An empty silence persisted at the DeNoire family’s candlelight dinner. The grand room, dark with the soft embrace of the night, was flattered by the candles perched upon its pillars and walls. The silky, draping tablecloth underneath the endless plates of champagne-soaked lobster, honey-glazed turkey, and sweet little servings of plum pudding glowed pure and reflected the majesty of the family. The most lovely of all, however, was the image of the DeNoire family’s softly lit up and handsome faces, casting shadows that hid behind the window panes. 239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh1ETtTgXvj
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There was a quiet acknowledgement of presence in the dimmed room, with the servants casting glances at each other, only to quickly regain their posture from fear of their masters. The DeNoire's was a bold household of name and land equal to the empirical family, but like other families of worth mentioning, they socialized only to cloak themselves with fabricated generosity. Of course, no family is truly perfect. Most of the noble households in this ever-expanding empire of Atria tried to remain courteous and generous to each other; but when the others turned around, they rooted vicious rumors and plots. Except for the precious DeNoire's- nobody dared to cross them, and nobody knew what happened behind their pearl gates, or if it existed at all.
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Alas, Dutchess DeNoire’s patience was thinning until she could no longer contain herself. It had been more than thirty minutes of sitting still and pretending to drink their newly gifted exotic tea, and the madam felt quite disgusted by how, in place of their sole child, there remained an empty seat. Suddenly, she stood up, pointed at the closest maid, and cried, “ You there, tell me what in the entire empire of Atria could that girl be doing?”
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The maid shook from the Mistress’s screech, and fell to her knees.
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“Madam, this lowly maid does not know- the young lady had gone to pick up a boy as the Duke had requested, but I have not heard from her since.”
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“Well, get her from that rotten orphanage and tell her that any bloody boy is fine, just make sure the boy’s not of bastard’s blood.”
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“Yes mistress, I’ll be sure to tell the young Lady Amora.”
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The maid quietly crept away, looking at the polished ground the entire time. No maid was ever able to look directly into the lovely couple’s eyes, nor were they ever able to defy their orders. And this very maid that ran away to get the Lady was the very same. A heavy, burdening sloth remained in the maid’s heart. She disliked the duke and the dutchess, sure, but was there really a need for her to stand up for herself? It wasn’t like they had nailed her to the table and forced sewer rats to consume her skin like they did to old Maid Lauren, and old Maid Lauren used to say how much she envied others for being liked by the DeNoire's. That’s what she used to say, anyway. The maid, at this trail of thought, felt a subtle pang of guilt, as if a little bit of her humanity was devoured by those very same sewer rats.
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Her heart hurt and the young maid quickened her feet. She picked up her speed and lifted her head and ran and ran and ran until she caught sight of the crumbling, cream-colored orphanage. She opened her mouth and let out a gasp to catch her breath- she was finally here. The orphanage was not crumbling in a physical sense. It looked quite nice, actually, with its pretty little ornaments hung around the building in a cruel attempt at childhood. The walls were once painted red, but for no given reason, the owner wanted the orphanage to be painted a more relieving color. And so it was.
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It all happened on a Sunday. The owner of the orphanage had a close friend from childhood, Ms. Tansy Louise Ambrosine, whom she had always idolized and adored. That friend of hers was sunshine to the darkened rain, and loved everyone equally, as if they were borne from her own blood. Then, after a fated thunderstorm, that Ms. Ambrosine was struck by lightning and passed as quickly as the light came, her body never found again. The only thing that remained of her was her name, her ego, and her favorite little ornament, a wooden cross that she had always hung on the walls. No one really remembered the orphanage owner’s name, so they all referred to her as her lost friend. Of course, the alive Ms. Tansy never made the slightest “hmph!” of annoyance when the townsfolk called her by that; perhaps in her clouded mind, she had always wished to be her dead idol.
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So, as every Sunday had been previously at the orphanage, Ms. Ambrosine had woken up to the scarlet, sloppily-painted walls. There must have been something that happened the other night, something that had cursed her with each breath and tongue. Something that had cursed her to crawl the wild, red roads of death in everlasting silence. And perhaps something that caused her guilt- after all, guilt is the gray between the two strokes of black and white. It was not her first time seeing those walls; that color of scarlet was thought to be beautiful, and was even the dead Ms. Ambrosine’s favorite color. What had changed to make her feel such disgust? Nothing else could be plausible for her erratic actions, and those vivid scenes played to torment her on those scarlet walls. As soon as Ms. Ambrosine saw those walls, she ran outside of the orphanage still in her nightgown and cap, screamed, and then fainted without any airs of elegance. When she finally woke up, she cried for the walls to be painted cream, and her order was followed with swift action. Every Sunday afterwards she never failed to hang her dead friend’s cross on that once-red wall, and it was no different on this day.
