Chapter Three

Piper encounters a rare sight, and Glora is given some life-changing news.

Piper spent a long time at the hole. He sat down at the edge and dangled his legs in the emptiness, which was surprisingly colder and damper than the world above. Later he slid forward on his belly, and stuck his head into the darkness, but it was blacker than the back of his eyelids and even harder to see through. For an hour or so he trotted about the hushed marketplace, searching for loose stones and an old boot, and tossed them down the jagged rip, measuring the differences in the time between each one's descent and ping as it landed down there, wherever that was. It never took more than three seconds, but when he asked Harpo about it, the boy said anything longer than two seconds was close enough to forever, and that Piper had better stay away from the hole or he'd curse the whole province with bad luck. But Piper didn't believe him, nor the old lady who passed by and told him if he didn't scoot away and quickly, the darkness would suck him in like it did the last fool.

Now the little boy was lying on his side and steadily growing more and more bored of whispering into the hole to the dark goblins he imagined were somewhere on the bottom. He had begun singing a lullaby to himself, a song that reminded him of soft hands and his cheek nestled against warm skin, a melody that pulled at his throat and burned in his eyes. He was humming the part whose words he had forgotten, when a sharp footstep froze the chords in his chest. It was not the step of a leather boot and a hardened sole, and that was the only step Piper knew. He rolled over and sat up to gaze at two swarthy blue slippers that quite reminded him of a blueberry. The boy looked up and felt his mouth drop open as his eyes fell upon a tall young lady with a silver circlet around her brow. He shut his mouth with a soft click and tilted his head up in respect.

“Sham, miss, but you must be the princess.”

The lady looked down on him, and Piper supposed her to be only fifteen at the most. He wondered if she was beautiful, as Elli told him that princesses were “more beautiful than light”, and that she'd be the loveliest of them all when she took the throne. But this one only looked important and noble, and he decided if that's all it took than Glora could do a much greater job than the one standing before him. Or so he thought, until she spoke.

“Yes, sweetheart, I am the princess. Did your mother not tell you to stay away from this hole? You might fall in, and I'm sure she would cry to hear of that.”

Piper's throat pulled tight as it had during the lullaby, and for a moment he couldn't speak. “No miss, my mother told me nothing, for she's been gone since before I can remember.”

The lady patted his hair with a clean, white hand, and Piper decided she was beautiful after all. “Well, we would still cry all the same.” And she guided him away from the hole, her long skirts rustling against his knee.

“Miss, I do think you're a better princess'n Glora, for you're noble and kind and I know that's what counts.” He said this importantly, because Piper hoped the lady would listen and like what he said. It seemed she did, for she smiled for a moment, a long moment, he thought, and patted his hair once more before examining the gap in the ground and walking away. Down the street and across the turn and into beyond his sight, father than he could safely follow. Piper whistled to himself to express the glad feeling in his chest, solid and verifiable like the ground beneath his feet.

At about the same time Piper received a free blueberry from a fruit merchant simply for smiling so pleasantly, Glora in her impressive manor was in the process of being escorted to her dining room chair. The same chair, in fact, that she had occupied during her birthday celebration. Although this time it accompanied a smaller table, more suitable for announcing to one's daughter she was about to experience a drastic change in her life.

“Thank you, Janel.” Her mother nodded at the maid, and Glora turned in her seat to watch the maid exit, realizing she had never known her name.

“Now Glora,” her father began in what was meant to be a soothing, fatherly tone, and which caused Glora to knit her brows with immediate suspicion. “We realize you've grown bored of your life here with us.”

Glora remained silent. Her head was throbbing again from her walk down the stairway.

“And we understand that you would like to be with children your own age. Perhaps other young ladies?” her mother smiled at her, but Glora noted the tense muscles around her eyes. She took a sip from a goblet at her hand, lifting her chin as the cool water slid down her throat. It soothed the inflamed tissues, and she closed her eyes in pleasure.

“Saria's father told us she quite enjoyed talking with you. Would you like to spend more time with her? Glora, look at me, please.”

Glora opened her eyes and stared at her mother with a haughty gaze. She noted the woman shared her own dark eyes, and flinched to realize she had, in fact, received them from her mother.

“Answer us, Glora.”

“No.”

They both looked up at her response, and awkwardly patted one of her shoulders as she coughed. “No what, Glora?”

