• THE WOMAN GAZED up into her father’s snarling face and was filled with a foreboding sense of dread. With one clean motion, the man raised his hand and brought it down upon her face in a stinging strike. The girl’s cheek turned red from both humiliation and the slap.
    Slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet the face of her father, gently gliding her hand over her swelling cheek. Her rose-colored lips parted unsurely, and she took in a shaky breath, her vocal cords straining to gather the energy needed to apologize. But instead of repenting for her refusal to marry the man of her father’s wishes, she was silenced by the man before her.
    “How dare you come into my house and refuse to wed under my circumstances? Perhaps that wound that mars your pretty face wills serve as a reminder as to where you stand in this household,” he said as his red face slowly drained of its beet-inspired color.
    “Please,” hissed the girl angrily from behind tightly clenched teeth. “Tell me of my place. Teach me so that, in the future, I shan’t forget!”
    “Dishonorable wretch! To your rooms! The next time you see beyond your door shall be after the new year arrives!”
    “Then the heat of summer will do me well! Spring is almost over, and your prestigious bridegroom shall become weary of waiting! Let me fall dead with the leaves of autumn! Like you’d ever give a damn-”
    With that, the man grabbed her by the shoulders and flung her against the stone wall. She cried out and tears sprang forth to her green eyes, like a sparkling sea overflowing with tide. She groped desperately for the torch hanging above her on the wall, in hopes of using it to threaten her father away until she could break into a run down the spiraling steps a few yards away.
    The man caught her movements and followed her long fingers with his eyes. Grimacing with rage, he took up the torch and brought it inches from his daughter’s famously beautiful face.
    She shrieked and begged his forgiveness, but her words did not reach his ears. He took a thin metal rod from his pocket, used for unlocking the doors to the cellar, and held it in the flames. The tip grew red, then yellow with heat, and he returned the torch to its hook on the wall. Still pinning his daughter against the stone, he pulled up the hem of her skirts, exposing her thigh.
    Her screams echoed through the halls as he slowly and torturously burned the swirling initials of her betrothed into the flesh: MJP. The skin turned red and her face twisted in pain. Finally, he pulled the peg from her leg and let the fabric of her gown fall back into place, hiding the burnt area.
    The girl collapsed to the floor, her lips moving with speed in silent and desperate prayer. She lifted her head and stared up into her father’s eyes with unexpected dignity. “Let me fall dead with the leaves of autumn,” she whispered. “Let my death be more meaningful to you than that of my mother. Did you weep when you ordered her beheading? Did you blink an eye? Or did a bird in the trees above distract you?”
    “Your mother died for treason to the throne,” her father said with a frighteningly calm, white-hot anger.
    “A treasonous tongue to the throne’s daft beholder,” she corrected him, hoping her words stung more deeply than his slap.
    ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
    June 22, 1873
    Bordeaux, France










    It seems as though I must improve my self-control in my father’s presence. His abusive qualities are becoming more apparent with each passing time that I remind him of my mother. Eloise and I share only the same pet name of Ella today, but the nurse assures me that, were she alive, I would have held the utmost adoration for her. Because my father would prefer not for me to meet the same fate as that which he subscribed my mother, he has begun to address me as Ari, in hopes that a more childish nick name will sooth the short temper I inherited from him. He wishes that Eloise and I share as little characteristics as possible.
    From what information that I have gathered from the servants and the nurse, good souls that they are, I have come to the conclusion that my mother was also one to sneak books out of my father’s library at night. She was a lover of music, and was the most skilled poet in the court. My father had attempted to woo her with a poem of passion, which upon reading it, she had laughed and critiqued him. Nonetheless, he loved her dearly until he learned of her charming yet frustrating wit and sharp tongue. She corrected him too often, and ignored him when immersed in a book. She would rather write in her study than join him for political parties.
