The year is 1861, and I live with my father in New Orleans of America. Living in a marvellous mansion that had taken five years to construct, five years that barely felt like a minute to an immortal like me. Sitting in my room, I look at myself in the mirror, though; I am not properly dressed yet. Wearing my white under clothes of a tightly laced corset trimmed with lace and frothy underskirts. Looking away from my not properly dressed self, my eyes focus on my face staring back at me in the mirror. A heart shaped face with skin of a creamy alabaster parlour, a reasonably proportionate forehead of smooth, flawless skin. Next are perfectly shaped eyebrows, two shades darker than my hair, beneath are eyes of very strange variety, my left eye being a handsome caramel brown flecked with gold and my right eyes a glorious evergreen with other green hues if you look at it at just the right angle and both eyes are framed with long, black lashes. A small, straight nose with a softly rounded end starts in between my eyebrows, beneath that are plump, cupid bow lips that are not too big nor are they too small and are a pale rose colour that matches the faint pink in my cheeks. Framing my face is thick, pale gold hair, which falls wavy to just above my chin before turning into long, envious ringlets that trails halfway down my back. Smiling to myself, I pull the hair at the front on both sides back, securing those sides with two heavy combs of rose gold embedded with opals in a zigzagged line. The smile fades away as my eyes cast down at my bare left arm, covered completely in burn scars, the entirety of the left side, but nonetheless, I continue fixing my hair in place. Once finished, I summon a maid who helps me finish dressing. A gown that is a pale green with a neckline that is straight across and trimmed with white lace, leaving my shoulders revealed, and the sleeves are long and fitted as usual, covered in a loose, plain shimmering material. The bodice is tight and plain with a white sash around my waist; then the skirt billows out over my underskirts, with lace bows around the middle of the skirt before continuing to the ground. I then slip on some shoes before checking my appearance and adding a necklace matching the hair combs, with a rose gold chain and a simple charm of an opal as well as a similar bracelet around my left wrist.
“Earrings, milady?” the maid asks, and I nod, before putting on the hook like earrings.
“Finished, you may leave me now,” I tell the maid, who curtseys and leaves. After she has gone, I go and look out of the window, the day is flawless, and I can see the carriage approaching from the distance, so Father will be expecting me downstairs. Without a glance over my shoulder, I proceed to leave my room, walk down the long corridor and then continue down the stairs, hand trailing down the smooth, polished wooden railing. Father is waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase, very expectantly. Like me, he is immortal; however, I seemed to have aged better since my transition into an immortal in 1498. His face is hard and lined, rather ashen, his hair and eyes dark and we certainly look nothing alike. My mother and I were identical, though her hair was wavy rather than curly, but she was murdered when I was 10.
“As you are aware, Guenièvre, I will be housing Jacob Worthington here until such a time I see fit for him to return to England,” Father explains,
“Yes Father, I am aware,” I respond, and by the look I have just received, speaking was not a very clever move.
“I wish for you to stay away from him, only speak to him when in my presence and do not approach him without my permission” Father then says, and my eyes widen. Father has never been so strict with me before with anyone. It makes me curious and frightened to what his intentions are for this Jacob Worthington.
“Sir, Master Worthington has arrived,” a butler says, bowing rather low to Father, who then waves him away.
“Be nice Guenièvre, I will not tolerate any rudeness from you,” Father then warns, I simply nod and smile at Father, clasping my hands neatly in front of me. Staring down at the ground at my skirt, I can hear footsteps.
“Master Jacob Worthington,” the butler announces, at which point, I look up. My heart just stopped, and then started again, abandoning its original rhythm for one that is entirely new and strange. One thing is for sure, I cannot tear my eyes from his.