“I wouldn't like to spend more time with Saria. We don't really get along, her type and I.”

Mr. Harbrek pressed his lips together, and Glora examined his face, recognizing her own sharp, arrogant jaw in her father. “Yes, well, you are of Saria's type, Glora. You are of a high class, a noble heritage.”

“You are not a street child, Glora. Mister Bentley brought you home last night. We were horriffied to learn you had fallen asleep in an Eastern boy's house.” Her mother looked at her with hard eyes. “Respectable young ladies do not sleep outside their home, not without their parents. And never, ever do they do so with a boy. Do you understand?”

Glora frowned to hear Mister Bentley had won such a major triumph over her. She was not accustomed to lectures, and was quite miffed to be told it that was not respectable to be in Wesley's presence.

"Can I go now?"

Her parents exchanged a glance, and her father set his jaw. "Glora, you are to attend a young girls' academy next week."

Glora reeled back. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are, and you are to stay with the Charstons for the duration of your education."

"The who?"

"Saria and Jared's family."

Glora let out a laugh. It sent a rivet of pain through her nose and pulsed in her temples, but it felt good. Ms. Harbrek slapped her across the cheek. Glora looked up, startled. Her cheek stung, but her pride flared hotter and she stood up defiantly, allowing her chair to tumble to the floor.

"Sit down, Glora."

"Just you try and make me go, parents." she tossed her curls haughtily. "Just you try." And she marched back up the stairway.

Four days later, after the young girl's fever had burned away and her body restored to it's optimum health, she engaged in another argument, this time with a local dressmaker.

"Raise your arms, miss." said the woman in a quavering voice.

"I won't wear that thing."

"Raise them, please. I am beginning to lose my patience."

"Do you have to wear one of those?"

"I am beginning to lose my patience."

"Look at it! Whose idea was that?"

"I am beginning to lose my patience."

Finally, her mother looked up from an aisle of dresses and discovered her daughter's latest misdeed. "Glora! Do as the lady tells you!"

"Argghh..." And she raised her arms limply at her sides, spotted the multitude of pins clutched in the seamstress's shaking fist, and quietly obeyed.

While Mr. Harbrek took a pulley car to the Northern Provinces Bank, Ms. Harbrek and her daughter spent long minutes in Poppin's Bouqet examining various dresses and gowns. Glora soon found that all the protest she could muster would not get her out of the situation at hand, and went about picking the most absurd outfits from the racks, or selecting skirts longer than herself and uniforms designed for maids.

"Come look at this one, Glora." her mother pulled a purple dress from the aisle. A flowing ribbon tied round a dainty waist, and puffed up sleeves bunched prettily around the upper arm. Glora scrunched her nose. "I don't like purple."

"You can get it in any color. Do you like it?"

"No."

But her mother brought it to the seamstress anyways, and selected a pale blue silk to contrast Glora's hair. When her father returned, the family left with five new dresses in blue, pink, green, white and turqoise shades.

And then Mr. Harbrek took Glora to the cloak shop while Ms. Harbrek walked across the street to purchase school materials. A fluttery young man whose every other word came out in a stutter welcomed them inside. He informed Glora that any person with means ought to have an ample supply of cloaks to guard against the perpetual cold. Mr. Harbrek favored short, smooth cotton capes, claiming they would look "cute" on Glora.

"What! Cute?" Glora exclaimed. At that point she brought up all the reasons why sending her away was perfectly ridiculous, stormed out of the shop, was caught by a red-faced Mr. Harbrek and dragged back in, and finally laughed at by the shopkeeper for attempting to hide inside a jacket. In the end, Glora brushed against the velvet cloths in the back as she pretended to spy on her father through the racks, and thought the soft, heavy material quite suitable to protect her skin. She chose a black hooded cloak wih a shiny silver clasp, and a dark green hooded cloak with a solid bronze clasp. The two exited the shop, equally releived, and crossed the street to meet her mother inside Ink & Blots.

"Glora, come write with this stylus." Her mother beckoned her towards a counter, behind which a tall and seemingly important woman stood sorting out stylus from reed and stone from clay. The store smelled of dust and ink and metal, the floor was laid with rough tiles and was completely empty save the long shelves along the walls, filled with all assortments useful for writing. Glora thought it to be far more interesting than any of the previous shops, but the thick scent of ink reminded her of where she would be going and what she would be leaving. She gripped the stone stylus in her hand and etched her name in clay as her parents watched carefully. If they had thought to look, they would have noticed their daughter's face was oddly quiet and solemn. It was just as Glora had finished writing the "K" in her last name that the door banged open, and in strode a girl her own age wearing in a deep purple dress and a sour expression. She looked Glora up and down with green eyes, and turned to the shopkeeper.

