Would she ask me the same, gentle questions?

Would she capture my father's love, tenderness, and kindness in a simple gesture?

Would he drink in her beauty and grace with every glance?

Would they love each other with such quiet, untouched passion?

And, would he still love me, even with a new "mother" and two new sisters?

Standing near the gate, my small nine-year-old body trembling with fear of an unknown future, I hated Paris.