Violet Shadows

4

The carriage they picked her up in was red. As red as her hair. Roma's hair. It was only as much the description of her Christine could remember, now that she had hair and all. And a new body, that too.

Though she lacked underwear. Something that she tried not to think of. Much. Which is why she was droning over her head in silence. However, she'd have to save her gawking for later because the clump of her newly-found hair was tightly fastened to her head like a crown. She hadn't even felt the difference, much noticed it was there at all. If only a strand has loosened, perhaps a wisp, then maybe she'd have gotten her bearing before running off like a madman practically bared.

Rationally, Christine knew Roma was but a character written in a book. That the stories and people of books weren't real, no matter how much one dreamed. But the entire existence of where she was, the body she woke up in, and everyone around her, seemed paradoxical. Laughable, in fact.

She could not recognize who found her by the broken fountain, but one word of 'Lady Ducal' and a carriage with the Ducal emblem—now that she recognized the two black horns as the Ducal emblem, practically the same one shown on What Wish So Haunted's pastedown she understood their intentions to bring her back. No, it was to bring Roma back to House Ducal. Christine found it difficult to thread the implications of that new discovery. That she was but a girl occupying the body of another.

She stole a glance through the carriage, unfamiliar spires and domes trekking by. It bore no further resemblance to anything she knew. A part of her was still unconvinced that this was Valltore. The same Valltore that she read about, knew that wasn't real. It couldn't be real. She didn't know if that made her foolish or insane: to see something right in front of your eyes and deny that it was there. Simply put, it was crazy. She felt crazy. Perhaps she was becoming it.

House Ducal was far more elegant for a hoard of villains that she thought it to be. She was doing her best to connect what she knew—parts of the book that would help in moderation. To her, House Ducal seemed like a palace.

It was as divine as young girls would dream: fountains that sprayed out waters like silk, airy meadows and warm canopies in lush reds, unlit towers that reminded her of tales where princesses would be locked away. The refined taste didn't make sense in these circumstances—House Ducal was a place that valued power, not appearance—but she was unmoved to look away. Christine swallowed. If she was marveling like this, then the actual palace must have been far lovelier. And far more cruel.

The coachmen drew open her door, extending a hand. She stared at him for a moment then remembered to get her bearings. He was helping her get off. Because he was a coachman, and Roma was a lady, and that's what they did. Awkwardly, she let him.

Though alien to having such servants, she'd have to learn. The coachmen led her through the wide doors crafted of opium wood to a large threshold where antique floorings stretched along stairwells and ebony chandeliers hung like glittering onyxes with quiet flame.

Christine turned to find a flurry of maids, some she recognized from this afternoon, others no, came at her at once.

"My lady, you've come back!" One cried.

"Oh, my lady, your gown!" One maid threw her hands to her face, her eyes twisted in horror. "It is entirely ruined."

Another one fell to her knees. "The mesh is sodded with dirt, and the—"

"What will we do about tonight, you must certainly not—"

"Did anything displease you from—"

    Christine swallowed nervously. She wasn't used to this sort of attention, the prodding and poking, it was embarrassing. She tried to think of a way to calm them as they continued to ramble on.