Author's Note: I don't write fake people. The characters may be fictional, but their emotions are as realistic as I dare and try to make them. They will have days where everything makes them want to cry; they will have moments when the world seems like a dark and terrible place. They will also have moments of healing and days with a lot of happiness. They will have everything that human beings with emotions, including myself, have. They won't be "strong" all the time, whatever your definition of strength may be.
Victoria gripped the hem of her heavy gown with one hand, the other tucked into her brother's arm as they left the gangway. She savoured her first glimpse of the Sleeping Island, drinking in the unfamiliar views. Leafy, foreign plants rose up densely where the pale sand of the beach ended. A path of rocky gravel wound through a cleared trail between the trees, but everywhere else the vegetation's shadows spoke of the untamed wild and intrigue. Chirpy birdsong—accompanied by the faint hum of mosquitoes, because no place could truly be this beautiful without also being infested by blood-sucking creatures—filled the air. Though they'd long since waved their ship goodbye, sounds of the ocean was strong in Victoria's ears, the ebb and flow of it echoing the pounding in her chest. Her pulse did not quicken from fear or anger, but merely excitement, merely something she had not felt in a long time. Something Victoria had dreaded she was no longer capable of feeling. She was glad to see it return, the old companion on many adventures... and many more to come.
As they neared the end of the docks, salt-stained wooden boards creaking beneath her feet as well as those of her maid servant, Blake, and his valet. The sun beating down overhead was somewhat abated by a cool sea breeze and Victoria's wide-brimmed sun hat. She squinted, glad for the shade of her hat, and could make out two figures standing side by side on the beach. One distinctly female, with a billowing white gown and cascading dark hair, the other male with hair of the same colour. Could this man be the prince?
But no—when her slippered feet sank into the sand, neither of the faces that came to greet them were Matthew's. The first was a girl about Victoria's age or perhaps a year older. She was devastatingly lovely in a way that might have made Victoria feel insecure without the friendly smile that graced her countenance. "Unfortunately, the prince was feeling unwell, so he sent my brother and I to greet you. I am Celeste Mendoza—the governor's daughter. It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Lady Victoria."
"And a pleasure to make yours... Lady Celeste," she responded with some uncertainty.
Celeste Mendoza—the Duchess of Ashbrook's daughter, if Victoria remembered correctly. That would mean the man standing next to her, her brother, was the Duchess of Ashbrook's son: a future duke. She examined him discreetly: he was tall and well-built without any irregular features in addition to having noble blood, which by itself was enough to make any eligible noblewoman consider him a good match. But there was an air to him, a certain something behind the tawny cast to his skin and the curve of his lips into a stunning smile, that made her want to stop and stare for a moment, for an eternity. Not as though he expected women to fall at his feet in adoration, but as though the fates expected it, as though the world would cease to revolve around the sun if members of the female persuasion did not do the same to him. There was a natural magnetism to him, so strong that she nearly stumbled over her own feet as she stepped towards him.
"Oh!" Victoria put a hand to her heart, and found the other gripped firmly in Celeste's brother's grasp. "Thank you, Lord...?"
"My name is Francisco, Francisco Mendoza," he responded smoothly. Francisco lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. She felt her face warm, and told herself it was only the external heat that had such effects on her body. "You needn't be so formal. Our customs are freer. Call me Francisco."
"I... if you insist." A spark of bravery wound its way through her veins, and she straightened. She was no wilting violet, to be so easily moved by a handsome man. "And if you address me as Tori."
"It is a promise," he said, his voice suddenly rough as his jawline looked. Francisco's hand was still clutching hers.
"Dear brother, Lady Victoria, we are going to the governor's house now, and any delays may soon make us late for supper," Celeste informed them sweetly, as she swanned over. She and her brother had that same pull, the same ability to draw people towards them with an indefinable quality. However, it was clear between the two of them which was the leader.
Something about Celeste struck Victoria as being similar to wine: heady, to be sure, and a taste or a cup of it was well and good, but down the whole bottle and you would find yourself in a world of pain. And certainly no one expected that agony until it happened upon them.
• • •
Victoria and Blake unpacked before supper. The lust for adventure had dulled to a faint roar in the pit of her stomach, mellowed by the irrational sense of dread that mingled with it. She sat on the canopied bed and watched mutely as her maid pulled gowns and hats and gloves from the steamer trunks she had brought. Then she caught sight of a glimpse of metal, likely a piece of jewelry, but the flash of steel made her heart wrench, her body grow cold. She would think of nothing else but frore, dingy cells and gunshots and danger. Of dark, frigid thoughts that did not belong in such a lively, warm place.
The too-familiar cloud of shame and self-doubt settled like a cloak on her shoulders, too heavy to shrug off. Victoria curled her fingers into fists, the pain startling her. You are free, you are safe, he is gone, she repeated silently to herself. She was grateful for her maid's gentle interruption to help her into her evening dress, and relieved to find Francisco waiting at her door. Relief that she would not have to be alone with her thoughts.
"Good evening, Lord--Francisco," she corrected hastily. Why did she always feel so unsettled, so knocked off guard by him?
"It is a good evening, now that I have seen you," he replied suavely, his smile charming without being falsely so. He bowed low before her, though there was no need. "May I walk you to supper? These halls can be a bit of a maze, and I would hate for you to get lost and, I will admit, for myself to lose out on your delightful company."
She laughed, for she could not think of anything else to do. "Of course."
Victoria took his arm, and they walked together through the corridors. The light of the setting sun spilled through arched windows lining the corridors, illuminating Francisco's profile. It trimmed him in gilt, like an old portrait of some saint or angel. She felt her breathing hitch in her throat, and looked away for the rest of their journey through the passageways to the dining hall.
Supper was—as promised—a casual affair. Victoria dressed informally, in a loose dress made from pale-blue linen that required no corset, and her brother more stiffly in a starched, cheery yellow suit. There were three courses: the first of shellfish with lemon wedges, the second of root vegetables alongside some gamey sort of bird she suspected might have been pigeon, and the third of brightly coloured fruits Victoria had never seen before, sweet and bitter and tangy all at once. She could barely taste the food, however, being so preoccupied with other matters as she was.
Matters such as Francisco's hand on her back as they walked into the dining room, the scent of him—of spices and sea-salt and musk—, as well as more nefarious ones. One such matter being the way Celeste was eyeing Victoria and her brother, like they were pawns suddenly dropped into a game she'd been playing, and pawns she was eager to manipulate at that. Celeste currently was plying Blake into a conversation about politics—something Victoria found both tedious and unusual. Women in Arlea did not speak of politics, and certainly not to high-ranking nobles.
They spoke of needlework, the races, the latest fashions perhaps, but never governmental workings. It would be unfeminine, to have strong opinions, and what if those opinions differed from her husband's? Then she should be a great source of shame to him. Victoria under different circumstances would have admired Celeste for her willingness to stand out from the typical throngs of empty-headed, spineless women, perhaps even endeavoured to be her friend, but not in this case. Not when the lady was surveying her brother like a farmer surveying a prize cow in an attempt to find its worth. She'd seen the look countless times before—plenty of women wanted to be on the arm of Blake Rutherford, close advisor to the queen and landed and titled besides.
While Victoria had found a way to end those women's scheming every time, she had a feeling that Celeste's mind held more than thoughts of marriage—and that she would do whatever necessary to achieve her plans.
She was so preoccupied, that she hardly noticed her brother leaving the room.