Part One

Summer

Summer is time for discovery, for the freedom of youth. Bare feet, dance in shimmering creeks, children creep through towering reeds, and come home when the sky is dark—but the way is lit back with fireflies that fly like familiar friends. Summer is the time to celebrate and saturate the days with endless moments, that will be cemented in the scrap book of memories of life.

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Renata Penelope Briar: Age 14

Six.

Six days was the longest amount of time Renata had managed to remain out of trouble at OxynBrooke Academy this year.

She had not kept count— but it clear her father, Duke Dante of Alambra had. For this is exactly what he said to her, when she came back to House Briar for summer.

"Six days, Renata. Six," he repeated. "Do you understand this is behavior that is unbecoming of a lady? The future heir of House Briar? When you make enemies of the children at OxynBrooke, they will one day grow up into adults that will remember the iniquities inflicted upon them in their youth. You are far too young to begin burning bridges."

Renata settled further into the rigid armchair, she was sitting on. The stiff upholstery and uncomfortable back rest somehow felt more inviting than the chastisement from her father. How many times had he delivered this same message in a different package?

She did not understand why her father was so fixated on her social standing at OxynBrooke. She was a fine student— all of her professors said so, outstanding even—a natural alchemist who was truly her grandfather's granddaughter. The blood of the Briars ran strong in her.

"A good leader serves the people," pointed out Renata. "Why does it matter what the other students think of me?"

"Wrong. A good leader serves the community. That includes the Houses and townsfolk."

"Then perhaps when they grow up, my peers will be more worthy of serving."

"You do not get to decide that." Her father's voice was hard and firm. Wooly brown eyebrows might have tangled in knots if they were furrowed any further. "That is your problem Renata—you forget your obligations."

Renata did not think she was ready for these obligations. It did not matter whether she wanted them or not, of this much she was aware. Behind her father a oaken grandfather clock pressed against the wall caught her eye. She observed the wave of the pendulum, like a molten gold swinging for eternity. Then, her eyes fell upon the half-circle window that housed the clock itself.

If only, just only, a little more time, she thought longingly.

"God help me," her father muttered. He walked toward his desk and pulled a small, ornate box from a drawer. He lifted a pinchful of its contents to his nose, and inhaled deeply. Renata watched him disdainfully. Snuff.

"You are free to go," he said to her without so much as a final glance. "Your mother and I will discuss your punishments later."

Without another word, Renata left her father's study. The moment she was out, dread rushed in. Every discussion had and every decision made, shortened the timeline on her freedom. It would not be long before he began vetting for potential suitors.

"Duke Bridgehampton and his son are visiting tonight— a handsome young man, exceptionally bright as well. He would make a strong contender for a potential suitor. His family has ties in the herbal and drug industry— imagine the union between the two houses...,"

"Yes, OxynBrooke is a good three day journey from the manor— you will be spending your summers here, and the remainder of your year there . It will build character. You are going, and that is final...,"

"I urge you to not indulge in her childish fancies Helena. She is 14, not 4. You were not like this at her age..."

The admonishment was endless, each new criticism, springing forth from a bottomless well of disapproval. Everything she did was a problem in her father's eyes—if was not how she slouched into her chairs, it was the way her corsets were tied, or how she refused to smile when dukes and lords approached her with hungry, old eyes.

Renata trudged through the long stretch of hallway from her father's study. Several paintings were plastered against brown and gold damask patterned wallpaper. They were all pictures made by her mother of various people, places, and things. She stopped at one particular piece.

She had passed this piece many times before. It was one of her favorites. A young man with bright red hair, stared intensely at the viewer. He must have been no more than 16 or 17. The strength of his gaze revealed a subtle weakness behind eyes black like wet stone. They spoke: he was unhappy. Renata recognized the expression on her own face. She found eyes were much like walls. It was those who built their walls the strongest and highest that felt they had the most to hide behind them.

The image was so vivid— so lifelike Renata suspected, it must have been of an old friend or a past love.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Mama," she had once asked as a little girl. "Why is the boy in the painting so sad?"

Her mother smiled warmly. "The boy in what painting, my songbird?"

"The boy with the red hair. The one that looks like a prince. Why did you paint him so sad, Mama?"

"The red headed boy? You think he looks sad?" Renata remembered the look of surprise on her mother's face, as if, she had never considered the boy to be an unhappy one.

"He looks miserable, Mama. Did he lose something?"

"Lose something?" Renata could hear the discomfort in her mother's voice and the pain in her eyes and it made her wonder if she had asked a bad question. "I suppose you could say that. That he's lost something, important to him."

9 years later, and Renata had not yet decided what the boy had lost. But as she grew older, her theories developed alongside her. First it was his favorite toy, then it was an important book, and next his beloved pet. Eventually, Renata came to the conclusion that the thing he was looking for was not an object, and in fact he had lost something far more abstract, like hope or love.

"And here I thought you didn't like boys."

Renata had not noticed the long-legged, freckled face boy in a navy tweed jacket that had decided to make himself welcome in her space.

Renata scoffed. "And what does it matter to you?"

"You do not honestly fancy you could get a lad like that?"

Bran Caradoc was a skinny faced youth, with a hook nose, and a pointed chin. He looked like an unfortunate version of his more handsome father, Lord Caradoc, one of the wealthiest men in Culorn.