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The maid crept with taught grace, slowly but carefully, into the orphanage. She didn’t bother to ring the polished doorbell, and it had become a tradition to make yourself as comfortable as possible before adopting a possible heir. Ms. Ambrosine rose from her rocking chair in the middle of the room and greeted the maid heartily, but with subtle unease after noticing the DeNoires’ family crest stitched onto the maid’s chest.
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“Ah, welcome, welcome! Is this maid here looking for the Missis? Why, the lady is in the back of the orphanage picking from our finest boys, and they are all fine, you know, fine and… and intelligent.”
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Then, with a hesitant pause,
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“...all of them.”
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The maid arched her eyebrows in careful suspicion, and simply nodded her head. Without another glance at Ms. Ambrosine, she turned around and walked towards the back of the orphanage where the young lady was. She paused, and noticed there was a small door in the hallway, which she presumed to be Ms. Ambrosine’s personal bedroom. The door was unlocked, but with a bit of force, perhaps with a push and a grunt, the door could be forced to close and then be locked from the outside. There was a slight bruise on the old door, perhaps where someone tried to do the same. It was curious how the maid knew this, and it surprised her too, when she thought so.
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In fact, it was a shame that she was born a maid to the DeNoire family. If she was born of a higher rank, she might have been considered an intellectual genius. If she was even born to serve a different family, she might have been considered a trusted servant, for her quick wits and wise planning. But she was born to the DeNoire's, and she was nothing but a maid. A sudden pang struck her breast, and her chest tightened with cruel and helpless realization. Her mind grew clouded and sorrowful, then defiant, and lastly turned into burning, quiet anger. At who? the DeNoire's? or simply fate for making her a lowly maid? Whatever the case or the true cause of her selfish sorrows, the maid knew she couldn’t blame anyone- but still, the small flame of that hatred burned on. The further the maid walked towards the lady and the young, orphaned boys, the more hesitant she became. With each step her strides grew shorter, and if not for the lady’s sudden “Hark!”, the young maid might have turned around and ran away altogether.
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The young lady was lovely and true to her name. Amora of love, and that was the entirety of her appearance. She had flowing, golden hair up to her hip, and red, bead-like eyes on top of a childish face. Her skin was soft and pale, without any signs of hardship, but her restless mouth of indignance revealed a childhood of unrequited love. A mask of loveliness and a name of “Amora” do not cover a fragmented heart. The townsfolk frequently sighed and rested their hands on their foreheads in pity and slight admiration of her. What they failed to understand was that although she is a pitiful soul, the violence that arose from her parent’s lack of love grew into a morbid fire. A fire that burned her young, childish heart so, until it melted and was forced into a rigid, rubber mold so that her parents would not scold her for having a “lack of love”. Would the townsfolk pity her if they saw how she had pushed the poorer classmates into a rushing river, only to receive minimal punishment? Would they even give a slight look of grief if they had seen how she hated the world around her, hated fate and hated god, until she no longer believed in them? And from all of her failed attempts at receiving love, her heart crystalized into an unreasonable and imperfect pillar of ice.
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Amora glared at the maid, with her indignant eyes a fiery crimson.
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“I said hark; did you not hear me?”
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The young lady then opened her mouth to continue, but the maid knew her habits too well.
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“Of course I did, Lady Amora, but this maid was too surprised with your presence and couldn’t respond in time.”
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Amora visibly grinded her teeth, and felt extreme dissatisfaction that the maid spoke up. Otherwise she could have had some therapeutic screams of anger, and after her parents wanted to adopt an heir she was needing it.
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“Come here, I want you to help me choose a boy.”
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The maid stumbled towards the room of orphans, and looked around in pity and embarrassment, as she knew that the reasons to adopt were selfish and ungrateful, although in her mind, she knew the children thought so as well. Most of the children were little boys around the lady’s age, some nine or ten years old each. There were many little girls too, but adopting them was useless and not Amora’s task, so she dismissed them as such. She glared at the orphans, and few of them dared to stare back. There was the usual, DeNoire-like fear in the room, and Amora smirked at the thought that there were still some people in this world that had less power than her. She sharply turned towards the one that flinched the quickest from her glare, and walked towards him in long, supercilious strides.