    Well, because this journal is written for my son, daughter, or servants who happen to find this after my death this fall, I suppose a proper description of myself is needed…

    A knock at the door startled the girl out of her thoughts. Ariella’s quill scratched the parchment aimlessly before clattering onto the desk. She did not wait for the ink to dry before slamming the book shut and tying the two velvet covers together with a strip of leather. She jumped up and smoothed her skirt as she watched as her doorknob jiggled and clicked open, the lock useless.
    The door swung ajar and the pungent scent of jasmine filled the air. A short and thin girl swiftly entered the room and bowed in greeting and apology for barging in on her mistress. It was Ariella’s favorite maid, Meka: a frail girl, four years younger than her, whom she had saved from her father’s intent to kill the kitchen maid’s babe.
    “Lady Ariella, your father demands your presence for dinner,” she announced as usual. However, as she had secretly befriended her mistress, her formal mask dropped and a look of concern flashed in her brown eyes. “Has something happened, mademoiselle? My lord seemed quite enraged at the mention of your name. You did not dare to argue his wedding arrangements, did you?”
    Ariella sighed. For a servant, she knew Meka knew far too much, but she could not bear to keep anything from her eager ears. “Aye, I did. It was a foolish move, but I cannot wed the man my father has selected. He is surely a soldier, valiant and heroic, yes, but uncaring and neglecting,” she sobbed. “How can I marry a man with no love in his heart, who has no interest in arts or literature? Undoubtedly my father would choose one so barbaric!”
    “Mademoiselle, I am sure he will be handsome and gentlemanly, and if he is indeed a soldier, will follow the art of courtly love. But for now, milady, the most you can do is stay silent and abide to his wishes. In any event, come now. Supper is served.”
    Ariella picked up a cloth from her night table and dipped it into the basin of warm water. She washed her face and hands, dismissing any tears or flushing on her cheeks. She pinned her hair back and followed Meka down to the Dining Hall. Meka rushed ahead and pulled out Ariella’s chair, and once her mistress was seated, she draped a linen napkin across her lap.
    Many of her father’s advisers dined with them, and tonight a wedding planner in a frilly green lobster-tail gown sat next to Ariella. The woman twisted her rings and waited for the hall to grow silent before beginning.
    “Masseur Feuille,” she addressed her father, a flirtatious grin spreading over her powdered face. “This gorgeous one next to me must be your daughter, oui?” She gestured dramatically to Ariella, her rings flashing in the light of the chandelier.
    “Oui,” her father answered grimly, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
    Turning to Ariella, the woman smiled a little too brightly. “Chanceux! A pretty little bride sure to make her father proud!”
    “I will try my best,” she answered, her heart burning with instantaneous hatred toward this cheery woman.
    “My name is Madam Fleur Cloche, Ariella. I will be the magnificent woman behind your wedding. And who is the lucky, lucky man you are to marry?”
    “A stranger,” Ariella responded, her voice like ice to a flower.
    “Oooooh, my. Really?” Fleur’s voice got excited and high-pitched, like a woman who was gossiping with her friends. “My, my, my, how interesting. Well, Masseur Feuille, what is the mystery man like? Tall? Handsome? Strong?”
    “I wish not to hear of my betrothed,” Ariella cut her off. “Please, madam, just plan my wedding.” She bowed her head and gingerly put a piece of veal in poppy seeds and rosemary into her mouth, letting the strong flavor seep into her tongue and make her eyes water.
    Across the table, her father stroked his chin thoughtfully. Ariella clearly had no interest in building any sort of relationship with the man she was to wed. This filled him with sadness, yet he could not repeal his decision.
    Fleur frowned and popped a sautéed onion dipped in chicken bouillon into her mouth and chewed slowly, taking in the situation at hand. This beautiful woman was to be wed according to her father’s direction, yet she had no desire to marry, meet, or even hear about this man. Surely at her age she was interested in the opposite sex? Fleur had heard of people in other regions who wed their own gender, but that was unheard of in these lands.
