Chapter 15
One evening after tutoring a child, I made my way to the vegetable market. But halfway there, my wretched leg began to ache in protest, forcing me to seek refuge under the shade of a tree in the park. I sat down, determined to rest for a few minutes before continuing my trek.
Nearby, a peculiar sight caught my attention. A couple was engaged in some kind of playful game. The man walked with a slight limp, though nothing as dramatic as mine and certainly not requiring a cane. He was chasing the woman around in mock pursuit. My initial reaction? Sympathy. Oh, brother, I know your pain. Rest in peace, for fellows like us are forever doomed to tread the world unevenly.
Anyway, I found myself watching them. No, not because I am a creep. Their chase brought forth an unwelcome memory. Millicent Vaneeri.
The first time I met her, I was a seventeen-year-old fool, and she was a sophisticated nineteen.
Cecilia and I had been forced to attend the Vaneeri ball. Not only were we dragged to this gilded prison, but we were also compelled to wear scandalous dresses that were the very definition of indecency. Shoulders and arms exposed, dresses clinging to our bodies like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. The dresses were excessively long, trailing behind us like serpents intent on tripping us at every turn. Quite annoying. My own dress barely contained my bosom; I swear a slight tug and my breasts would have introduced themselves to the room. Ha! The nobles would have loved that. Perverts, the lot of them.
My dependable black cane had been cruelly replaced with a flimsy, utterly impractical white cane. Attempting to navigate the polished floors with that delicate contraption was nothing short of a nightmare. It skidded and slipped with every few steps. The indignity of it all. The urge to hurl the wretched thing at the man who forced it upon me was nearly irresistible. If he held such affection for this abomination of craftsmanship, then surely he would not mind if I lodged it firmly between his shoulder blades.
My trusty black cane had been nothing but loyal, a bastion of stability and reliability. It may have lacked the delicate charm or aesthetic appeal of the feeble white monstrosity, but it served its purpose admirably. True, it was the sort of cane typically associated with the elderly, but therein lay its beauty. If those of advanced years depended on it, then surely it was a testament to its exceptional design and practicality. That day my anger simmered as I wrestled with that glorified decorative stick.
Some noblemen had approached us, their airs dripping with practiced charm and counterfeit pleasantries. They greeted me with their smiles and compliments before turning their attention to Cecilia. They extended their hands toward her, waiting for hers to rest delicately upon theirs so they might lay their insufferable kisses on her knuckles as they had done to mine.
Cecilia's discomfort was clear, yet their hands remained outstretched, unwavering in their presumptuous demands. I rescued her in the only way I knew how, through an elaborate spectacle.
I clutched my chest and faked the most dramatic coughing fit one could imagine, the kind that would make a seasoned stage actress weep with envy. Oh, I coughed and wheezed as though my very lungs were being torn apart, my knees buckling for added effect. It worked splendidly, for all attention immediately turned to me. Gasps echoed through the room, and before I could even revel in my success, I was whisked away by a small crowd of nobles, all competing to show just how "kind-hearted" they were.
I was escorted to a guest bedchamber, leaving Cecilia blissfully unbothered by the vultures. Ha! Mission accomplished. A physician was summoned and the room began to fill with nobles pretending to be utterly distraught about my condition. The Grand Duchess herself, Annette Vaneeri graced the scene with her presence. She, of course, questioned me directly, her voice carrying just the right amount of polite concern.
"What happened, my dear?" she inquired.
And then panic set in. With all those expectant eyes fixed upon me, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, grasping for an excuse. "It is a perfume allergy!" I declared.
Annette asked, "Do you recall the appearance of the noble who wore that particular perfume? We must identify them and insist they change their choice of fragrance."
I panicked and blurted out another lie. "A noblewoman. Dressed in a red gown, adorned with red earrings, and bearing a small mole on her right earlobe."
Fast forward past the absurd chaos that ensued-an elaborate search, heated discussions, and Annette's overzealous insistence on rectifying the situation - two hours had dragged by. My brilliant fabrication, in all its unfortunate glory, pointed directly to none other than Millicent Vaneeri herself. Back then, I had no inkling who she was. But now? Oh, now I know far more than I care to.
Millicent Vaneeri. Even the very name seemed designed to send shivers down the spines of mere mortals. The Duchess of Ivoryspire. When her father passed, the title fell to her, and at the tender age of sixteen, she became the ruling Duchess. By the summer I encountered her, she was nineteen and ruling Ivoryspire with an iron hand wrapped in an elegant lace glove.
I learned later that her reputation was formidable. Millicent was lauded for her ethereal beauty and her intellect. Yet her legacy was not built on appearances or wit alone. No, Millicent was renowned for her sense of justice and her merciless resolve when met with opposition. To those who sought her favor, she was the epitome of fairness. To those who crossed her? Well, her wrath was as legendary as her elegance. The mere thought of incurring her displeasure could unsettle even the boldest of hearts.