SHACKLES

CHAPTER ONE

I can yet recall, with remarkable clarity, how often I refused to sleep in my own chamber as a child, ever insistent upon Mama's presence beside me,her lullabies a balm to my restless heart, her warmth a comfort unmatched. I was, by all accounts, a wilful and spirited little thing, full of mischief and mirth. When I laughed, it was said by many that the very sound of it was contagious; so peculiar and bright was my joy, it summoned laughter from even the sternest lips. There was an occasion, long ago, when my childish curiosity was wholly ensnared by the flickering flame of a candle left burning in the parlour. I approached it with such fascination that I very nearly brought ruin upon the entire household. Papa’s countenance, upon discovering the near calamity, was a portrait worthy of oil and canvas, eyes wide, voice thundering. Yet I, foolish and fearless, met his rebuke not with tears, but with awe. “It is beautiful,” I said, “May I have it?” And I gazed at him with all the solemn longing my young heart could muster. Papa, ever the man of reason, declared gravely, “That is fire, my child, it can wound and destroy.” But I would not believe him. My wonder would not be tamed. In his exasperation, he summoned Mama, as only she could quell the storm I had stirred.

That night, fearful I might once more seek the candle’s flame, Mama told me a story, one born of ancient myth. It was the tale of Prometheus, the Titan who, out of compassion for mortals, dared to steal fire from the heavens. For his defiance, he was cruelly punished, chained to a rock where an eagle fed upon his liver each day. Yet I, in my childish mind, saw not the punishment, but the glory of the flame, its gift to mankind, its defiance, its beauty. There are memories, too, of tranquil walks with Mama and Papa through the garden, where the roses clung to the wrought-iron trellises like secrets waiting to be told. I would grasp their hands and dream aloud of growing older,of sitting at the grand dining table as they did, my feet no longer swinging beneath the chair, but planted firmly, like theirs, in the world of grown things. Oh, how eager I was to become something more than small, to be seen, to be heard, to be near the fire without