Author's Note- Hello there new and hopefully faithful readers of Fated Lace. This is a story that is written by two authors, hence each chapter is written by each of the two different main characters. The author of this chapter, is twist-of-clarity, and she is writing from the POV of Ruby. I am the author of the next chapter, Moonlight Enchantments and I am writing from the POV of Breena. I hope you shall enjoy this story, and please review!

Summary: "tossed by fate's hands upon the chessboard of a cold war that had been going on for decades between the kingdoms of two people as beautiful and cruel as each other, two girls suddenly find themselves in a realm they had never even thought could exist. And as slowly the mysteries that surround them begin to unfold, they understand that perhaps nothing is really what it seems to be..."

Chapter One

Fate's Manipulations

When you look closely, really closely, you will surely end by noticing that, whatever anyone might say, Fate is very probably a living creature. Not some kind of silver-haired sorcerer bent over a huge chessboard and gravely moving humans around to their death, or even a beautiful nymph of destiny, shifting the winds of chance around her like ethereal shawls: no; Destiny, Fate, Fortune, call it what you might, would be a deformed thing, beautiful and ugly at the same time, tossing us around, playing like a child inventing diabolical games without really noticing, killing and giving life as if it was merely a matter of turning cards around.

It all started with me and Breena being friends. This by itself was irrational, totally against nature: Breena, sweet and cheerful: charming everyone, grownups and kids alike with her great charisma. She was the teachers' favourite, she was popular, and every little brother and sister in town liked her. And opposite this there was me: the kind that made you change pavement when you met in the middle of the night. I had this love for books, and these weird ideas. I was disobedient, negligent, careless. I was unpopular.

And yet, we became friends. And not only friends, like, waving at each other across the road, but best, intimate friends. It just happened: Breena, beautiful, dear Breena, and me: best friends.

I was happy enough then. With my mother roaming about the city looking for a job after my father had gone, I had then been lonely, burying myself with my books and my weird meditations. But with Breena, it was different: she would storm in, colours and noise incarnate, with her long, superb raven hair still glossy blue from the sun outside, and her wide grin, like a crack of immense cheerfulness in her beautiful face: she would bully me out of the house, and we would explore and talk. She was good at both, she had the curiosity and charm they required.

We had been twelve by the time. And then, at sixteen, our lives, which seemed intertwined like some complicated lace, tipped down and collapsed. Our mothers died.

It happened like this: my mother had been back from the supermarket in which she worked, and, having worked all the week, she was tired. She decided to take the bus. Breena's mother had been out shopping. Breena's father had died several years ago, leaving behind enough money to permit her mother not to work, and look after Breena properly, which she did. So, this day, the bags being heavy, Breena's mother had taken the bus: coincidence? It was the same bus my mother had taken. It was the bus in which an armoured truck collided after having tore right through a red light. The driver had been in a hurry: he made seventeen wounded, and three dead. Two of the dead were our mothers.

Those things happen. Fate had tossed the truck against the bus: oops, he had killed two or three things. Shame.

I sat beside Breena: she was dressed with jeans and a cream-coloured woollen jumper: her deep blue-black hair fell around her face in a veil of silk, her face was pale, her eyes wide. She had her hands tucked between her knees, sitting at the edge of the living room couch. She was crying.

I wasn't crying: my hair was tied back from my face, some of the shortest strands falling across my face. I had jeans on, old trainers, a blue sweater. I was not crying.

'Breena.'

I had never been the sensible, compassionate type: I felt sorry for her, deeply sorry, as she had been my friend for so long, always beside me, always loyal and cheerful. It was just that I couldn't find the words. It was better to remain silent.

And then the door opened. We both looked up: Breena through curtains of crystal tears, me quickly. And then we gaped.

A woman had come in: she was tall, taller than most women, and her hair was as black as the darkest night, drawn back into a glossy bun. Her face, long, pale, gaunt, didn't have any age: she could have been thirty five, she could have been fifty three. Impossible to say. It was a beautiful face, though: with a tall, clear brow, thin, arched eyebrows, eyes that were so dark it was pointless to try to distinguish the pupil from the iris. A long, strong nose, high, sharp cheekbones, thin scarlet lips and a smooth chin. It was a noble face.

She was dressed in a fur coat, that looked more like a cloak, and fell all the way around her body from her neck to the floor, on which the end trailed majestically. This woman was awesome.

'Very well, child: pick up your effects and let's be gone,' she said, in a voice that drawled and trailed in a mixture of innate majesty and tragic languor.

'Who…?'

The woman cut across Breena's question, as she waved it majestically away.

'You're father's sister. Now, hurry yourself up.'

