She clenched her hands around the bat and dug in her cleats. Her white silk dress billowed, revealing sparsely torn jeans rolled to her knees. Staring down the musclebound red-shirted pitcher with a smug grin, she pointed at her tiara with her bat. The ball came in like lightning, but she didn’t care, she knew where it was headed. Split seconds were nothing before her instinct. The ball came in, and with a calm fury, she swung.

“Strike!” Sweat beaded down her face as the laughter swelled.

“Come on, Lady Farland!” said the shortstop. “Try to aim in the same country, at least.”

“You want to switch, Lady?” came a gravelly voice from the queue. “No one will say anything, not to your face at least.”

“I heff one chickens riding on your team, my Lady Farland,” said bush-eyed Farmer Sten in the stand. “I need chickens, for the eggs and all of the other things chickens have.”

She reared and roared. “Would you all shut up? I’ve got two more chances!” Her freckles were hidden by the deep crimson on her cheeks. Whipping her head back around, her taupe pigtail braid smacked her snarled lips.

Roma Farland missed the next swing, and laughter swelled again. The farmer’s head dipped. Roma called for a time out with one hand, burying her sun-hot face in the other.

Come on, Roma, she thought. Go all out, or not at all. All out! I’m not Uncle Genny, I’m not going to measure my swings with a damn ruler. Instinct. If I don’t nail it, that just means I wasn’t good enough. Aim for the mountain to hit the sun! Then she thought of Carreia.

When the next swing came in, she sunk the ball between third and base, and jaunted her way to first. A respectable, logical maneuver. Farmer Sten nodded.

You’ll keep your chicken, you dumb farmer. Asshole. She spit on the base.

Next up was Grady, also known as Mount Muscle, from the way his arms seemed chiseled from granite, his eyes pure slate. Standing at the plate, he stood still as a priest’s faith; if a car crashed into him, the driver would be the one broken by steel. Wind died. The pitch. The swing.

A sink between third and base, and a jaunt to first. A respectable, logical maneuver. Farmer Sten nodded and hummed. Roma kicked dirt on the second baseman.

Snell stood over the homeplate next, hunched over with a rat’s smile. All the energy from both the Reds in the field and the Whites in the dugout fizzled. Sixteen-year old Renton, whose jumpiness earned comparisons to hares, leaned back in the bench like wet paper. The pitcher, eyes half open, lobbed the ball. Snell bunted, as expected, and scurried to first, giggling with his nose. No one made a move for the ball. Roma and Grady slumped to their next bases.

Life returned to Roma and everyone else. She overlooked the bases, loaded. Her eyes were a hawk’s on home. Who’s after Snell again? When she saw the young man slinking, dragging the bat, she went from a hawk to a viper. The field was a comedy club, dugout was a coffin.

Marich, the leaf in the wind, had one hour ago struck out on purpose. The pitcher made it look convincing, but Marich was too soft, too guilty of every breath he took to hold it in, and told her and rest of the Whites. They wanted him out, they could grab someone better off the street, someone more loyal from Bloodshot Crease. Roma had taken him by the shoulder, forcing his quaking eyes to hers. “I will give you one more chance,” she’d said, to jeers from the Whites.

And so he stood, bat upright, arms somehow both stiff and crumbling. Roma could see the pitcher's poison smirk from the side. She eyed the cheap chalk scoreboard waving in the wind, eight red lines and six white, ninth inning. The pitcher let loose a standard fastball. Marich let loose a standard swing. The two did not connect, and the Whites screamed again. Marich started crying.

Should she have kicked him out? Should she have put in a better offer than the Reds? No, none of that was her way. She would believe in him, believe in his loyalty to Carreia over some sleazy money. And she would let him know it.

"Marich!" she screamed. All eyes were on her, especially Marich's, shocked still from their quaking. "You can do the right thing, I believe in you!" She stood with complete confidence, from her planted legs to her hands on her hips to her cocky smile and piercing eyes.

Letting loose a deep breath, Marich smiled and got into position. His posture made him seem twice the size, the bat almost seemed a part of him, and he looked forward without a flinch. Roma could see the lion in him, the beast ready to tear flesh, and exhaled smugly through her nose.

Yet, the pitcher still smirked. He made some foreign gesture with his left hand. Whatever it meant caused Marich's shine to fade, the lion he was had become a fawn, his bat threatened to fall off and take his arms with it. The pitcher pitched, the swinger swung, the catcher caught, then once more, and the game was done.

