Two Worlds Apart

CHAPTER III - CHEVERIE

Cheverie stands in front of the mirror, hands clasped as her mother's fingers brush through her hair, sectioning and smoothing each strand until it falls perfectly in place. Her mother's face is a mask of calm concentration, lips pursed as she winds a sleek, glossy ribbon through Cheverie's blonde hair, tugging it until the bow sits just right.

"Hold still, Cheverie," her mother murmurs, her tone soft but firm.

Cheverie fights the urge to shift from one foot to the other, her neck starting to ache from holding her head so still. She swallows, glancing at herself in the mirror - at the girl with the polished smile, hair perfectly arranged, the silk bow nestled just above her shoulder.

Her dress is as stiff as the expression she's trying to hold, its seams pressing tightly around her ribs, its waist so snug that breathing feels like a luxury. The pale blue fabric catches the light, shimmering with every careful movement. She'd rather wear something looser, something soft and flowing, but she knows better than to say it.

"There." Her mother steps back, folding her arms with a satisfied nod. "Now remember, Cheverie, you're representing the Everien family tonight. I expect you to look every bit the young lady you are."
Cheverie manages a nod, her face a careful, practiced expression of calm. "Yes, Mother."

She's said those words so many times they feel like a shield, something she can hide behind whenever the weight of her mother's expectations presses down. Her mother reaches out, smoothing a small wrinkle near her shoulder, then adjusts the ribbon for the third time. For as long as she can remember, her mother's hands have moved over her with that same precision, tucking, fixing, perfecting.

Her father enters, his eyes scanning her appearance with a nod of approval. "You look well, Cheverie. Like a true Everien."

She forces a smile, the words hollow and heavy in her mind. Like a true Everien. In the Upper Slate, that means so many things: calmness, control, elegance. It means knowing which forks to use at dinner, how to nod without appearing too eager, how to speak without drawing too much attention to herself. It means smiling without ever laughing.
"Thank you, Father," she says, lowering her head with a hint of practiced modesty. She knows her father likes that - humility mixed with grace. They've told her since she was young that the way she presents herself is everything, that people judge by appearance, by the polish and shine of what they see.

Her father reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, gleaming necklace - a thin chain with a single, delicate sapphire at the center. He steps forward, fastening it around her neck. "This will complete your look," he says, his fingers adjusting it until it sits perfectly against her collarbone.

"Remember, Cheverie, our family values control, grace, and precision. Tonight, you will reflect that."
She nods again, feeling the cool weight of the gem against her skin, but her chest tightens beneath the dress, and she wonders if anyone can hear the quick beat of her heart beneath all this silk and polish. She's seen the way her friends act, the way they gossip about who looked the best at the last event, who wore their hair just a little too low or had a hem that was half an inch too short. Heloise, especially, seems to find something wrong with everyone. It feels like nothing is ever good enough.

Her mother turns to her, a gentle smile on her lips. "Remember, Cheverie, that beauty is a form of power here in the Upper Slate. It may seem shallow, but appearances hold weight. How you present yourself speaks volumes."

"Yes, Mother," she replies automatically. But inside, the thought weighs on her. She wonders what it must be like to live in a place where appearances don't matter so much, where people don't care about the perfect bow, the perfect smile.

"Cheverie!" Her friend Vivianne's voice calls from the door, and Cheverie turns to see her entering the room, her own dress a pale lavender, hair swept into a tight bun with not a strand out of place.