The flowerbed that radiated in Vora's small, square backyard thrived from her hard work. At the age of thirteen, she had quite a green thumb. Without her grand skills, her backyard would have been indistinguishable from her neighbors’. And her neighbors’ neighbors. And so on down the line of the dozens of houses.

That adorable girl, partially shadowed by a walnut tree, had full violet hair, chocolate brown eyes, flawless peach skin, and wide pink lips covering perfect chompers.

Vora Snihde lived in O'Landra, the capital of the country of Ruth. Her world consisted of cobblestone roads, analog electronics, brick buildings up to five floors, and simplistic motor transportation. Brass was the primary metal used in nearly everything. Bells were everywhere in the country to reflect the Burning Bell and were used in ceremonies, prayers, and events.

Vora paused and looked up to the blue above. Way up there passed the cloud line, was the Burning Bell. It was the size of a grand mountain but hid behind Vora’s fist when she pumped it skyward. No matter how bright the sun was, the forever-ignited, ball-ended clapper could be seen like a beacon in the sky. Attached to the top of the Burning Bell were its massive chains that spread across the country. They would appear gigantic if Vora lived closer to the border.

The Bell rang at noon daily and during special holidays like New Year's and Ember Days. Its charming sound could be heard anywhere in the country. When it did ring, it dispelled any nearby clouds for a few minutes, sometimes giving O'Landra a break from heavy rain.

Vora returned her attention to the butterflies that gathered around her flowers. She snatched the ones that had died naturally and pulled their wings off. She coveted the beauty of butterflies as they were her favorite creatures.

After gathering a satisfactory group of wings in her shoulder bag, she slung it around its namesake and gracefully ran to her house’s backdoor. Ungracefully, she opened the door too wide and fast. It slammed against the brass railing with a bang. She cringed at the sound and prayed her mother didn’t hear it. Vora was flawless, being contradicted by her deadly clumsiness.

Vora peeked into the kitchen while going to the staircase that led up to her room on the second floor. Her mother pulled pots and pans from the upper cabinets. Vora believed she was free from “a talking to” but was stricken wrong when she heard that tone.

“Vora, did you slam the door again?” her mother asked without even looking at her daughter’s direction.

“No, Mother. It was the wind,” Vora answered in her naturally posh voice. She firmly stood her ground and threw a few eye bats.

Madeline Snihde was a woman with black, shining hair and fair skin. She was tall and slender. She was among the few to see through Vora’s manipulation and lies. A skill from experience, she’d say.

Madeline reached for a knife with her thin fingers. “If you say so. If you’re lying, we’ll have you for dinner instead.” She smiled, “You wouldn’t taste very good. Go on, smashy.”

“Naturally,” Vora smirked. Halfway up the stairs, a sharp pain slid across her finger. A few moments later, it was gone. At the same time, she heard a muffled “Dammit” from the kitchen.

Vora didn’t need to hear her mother’s outcry to figure she had cut her finger. The young girl had a gift, a wholly useless and burdening gift. She could share others’ pain. It was still unpleasant despite not receiving the same physical damage as someone else.

This “gift” started when she was born. Around age five, she had a surge of pain in her chest. After she collapsed onto the floor, Madeline drove her to the hospital. But nothing was physically wrong with the girl. Later, Vora learned that one of her neighbors had had a heart attack. The frequency of these shared experiences grew as she aged. She’d tried to explain it to her parents but gave up after their repeated failure to understand.

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To prevent herself from going insane, she chipped off a bit of her soul, pushed it away, and let that absorb most of the growing torture. Vora herself still uncontrollably copied a lot, but not nearly as devastating as it would be.

The violet-haired lass internally sighed and burst through the door to her room. A glass case immediately to her left contained her collection of butterfly wings and jewelry made from them. A hearty amount of light touched her bed of crimson, brass, and down. Her dresses were well organized in her currently open closet. Vora had dolls propped on a shelf and made their dazzling clothing herself. Her crystal hair clips and barrettes sparkled on a corner desk with the oval vanity mirror.

A brass bell, a gift from the Maiden herself, sat on the windowsill. It contained the energy from the Burning Bell and healed minor cuts and scrapes seconds if she rang it over them.

After adding the recent wings to her collection, Vora plopped herself stomach-first onto her bed. She lazily reached up to her headboard, where some knickknacks accompanied her radio. With a twist of the dial, the needle moved to the numbers she preferred. Vora loved strings, especially the violin, but her friend Maive got her into jazz lately.

A man’s voice interrupted the music. “Here are the people who will be saved and ascend to heaven next month….”

Vora turned up her radio. Imagine giving your soul up to the Burning Bell. There’s no grander way to finish a basic life.

She popped the switch of her radio, causing its numbered face to change from a soft yellow glow to a dull gray. She closed her chocolate-brown eyes and was taken away by her imagination for half an hour before the thud from downstairs popped her bubble. Her father was home. Vora descended the staircase and peeked into the living room.

Her father, Rudolf Snihde, was a normal-sized man but a bit shorter than Madeline. He had blonde, greased-back locks and golden facial hair. Rudolf was twenty years older than his wife, common and accepted in Ruth. He worked at the newspaper as an inker, which Vora was told was important, but her mother complained that Rudolf deserved a higher position.

Vora’s father comfortably sat on the green living room armchair, watching football on the MP (short for moving picture box) while pushing around the vase on the table before him with his socked toes.

Rudolf retracted his leg and straightened up when Vora entered the living room. “How’s the garden going?” he asked, diverging from his casualness.

“Splendid,” Vora replied, sitting on the couch. “The fertilizer Darcie gave me works wonders.”

“The Krows are the best.” Rudolf drew his oak pipe from his inner coat pocket and lit it.

“Not in the living room,” said the better-half behind the wall.

Rudolf immediately snuffed his pipe and returned it to his coat, which he hung up after.

“A boy I’m friends with is grand at football,” Vora stated, referring to the MP. “I don’t find kicking a black and white ball amusing.”

“Boy, you said?” Rudolf’s wide eyes aimed to swallow Vora. “Who is this boy?”

Vora panicked, but Madeline called for the two to know that lunch was ready and experienced relief in escape. She didn’t want her father asking to meet him or whatever else embarrassing fathers did.

“You look exhausted.” Madeline sat and scanned her husband. “And it was only a partial day.”

“Dealing with those beneath me drains my energy.” He absorbed a spoonful of rice somewhere in his beard. “Did you find time to get the HC checked?”

“The man told me just to get a new horseless carriage.” Madeline responded to Rudolf's scowl, saying, “I knew you’d be disappointed. Sorry, Rudy.”

“We could get a new one with a radio, backseat heat, and other things everyone else has had for centuries,” Vora suggested. “I could tell Maive to get you a deal.”

“I’m not replacing my baby with a harlot. Someone can fix her up,” he hoped. “Maybe I should ask Nigel for help.”

“Has he ever touched a vehicle before?” Madeline joked. “He’s always cane-ing around.”

Vora finished her lunch, threw the plates in the sink, and put her shoes on at the front door. Her destination was the candy store.

“Where is she going?” Rudolf asked his wife, baffled.

“Usual.” After the front door closed, she muttered, “For a girl that doesn’t eat much candy, she goes through a lot.”