The Scarlet Scepter

Chapter One (Revised)

When I heard my alarm clock ring, I forced my eyes to stay closed. I could hear the birds chirping outside my window, and through closed eyes, I saw the rays of the sun illuminating my room. I wanted to lie down, sleep forever and forget the things I will have to face. But a few minutes later, I heard my megaphone of a stepmother shouting commands and yelling downstairs. I sighed and sat up as our housekeeper Hilda came in. She smiled at me, flashing crooked but pearly white teeth. I groggily smiled back.

"Beautiful day, isn't it, Miss?" Hilda said, her high-pitched voice filling the room. I can never get used to that voice emanating from her huge and bulky body. But when she sings, her voice gives me a sense of warmth and serenity. A few months ago, when I used to have nightmares every night, she would sing until I fell asleep again.

She noticed my silence and hesitation. "I know you miss him. We all do. But you still have to be at the reading. Besides, you don't want her--" She paused and poked her head outside, checking if someone's listening. "You don't want her to get all that property."

She won't. My father's too smart for that, I thought, but I didn't want Hilda getting the wrong idea. I put on a frown instead. "I guess not," I mumbled. "Don't worry about me, Hilda. I'll be downstairs in a few minutes."

Hilda smiled again. "There you go. By the way, she wants you to wear the dress she gave you." I sighed as Hilda left my room.

I got up and stood at the window. I could see my stepmother Carole talking – no, yelling – at our poor driver Gary. She kept gesturing and pointing to the shiny, sleek car my father bought a year ago, and Gary kept nodding. I felt sorry for him. He's a very efficient driver, and a servant at most, but he's already old, so I don't blame him if he starts forgetting things he was supposed to do. For whatever reason, this irritated Carole. She wanted to fire him. In fact, she wanted to fire all of the servants and hire new ones. That seemed a good idea, but I have always protested against it. Almost all of them are old now, including Hilda, but they have been working for our family many years back, when my grandfather Alexander was still alive.

My father always trusted them and treated like members of the family, not servants. Carole was the opposite. Maybe I'm one sided, but Carole always humiliates and mistreats them for no reason, so much that I pondered if firing them was the better alternative than letting them endure her. Hilda assured me one time that Carole's treatment was okay with them. "Miss, we owe Mr. Alexander and Mr. John our lives, so it doesn't matter. Also, who's going to look after you?" she told me.

That night I lay on my bed thinking of reasons why my father married Carole in the first place. At least my father and my mother were similar in some ways, as far as I can remember. But Carole is a different story.

My mother Veronica grew up in a family similar to my father. She was an heir to the Robinson's prestigious clothing line, and my father was the heir to the Carter's chain of hotels. When they married, their parents were thrilled, and their fortunes were mixed, but the businesses and transactions were still separate. When I was younger, I heard my dad tell my mom that he was thinking of letting the other family members run the businesses before I run it myself. I didn't understand what it was then, and I don't see what it means to me now.

When I was seven, my mother died in a car crash in Paris. I was a kid then, and the only way I could let my grief out was to cry, and it was the first time I saw my father cry too. He was never the same after that. He would stare at space for a long time, and I had to call his name several times before he would respond.

I tried to cheer him up, and it worked . . . for a short time. He took me to trips in Europe, and that's where he met Carole, who was then a wanna-be model, scourging for agencies to apply in. I disliked her the moment I saw her. I remember sticking my tongue at her when my father introduced her to me, and I recall telling her that she looked like an ugly clown trying to be pretty in her heavy make-up. Her face and ears turned bright red, but I continued anyway. I told her that her waist was too thin, that I was afraid that she would snap in two because her breasts and backside were too big. She stormed out, and I burst out laughing. My father stared at me with disbelief, and I thought he was going to scold me, but then he laughed instead. I was twelve when he married her.