Living in royalty can't be so bad, right? But... what if you're not technically royal?
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In late eighteenth century Europe, nestled in eastern France, is a peaceful kingdom called Totresia. A carriage wreck disturbs that peace when found by Totr...
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Rainfall wasn't uncommon in Torrinni, especially in the colder months. But the winter of seventeen-ninety-seven left the city drenched, the streets slick, the vendors fearing to open their stands as their light canopy stalls weren't geared for such weather. Travel was treacherous, the Carriage Shops overflowed with customers seeking to repair their coaches or buy newer, better equipped ones. Beggars sloshed about the squares yearning for shelter, and peasants haggled for buckets to set under their leaking roofs.
Mary pitied them all, because once, she had been in a similar predicament. Until the fateful day a member of the royal family rescued her.
Others would never be so lucky.
Working for the Dowager Queen of Totresia had its perks. The trips into Torrinni to venture down its secret alleys and visit its places of low-repute; places no oneof value ventured. Or access to high-end vehicles to sneak out of town in haste. Not to forget the wax seal that, when seen on letters Mary delivered, opened anydoor, no matter how guarded and perilous.
Mary couldn't remember how long ago Dowager Clémentine plucked her from her job at the brothel—that royals wouldn't acknowledge the existence of—nestled in the eastern side of Torrinni. But she was ever grateful for it. To prove herself, she performed all tasks without hesitation. Despite the noble blood in her veins, she had no choice. Because hernoble blood was tainted.
A bastard child.
Daughter of a slave from the far south and a traveling aristocrat from England, all shunned her for most of her childhood and teenage years. Dark skin, dark tidings, they'd say, refusing to speak to her.
When she stumbled into Torrinni, approaching adulthood, she garnered interest from the citizens—menin particular.
"Your hair... so plump, so frilly, so exotic."
"Those eyes, those eyes! How are they so bright when your body is so obscure?"
"Exquisite, you are marvelous. Where do you work, sweetling? I yearn to pay you a visit."
Offended as she might have been by their comments, she permitted them. Who was she to fight, to deny their claims? A frail figure in heaps of donated blankets and torn rags, she roamed the frozen paths at night desperate for comfort and begged the merchants for a scrap of bread during the day.
She was no one.
Frost blanketed the Torrinni streets, snow threatened to plummet the rooftops, and the marketplace was silent as ever. Young Mary, as usual, dared to dream of a hot hearth, of a steaming bowl of broth, of a cup of toasted honey and milk—the only thoughts keeping her sane. She'd been privy to such luxuries before her father shipped her to Europe; but then again, where she grew up, temperatures never fell so low.