"Is this where I get my writing things?" she barked in a rather impatient tone. Glora smiled. Here was a girl who could appreciate the nonsense of all this preparation.

"Yes, miss, everything you need from parchment to pallets and pens to-"

"Good, that's what I was looking for." The girl pulled a note from her cloak, and without looking up read it aloud. "I need two pallets and a package of parchment - the largest size - a stylus and two pens, and a strong school bag."

Glora watched, amused, as the shopkeeper scurried about, pulling a pallet from the back shelf and snatching a couple of pens from under the counter. Her mother tapped her foot, irritated at this interruption. As the girl waited, she glanced at Glora again.

"What're you lookin' at?" Glora demanded boldly, eager for a worthy conversation.

The girl looked very shocked for a moment, and then she clenched her fists and stared Glora back with a quivering gaze. "Perhaps I was only admiring your dark curls. Now don't you feel sorry for being so rude?"

"No." And she turned back to her parents, who were watching Glora with poorly disguised fascination. But in truth, Glora did feel a little mean, and the compliment on her hair had quite pleased her, so she snuck a glance at the girl through her lashes. She was paying for the writing supplies and carefully ignoring Glora, mouth rigid and fingers shaking.

"I do like your green eyes." Glora lied brightly, offering a smile at the girl. She jumped and fumbled with her bag, attempting to ignore Glora and please her at once. "Yes, well, thank you." And she hurried out of the shop. Glora watched with a snicker as the girl dropped her bag on the sidewalk and kneeled down to sweep all her purchases back in.

"Well, Glora, if that was your attempt at making a friend, I must say I'm confused." her father took the bag from the shopkeeper and steered Glora from the shop with a firm hand on her shoulder. The girl had disappeared from the street, likely into another shop. Glora took a deep inhale of the clean Northern air, and let it out in a satisfied sigh. She nodded her head, admiring the bounce and spring of her curls, reveling in her own dominating nature.

"Let's go." Her mother said tensely. A pulley car slid to a smooth stop in front of the family. Pulley cars were the most convinient form of transportation in the kingdom, operating through a complex network of cables strung above the lanterns and out of eyesight. As the same car would stop in the South and the North, they tended to be a step down in luxury for the elite families in Glora's area and a step up for the laborers in the South. After inserting a coin into a slot in the car, Glora clambered up inside and waited as her parents followed. The car boasted a glinting, polished wooden floor, glass windows along every side, and an empty metal bench against every wall. Glora was still short enough that her head didn't brush the ceiling, but her parents were forced to stoop as they carefully moved to their seats. She noticed their cautious, small steps, and her mother's fingers which slid along the window for assurance as the floor swung beneath their feet. Glora herself thought it awfully fun, until the image of a gaping emptiness in the ground echoed in her mind. She pressed her back to the wall and clutched the edge of the bench, suddenly nauseous.

The ride was smooth enough, however, and familiar to Glora from distant memories of a time when her parents used to bring her along on errands. As the lamps slid past through the window, Glora rested her head against the cold glass and chewed her lip. She would be leaving this night, and her chest felt light and anxious at the thought. Her life was about to change very drastically, very soon, from one of wild laughter and rough, tumbling games to one of quiet tones and long hours poring over books. Surely the thought of that wasn't giving her such a rising anticipation inside? She gazed at the lamps, which were gradually dimming in respect of the growing lateness. Through her thick hair came the chill of the glass. Her arms were restless, her breath quick in a nervous pull. Something big was to happen, something great and with a crashing impact on the child's life. Glora could sense it's coming in her subconcious, but it was too subtle to do more than stir her thoughts with a seeping fear and push adreniline through her veins with every lurch of the pulley car.

Author's Note

I love feedback of all kinds! Even if you hate it, let me know what was wrong. Any specifics are great, and I know I'm not the best speller. Also I tend to use words that sound right without knowing their exact definition, so if you catch anything that doesn't quite make sense, please let me know. Thanks!