BOOK I

Introducing an Unremarkable Girl

Early Spring, 1911

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, birds are chirping, colourful flowers are everywhere, and there is a lovely breeze. It is a perfect day. My mood, however, is far from perfect. I trudge along the tree-lined street, sulking moodily at the ground, swishing my parasol about dejectedly. Being adult isn't half as fun as being a girl.

Several loose strands of hair are unraveling from the bun at the nape of my neck, but I don't bother tucking them back in. There is still some time before my family will see me again, and by then I will once again be the image of propriety.

Even as I pull back some of the strands off my face, I am reminded of Elizabeth, and my mouth twists into a scowl. Though it is technically wrong for me to hate my sister, I just cannot bring myself to like her. If anyone knew, if anyone guessed, they'd be mortified. Not to mention overwhelmed by laughter.

For Elizabeth is only half my age. Half- and she is already such a pain!

Perhaps I must explain- My name is Esme Anne Platt, and I have only just turned sixteen. My family, the Platt family, is one of the most affluent merchant families in this small town. I have an older sister, Eleanor, who will turn twenty in two months. Elizabeth, of course, who I have already mentioned, is all of eight years old. My father is Jefferson Platt, and my mother, the lovely Victoria Platt. Lovely as she is, my mother seems to have one aim in life- to churn out babies periodically. It's like clockwork- first she had Eleanor; four years later, me; then a little girl who was born still; then Elizabeth; then a little boy, tentatively named Henry, who was only in this world for about an hour; and now, four years after that, she is expecting another. I don't begrudge her for that; I know she took the deaths of my unnamed little sister and Henry hard. But I don't like the idea of another Elizabeth in the house.

The main reason for my dislike towards Elizabeth is because she is so damned close to perfect- even at this tender age, it is obvious she will grow up to be a beauty. She has soft, curling dark hair, and the most gorgeous green eyes. Then there's the fact that she already acts like a charming little lady, the most splendid manners, and the most delightful little tantrums. A miniature snob, I always think.

Eleanor isn't as striking as Elizabeth looks-wise but even she is blessed with lovely hazel eyes, and thick, luscious, curling brown hair. Even Eleanor is rather a pain; she is too proud and hoity-toity for me.

And then there's me, the least remarkable of the Platt girls. I have plain brown eyes, and overly sleek, almost straight hair. I have virtually no curls to crown my heart-shaped face, and everyone knows straight hair is boring. I am the most awkward, the least graceful, and still holding on to playing and running about more than Eleanor ever did. I have lost count of the number of times Mother has told me, exasperatedly, that even Elizabeth has more social savoir-faire than me.

Mother's tired face swims into view again, and I am suddenly very frustrated. I cannot bear another Elizabeth in the house. If it ever happens, I shall run away and become a chorus girl, or a moving pictures actress, I think fiercely.

"Ms. Platt!"- the call interrupts my moody thoughts. I turn around to see a thin, reedy young man, an eager smile on his face, approaching me with a quick, stumbling gait. My heart sinks. "Mr. Reed," I say softly.

"How goes it today, Ms. Platt?"

"Fine, thank you."

Tobias Reed is one irritating stick-figure of a man. He seems smitten by me, even though he is twenty-two, and Eleanor is definitely more eligible than I am. He also leers rather unpleasantly, which makes me want to pull my wraps more tightly into me, every time. Eleanor is rather jealous that I already have a suitor, and though I sometimes feel smug about it, I'd rather not have one at all. Mother is also gratified that I have caught someone's eye, but I am thankful she doesn't like this obnoxious young man.

"On your way home, I presume? Perhaps I can escort you."

I feel the anger creep up inside me. This man isn't even asking.

"No." I say quickly, thinking even faster. "I am visiting Amelia Evenson."

Mr. Reed's smile fades noticeably. Everyone knows how much of a firebrand old Mrs. Evenson can be.

"Oh-" he stammers, but I cut in quickly with a sweet smile.

"So, I'd best be going." I tell him. "Good day, Mr. Reed."

And before he can answer, I turn away and quickly make my escape. I walk for sometime, relieved, then I turn around to see where he went off to. My heart deflates in dismay. There he is, pretending to stare into Mrs. Crochet's candy store, very obviously following me.

Why doesn't the fool leave me alone?

I have to lose him. He probably intends to follow me right up to Mrs. Evenson's doorstep. Or as close as he can get to her doorstep. I reluctantly continue walking, not wanting him to follow me home, where I'll have to entertain him all evening. I shudder, then increase my speed. I don't need to look around. I know he is following me.

Desperately, I head towards the Evensons', hoping he wouldn't follow me too far. I glance behind quickly once, and immediately spot him, even though he is trying to hide in the crowd outside the Barbershop.

I groan softly. This day is horrible. I go further away from the crowded main street, towards the residential, tree-lined empty lanes in the north. I check once again to find him still there. By this time, I am almost running. I see a few women staring at me through their curtained windows. I couldn't care less. Almost in full speed, I turn into the Evensons' lane, then stop short, a gasp of dismay escaping from my lips. The place is completely deserted, a cul-de-sac, and the only way I can go is into the Evenson's house. I am in no mood for Amelia's incessant chatter, and for all I know, Reed might wait until I leave.

I look around desperately, like a trapped animal. My gaze rests on a tree. A stare at it for a split second, then rush full-speed towards it. Quickly, I fix the hooked end of my parasol on my thin shoulder blades, gather up my skirt, and climb up the tree nimbly. Despite my dainty shoes, I find footholds easily, and in two quick seconds I am nestled deep within the tree's foliage, firm, and motionless. From my vantage point, I watch him come, with that odd shuffling walk of his, and then stop short with surprise. I grin, and suppress a giggle. He looks visibly confused, and even scratches his head. He looks at the solemn Evenson house for a while, then with a sad shrug, turns away.

I watch him go triumphantly. I wait for a few minutes before I get down. I turn around and face the trunk of the tree, ready to make my descent, when my dainty shoes, which have held up so far, give up on me. A foot slips, another knee knocks hard into the bark, and suddenly, with a sickening rush of gravity, I tumble onto the ground.

Pain erupts in my left leg, and my eyes burn with tears. I have bruises and scrapes everywhere.

"Miss! Are you alright?" It is one of the most beautiful, musical voices I have ever heard. I look up to find myself lost within the burning golden eyes of an angel.