Afterwards, everyone went off, except Roma, who stood at the plate. Most of the Whites split without saying anything; Grady put a silent hand on Roma's shoulder for a moment before leaving. Farmer Sten kicked a pebble and shuffled away. Reds were full of chatter and handshakes and hugs. Marich was speaking to one of them, head down. The Red produced a brown envelope and placed it in Marich's limp hands. Though his eyes looked ashamed, his smile was one of relief.

"Everyone has their own reasons, Lady Farland," said a maid with jet black bob cut and dark teal peacoat as she walked up to Roma.

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"There's no good way to justify what he did, Marlene. I won't accept any excuse, and I don't want to see him again." She had a face like she'd drank spoiled milk. "Think about who's really getting hurt here. Not him, not me, it's Carr--"

"Oh I cannot wait to see my darling Princess Carreia!" One of the Reds waltzed up to Roma, whistling on his curly bangs. "She does so love a man who can lead."

"She also loves a man who can put his money where his mouth is," said Roma, sneering. "I didn't see you out there, Duke Dipshit."

"Ah, insults from the loser, like fresh fertilizer. We shall see if you are still saying that when I am King Oliver Deepseat. Does it not speak to my resourcefulness and cleverness, my... particular funding of key assets? The fact is that I won, and am now one inch closer to Carreia's heart." He ran his hands over his chest and exaggerated a breath.

"Inches mean nothing when you're miles away." Roma pivoted and stalked off, her maid following. Oliver did not move, but simply got on his knees and moaned softly, whispering Carreia, Carreia.

Awaiting them in front of the car was a scruffy young man in a teal blazer who looked half asleep, the only indication of his consciousness was the tight salute he stood with.

"Welcome back, Lady Farland," he said with a drawl. "How'd it go?"

"You really need to ask, Billy?"

"Huh," he said, pausing as if winding up the gears in his head. "I guess not. You don't look so good. Do you want to stop and get ice cream?"

She spit on the ground.

"Huh, okay." He opened the rear door behind him. "The Fancy Fist is cranked and primed. To the manor," he said as he lumbered over to the driver's side door. Roma balled her dress in front of her with one hand as she got in, while Marlene lifted her skirt just enough to step in, closing the door behind them. Billy made one last crank to start the ignition before getting in, then drove onto the freshly paved road, lined on both sides by persimmon trees whose leaves had half turned red.

"I'd like to remind you, Lady Farland," said Marlene, looking out her window, "that Lord Deepseat is not a Duke, and that any attempt to demean him with alliteration is canceled out by implying his dukehood."

"Yeah, yeah..." Roma was sulking at her own window, ankles crossed and chin on palm.

"I would also like to inform you that regardless of the results of your game, there is a less than one percent chance that Lord Deepseat will win Princess Carreia's affections. She is not prone to such... questionable tastes."

"I know that, better than anyone probably but... one percent isn't zero. He challenged me right in front of her. If I refused, it would make me look like I wasn't confident, which would make him look a little better. Then when the scales come out, his chip might be the one that sinks it." She tried to focus on the persimmons, leaves even redder from the dimming sunlight, something more frivolous in her mind.

"You should trust more in the Princess's judgment. She has plenty of time to choose who she will wed."

Roma turned to Marlene with icy eyes. "And all of her choices are shit! Buckstead is a fat lazy turd who spends every day in a hammock, even in winter. Rosebud is bankrupting his house, one of the richest in the country, by gambling for no reason. Nonaveer's a dumbass in general. I could go on!"

"And yet, it is fortuitous that she has a choice at all. There is both uncertainty and excitement in the air, even if her marriage pool is limited to the nobility. I am sure she is thankful, as you should be for her. If she had been born one generation earlier, she would have been wed by now."

"If she'd been born a generation ago I wouldn't be worrying. There were good men back then, like my dad and uncle. King Ramos knows how thin the pickings are, that's the real reason he's letting Carreia pick her poison. Damn it, couldn't she at least be able to marry someone rich? There's some decent rich guys out there, probably."

"Roma," said Marlene, turning to face her, a tinge of pity slipping through her mask of neutrality, "she is an adult now, as are you. You can't protect her forever."

"Watch me." Roma snapped back to her window. Marlene sighed.

