Madame Cygne

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"ROSLYN!" "WHERE IS ROSLYN?" The frustrated woman screamed as she began to search every room of the cold, musty castle.

"I Promise you this," speaking aloud hoping the young lady would hear, "If I FIND YOU..." She continued searching the castle knowing, of course, where Roslyn had gone.

The minutes had once again betrayed them, so Roslyn and Melagro began at lightning speed back to the castle knowing that she had stayed far too long at her favorite place. Faster and faster they rode leaving a trail of broken tree branches in their wake. As she approached the winding road that lead to the castle gates she could hear her mother calling, yelling rather, her name as it echoed through the castle to the trees beyond the walls.

"I guess we're late," she exclaimed as the horse galloped faster and faster. The castle guards opened the gates as they saw her quickly approaching.

"Morning Lester!" She yelled as she raced through the gates and into the stables. She almost threw herself from her friend, now in his usual gate, and sprinted out of the stables. She ran halfway to the main hall and then stopped; looked at her hands and felt a sinking feeling. She was already late for her important "meeting" and now she had to go back and wash.

What am I going to do? She thought, even if Madame Cygne doesn't notice, Mother surely will.

She continued to run down the hall and skidded to a stop. She whipped around and ran back to the large hallway mirror. Below the mirror stood an ornate wooden table and a large vase containing flowers. She pulled the flowers out of the vase and stuck her hands in spilling the water on the table and floor. Roslyn thought of cleaning the mess, but knowing that she was already late, she threw the flowers back into the vase and ran down the long corridor, up the stairs, past the kitchen, and stopped a few feet from the sitting room.

"Catch your Breath!" "Breathe!" she exclaimed, while fixing her skirts and re-fastening her hair. Roslyn slowly walked into the large sitting room where she met her mother and the dressmaker, Madame Cygne, sitting rigidly eating pastries and drinking tea. Roslyn, and all her other patrons, were instructed to call the dress-maker "Madame" due to her unmatched abilities. It is still a mystery to this day, what her first name actually is.

Roslyn tried to muster the most graceful smile, when she entered the room, she was met with a less than graceful response. Her mother gave her a look of exasperation and introduced her to Madame Cygne.

"Madame Cygne" her mother announced, "This is the soon to be Lady Roslyn Claremont." Roslyn curtsied gracefully, and was proud of herself for not teetering to her left side. She could never manage to display the "perfect curtsy" and was elated.

"It is a pleasure to meet you young Roslyn." She gave the girl's mother a look of approval and returned to drinking her tea. Roslyn stared, astounded at the woman before her.

To this day most are uncertain of Madame Cygne's first name. Some believe that she dubbed herself Madame Cygne of...of... well most are not sure from where she comes either. She was quite a sight, however. She was very tall and graceful. Every movement the Madame made was on purpose. She didn't speak too much or too little, she was never too kind or too unkind. She had no intention of making friends or becoming one, she made...uh, crafted gowns, a true artist is what the people in the castle called her. Nevertheless, it seemed to Roslyn that the Madame was fond of her. If you were uncertain of her dressmaking making abilities you need only look upon the masterpiece of what she wore. It was a dress made of deep purple velvet. The kind of thing that would enter a room before you and exit after. There was a thin layer of real gold sheathing over the velvet. It was like nothing that Roslyn had ever seen. She wondered where such fabric could be found. Her sleeves were modest, nothing to poofy and unmanageable of course. There was beautiful gold braiding around the cuffs, hem and neckline. It was truly a sight. No wonder her skill was unmatched, who could replicate such a work of art. Like the Laonin's flowers only those worthy could acquire such beauty.

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