Lament for My First Life

Chapter 1 In the kingdom of Velrithia, the markets were loud and bright. Carriages rolled. Bells rang. The sky was blue from edge to edge, and birds sang from the roofs. Trade was strong. People laughed easily. All was well, except inside one house. Inside that house, a girl sat in a small, dusty room that once held brooms and old trunks. Long, white hair fell over her shoulders like silk. Her eyes were blue, deep and clear. Her skin was pale as porcelain. She sat on a stool by a narrow window and watched the sunlight slide across the floor. This girl was named Xylenne. The mansion around her was grand. The hallways were lined with paintings and mirrors. Crystal lights hung from the ceilings. Servants came and went in neat lines, like threads pulled through fabric. But the room where Xylenne lived was not grand. It was a space shaped by neglect: rough walls, a thin blanket on a cot, a little shelf with a chipped basin, and a single cracked mirror. Dust made a pale haze in the light. From her window she could see the gardens below. Roses grew in careful arcs, like notes on a staff. Stone paths cut through beds of herbs and neatly trimmed hedges. The fountain sang. Sometimes a butterfly drifted up to her window and tapped the glass with its wings before pulling away. She rarely went down to those gardens. She was only called there to work. Even though the house had many servants, her stepmother said it was "good for her to be useful." If she tended the soil, no one would have to see her. White hair, they said, was tasteless. White hair, they said, was a bad omen. It was rare in Velrithia. Rare enough to be worth a whisper. Rare enough to be mocked. So Xylenne stayed upstairs, hidden in plain sight, like a picture turned to face the wall. She pressed her forehead to the cold window frame and traced a line of sun with her finger. She liked to follow the beam as it moved. In the morning it cut the room in half. By noon it rested on the far wall. If she was lucky, it touched her hands. That was her only light. It came at the perfect angle for only a while. When the sun shifted, her room fell back into dimness. "Get the hell out of your room! You have things to attend to!" a voice shouted from outside. Xylenne flinched. The voice belonged to Lady Varra, her stepmother. The words banged against the door like fists. "The pillows aren't fluffed enough!" "Y-yeah," Xylenne called, standing so fast her stool scraped the floor. She brushed dust from the front of her apron. "I'm sorry. I'll get to it." It was always like this. Clean the guest rooms. Carry the trays. Mend the napkins. If a servant was busy, she was told to do their part too. "Family should learn to work," her stepmother would say, smiling at visitors. But she never said that Xylenne was also family by blood. That part was kept quiet, as if it were a shameful fact. Xylenne paused for a heartbeat, her hand on the doorknob. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror. White hair glowed around her face. A thin girl stared back. Nineteen years old. She did not look nineteen. She looked like a ghost that had forgotten how to haunt. Her dress was gray with wear. The sleeves were frayed. A stitch came loose near the hem. She would fix it later with her tiny sewing kit. She had learned to mend quietly and quickly. It was hard to remember how things had turned out this way. But then again, it wasn't. When she was seven, her parents died. They were traveling back to the capital from a country estate. The mountain road was narrow and twisted. A wheel broke. The carriage fell. People spoke of the sharp ravine and the shattered wood. They spoke of how fast it happened. They spoke of the quiet after. After that day, Xylenne came to live with her father's relatives in the capital. The mansion was large. It had more windows than she could count. But no window belonged to her, not at first. She was given a bed in a storage room and told it was "only for a while." "Only a while" stretched into years. Her stepmother, Lady Varra, had eyes that were always measuring. She wore fine gowns and a stiff, gentle smile in public. In private, she used her voice like a knife. "Stand up straight," she would say. "Speak less." "Don't be seen." "Fix your hair." "No, not like that." "Do it again." Each word was a tug at a thread. After a while, Xylenne felt as if she were unraveling. Her stepsister, Marinel, was sixteen now. Sweet-faced. Dark-haired. Her laughter floated down stairwells like music. Servants brought her pastries and satin shoes. Tutors came every afternoon to teach her languages, dance, and the rules of the court. By the end of the year, a suitor would come to ask for her hand. Not just any suitor—a duke. The house was already buzzing with plans. Fabrics were unfolded. Menus were discussed. Gifts were whispered about. "A tiara," someone said. "Perhaps pearls." Marinel would press her hands to her cheeks and glow. Xylenne had never had a tutor. She read when she could borrow a book from the kitchen maid's nephew. She taught herself to write letters by copying old receipts, slowly, carefully, again and again. She learned things by listening at the edges: which families were feuding, which caravans were expected, which spices were dear this year. She learned the map of the city by the smell of its streets: leather near the tanners, soap near the bathhouses, salt where the fishmongers spread their catch. She tucked small truths into the pockets of her mind. It was the only wealth she owned. "Xylenne!" Lady Varra's voice came again, sharp and loud. "Now!" Xylenne straightened her apron. She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The hallway was long and elegant. Rugs glowed like autumn leaves under the light. Paintings of old lords watched her pass. One painting showed a white-haired woman in a pale blue gown. She held a book. Her face was calm and grave. Xylenne always slowed near that painting. She always felt the woman watching her, not with disapproval, but with something like pity. "Where have you been?" Lady Varra stood at the far end, hands on her hips. Her gown was a dark wine color. Gold thread shone at the cuffs. Her hair was pinned in a smooth coil at the nape of her neck. "We have guests this afternoon. The front parlor must be perfect." "I'll handle it," Xylenne said softly. "And mind your head," Lady Varra added, eyes flicking to the white hair that gleamed like a thread of light. "If anyone arrives early, you will not be seen. Use the back stairs. And—" She sniffed, as if the air itself annoyed her. "—do not speak unless you are spoken to. Do not look anyone in the eye. Is that clear?" "Yes," Xylenne said. "Good." Lady Varra turned and walked away. The heels of her shoes clicked a steady beat against the floor. Xylenne watched her go. She took a breath. She took another. Then she began to work. In the front parlor, she fluffed cushions until they held the right amount of air. She smoothed the velvet with the back of her hand, careful to keep the pile all the same way. She set the tea service on the low table and arranged the cups so the handles pointed to four o'clock. She placed a small vase of lilies on the mantel. She liked the way the white petals mirrored her hair. She knew it would be noticed, and then taken away. She left them anyway, just for a moment. A servant boy came in carrying a tray of sugared almonds. "Morning," he mumbled. He was younger than Marinel, with freckles and quick hands.