1711, Lorewell
SPRINGTIME IN LOREWELL was always a sight to behold, and the trees were verdant green and weighed down by the hefty produce, dotted by fresh dewdrops and glittering in the gentle sun.
Flowers sprouted brilliantly in the windy fields, and one could see miles upon miles of fuchsia and white, beckoning you to stop for a while and bask in its beauty.
A few yards away from the field of flowers was a long, narrow cobblestone road that cut through a forest of pine, a path that led to the vast de Fontaine manor. The walls were painted a noble ochre, and tall stained glass windows bearing motifs of flowers and knights could be seen.
The de Fontaine manor unnecessarily had thirty bedrooms, an enormous ballroom, several sitting rooms and a dining room so grand that it rivalled the Queen's own dining hall.
The family had employed a total of a hundred staff, twenty in the kitchen, forty to maintain the household, five to tend to the horses, ten to tend to the gardens, twenty to handle the laundry, and the remaining five were personal servants.
Being the wealthy man that he was, Elliott de Fontaine undoubtedly could afford it all, but it was quite excessive, especially since the manor only had three masters to serve-- himself, his nephew, and his dear daughter.
As he had no male heirs, Elliott intended to find a respectable minor nobleman with few ambitions and wed him to Catarina, under the condition that he would renounce his family name and become a de Fontaine.
Such a match would be the best outcome for their clan, and Catarina would be able to live prosperously as a duchess without being caught in the struggle for power.
In his hands were an envelope sealed with red wax, its edges a bit wrinkled, a few spots damp from the falling rain.
Elliott was in a deep dilemma.
He knew that there would be six other ladies that could be chosen, but the possibility for Catarina to be chosen was still there.
As he entered inside, he immediately heard the sound of a pianoforte playing, and his heart immediately softened.
The notes were horribly off-key and all over the place, and Catarina's terrible singing voice accompanied it, causing one's ears to bleed.
He ventured towards the piano room, and through the window he saw his daughter and her two maids, Rosie and Marie, both smiling in pain while listening Catarina play.
The piece finally ended after a painful five minutes, and Rosie immediately opened her mouth to complain.
"Miss, if you keep playing like this, you will never become better! Do you want the music teacher to call you tone-deaf again ?"
"It's just pianoforte, Rosie. I don't think that it is anywhere significant," Catarina replied dryly as she pushed the notes aside and hopped off of the stool.
"Miss, how else can you prove to others that you are an accomplished lady ? You can't even speak Amarisian without stuttering !"
At that moment, the brown-haired Marie decided to interject, and she loudly said "Who are you to talk like that to our mistress ? Know your place Rosie !"
Catarina frowned as Marie said this, dissatisfaction clearly flashing through her eyes. Everyone knew that Catarina favoured Rosie over Marie, despite Marie being more polite and adept on decorum.
Furthermore, she even brought Rosie with her when she went to the academy, while Marie was left at the manor.
"That was unnecessary, Marie," Catarina spoke, her voice devoid of her usual playfulness. "Rosie is my friend, so she may speak as she pleases."
At the exact moment, there was a knock on the door, and she signalled to Rosie to open it. When she saw her father come inside, her face immediately lit up and she ran over to embrace him.
Her cheerfulness slowly dimmed however when she saw the solemn look on Elliott's face. "Has something bad happened, Father ?" she asked cautiously, and her heart sank even lower when he nodded.
"This is for you, Nina," he uttered softly while holding out the envelope, and with trembling hands, Catarina haphazardly broke the wax seal and tore the envelope open. Her face was initially taut as she skimmed through the words, but gradually she began to relax.
"Oh, this is nothing! I thought that something terrible had happened !" she chuckled.
"Nina, you don't have to go if you don't want to. I'll talk you to the king and have you excluded," Elliott said, but Catarina began to shake her head and laughed.
"Father, are you afraid to see me get married ? Don't worry, I will behave so atrociously at the ceremony that the Queen sends me home," she declared proudly.
Elliott was still unconvinced, so Catarina went ahead and embraced him. "I am your daughter, remember ? You are the most powerful man in this kingdom, Father. They will not dare to slight me. They cannot afford to."
Several miles down south in the province of Fiorio was a similarly enormous estate, although this one was rather outdated in fashion and was almost empty. The le Prince manor used to be the grandest in all of Ravaeryn, boasting polished marble tiles and pillars of gold, but now it was a mere shell of its former glory.
The rose gardens were untended to, and the bushes were covered by a thick web of thorny branches, sure to pierce the flesh of anyone who dared to venture there.
A girl of eighteen summers stood stoically in the gardens as she watched her father dragging his race horses out of the stables to be sold. Only yesterday, her mother had dismissed almost all of the family staff, leaving them with less than ten servants.
How had they come to this ? For hundreds of years, House le Prince was the richest family in all of Ravaeryn, but now, they were on the brink of bankruptcy !
Marguerite was born in a cradle gilded with gold with twenty maids at her disposal, but now she was left with only one, and the quality of her dresses were lesser than that of her friend, Eufemia Dubois, the daughter of a mere merchant.
She had resorted to buying fake emerald and sapphire jewelries after her mother had pawned off the real ones, praying earnestly that no one would notice. Marguerite managed to maintain the airs of a wealthy count's daughter, but pretense could not help her pay the academy fees.
How had they come to this ? Why, Elliott de Fontaine, of course.
Dubbed by the people as the God of Wealth, Marguerite saw him as a hellraiser who turned her family's fortunes upside down instead. If Elliott de Fontaine had never been born, she would have been a fine lady with the largest inheritance in all of Ravaeryn.
She never had the opportunity to meet this God of Wealth, but she used to see his daughter Catarina everyday, and her accumulated hatred for Elliott de Fontaine eventually transferred towards Catarina, and Marguerite spent more time making the girl's life an absolute living hell rather than actually studying.
As the Count set off with his horses, the front yard quieted down, and Marguerite was left alone with her thoughts.
Her eyes, as blue as the sky, skimmed over the overgrown rose bushes. Her grandmother, the late Countess of Fiorio had planted two colours of roses, white and red. The countess had likened Marguerite to the soft, demure white rose, and she whole-heartedly believed that her granddaughter was destined for great things.
Marguerite frowned when she saw the wilted leaves, and her eyes travelled down to the lower stem, which she found to be rotten beyond saving, most likely due to the heavy rain in the province last week.
All the roses had wilted and died. All but one, nestled deep within the cage of thorns, its petals soft and white, the very image of purity.
Without hesitating, Marguerite reached for that single white rose, the only remaining memento of her grandmother, the only person who thought so highly of her.
The thorns pierced her skin and drew blood, but Marguerite did not care. When she felt the silky petals brushing against her fingers, she quickly plucked it out and dragged it away from the bush.
A small smile bloomed on Marguerite thin lips, but it vanished as quickly as it came when she saw the state of the white rose. Its petal were falling apart and bruised, and the blood from Marguerite's scratches had dripped down onto those white petals, creating a very unpleasant picture indeed.
It was no longer pure. It was filthy.
In disgust, Marguerite dropped the rose on the ground and smashed it into a paste with her heel. That day, the rose had died, and in its place, something sinister had just been born.
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