Breena suddenly grabbed my arm:

'She's coming with me,' she said, fiercely, with the tears still glistening on her porcelain cheeks.

'You already told me, you know she can come,' said the aunt, carelessly, as if Breena had been a capricious child screaming for her teddy bear, 'so, pick up your things and your friends,' as if I were merely one of Breena's things, 'and let's go.'

Breena picked up her suitcase from the floor. I had only brought a second pair of jeans, a few underwear, some socks, a shirt, a t-shirt and a nightdress all stuffed in a plastic bag, which was thrown in one corner. Without asking questions, I grabbed hold of it, and Breena grabbed hold of me, and we both followed the majestic woman out.

Waiting in front of the house was a black, sleek limousine, glossy in the grey daylight. An old, wrinkled chauffeur was waiting beside it, and when he saw us three come out, he bowed and opened the door—we all got in.

We journeyed for a good three hours; Breena fell asleep finally, her head falling over my shoulders, her silky hair caressing my cheek. I looked down pityingly at the pale, sad face, and raised a hand to caress the smooth cheek: poor Breena. It seemed to me that she bore, besides her own sorrow, the grief I couldn't feel; because, unlike her, I had never really loved my mother. And then gain, looking at Breena, I couldn't help feeling relieved. If love did that to you—well, it was safer to stay clear.

I eventually fell asleep, my head falling over Breena's under the aunt's imperturbable black eyes. When I next woke up, it was at the same time as Breena, as the car stopped, smoothly but suddenly.

Shaking my hair out of my head and gently pushing Breena's away, a got out of the car, and looked around: and my breath was knocked out of my chest as I took in the sight that met my eyes.

Right in front of me, a tall, twisted iron gate, behind which a thin gravel path slithered, up through a lawn of perfectly mowed grass, and ending at the bottom of a rise of three stone steps, which led to a great arched door, framed with diamond shaped windows which emitted vague orangey lozenges in the misty blueness of evening. And from this arched door with the rhombuses of light, a long wall of solid, brut grey stone, pierced with tomb-shaped windows, and ended at each side by two round, firm towers. I was directly looking up at a real castle. Behind it was the dark, menacing mass of a vigorous, dangerous forest, and at the end of the stone wall right to the gate there was the cliff, which ran down in a long, smooth slope, until it met with the wet sandy floor of the beach. The sea, where the coast was at the highest, and closest to the castle, crashed loudly against the chiselled rise of the cliff, invisible yet loud enough to feel the night atmosphere: a constant crashing mingled with the deep, sorrowful wail of the wind, and the hostile murmur of the trees behind the castle. The air was fresh, briny, pure and sharp—it was the exhilarating air of the sea.

Breena, behind me, whispered:

'I can't believe it…'

I turned around to smile at her. Her eyes were round, glittering with sapphire wonder in the azure light of falling night, the wind slashing her silky hair upon her face and whipping her cheeks scarlet; striking velvety rose-red into the porcelain pallor of her grief-struck face. I thought: she looks like a queen of shadow and sorrow in the beautiful dusk.

I reached out and hugged her, as she shivered: for the fresh, slashing wind was cold, and rose goose-bumps in my neck and back. The aunt, behind us, had emerged form the car, and queenly glided over the gate, which the chauffeur hurried to open, stepping aside to let us in. We followed the tall woman as she slowly picked her way up the gravel path, her long coat trailing behind her, and her head drooping, as if too heavy or her neck.

When we finally reached the steps, she ascended them in the most theatrical way, one by one and pausing at each one as if in troubled doubt. When we presently arrived at the door, it opened by itself, and we were able to follow the aunt in.

It was a large, long corridor, ended by a large staircase, and with walls covered in heavy tapestries and magnificent portraits filled with enigmatic, solemn and sad characters. Furniture of polished ebony, chairs cushioned in scarlet velvet and vases of Venice porcelain and china filled the luxurious hall. I gaped, and so did Breena behind me.

'Quit opening your mouth like fishes—it is mightily annoying,' said the aunt.

We immediately shut our gaping mouths, and the aunt went on:

'Annika will take you to your rooms.'

And she just glided away, back to whichever doomed place she haunted. Annika, the person who had opened the door, was a crooked old woman, who would have looked like a witch if she wasn't so neat and sharp looking: her hair, metallic white, was tied into a tight bun, from with a needle poked menacingly. Her dress was black, and she wore a white apron, like those housekeepers in Victorian times. Her face, pinched and tight, was very pale, but her eyes, small, narrow, where keen, black and piercing, and as lively and filled with life as her face was mourn and closed.

