𝙃𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙊𝙛 𝙍𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙨

One

         I listened to the birds warbling, and couldn't help but feel at peace with myself. The warm evening sun was greeting me with open arms, welcoming me to stay at rest on the balcony outside my chamber room. For the first day in weeks, the rain had stopped, and the sun had made its way through the clouds. I sat on a cushion, journal, and graphite in hand. Scribbling away my thoughts.

       I heard soft taps along the marble floor from the hall window, and strained to figure out who it was. Everyone in this household has a different weight of the foot, my father almost stomping throughout the corridors, whereas my stepmother practically lives in heels, the sound of harsh edges rapping against the cold ground serenading her where ever she walked.

       "Miss Ella?"

       "Out here, Lois!" I quickly stood, gathering my belongings and tucking them into the hem of my dress.

       "Goodness Miss Ella you know how your father and mother feel about you standing on the balcony." Lois Maldove was the housemaid who had taken care of me since I was small. She stood in the window, with the drapes balled in her fist. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, almost painful-looking bun. "You could get hurt Miss, it's dangerous to be up so high."

       "That woman, is not my mother." I sneered as I stepped up onto the windowsill, getting ready to climb back into the room. My mother had passed when I was just eight years old, and my father wasted no time at all to get remarried. The woman who my father had wed had an intimidating aura, always talking in an acrimonious tone, and presenting herself with the utmost importance. I hoisted myself up over the ledge, and landed with a thud on the other side.

      "Lady Sinclaire may not be your biological mother, but she still loves you so." Said Lois. She knew how much I hated my stepmother, and was kind enough to put up with my constant complaining.

      "Barely," I scoffed. "That woman only cares if what I do benefits her." She once prohibited Lois from cooking in the kitchen, saying; "Ella needs to learn how to cook for herself, if she ever wants to be a respectable wife." If only she had paid the least bit of attention, she would have known that Lois taught me how to cook and clean when I was eleven.

      "I know, I know, but Lady Sinclaire does care about you, truly. She sent me up here to tell you to come on downstairs. She has an announcement to make." Lois looked at me, a sort of sympathy reflected in her eyes.

      "Fine. I'll make my way down." I said as I turned and faced the window. The sun was just starting to set, and the sky was turning a brilliant shade of orange.

     "Thank you, Miss Ella." Lois turned on her heels, and quickly stepped out of my room.

     Whatever my stepmother had to tell me, I was not particularly excited about it. I took the journal and pencil I had stashed away under my dress and put them beneath a loose floorboard. My hiding space was less than fool-proof, and the floorboard I had chosen was truly very obvious, but no one had paid it much attention. My family was not exactly fond of my hobbies, my stepmother being the one of the two that hates the idea of me not following in my father's footsteps.

     I stepped out of my room and into the hall, passing by the large portrait of my mother before she had passed. She was smiling, and the dimples on her cheeks were exaggerated by the artist who had painted them. Without realizing it, I had reached up and touched my own face, feeling for the same dimples that she had left me. I was practically a carbon copy of my mother, from the round, upturned point at the tip of my nose, to the way my long auburn hair fell in waves over my small shoulders. I even had the same deep brown eyes, that when they caught the sunlight in just the right way, they looked almost a dark red. During the summer, the only difference between us was that her skin always turned a golden hue, whereas I only developed freckles, my skin like porcelain all year round.

     When I was younger, my mother had grown roses in our garden, they were a peach-like color, their smell always floating around her. I was once helping her clip the delicate flowers to put in the dining room, and I had pricked my thumb on one of the sharp thorns.

     "Ouch,"

     "Oh Ella, be careful love," said my mother as she stepped towards me. I looked down at my hand and watched as scarlet red stained the sleeve of my dress. With a startling rip, she had torn a strip of fabric off of the seem of her dress. She took my hand in hers.

      "Our lives are like a thorny rose, sometimes painful, but always beautiful. " She was wrapping the stubborn cut with the piece of her dress. "When you grow up, you will remember these words. They may be useful once in a while." She said, with a teasing smile on her face. Looking back on those words now, they make sense.

      When I stepped onto the staircase I could already hear my stepmother's sharp voice complaining about this and that. She never seemed to be completely satisfied with anything that is done for her. Always slipping small comments like "it's alright, truly, but..." or "god, could you be any slower?" I turned the corner at the bottom of the stairway and was faced with none other than my stepmother herself. She was standing alongside the wall, her back facing me, talking to Lois. She must have made it to the bottom floor just as I was leaving. I reared back and hid just around the corner.

     In her heels, my stepmother stood to be about 5'11, adding even more to the intimidation she carried along with her always. She constantly wore elaborate dresses, fashioned with pearls, pale-colored fabrics, and corsets pulled so tight you would wonder if she even had ribs anymore.

      "It doesn't matter to me what she wants. It matters to me that she is a young lady, and in this world young ladies do not become poets or writers," She spat those words out as if they were venomous, or simply just distasteful. "They become housewives. That's all Lois. Please, start on making dinner now, the painter should be arriving tonight."

I stepped out of my hiding place without even thinking.

      "Painter?" I said, immediately smacking my hand to my mouth. My stepmother whirred around, looking like someone had just knocked the wind out of her.

      "God almighty Ella! Make a little noise when you walk, yes? You sneak around scaring the living daylights out of everyone!"

      "Yes, stepmother. I apologize." I said, looking down to my feet.

      "What did I say about you calling me that? My name to you is 'Mother' understand?"

      Those words made my stomach churn. I felt hot, angry tears stab at the back of my eyes, and I swallowed hard. That woman was not my mother.

      "Yes, sorry, Mother."

She was not my mother.

      "Thankyou Ella, now back to what I was saying," She turned on her heels and started walking to the solarium. My own steps following behind her. "I hired an artist to paint a portrait for your nineteenth birthday, he will be staying in one of the guest rooms until the painting is done. I want you to show gratitude towards him, act ladylike, he will be here for at least a month. Okay?"

She stopped at the sliding glass door to the solarium, leaning against the frame.

      "Yes, that's fine, thank you." I hated her. I don't want a portrait done, I just want to be able to leave this home.

I started to turn to leave, but I was interrupted by pounding on the door.

      "Oh," said my stepmother, as she stepped into the foyer. "That must be him."

I turned around as Lois rushed by and opened the door. Behind it was a man who was at least twenty years old, with shoulder-length black hair that was pulled back into a sloppy bun. Pieces of hair were falling out of it, framing his face. He was tall, taller than my stepmother even, and in his hands was a paint-covered briefcase. Lois offered to take it, and his jacket as well, but he declined politely. She led him over to where my stepmother and I were standing.

      "Greetings," Said the man, extending his hand towards us. My stepmother took it and smiled. "My name is William Glazier, and I'm here to paint a beautiful young lady." He said, smiling.

His smile struck me in the heart.