I'd wanted to add in a photo of Sara in a blue dress.. But very unfortunately, technology decided to work against me, and the image screwed up :/ so you'll have to do without it for now..
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Treading cautiously on the marbled floors, she took in her surroundings, making sure to keep a respectful distance between herself and the boy.
Although the Manor was a large house, it had a homely feel to it, and she felt much at ease. Walking through the hall, she saw that it was bathed in a lovely cream color, oil lamps flickering on the walls. Highlighted by the golden light from the oil lamps were carvings of what appeared to be three different symbols—the first, a swirl identical to the one on her palm; the second, three diagonal slashes; and the third, something that looked very much like the snaking wisps of smoke from a flame.
Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she paused.
“Wait,” she said, halting him mid-step. “How do I address you?”
He was silent for a moment, studying her with curious eyes. Feeling a little uncomfortable, she lowered her gaze, observing the intricate swirl patterns on the velvet carpet.
“I’m Maxon,” he replied, extending a hand to her.
She did not take his hand—that would symbolize camaraderie, and did not think herself worthy of that yet. Instead, she curtsied, feeling terribly out of place with her simple peasant blouse and pants, which were scrimmaged from a house on her way here. Maxon, in contrast, was smartly decked in a dark grey suit, pressed straight as a pin.
Raising her eyes to meet his, she smiled tentatively. “Nice to meet you,” she said politely. “I’m Sara.”
“Well, well, well!” cried a voice out of the blue. “Who have we here?” Sara jumped violently and snapped her head to the right, putting a hand to her chest.
Smiling pleasantly at her was a lady dressed in fine embroidery, her dark hair carefully coiffed and pinned into a neat bun atop her head. She appeared to be around her mid-thirties, and yet there was a kind of aged wisdom in her eyes that people as youthful as her did not often have. Something about her posture—back straight, head inclined, hands clasped together—seemed to exude strength, power, and elegance.
“Good evening, Countess,” Maxon said, inclining his head slightly.
“Oh, away with the formalities,” laughed the Countess, waving a hand at him. She had a bright, tinkling laugh to match her mellifluous voice. Glancing down at Sara’s Marks, her smile became wider. “And who might you be?”
Sara found herself warming to the Countess very quickly, and soon, she became acquainted with various people and places in the Manor, as the Countess took her by the hand, leading her up staircases and down hallways.
There were the maidservants, two of whom were resting in their Chambers and were happy to meet her—Katie, a young, fresh-faced girl of about nineteen, and Alethea, a middle-aged lady with a jovial demeanor and a mother-like air. Though it was customary for them to be quiet and respectful around their employers, Sara felt that Katie, with her bright and eager eyes, would make a very good friend indeed.
There were the cooks—Morgan and Jeremiah Gridley, who were in their mid-twenties. They were brothers, and very identical ones at that. They had the same burly build, and similar deep, throaty laughs, although Morgan was the more talkative one of the two; immediately showing her around the kitchen and pointing out various pastries he had made, his chest puffing out proudly. Sara couldn’t help but think that he looked like a little boy showing off his collection of toys. Then she’d giggled when she’d realized that his face didn’t quite match that of a toddler—his chiseled, masculine features were anything but childish.
The cooks and maidservants were not Plein, the Countess had explained. They were humans; descendants of the long line of people who had known about the Marked since the start of their existence. Willingly choosing to stay isolated from the rest of humanity, bound by an oath of silence; these were people who supported the Plein in their quest to stop war, and had chosen to stay with them in the Manor instead of fighting alongside the Legions. Their families’ histories went a long way back, she’d explained. These humans could be trusted, and the Plein, having a moral obligation to provide for them, would be ever grateful for their help.
Lastly, there was the rest of the Plein family. With the addition of Sara, there were now six of them in total, including the Countess and Maxon. They made up the Plein members in America, but there were more of them living in other parts of the world. Once above the age of 18, they would leave the safety of the Manor to roam the world, watch out for any member of the Plein in danger, and to try all means to stop the raging war. Ancient laws governed that the sole residing place of the Marked, whether Plein, Legion, or Magix, was not to be attacked unless the intruder was willingly let in.
There was little Gwendoline, who’d been orphaned and left at the doorstep of the Manor as a baby. She had grown to become a bright child who, in all innocence, had a habit of appearing in the oddest of places, the Countess had said.
There was also Louis, who spent most of his time outdoors touring the world, as he liked to put it. Having just turned eighteen, he would be leaving the Manor soon. The Countess had mentioned that she would probably get along well with Michael and Maxon, as they were merely a year older than her, both having just turned seventeen. Though preferring to keep to himself, he seemed like a big-brother figure to Sara, in the presence of his towering build and infectious grins. She looked up to him—literally, as well—almost immediately.
And then there was Michael who, as the Countess had said, had gone out for a walk looking out of sorts, and had asked the Countess not to stay up late waiting for his return. Noticing the worried crease in the Countess’s forehead, and the way she was wringing her hands repeatedly, Sara felt a little distressed as well.
Fingering a quirky clockwork mechanism resting on a mantel above the fireplace, she tilted her head towards the Countess. “Does he usually do that?” she enquired curiously.
The Countess sighed uneasily, folding her hands on her stomach. “Often he does,” she replied. “But it worries me, as it always does.” Sara wondered why the Countess had not seemed as worried when Maxon was out for his walk, but perhaps it would be more becoming of her to stay silent.
The next morning, Sara was glad to wake up to warmth again, instead of the coldness and emptiness that usually greeted her. It was something she’d once only dared to dream of. Though in an unfamiliar place, all of a sudden, she almost felt as though she had a home, a heart, and a family once again. It gave her a peculiar, light-hearted feeling, and she all but skipped her way to the bathroom.
Coming out of the bathroom, the next surprise that awaited her came in the form of a beautiful blue dress and satin slippers that Katie had placed on the bed for her.
Watching her run her hands over the delicate lace material in wonderment, Katie smiled shyly. “Do you like it, Miss?” she asked softly.
“I love it!” Sara exclaimed, giving Katie a hug. “Call me Sara instead, will you?”
“But the Countess…” she began, hesitating slightly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sara said, holding out the dress to Katie. “Now, will you help me change into this?”
After struggling into the rather tight corset, the blonde paused to admire her reflection in the mirror. Never having worn a dress for as long as she could remember, she was amazed at how soft the material felt against her skin. Her hair, for once, was washed clean of dirt and grime, and pinned up into a loose bun, as if it were a golden halo circling the top of her head.
Heading down to breakfast in that rather voluminous skirt, however, proved to be quite a daunting task. All too used to wearing tattered but comfortable men’s clothing, Sara was beginning to question her sanity for being so willing to wear such a dress. Thankfully, she had slipped her blade somewhere under that large mass of cloth—at least, it made her feel a little more at ease.
Blast this skirt, she cursed silently, taking the steps two at a time. Now I’ll be late for breakfast.
In her frenzied rush, she missed the last step of the stairs and slipped, crying out in alarm.
She had not fallen a great distance, however, when a pair of strong arms caught her. “Be careful, Countess—” she heard an unfamiliar male voice utter, before drawing in a sharp breath at the end. He had probably realized she wasn’t the Countess, Sara thought. And suddenly, just as quickly as they had caught her, those arms released their hold on her waist.
As she righted herself, raising her head to thank her savior, Sara found herself staring directly at the sharp, lethal edge of a carved knife, and the murderously angry face of a teenage boy.