Always To Ashes

Warrior Pride

Chapter Five:

Breakfast that morning consisted of an assortment of eggs accompanied by a side of biting sarcasm, both provided by Rowena. Her rudeness though was easy to ignore though in the wake of the surprisingly appetizing aroma wafting off her cooking. One would never expect to see royal Rowena with her crimson ringlets in a messy bun and a wooden spoon in her hand, unless she was using that utensil to maim someone of course. As such, I was rather surprised to see her standing in front of the stove, frying up bacon with the same ease she painted her nails.

“Good morning,” I chirped sunnily as I strutted inside the kitchen. It was a quaint, modern affair with tan wallpaper, flowers in a cracked porcelain vase, and wooden furniture. The light, almost cheery color scheme was a great contrast to the gloom and fog of the sitting room.

“It was,” Rowena muttered without turning around.

“Jesus Rowe, any sweeter and you’ll rot my teeth out,” Chance muttered sarcastically from where he sat at the table, drinking orange juice and jotting something down in a notebook. Next to him was Tabby, drinking from a mug too large for her elfin hands, as she buried her head in another enormous book.

“I could knock them out if you like,” Rowena retorted her voice sweet and poisonous like anti-freeze, as she whipped around, spoon uplifted like she intended to use it as a weapon. She faltered though when she caught sight of me, her cherry lips parting slightly in surprise. “What in the hell are you wearing?”

At that, both Chance and Tabby raised their eyes from their selected reading to look at me. Tabby looked startled while Chance simply lifted his regal brows critically.

“I don’t know who told you we were going to a sorority spring mixer,” Chance said dryly, “But they did not do you a kindness.”

“What happened to the clothes I left on your bed?” Tabby asked carefully, her voice polite but curious.

“I’m sure they’re still there,” I replied, going over to the counter and pouring myself a glass of orange juice. It didn’t come in a Tropicana carton or anything of the like, but instead was stored in an old fashioned glass jug. Rowena, to my right, scrunched up her face at me in revulsion.

“I meant why aren’t you wearing them?” Tabby edited.

“Oh I couldn’t!” I lamented, “They were black! Why on Earth would I wear black in June? Did somebody die?”

“Well, no. I guess not,” the mousy brunette replied.

“Besides,” I went on, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of my OJ, “I don’t wear pants when I can help it. I mean, isn’t that the whole point of being a girl?”

Rowena, curvaceous and proud in her skin tight jeans, gave me a look of absolute bewilderment. “There’s this thing called the Women’s Rights Movement,” she informed me scornfully, “Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” I replied, “And it’s my right as a woman to wear skirts if I like.”

“While I’m all for feminism, especially when it calls for revealing clothing and bra burning,” said Chance, giving me a speculative up and down, “That’s really not a practical outfit for training.”

“Oh no it’s fine!” I explained, lifting up my white skirt, “See? It has shorts underneath; it’s a tennis skirt.” I’d coupled it with an orange tank top and fresh white Nikes, from the top of which my salmon colored socks peeked out.

“. . .Tennis?” Chance echoed, expression blank to match the stares of Rowena and Tabby.

“Yep, varsity!” I said, prancing over to sit at the table. “So when I saw that you guys had gotten my clothes delivered over night, which was super nice of you by the way, I decided my tennis clothes would be perfect for training!”