    Fleur chuckled and smiled again at the nobleman sitting across from her. “At that rebellious age, hmm, masseur?”
    Malcolm Feuille put forth his best attempt at a smile, which in all honesty was far from good. “I suppose so. Have you any children of your own, Madam Fleur?”
    Fleur laughed and titled her head. “No, I’m afraid I have not yet found the right man.”
    Malcolm nodded slowly, but his mind was elsewhere. He gazed at his only child and hated the look of hopelessness of her face. All hope is not lost, mon chère, he thought tenderly.
    Ariella, in response to seeing her father’s stares, speared a pea pod more brutally than needed and sent it flying off the table and soundlessly onto the floor. Neither Fleur nor her father noticed, but from behind her, Meka snickered and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, signaling one of the hounds that lounged in front of the fireplace to go eat it.
    As the dog approached the table, Fleur squealed in disgust. “Dogs,” she spat. “Horrid little beasts. Surely he is the pet of a servant, masseur?”
    Malcolm chuckled. “No, that is our greyhound, Corrin. He is mine. He makes a good hunting companion.” He stared curiously at Fleur, wondering why such a dog of a woman should be so against his hound. While he was saying this, Corrin indulged himself to some peas, then ambled back to the rug near the hearth to go back to sleep.
    “Well, in any event, do you prefer any theme to your wedding, Mademoiselle Ariella?” Fleur grinned and clasped her hands against her powdered cheek.
    “That won’t be necessary,” Ariella replied and rose from her seat. “Excuse me, but I have little appetite tonight.”
    Fleur stammered, “But- but Mademoiselle, your wedding…”
    “Won’t be needed either. Meka. Come,” the girl responded bluntly and walked briskly from the room. At the table, her father sighed and buried his face in his hands.
    Fleur gaped as the lacy trim of Ariella’s skirts swirled around the corner and out of sight. “Masseur, what does she mean… “won’t be needed…?” Does she hope to run away?”
    Malcolm decided it would be easiest to entertain his arrogant guest. “I suppose that’s one way to put it. She is so rebellious, so outspoken, and so beautiful… so like her…”
    “Masseur?” Fleur’s brows knit and she leaned toward him, her attention caught.
    “Eloise,” Malcolm said, rising from his seat, a pained look upon his face.
    “An old flame, masseur?” the nosy woman smiled coyly and motioned to a nearby servant for more wine, whom Malcolm stopped.
    “She was… is... my love. But she’s gone now,” he said, and turned to the servant. “That won’t be necessary. Please show our guest to the exit.”
    With that, he strode out of the room.




    “But I’ve already told him that I had no desire to speak with such a person! Why will he not listen to me,” Ariella sobbed into her wine-colored lace-trimmed pillow, “when I am his prized and only child?” Her hands groped for the decorative throw cushions that littered her bed. Gripping one tightly with her long, thin fingers, she threw it with all her strength at a porcelain vase filled with irises.
    “I don’t know, milady. I am sorry that I cannot be of more assistance. Shall I send for some tea,” Meka said softly as she stood with perfect posture at her mistress’ side. “Or summon a maid to draw a relaxing bath for you?”
    “No, no,” Ari drew herself up and sat staring blankly into the fireplace. “I’m fine as I am thank you.” She glanced over at the vase and scowled. Her projectile had missed.
    “Milady,” Meka sighed, picking up the thrown cushion and replacing it on her mistress’ gigantic bed, “perhaps it is best that you do not have meals with your father for a while, hmm?”
    Ari stroked the tears from her lashes and cheeks before nodding. She pulled off her lace gloves and tossed them onto her vanity. Allowing Meka to undo the ties of her gown and dress her in a loose-fitting nightgown, Ariella thought of what on earth it would take to persuade her father to call off the wedding.



