In Which She is Invited

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.

(18 self: I have added a little section into this chapter to let the readers see the relationships grow…That's always important. Oh, and the italicized memory is Aster's from the day before…)

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Click. Click. Pause. "Bloody 'ell." 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 about two weeks, 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.

Why just the other day in the drawing room, had she not been so pleased…

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"Miss Aster, you write exceedingly well. I thought that, as a—"

"Gypsy?"

"Yes, a gypsy..."

"You thought I was ignorant."

Edward's sparkling eyes met hers and he tipped her head up to see her face more clearly.

"I could never think you were ignorant."

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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 sooo 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.

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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 concluded that the first gypsies were the smart ones. They knew it was easier to have some else do the work and then just take the credit…or the gold. They knew too much and no one liked it. Aster's theory was largely true.

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 spot to hear about new happenings.

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 creeps its way through Mr. Edward Williams' house.

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The picnic had been a delightful mix of salads and fruits—light but very filling. Finally, the smacking sounds ceased and Edwards turned to smile to Aster.

"In three days, 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 ordered costumes that match in coloration from a master tailor I've previously done business with. Yesterday, I went to see them and I believe he's done a swell job. He finished mine rather quickly and yours two days ago. So? What do you say?"

Aster smiled happily. "Of course I'll go, Edward! It sounds astonishing!"

Quickly, she jumped up and pecked Edward on the cheek. She was so proud of the courage it took her to perform that small feat, she missed the strong, almost harsh smile—or smirk—Edward gave 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 his t'rribly malicious ways. 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, yes, 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 raiders and the smoke drifting from the burning wagon where her mother's ashes lay.

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Sitting in her beautiful room, Aster clicked the box shut and shoved it into one of the drawers. Something was dreadfully wrong.

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18 year old author's note: Next chapter is where I start writing! Woot! Aren't you sooo excited?