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It has been a bright, sunny day, perfect for working in the garden and tending to the special plants in the greenhouse.

Elle was in her element being left at home while her stepmother and stepsisters were in town. In their absence, she could get some gardening done. Weeds have been taking over the past couple of days, and the plants in the greenhouse were droopy and needed some attention.

Gardening used to be her family’s way of spending time together. Her mother was a florist before she passed, and Elle inherited her green thumb and love for the outdoors. Tending to the garden was the only way Elle knew of feeling closer to her mother.

When Lady Octavia moved in with her daughters, everything changed. The house needed to be repainted, each room a different color. The artworks against the walls had to go, replaced with the abstract pieces the new lady of the house brought with her. And finally, all their old furniture had to go to make room for the lavish furniture Lady Octavia so adored.

Fortunately, for Elle, neither Lady Octavia nor her daughters were fond of the outdoors, and the garden remained hers.

It is through her love for this garden that she discovered the healing properties of herbs and plants. One day, she would leave and open her own apothecary. She will sell her own medicine and potions, and if her stepmother and stepsisters ever buy from her, she will secretly sell them poison and hope for the best.

The thought brings a smile to her face as she is wrist-deep in soil, feeling around for the sweet potatoes. Her brow glistens with sweat in the midday sun, her face is stained with dirt, and her bones are aching from sitting on the ground for too long.

Her sweet potato search party comes to an end when a deep and raspy tok-tok sounds at her back. She twists in her position on the ground to find a raven perched on the wooden fence that separates the garden from the forest.

“Right on time,” Elle thinks out loud and approaches the bird. Reaching into her pocket, she reveals a quail egg and holds it toward the raven. “This is our little secret, alright? If Stepmother finds out, she’ll make me cook you dinner and then she’ll kill me herself.”

The raven gobbles up the tiny egg and tok-toks in content.

“I’ll try bringing you some leftover duck tomorrow,” she promises, hearing the sound of a carriage approaching. “That’s my cue. Fly home now.”

At her command, the raven spreads its wings and flies off into the forest.

For a moment, Elle wonders where it lives; does it have a nest somewhere? Does it have a little raven family it returns to every day? It must be nice to have wings to just fly wherever and whenever.

And then she hears the front gate squeak open and slam shut—three times—for each woman who walked through. Wiping her dirty hands on her plain, grey dress, Elle hurries around the house to greet them, just like Lady Octavia instructed her to.

Stopping at the bottom of the porch, she straightens up and bows her head when Lady Octavia approaches. “Hello, stepmother. Did you enjoy your day in town?”

“Debatable,” scoffs Lady Octavia, dropping her packages into Elle’s arms. “Sort those into my closet, and I expect a cup of tea in the drawing room in five minutes. We have matters to discuss.”

“Yes, stepmother.” Once Lady Octavia disappears into the house, Elle greets her daughters the same way.

“Hello, Igraine and Lucinda. Did you enjoy your day in”

“Not now, Elle,” Igraine cuts her off and hurries after her mother, “Did you polish my white shoes?”

“Yes, and I also –”

“Don’t care.” With that, she also disappears into the house with Lucinda on her heels.

Elle makes haste to the kitchen to boil some water. She is curious about what matters the woman wants to discuss. It’s probably something she did wrong. Usually, she gets off with a small punishment, such as no food for one night. After having experienced every possible punishment one can get, Elle believes nothing can scare her anymore.

Once the kettle is boiling, she adds a few herbs to a teapot before pouring the water. Adding a bowl of sugar lumps and three cups to a tray, she proceeds to the drawing room, where her stepmother and stepsisters are waiting.

Igraine is admiring her new set of pearl earrings in a mirror, while Lucinda tries her best to sing and play the pianoforte at the same time, but her multitasking is almost as bad as her singing.

She sets the tray down and begins pouring everyone’s tea just as they liked it. Two lumps of sugar for Lady Octavia, no milk. Three lumps of sugar for Igraine, with milk. One lump of sugar for Lucinda since she is keeping an eye on her figure, no milk—because it gets her stomach upset.

When she’s done passing out the cups, she remains standing with her hands folded behind her back, chin down, ready for a lecture.

For a long time, Lady Octavia says nothing. Elle wonders if she even knows she is present but doesn’t dare lift her head to look. That will earn her a smack on the cheek; she’s learned that in her first year of serving the lady of the house.

At last, Lady Octavia says, “Igraine, the dress.”

Stealing a look, Elle is dumbfounded when she sees the eldest sister handing a crimson dress to her mother. She quickly averts her gaze when the lady of the house stands up…and holds the dress against her frame.

Lady Octavia hums in contemplation and says, “This is the smallest size they had, but I can’t tell if it will fit.”

Elle is flabbergasted. “Forgive me, stepmother, but why does it matter that the dress fits me? Surely, it should belong to Lucinda.”