    Ariella woke the next morn to sunlight streaming through her windows. The fire in the hearth was roaring, so when Ari’s toes touched the cobble floor, she would not need to suffer the cold of the stones.
    Pulling on satin slippers, she crossed the room to her wardrobe and selected a silky robe that brushed over the floor when she walked. Meka, as usual, rushed into the room with a basin of warm water and the softest of cloths for Ariella to wash her face with. Sighing, Ari dipped the cloth into the water, but paused, watching drops hit the floor, leaving splatter marks in front of her.
    “I wonder if my fiancée is forced to do such frivolous things each morning.” Ariella thought aloud. “Does he wake up to find every person in his home fussing over him? Or does he wake to the sight of an empty bedchamber and the sound of birds o’er the trees?”
    She wandered over to the window and pulled aside the lace curtains, looking out over the lush gardens of the palace. Her room received the best view of the rose gardens and the Grande Fleur Labyrinth. Sighing, a sad expression crossed her face, and her green eyes became shadowed by dark lashes.
    “Do you think of me as a burden, O unknown man betrothed, or are you exuberant at the thought of seeing me in the virgin’s color on our wedding day?” Ariella twirled away from the window, clutching the damp cloth to her breast. Her eyes gazed at something nonexistent and far away. “I want to meet you… I do not want to meet you. If I could only spend a little time with you before I must wed you, I would be more open-minded to your hand.”
    Meka laughed gently and took Ariella by the elbow. “Milady, you sound like the disillusioned poets of the court! Such things you speak of when too many idle thoughts clutter your head!”
    “Idle things! My darling friend, is matrimony so idiotic that one cannot fantasize of what it holds for a blind woman’s future?” Ariella resisted, pulling out of her servant’s grip. She dropped the cloth back onto the tray and went back to the window. “Is it so uncommon for a girl to want to build a bond with the man she must be with until the day death divides them?”
    Meka stood silent, holding the gown Ariella had selected draped over her arms, which were hugging their owner tightly. “I do not understand, milady… what brought on this fire in your eyes?”
    Ari turned to face her best friend, a solemn smile playing over her flushed cheeks. “You’re too young to understand, my dear. Someday, if my husband allows you to stay with me, when you are to be wed, I will do all I can to help you when these same feelings disturb your heart.”
    Meka nodded and stepped forward to help Ariella into her gown. She pinned roses to the lacy neckline, and draped a dainty ribbon of pearls across her collarbone. She swept her hair up, letting the girl’s auburn curls dance over her shoulders, and wove thin strips of satin into her locks.
    All the while, Ariella kept her eyes on the open window, watching the birds that fluttered past gaily, with no sign of troubles or worries. Finally, when Meka was finished harassing her with pointless daily rituals, she dismissed her to the library to fetch some books.
    “I have many long months of boredom ahead of me, my friend,” she murmured, “and it would be a shame if during that time my mind were to grow weak. After all,” she looked up at her servant, and for the first time in days, a glimmer lit up her eyes. “A lady must be able to entertain her husband.”
    “Politics, then, milady,” Meka concluded with a sly smile and swept out of the room.
    With an exasperated sigh, Ariella fell into the chair at her desk and idly spun a small, finely engraved wooden globe. She wondered where on the enormous planet her fiancé dwelled, and where he would take her. She wondered where her mother had gone when she had first wed her father.
    Lifting her journal from its poor hiding place, she also pondered if her mother had experienced this same feeling of anxiousness and dread. She had only just opened the small book when her father exploded into her bedchamber.
    Ariella hastily stood and curtsied awkwardly. “Father,” she said slowly, not taking her eyes from the large and angry looking man.
    After a pause, Malcolm replied simply, his face slightly flushed, “You didn’t come to breakfast.”
    Ari stood still and silent. After another uncomfortable pause, she finally gave a very small nod, feeling that, due to the lack of continuation of the conversation (if one could even call it that), that a response was desired.