'If you will follow me,' she rasped, grabbing the suitcase form Breena and the plastic bag from me.

We followed her, up the beautiful staircase, and along a long, door-lined corridor. She finally stopped at the end of the corridor, and turned towards us:

'Your room,' pointing towards the last door in the corridor, which she opened, and placed our things in. 'And the tower,' coming back, and pointing towards the door behind her. 'The tower is forbidden. The dinner is at nine. Good evening.'

And she went away, leaving me and Breena alone for the first time since our first meeting with the strange aunt.

'What do you think then?' I asked.

'I can't believe this is happening to me.'

'Us,' I said, sharply.

'You know I meant us,' she said mildly.

'Shall we go into the tower?' I asked, reached out a hand to stroke the round, shiny copper handle.

'Ruby!' she protested, 'you can't do this.'

'You know how I am,' I said quietly, 'I love to look at what I am forbidden to look at.'

'Please! Ruby, don't do this…'

'It's alright,' I said soothingly, removing my hand and deciding on the instant that I would find a way to give the slip to my darling friend and visit the tower, 'I was just kidding.'

What a liar I am, I thought to myself as we went into our room.

It was a vast room, with two tomb shaped windows that gave over the front of the house, the path, gate, and the faraway rise of the greyish village. To Breena's pleasure, we realised the windows gave over a large terrace half covered in ivy. Inside, the walls were deep creamy white, the curtains deep blue, the two beds, both double-size and four-poster, were covered in thick ivory blankets, and screened with azure curtains. A large dressing table of solid oak, framed with two large, carved wardrobes, a bedside table between our two beds, a large, real fireplace, upon which was engraved in letters of faded gold: "Roses have thorns; Beauty and Pain go together," which seemed to be the family motto. Two armchairs faced the chimney, and a tall bookcase filled with leathered volumes ended the list of the main furniture in our room, plus the pot of flowers and large cream-coloured lamp on the bedside table, the embroidered cushion on the armchairs, the small porcelain figurines on the mantel piece, and a large, splendid painting of white roses lying upon a stream of pale pink satin, as a spider weaves a web around a round window, screening the sunny, dusty light with silver silk. My eyes were immediately drawn by the painting: the harmony, and the uncanny beauty of it fascinated me.

Breena sighed at the beauty of our room, and I couldn't help smiling.

'Wicked, isn't it?'

She nodded mutely, and went to sit down on one of the bed.

We stood in silence for a moment, until the small cloak which stood over the mantel piece rang cheerfully nine o'clock. I said:

'Let's go downstairs. The Annika woman said the dinner was at nine.'

'Alright,' said Breena.

In a way, I knew none of us were hungry, but the curiosity was too strong in us. We went downstairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, the aunt was waiting for us, dressed in a white blouse and long black skirt. Her hair was still in a bun, and she looked as serene and languid as ever.

She led us through a double-door, and we entered the dining room, which was exactly how any dining room would have been some two hundred years before. A large, dark wooden table, surrounded with straight-backed, cushion-covered chairs. A tall, large cupboard, filled with fancy plates, stood opposite the door.

The aunt went to sit at the far end of the table, and gestured us to seat down, which we did, silently, crushed under the awkward silence. Annika came by the far door, and served some delicious-looking meals, then went out.

And the aunt talked.

'You shall wake up at seven every morning from tomorrow, dress, breakfast and set of for school at half-past seven. You will come back at five, make your homework till six, then have your music lessons till seven. You will be allowed to read or amuse yourself in any way you wish till eight. You will have your dinner, and will go to be at nine.'

There was a short pause, during which she majestically gestured us to eat. Breena was staring at her wide-eyed, and myself I couldn't help feeling horrified.

'During the week-ends and holidays, you will be allowed to wake up at nine. You will have a walk for three hours, wherever you wish, and will come back for your lunch at midday. You will have two hours music lessons till three, and then you will have your tea. You will then be allowed to remain in your room till eight. You will then come down for your dinner, and go to sleep at nine.'

Neither nor Breena had uttered a sound, or moved a centimetre. We were frozen, immobile and mute. And it went on.

'You will both address me as Aunt Aurora. You will be polite, and watch your manners. A request unaccompanied by a please will result in an hour in the silent-room. You will only dress with skirts, trousers forbidden. You will not be allowed to wear any facial cosmetics such as lipstick, mascara, eye-liner, eye-shadow, etc. You will wear your hair either in braids or buns. You will not wear trainers or sneakers.'

It was unbelievable. We were going to start the existences of two nuns. I glanced over at Breena's face, and ducked my head to hide a smile. If the situation had not been this serious, I would have laughed.