Spoken For - A Royale High Fan Story

Prologue

     THERE was seldom a reason for my sister and I to be up at this hour of the night. It was already quite the chilly Autumn thus far, and we've barely reached the end of September. My sister squeezed my right hand as she stood beside me in the grass, which was a murky forest green under the milky moonlight. The screams had died out by now. Hushed weeps were all that I could hear. They came from my sister. Our faces reflected the fiery orange glow of the flames that were currently eating away at our home. The once-charming Victorian mansion crackled and shuddered as the blazing fire licked at its wooden frames, shudders, and windowsills. I think I just heard something blow up. A small vase, perhaps. It felt as if we were just in bed a few moments ago. The fire wasn't even meant to be lit. This was one of the days where living in the middle of absolutely nowhere was a horrible regret. I had messed up. Badly. Our mother, Elinor, had left me to care for the house and my sister for the weekend while she was away on some 'business trip'. But knowing Mother, she definitely was not doing anything business related in Calypso. That was by far the most tropical, relaxing, universal paradise out of all the realms. She simply wanted to escape. Escape me and my obnoxious freak-outs, or anxiety attacks, if you will. Escape my sister's constant wailing from lack of attention and entertainment. Elinor could care less. She would be furious when she returned to see our house as a pile of charred debris, and me and my sister being the only ones to blame. I'd never see the light of day again. Well, for a while I will, until she purchases a new house. If Mother can even afford it this time. Our mother was a sucker for luxury. She only wanted the finest of things. The biggest house in town, elegant suits and gowns, classical music, and slow, aggravating ballroom dancing. This meant she spent all of her inherited fortune on art and 'refined' things, instead of on our meals and care in general. I turned to my sister, who was still crying. Her pale cheeks were wet with delicate tears. Her eyes filled with pure confusion. My sister was the embodiment of innocence.
     "Why did we do that, brother?" She squeaked, her voice choked up by the tears themselves. I let out a heavy sigh and said,
     "I don't know, Genevieve. I don't know."