    Malcolm, visually becoming slightly frustrated, cocked his head to one side, clearly expecting an explanation.
    “I am to stay in my room until the new year,” she reminded him, leaning back to put her weight onto the desk. She let her eyes, which today were the color of a moss-filled forest, wander around the room. “Unless you have rethought my marriage plans…?” she said suddenly, her gaze snapping back to meet her father’s, while still keeping her relaxed, uncaring position.
    Malcolm straightened his stance and cleared his throat. “Not a bit,” he said sternly. You are set to wed early next spring.”
    Ariella blinked in surprise, and then let out a long, disappointed sigh. So not only has he not seen things from my point of view, but he’s further ascertained my marriage as well! “If I am still alive, come spring,” she declared, “I will marry him. But if fall should bring my demise…” her voice, which had become light and airy, trailed off as she brushed a short stack of papers off the desk with her fingertips.
    Malcolm inhaled slowly and began again. “Ari, my dear, marry him this autumn and all of your suffering will be over.” He crossed the room to stand by her and wrapped his arms around her. “Please, just let this end.”
    For a moment, Ariella almost considered giving in. She groaned, very quietly, so that it was almost inaudible to even herself. His use of her pet name, combined with the obvious pain in his tone, made her heart ache as if someone had clenched it in their fist and squeezed slightly.
    “Father, how can you give me away to a man whom I have no feeling for… whose face I have never even seen?! Do you not love me at all? Do you desire me to perish in the arms of a man who does not know me, does not know my heart, my mind?”
    “Some days, such as today, Ari, even I do not know your mind!” Malcolm roared abruptly.
    “You should!” Ariella did not realize she had been weeping until the soft sound of tears hitting the floor reached her ears. “It is so impossibly near to that of my mother… and if you ever cared at all to know me, you would see that!” She flung herself out of her father’s embrace and took several quick steps toward the door. “Perhaps marriage is the answer… since the man I currently live with doesn’t know me either!”
    She twirled around and dashed from the room, her footsteps echoing throughout the empty halls.
    “Ariella!” Malcolm gasped, but he couldn’t’ run after her. His chest felt tight and achy, and he could not seem to catch his breath, as if his beloved daughter had struck him in the stomach.
    All he could do was race to the window, just in time to watch Ariella fly through the main gate and off into the outside world which he had fought so hard to protect her from.

    Ariella finally slowed her pace once she was at least a ten-minute’s carriage ride from the palace. Her breathing was quick and rasping. She had never been a particularly good runner, most likely because she had never been allowed to run. It was at this time that, at last, Ariella became aware of her surroundings. This place was not the horrible, filthy city her father had described, nor was it the town of riches that the maids swooned over.
    This place was a large, never-ending meadow of sunflowers and lavender. The sweet scent of the herbs tickled her nose, and it was delicious; not in the mouth-watering smell of the grand feast the chef’s prepared, but it was in no way comparable to the incredibly expensive perfumes that were brought to her as gifts from exotic places. No, this odor was nothing like those of the palace, but something new, and fresh, and lovely… yes… so lovely that it made her want to sing with the sheer joy of being able to experience something new.
    Her tears returned, but not because of her pain this time. She threw herself into the infinite fields of color and light and happiness, letting the sunlight envelope her in a loving embrace. After several meters, she tripped and fell into a savory blanket of flowers. Ariella breathed deeply, letting the smell of waning spring fill her lungs, her veins, her heart, her mind. Especially her mind. It filled her thoughts with opportunity of freedom and love. It erased dusty memories of her father, her fiancé, the palace, the cold.
    And then, as suddenly as the emotions had come, they left, as a summer-scented breeze blew them away. Summer, Ariella thought, when my dreams will be lost and my death will be ever nearer.
