Chapter 1: Augusta Westerwood
The road is paved with little white stones, tiny yellow flowers creep though its little cracks, one or two brush my bare feet. The fancy blue painted buildings cast long cold shadows across the ally. The low hum of cars from other streets flows into the road, someone is yelling from up above, a woman to her cat. All the fat and skinny cats follow the parade, their hissing make the procession move forward slowly. Their high pitched meows sending shivers up the backs of the sorrow faced men and women, the young children sit quite and confused in the boxes of transportation, sometimes chuckling at the playing kittens. They all look dirty; their faces scratched and their bodies bruised and boney. They shuffle into the main road to the palace, a large gray building with bright pink flags all around its front.
I have been following them, dressed in my laundry lady’s work wear, one that is too small for her plump body. She fixed my long red hair into a thing she calls a bun; she even took the time to wipe away my thick face paint, just so I could watch the poor walk in. The work wear is itchy and makes me miss my silky long and colorful dresses. By the time they reach the palaces large gold gates the sun now says it is noon. Noon! I should be in side with my mother and father waiting to conceal the poor on decisions needed in their dyeing colonies in the south regions.
I don’t want to have to sit on the cold chair next to my bad smelling nanny with my old mother breathing down my slender neck. But I do not go to the palace, instead I creep slowly though the back streets and catch glimpses of the crowd of people. They reach the gates late so I have time to slink past the unwatchful guards, but I make sure to look once more at their sad faces.
The way I enter is revered for employees of the royal, as the large gold doors slide open I am met with the constant chill of the hallways that is so different from the warm air outside. My dirty rough feet feel alien against the waxy smooth floors, I look down and see that I am leaving tracks behind me, but I only see them for a second because they sink into the floor and disappear. The air is thin and comfortable, but the nervousness of the day looms over the halls. Occasionally I hear the sound of frantic feet in the heeled shoes of the workers.
The walk to my chamber is not a long one; my door is a large, heavy, purple wood carved creation of my mother’s brother. He did all the doors as a wedding gift for my parents, he an artist in La Mora the richest city, besides here. My mother came from La Mora when she was seventeen, she came with her father. Her father was the governor of La Mora so she was brought up well and my father- the prince of the world- become infatuated with her on sight. He is still head over heels for her. He never gets mad, never gets frustrated with her ever. I all I hope is that with my future husband will be like that.
My laundry lady waits behind the door with my event dress, a long light green silk ballroom gown with a gold ribbon around the waist. She frowns at my dirty feet and sweaty brow; we have no time for a complete makeover. But she must, I have to look perfect and beautiful, which is a hard task. I am not like my sisters and mother with long golden hair and dark eyes, but I look like my father’s mother a dark skinned light eyed woman with red hair. And as my mother always says, “that is just not beauty!”
The dress is comfortable and light, and well looks like it glows against my skin. My laundry lady does magic on my hair and turns it into a high dome of green painted curls; she also paints my skin so it is a lighter color. My checks get painted as pink color and my eye lids gold. I think I look ridiculous, but this is the fashion of the richer people, if I had my way I would ware the rags the poor people ware. My laundry lady agrees completely with my view, but she gets to wear the loose fitting worker’s wear.
As soon as my laundry lady finishes, my stern faced nanny swoops in to take me away. She has a forever frown etched into her thin wrinkly face. One would think she would have so much pride in me because of my family and that she is the one who raised me, but she says she was cursed with the ugliest, most selfish, and ungrateful child she had ever met! This just makes one more thing I can be jealous of that my sister’s have, they have young, happy and loving ladies raising them.