Lucinda hits a false note on the pianoforte and stops singing.

Silence fills the room.

And then Lady Octavia says, “Sit, Elle.” Obeying orders, Elle sits down on the nearest chair. “Look at me.” She meets the older woman’s eyes. Lady Octavia scoffs, “For heaven's sake, look at your face! What did I tell you about coming into the house looking like that?”

“I’m sorry, stepmother.”

“I’ll deal with your punishment later,” she says, rolling her eyes and tossing the dress on the table. “The Centurial Ball is this coming Friday.”

Something in Elle’s stomach turns. Is it that time already? She didn’t think it would be for another five years—when she’s too old to go. But surely, she has nothing to worry about. Only noble ladies are expected to attend the ball, not servants like her.

“And as you know,” Lady Octavia continues, “I am to send one of my daughters to attend. She is to wear crimson red as the First King decreed and should be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two.”

She wonders who, between Igraine and Lucinda, will be attending the ball. Probably Lucinda, considering the size of the dress. It will never fit Igraine with the size of her upper legs.

“You, Elle, just turned nineteen, the same as Lucinda,” Lady Octavia says as a wicked glint reaches her eyes, “And so, I will be sending you to represent the Clandestine name at the Centurial Ball.”

Elle’s passive expression slowly contorts to horrified shock. For a moment, she thought she had forgotten to speak but managed to croak out, “M-me?”

“Do you see another Elle in this room?” The older woman says without blinking.

“But…I’m not a noblewoman. And…and…look at me, I’m…”

“Sad to look at, yes,” Lady Octavia nods her head, “Which is exactly why I’m sending you. The king will be looking for a woman in the condition to bear him a child—a woman with wide hips, a healthy complexion, and with strong stature. You are none of those. He will pass you by like he does a peasant.”

As she said those words, Elle realized that this isn’t about her being chosen or not; this is about Lady Octavia cheating the laws of this realm to save herself from risking losing a daughter who can secure her some wealth by marriage. If one of the sisters is chosen, it means one less to marry off to some wealthy duke or lord for Lady Octavia to enjoy her lavish way of living. And this angers Elle more than the way they treat her.

Standing up from the chair, she balls her fists and says, “I’m not going to the ball.”

Lady Octavia takes a dangerous step toward her. “You dare talk back, you insolent girl?” Igraine grins wickedly when her mother’s wrath is directed at Elle. “Should I remind you that I own you, just like I own this house and everything that comes with it?”

“You can’t do this,” Elle says, defending what little is left of her stay here at the house.

“Or what?”

“Or... I will tell the king what you did.” She tilts up her chin and meets her stepmother’s eyes challengingly. “I will tell the king I am not your real daughter, that I am not of noble descent.”

Lady Octavia’s eyes flash in rage. “You will do nothing of the sort!”

This time, it’s Elle’s turn to say, “Or what? You’ll punish me? Nothing is worse than what I’ve already endured! Starve me; let me sleep outside while it snows, but I am not going to the ball.”

Lady Octavia already flexed her hand to deliver a slap to the girl’s face…but paused. Another idea just came to mind, one that might convince Elle to attend the ball. Everything she is about to tell her is a lie, but this is all for the greater good—to keep her own daughters out of the clutches of the vampire king.

“You didn’t let me finish, Elle,” the older woman says calmly, “As always, you never listen. I wished to add that if you attend this ball and do not get chosen, I will give you your inheritance, and you’ll be free to leave.”

“Inheritance?” Elle blinks suspiciously, “What inheritance?”

“You didn’t think your father would have left you with nothing, now, did you? There is some money saved up for you for when you choose to leave the nest one day.”

Her father left her money. She wants to scoff at the irony of this coming to light. Leave it to Lady Octavia to keep that information a secret—anything to keep her here as a common slave. Nevertheless, a spark of hope ignites within her. She has an inheritance—she’s not sure how much, but hopefully enough to take her far away from here, where she can begin a new life.

With this in mind, she considers Lady Octavia’s words again. True, the King will be looking for someone healthy to carry and birth a child. She is the exact opposite of that. She is frail, her cheeks sunken, her hair dull, and she is not nearly up to child-bearing standards. There is no way that the King would even consider her.

As much as that should comfort her, it also fills her with doubt. “The King will see right through me. He will see the dust in my hair and smell the cleaning soap on my skin. He’ll know.”

“I will take care of that,” says Lady Octavia. “Does that mean we have a deal?”

“Me attending the ball in exchange for my freedom?” Elle repeats what the older woman said, who nods in return. Inhaling slowly, she swallows her fear and clings to the hope of being rid of these people soon. No more scrubbing floors, no more punishments, no more nights of going to bed without food. She’ll be free at last. “We have a deal.”

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