    She rolled onto her back and gazed wistfully up at the fluffy white clouds and the crystal-blue skies. Ari wished she could be one of those clouds, free to sail endlessly along a spring wind across the endless sky. At some point, she must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes from what was meant to be a short meditation, a canopy of midnight blue and diamond flecks stretched in all directions above her. There was no moon, which only made the tiny stars seem even brighter, like distant white-hot pearls in a sea of darkness.
    With a groan, she hoisted herself reluctantly to her feet, and turned to make her way back toward the palace. However, the meadow stretched for miles, and in the darkness, she could not make out the silhouette of her home in the distance. After several minutes of desperately searching blindly in the dark and letting the panicky heartbeat build in her chest, she surrendered and sat down again in the floral bed.
    Ariella stared at the stars for a while, before beginning to sing softly to herself. It was the lullaby her mother had taught her long ago.
    Ella of the wood was fond of silver skies
    Yet rainy days and dying leaves and little baby’s cries
    Left Ella feeling lonely, as if the world was gone
    So, Ella when you need me, just sing your mother’s song
    Her voice grew stronger, and it soon filled the whole meadow with music.
    Thy heart may bear the cold of winds
    But your bright eyes hold the stars
    When you see dear spring, please think of me
    For I am never far
    So dry your tears and lift your head
    There’s no need to feel solemn
    Fly with the wind, shine with the sun
    And fall with the leaves of autumn.
    Ariella, upon the end of her song, opened her eyes to see little golden lights floating toward her in the meadow. At first, a smile dominated her face, and she reached out toward what looked like nearby fireflies. But no matter how she swiped at the air, she could not catch one. Ari found herself running towards the lights and coming face to face with her father’s search party.
    One stepped forward and bowed politely. “Lady Ariella,” he greeted her in a velvety voice.
    “I don’t recognize you from my father’s men,” Ariella said cautiously. “Who are you?” Despite her suspicious tone, she could not help but accept the stranger’s out held hand.
    “I am a new recruit, milady,” he said. Even in the dark, Ari could tell he was handsome. He was tall; about six foot three, with light brown hair that reached his jaw and golden brown eyes that glimmered as if they held a secret. “My name is Michael James Printemps.” He gazed at her intently, as if expecting her to recognize him.
    “I see,” Ari said in a clearly uninterested voice. “Well then, Michael, would you mind taking me home?” Despite having slept all day, she felt quite tired after her unplanned excursion.
    “Of course,” Michael responded brightly, and he began walking, though not releasing her hand. “Your song-”
    Ariella, confused, tired, and a bit annoyed at this overly optimistic newcomer, wrenched her hand from his grip and walked swiftly past him, taking her place between the other two search party members who had come to find her.
    Michael held back a moment, then hurried after her. “That song you were singing, milady… if you don’t mind me asking, which was it? I have not heard it before. Is it a local tune?”
    “No,” Ariella replied curtly, not bothering to offer any form of explanation.
    After a long and awkward pause, he simply said “I see,” and slowed his pace, lagging behind to allow Ariella some time to herself to brood about having been found.
    Upon reaching the palace, Michael offered to accompany Ariella to see her father, who was undoubtedly very angry. After thinking it over for a moment, Ariella agreed, and Michael happily took her hand once again.
    Much to her surprise, Malcolm looked simply delighted when she and Michael entered his study hand-in-hand. “I see you two have met,” he said, and stood, making his way over to embrace his daughter. “Wonderful.”
    “Yes, we found her quite easily,” Michael said, his voice taking on a professional tone.
    Malcolm laughed heartily. “She sticks out that much in town, huh?”
    “No, actually, we found her in the middle of the lavender and sunflower field just north of here.” His eyes seemed to melt into pools of rich, dark amber. “She was singing what sounded like a most beautiful lullaby.”
    Malcolm’s head jerked up, and he stiffened. “What was it about?” he asked slowly.
    “The sun, and stars, and the wind, and autumn,” Michael replied fondly. He gave Ariella’s hand a gentle squeeze, and she blushed lightly and turned her face away, pretending to be studying a map that hung on the wall.
