Destined Encounters

The halo of the red candle flickered faintly upon the carved window lattice. I sat at the edge of the bed draped with the mandarin duck brocade quilt, my fingertips tracing the entwined branch patterns on the silver hairpin. Today marks the fifth year since I entered the Shaw Mansion, and also the day James Shaw promised to grant me my rightful status. The bronze water clock struck three times, and familiar footsteps sounded outside the door. I hastily smoothed my temple hair, my heart pounding like a war drum against my chest. When the door was pushed open, a gust of wind swept in, causing the candlelight to flicker violently. James Shaw's figure stood against the light, his dark brocade robe still damp with the night's dew. "James." I rose to greet him, only to be rooted to the spot by the chill in his eyes. He did not look at me but strode directly to the dressing table in the inner chamber, placing a brocade box heavily upon the gilded mirror. "Melissa, your sister has returned." His voice was as if tempered with ice: "The Quinn Family has relented; as long as you go to the Quinn Mansion, Stella will be safe." It was as though a bucket of cold water had been poured over my head, chilling me from crown to sole. My sister Stella Sue, the legitimate elder sister who ran away with the theatre troupe three years ago—how could she suddenly be entangled with the Quinn Family? "James, what did you say?" I grasped his sleeve, my fingertips whitening from the force. "We agreed, today..." "This is one time, that is another." He shook off my hand, the loathing in his eyes nearly spilling over. "Melissa Sue, do not forget your station. You are but a maidservant; to serve Stella is your fortune." Fortune? I gazed upon his handsome yet indifferent profile and suddenly laughed aloud. Five years of service—attending him morning and night, shielding him from hidden arrows, enduring illness by his side—yet in his eyes, it was merely the duty owed by a maidservant. The wind outside swept raindrops against the papered window, producing a dull, muffled sound. I steadied myself against the dressing table; my pale face reflected in the mirror, the scarlet velvet flower at my temple glaringly conspicuous. "James Shaw," I enunciated each word with deliberate weight, "what have I been to you these five years?" At last, he looked me squarely in the eye, a mocking curve tugging at his lips: "What have you been? A compliant possession, nothing more." The rain grew heavier, mingling with the faint, distant drumbeats, shattering the last vestige of my hope. So these five years of deep affection and earnest devotion were, from beginning to end, but a one-sided farce of my own making. At the break of dawn, I was 'invited' from Shaw Mansion back to the Sue Residence. Though called an invitation, it was in truth no different from an escort under guard. Father sat upon the grand hall's grandee chair, his countenance ashen, like the liver of a swine. Stepmother Mrs. Wyatt stood aside, clutching a handkerchief to her face, her shoulders trembling slightly—whether from genuine tears or feigned sorrow, none could tell. "Wretched bane!" Father hurled the teacup to the ground with violent force, shards of celadon scattering near my feet. "Your sister now fallen into misfortune, and you dare to stall and shirk?"