Renata had the misfortune of spending this summer at House Briar with him. His father would be on business trips for the whole of the season, and had sent him here to "learn some good old fashioned manners."

It was clearly not enough for Bran that she saw him at OxynBrooke where he was either skipping class or concocting mischief potions to drive administration and the student body mad. From replacing Professor Arlington's morning coffee with a baldness tincture, to releasing truth ants in the students' lounge and destroying a 10 year relationship, Bran's talents in magic were tragically diminished by his terrible uses for it.

Renata had already resolved to avoid him for the entirety of the summer. There were more than enough rooms to remain strangers for these next few months. She did not wish to be reminded of school in the worst way possible, by the worst person possible.

And naturally, it would start now: without a moment's warning, Renata took off in the direction opposite of which Bran was standing. She dashed blindly down the hall, the thud, thud, of her erratic footsteps echoing beneath her. If she had told Bran to go away, he would have only remained longer.

There came a sharp tug from the strap of her pinafore. She stopped immediately.

"Is there a fire in the house?"

Renata was face to face with a stone faced old woman. Her crooked back pushed against the fabric of her apron. Knobbed fingers flew sharply to Renata's ear and tugged it. She squirmed under the pain, but remain undeterred. Irksome old woman.

"I said— is there a fire in the house? You're too young to have me repeating myself."

"No, Morgana. Although— there is an intruder." Renata looked behind her. To her dismay Bran was no further than a handful of steps away. She pointed sharply in his direction.

"Oh Hush," Morgana sucked her teeth. "Greetings Young Master Caradoc."

"Master?"

"Didn't I tell you to hush girl?"

Had Morgana not been the one to wean her off her mother, teach her to walk, and washed her as a baby, she would have never interpreted Morgana's abrasion as a form of maternal discipline.

Bran acknowledged Morgana with a hrmphh. Haughty, grey eyes instantly fixed on Renata.

"Is this how you treat all your guests? I should have a word with your father about your abysmal home training."

"Just the ones I don't like."

Morgana sucked her teeth again. "Master Caradoc is welcome anywhere in this house you are, child. Have you forgotten it is your mother and father's manor to set the rules?"

Renata did not understand why Morgana was so eager to appease Bran. Since his time here, he had been nothing but dismissive, rude, and gave all the house staff a hard time, particularly the serving girls, whom he would shout inappropriate things to. Caradoc or not why was this behavior tolerated, whilst hers heavily admonished? Even Mother had warned her to be on her best behavior. She knew their complicity was a strategy to curry favor with the Duke, but it was clearly complicity that had allowed Bran to develop into the bully he was.

"Renata," Morgana suggested, "Why don't you show Master Caradoc the Rosewoods? The Red Bloom has passed, but now the wildlife has fully embraced the warmer weather. Of course, the pesky ravens, are here year round—but the monarchs are enjoying the aftermaths of the flowers that—,"

"What does the Briar backyard compare to the Caradoc Reserve?" Bran interjected. "Father has had animals shipped from across all around the world to live with us. I do not see the point in bird watching common sparrows and street pigeons." Bran was referring to Lord Caradoc's hobby of collecting and keeping exotic animals in enclosures all across the Caradoc Estate. "Have you ever seen a monkey, Renata?"

"No." She replied, Although what she really wanted to say, was I have now, but her ear was still smarting. "In fact— I do not believe anything here at House Briar will be up to standard, for what you are use to at the Caradoc Manor. You should resign to that reality by remaining in your room for the remainder of your summer here."

Bran's thin lips curled into sneer. Renata fought every fiber within her body to suppress physical revulsion in the form of a shiver or a harsh word. She had made a grave mistake:

Never tell Bran Caradoc what to do.

"On second thought— I don't think I've seen a crow in ages. The last time, I can recall must have been when I passed by the rookeries of the West Side."

The West Side, known as Stagton's Slum, was the poorest part of town, where it was decided all the destitute, misfortunate misfits would be sequestered to and forgotten. Renata had never been but in passing, and always in carriage or motor car. She had always felt there seemed to exist an invisible border between West Side and the rest of Stagton. There hovels narrower than they were taller were pressed together like crowded teeth, in a mouth that was far too small, and shingles were reattached and then again, to sloping, collapsing roofs. Morgana, her mother's personal maid was from The West Side. She rarely ever discussed her life before working at House Briar, and grew visibly distraught from any mention of the place. It was clear— coming to House Briar had been less about being a maid, and more about running away from what she had encountered or experienced whilst living in Stagton's Slums.

A silence filled the air, marked by a palpable discomfort from Morgana. As she cleared her throat, and excused herself, Renata hoped Bran was aware enough to realize he had said something inappropriate and express even a modicum of shame. She desperately needed a reason to momentarily soften her increasing disdain for him, for anger danced in her throat like a ball of fire that threatened to make Bran it's target.

"Ravens," Renata replied tartly. "There are Ravens in the Rosewoods— not crows."

"Please—Don't be daft. Who made you the bird expert? The only difference you could tell me about them are their names."

Renata sighed. It was clear, that Bran had won this battle.

But she had decided: he would certainly not win the war.