    “Eloise…” Malcolm whispered, so quietly that Ariella struggled to hear it. “Well, I suppose she’s been repeating the foolish things she’s heard in her past.”
    Sudden rage made Ari’s blood boil and her nostril’s flare. Michael cocked his head curiously, his eyes studying her face carefully.
    “Anyway, it’s quite late,” Malcolm’s voice turned cheerful again, and he glanced at his pocket watch. “Almost three in the morning. Michael, escort her to her room and keep watch over her as she sleeps.”
    Michael flushed a little, but nodded quickly and led Ariella from the room. Once outside, Ariella tore her hand from his again.
    “You keep doing that,” he observed, a look of frustration flickering over his face. “You’re going to hurt me, or worse, yourself.” Gently, he took her hand again as if he were handling a fine piece of porcelain. He studied her face, then after what felt like forever, sighed and released her. “So you truly don’t know me.”
    Ariella took a quick step away from him, alarmed by the crushing look of disappointment that he wore. “Should I?” Guilt washed over her, and she stepped toward him again, narrowing the short distance between them.
    Michael lifted his head and stared into her eyes. A weak smile played at his face, but the expression did not reach his eyes. He laughed quietly. “Probably.”
    “I’m sorry,” Ari said softly, before turning swiftly and starting up the stairs toward her room. When he began to follow her, she abruptly stopped. “You can retire for the moment, Mr. Printemps. I can make it to my room on my own.” She added a mischievous grin, and her emerald eyes flashed.
    Her smile was returned, and in a flash he was at her side again. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, milady. Masseur Feuille’s orders.”
    He held out his hand, palm up.
    With a defeated sigh, she placed her hand in his again and muttered “Damn,” before leading him up to her quarters. On the way, she took the opportunity to question the mysterious boy. “Why do you insist on constantly holding my hand?”
    Michael chuckled, and tightened his hold on her fingers. “It makes me feel more comfortable, knowing that you’re safe beside me. I do have a job to do, milady, despite what it may seem.” He smiled at her wickedly.
    “Just what are you implying?” Ari snapped, although she, too, squeezed tighter onto his hand.
    “Nothing, milady,” he said smugly, and opened the door of her room for her before following her inside. She glared at him before slipping into her walk-in-closet to change into a long, white silk nightgown. Suddenly, she did not want to go back into the main room. She waited, suddenly embarrassed, although she could think of no reason she should be. Apparently this boy, who had been here not even a day, was being assigned to be her personal bodyguard.
    She had never needed a guard before, not even when her father’s enemies were within the city. So why was this incompetent new guy pacing her bedroom? Ariella sank to the floor, drawing her knees up to under her chin and wrapping her arms around her legs. She was just wishing that Meka would come to rescue her, when she heard Michael knock at the door.
    “Milady? Your servant girl just came, saying that your father has decided she will not be coming to your room tonight, and that I am to take over her responsibilities.”
    Ariella quietly groaned and rose slowly, accepting her defeat. She stepped out of the closet, her gaze lowered in self-conscious discomfort. She could feel him looking at her, and abruptly she felt the urge to break the deafening silence that filled the room.
    “What?” she shouted at him, and crawled into her huge bed, yanking the blankets over herself. She almost smirked at the look of shock that was plastered on his face, and he was obviously blushing. “Make yourself useful,” she mumbled, “and light the fire already.”
    “Ah… yes!” he stammered, and hurried over to the fireplace. When he was finished, he hesitated before taking a seat on the edge of her bed. Ari was about to question what he was doing, but suddenly realized that Meka lay beside her every night as she slept.
    She shook her head violently, and he seemed to understand immediately. “I’ll just sit here and keep watch.” This simple statement made the guilt flood back into Ari’s mind.
    “You can, um, lie back if you want to. Just stay over there,” she commanded quickly. He just smiled and nodded.