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“Who is this?”
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The boy was smaller than the other children, and when compared to Amora’s fiery presence, seemed like a pitiful little rodent who forgot how to steal cheese. He forgot how to steal cheese- and forgot how to correctly respond to a noble or a human in general. The boy stuttered and muttered a few sloppy, undistinguishable words, but couldn’t even bear to take a peek at the young lady.
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At this, Amora smirked, but quickly pulled at the boy’s collar in an act of indignation, with a speed that choked him in the process. The maid instinctively waved her hands in an attempt to get the boy to answer properly, but immediately pulled back in fear of her small master. Right when Amora raised her hand to harshly slap the boy, Ms. Ambrosine clambered into the room, swaying her large hips and rubbing her hands together, with a frightful smile.
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“Oh- Oh no, my lady, please spare the boy.”
Ms. Ambrosine took a sharp breath of air, and began to speak again, in her honeyed style.
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“Please forgive him. He’s always had this problem since young, you know, always being a most fretful little rat… but I can ensure you, my lady, he’s truly a great follower, and quite easy-”
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“That’s enough,” Amora replied as she turned her golden head and glanced at the lumpish Ms. Ambrosine. “How much is he? I’m sure he’ll fit in perfectly in this household of mine.”
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“Why, my lady, only 50 coins for that boy,” said Ms. Ambrosine, laughing heartily. Her eyes curved into glittering crescents, with her smile reflecting pure happiness. She clapped her hands repeatedly, having correctly guessed the lady’s reason for wanting a boy like him.
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Then, with a determined kick, she glared at the still shivering boy.
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“Come! Come, boy, introduce yourself!”
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The little rodent finally uncurled himself and stood up. However, even when he fully straightened his back, he could not bring himself to lift his head, and so stared at the ground with all his might. Although, soon enough, out of curiosity, he stole a glance at this member of his soon-to-be family.
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And he softly muttered, “My name is Lucien… p-pleased to meet you, my lady.”
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His voice was a low melody to the ears, and as he slowly raised his face to garner acceptance, the maid could clearly see his features. Round, light-pink eyes with soft, long eyelashes adorned the boy’s face, with light-brown locks of hair to complete his handsome and childish appearance. The boy was, in fact, good looking. Of course, the other children also had the appearances of little angels descended from heaven, as this was indeed an orphanage for the wealthy. Amora was a little surprised when she saw him; after all, she had focused on his sheepish personality rather than his face. She soon regained her former composure after realizing that she had correctly chosen the best heir, as his current looks were fitting for the DeNoires’ atmosphere, but were still lacking when compared to her. She smiled.
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“And his bloodline?”
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“Well-bred, my lady, his family was notable, I assume, in the past, but they’re all dead now. And the boy has no recollection of the matters, anyway.”
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“Well! Then that’s that. You, prepare the carriage!”
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The maid quickly responded to the young lady’s orders, and scrambled out of sight.
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And Lucien, while the others weren’t looking, stared at the other orphans and sheepishly smiled. His eyes, however, reflected a sense of pitiful hatred and sarcastic laughter. He then held onto his new sister’s hands, and when he realized that his new sister had no noticeable reaction of disgust, grasped them tighter. They are warm, he thought, and for a moment, he truly wished for her happiness.
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He then lifted his head again to match Ms. Ambrosine’s eyes, and he blinked at her, with a laughable air of forgiveness and perhaps even a bit of gratitude- at least I lived for this long.
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As the two passed by the sly owner, Amora handed her a velvety, richly stitched pack. Ms. Ambrosine held it in her hands for a long time, moving it around and listened to the 50, golden coins. Clink, clink, clink. Then, as if pulled out of her fantastical trance, Ms. Ambrosine finally remembered to save her image, and placed the little pack inside of her fat pocket. She waved her lumpy hands around and cried goodbyes to the carriage, until it went completely out of sight.
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Then, a child appeared before her eyes.
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“Who was that, mother?”
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“Oh, the DeNoire's, y’know. Looking for an heir, they said- who knew they would pick that rodent?”
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There was a pause.
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“Which rodent, mother?” the child grasped onto her skirt. “Which one?”
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“Lucien… say, my child, why do you care?”
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The child widened his eyes and clenched his fist but said nothing. Then, with a feigned air of indifference, he released his hold on his mother.
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Then, after another wave of silence-
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“He never even said goodbye.”
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“What was that, my child?”
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But when Ms. Ambrosine had asked that question, the child was already gone.
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Perhaps it was a beautiful day.
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