The ride to the manor was mostly silent after that, though Billy did manage to let Roma know that cars were much more dangerous than carriages, and if he had a heart attack the car would likely hit another car or a pedestrian or a building, potentially killing them all. She made a mental note to take him off driving duty.

Arriving at the manor, the car stopped in front of a large gate, sandwiched by tall bushes and oak trees meant to conceal the house itself. Two housemen confirmed the car's occupants then opened the gate. Roma looked at the mustang symbol on it as they rolled by. She wasn't fond of how her family crest was a horse yet they were one of the first High Houses to abandon carriages in favor of automobiles, but she had no say in the matter; her father wanted something to set the Farlands apart from the other houses. She was allowed to keep one horse, her beloved clydesdale Muffler, but the rest were sold off a few years ago. Maybe she would go for a ride today, refresh her spirit.

A bit lost in thought, she hardly noticed when they got to the oak door of her house. The manor wasn't quite the size of a castle but close enough, its body a lightesh gray granite with a dark teal wooden roof. Housemen moved to open the car doors but Roma beat them to the punch, hopping down to the ground from nearly a foot before they could even get the stool ready. They sighed in resignation as she stalked through the manor doors that the other housemen barely managed to open in time.

"Welcome back, Lady Farland," said three bowing maids in the center of the lobby, standing on the gray circular rug on top of the polished oak floor and in front of the twin circular staircase, two hallways on either side of them. The two on the sides seemed to be holding back how out of breath they were, but the one in the center, bright blond curled plait, looked like she'd been there all day waiting. And though her posture was proper, her chipper expression contrasted and made Roma think of a dog waiting to play fetch. Her mood lightened a bit at the sight.

"Hi Yvette. Chelsea, Grenella, you two can go back to your duties." The two on the sides bowed again and left to their respective halls. "Yvette, to my room please."

"Of course, Lady..." she waited until the footsteps of Chelsea and Grenella were gone, "Romaroma," and winked. Roma rolled her eyes and smiled, following Yvette up the stairs and down the chandelier'd hall.

Roma opened her own door, holding it open a bit for Yvette behind her. She plopped down on her fluffy blue bed backfirst, breathing out as if deflating. Yvette did the same but on the floor, wincing a bit as her head bumped plywood.

"So?" asked Yvette, eyes closed. "What went wrong?"

"You can tell, huh?"

"Easily. You aren't as cute as when you left." Roma giggled. She didn't often find herself in such a sour mood, but her favorite maid was always there to freshen her up again.

Withholding some mundane details, Roma filled her in on the events of the day, the two of them laying down with their hands behind their heads like they were sunbathing. Yvette listened without interjection, only letting out shocked or angered words and sounds at the right moments, like "no way" or a light gasp. Roma felt her stress leaving her body and mind, as if her maid were taking it all in as a surrogate.

Yvette sat up when the tale was done. "Wow, what a jerk."

"Which one?" said Roma, smiling.

"Oh dear, do I have to choose?" The two giggled. "Lord Deepseat's the worst though. Just because he's got the looks doesn't mean he has to act like that. Rubbing his chest like that, is he trying to make himself even sexier?"

"I'll be sure to tell him you said that next time I see him," said Roma, getting only a gagging noise in response. She rolled on her side, facing her pillows and stuffed horse doll. "Marich's the one that got me the most though," she said, voice practically a whisper.

"Yeah," said Yvette, finally standing and stretching. "Doesn't matter what that money's for. You stick with your friends."

"Yeah..." Roma imagined Marich at home with his money. Was he off to the Mercedes Bazaar to buy a watch he really wanted? Taking some girl on a date at Stonesky Lake? Or using it for hospitalization costs for a parent or sibling? She shook her head empty. "Doesn't matter. No justification."

"Want some raspberry lemonade?"

"No, thank you. I think I'm just gonna turn in a little early." She'd changed her mind about riding Muffler tonight, better just to sleep on the day's events and refresh in the morning.

"Gotcha Lady. I'll head out and help Mean Marlene then. I'll make her the lemonade instead, or maybe limoncello, loosen her up a bit." Roma managed a tired snicker. "Have a pleasant rest then, Romaroma. Knock thrice if you need me," said Yvette, grinning and wriggling her fingers in a pseudo-handwave as she slid out the room, closing the door behind her.

All Roma did to prepare for sleep was remove her cleats, shoving one off with the opposite foot then the other. She didn't bother repositioning herself, just lay perpendicular on the bed, dress clumping beneath her, tiara digging into the side of her head.