1705. Luck had never been on Eleanora Finley's side. After her father died in a tragic fire, she was left at the mercy of her domineering and abusive mother, being deprived of all love and affection.
Truly, who would have thought that the simple red...
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1711, Opera d'Ghislaine, Kestramore City
He was staring at her, and she knew that. Her mouth felt dry, and she had no courage to utter a single word. Her fingers were tangled in the hem of her dress; she had a small scrap of fabric tucked away under her thumb and she couldn’t bring herself to let go of it as he held her gaze for what seemed like hours. A slight crease formed between his eyebrows as though he were trying to decipher something, but soon faded once more.
"Good evening, Miss Finley," he said in a lowered voice.
Her heart skipped a beat when she heard him speak her name, and it felt as though the blood ran cold in her veins. His eyes were dark and full of intensity, and she found that she could not look away. Her lips parted in an attempt to find words, any words at all.
"Good evening, Your Grace," she said to the Grand Duke, earnestly hoping that he would not say anything apart from these words of courtesy.
But then he spoke again, just above a whisper, "Did you get hurt?" he asked. Eleanora blinked in both surprise and confusion.
"No, not at all, Your Grace."
The answer came almost immediately. "If so, what are you hiding behind your hair?"
"Your Grace, I assure you that I am not hurt. This is no bruise, only smudged kohl."
She tried desperately hard not to giggle when she saw the way he looked at her face now. His expression told her everything. She thought he might actually have been flustered for a moment, before his features settled back into his customary calm mask.
Then, the red curtains of the stage were pulled back, and no more words were said. That night, Opera d'Ghislaine was playing 'The Flames of Lady Moirai', one of the most famous plays in the entire continent. Almost everyone in the capital knew about this particular play, but Eleanora was no capital-bred lady.
And so, all she could do was watch in bewilderment as a majestic, dark-haired lady in a white silken robe ascended the stage, her long fingers clasped around a sceptre of wood.
Her dark locks cascaded down to her ankles, falling over the soft material of her white robe. Her beauty, though haunting, was at the same time, enchanting. The way she held herself was graceful. She walked with a grace that reminded Eleanora of something ancient and timeless. A goddess. And when her lips parted, her low yet sweet voice filled her vast opera hall.
"I have become an animal in a cage, a show for you to witness."
"For a single coin, I shall dance, and I shall sing."
"O, for a single coin, I will do whatever your hearts desire."
She pummelled the lower end of the wooden sceptre to the floor, and a vivid, lifelike flame erupted from the top.
