Periwinkle Signorina
By nine in the morning, the streets of Rosmayne were already ablaze with life. For local merchants, it was wartime — a scramble to seize as many customers as possible before noon. With visitors flooding in from distant nations, thanks to the Grand Summit’s recent stirrings, business boomed like never before. And as Rosmayne hosted its first international gathering, expectations weighed heavy on the famed capital of roses.
Viena and Lisabelle walked side by side, though their moods could not have been more different.
Viena’s deep blue eyes darted from stall to stall, captivated by every fluttering banner and passing cart. Lisabelle, a local through and through, could muster little more than a weary sigh.
“Come on, midget. They’re just flowers. Nothing special.”
“No, no, no. If you’d traveled as far as I have, you’d know how wrong you are, big cow!”
Viena stuck her tongue out, only to yelp as Lisabelle pinched her cheek.
“Keep calling me that and see what happens.”
“Ow, ow! But you do the same! You never call me by my name!”
Lisabelle huffed and flipped her hair with exaggerated flair.
“Very well, you annoying little mouse. You are granted permission to declare your forgettable name — just this once.”
“Why are you acting so high and mighty? You’ve heard Papa call me before, haven’t you?”
“Ugh! Just spit it out already! Or is it so ugly you’re ashamed to say it? Ha! I knew I expected too much.”
“What?! My name is Viena, you hear me? V-I-E-N-A!”
Lisabelle narrowed her eyes and clicked her tongue, a wicked grin curling her lips.
“Too long. I won’t waste my breath on that. Vivi — that’ll do. I used to call my pet by that name.”
“Fine! Then I’ll call you Lily, since your belly’s as round as your head!”
They volleyed jabs back and forth, voices rising, until a sudden shout from the central park cut clean through their quarrel.
“Heed o’ heed! Ladies and gentlemen! Today I bring news bright enough to gild even the bleakest day!”
A man in a blindingly garish blue-and-pink costume stood atop a wooden crate. His feathered hat bobbed as he gestured grandly, a sheaf of parchment clutched in one gloved hand. His booming voice carried far and clear, drawing a crowd like moths to flame.
Before Lisabelle could blink, Viena was already weaving her way toward the gathering.
“Wha—hey! Come back here!” Lisabelle called, darting after her.
She pushed through the throng, craning her neck. “Hey! Why aren’t you listening to me?!”
She grabbed Viena’s wrist, but the girl stood rooted, her gaze locked on the herald. Without a word, Viena tugged Lisabelle’s sleeve and clung to her arm, all without breaking eye contact.
“Do you hear that?” Viena’s voice was hushed, urgent.
“Do you hear me?!” Lisabelle snapped, but the dark-haired girl only shushed her.
“Ssh! Listen! He’s saying something fun!”
Lisabelle followed her gaze reluctantly. The herald tossed his hat into the air and caught it with a flourish before bowing deeply.
"The right is exclusive, and the whole parimutuel betting will be overseen by the House of Gold! Now, ladies and gentlemen! The first batch of registrations will be closed by the end of the month! Be sure to make your move, because only those with impaired intellect would waste this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Remember! The benefits of first registrants are sublime!"
He puffed his chest and swept his hat back onto his head, handing out parchment flyers with exaggerated pomp.
“Take one now and get yourself signed up!”
Before Lisabelle could react, Viena slipped from her grasp again — bolting into the thick of the crowd.
A jolt of alarm shot through Lisabelle. Randia’s words echoed sharp in her memory: Viena’s leg is still healing. Don’t let her strain it too much.
Gritting her teeth, Lisabelle surged forward, her pulse quickening as she plunged into the sea of bodies.
“Vivi!—ugh, Vivi!”
Lisabelle shoved past velvet skirts and trailing cloaks, her breath catching as the crush of bodies closed around her. Frilled dresses and broad-shouldered merchants blocked her view, and panic clawed its way up her throat. With a frame as small as Viena’s, she could be swallowed whole in this crowd.
“Vivi! Where are you? Hey! Answer me!”
No reply. The bright chatter of the masses drowned her voice, and despair pricked at her chest like ice. Then—
a tug at the back of her kirtle.
“Lily! What are you doing? It’s getting packed—here!”
Viena stood behind her, her cheeks flushed, tugging insistently at Lisabelle’s dress. Relief cracked through Lisabelle’s panic. Without a word, she spun around, gripped Viena’s wrist, and forged a path out of the throng, shielding the girl with her body as they pressed through the crowd.
When they finally staggered into a quieter alley, Lisabelle whirled and slapped Viena’s cheeks—not hard, but sharp enough to sting.
“You foolish, pea-brained midget! What were you thinking, bolting into a crowd twice your size?! Do you want to get trampled?!”
Viena’s eyes welled instantly. She slapped Lisabelle back with tiny, ineffectual swats against her bodice.
It didn’t hurt. But the sight of her trembling lips and glassy eyes twisted something guilty in Lisabelle’s gut.
“You jerk! Pig! Asshole! Pig, pig, pig, pig! Why do you do that?!”
Lisabelle let her flailing subside. Then, with a sigh, she grabbed Viena gently by the collar and lowered herself to eye level. Her gaze hardened, but her voice dropped.
“Listen to me. I gave your father my word. Like it or not, we’re stuck together today. So quit making it harder than it has to be, and help me out a little, will you?”
“No!” Viena shot back, voice cracking. “Can’t you see I’m fine? You’re just being—!”
“You just happened to be fine this time,” Lisabelle snapped, cutting her off. “Must you break both legs before you start thinking with that tiny brain of yours?”
The heat between them sparked like flint on steel, their glares locked—
until a soft, velvety voice cut through the air beside them.
“My, my. What do we have here?”
Both girls froze. A tall, elegant woman stood before them, half her face veiled by a feathered fan. Lavender fur — the richest, fluffiest Lisabelle had ever seen — draped her shoulders. Her hair, a silken black, was bound into a short ponytail by a satin ribbon the exact shade of royal violet. Long, dark lashes framed eyes that shimmered coolly over the fan’s edge.
She tilted her head ever so slightly.
“Why the tears, little kitten?”
“Huh? It’s none of your business!” Lisabelle snapped, shoving Viena behind her with one arm. “Now get lost before I call the guards! I’ve got my hands full with this brat, and I’ve got no time for another weirdo—especially not one with fashion sense as ridiculous as yours! Who in their right mind wears fur in this weather? Walk away now, freak!”
Lisabelle folded her arms tight, feet planted, glaring down the woman without budging.
The purple lady merely chuckled. Then, with an almost lazy flick of her wrist, she swept her golden-embroidered fan through the air.
A sharp, perfumed breeze struck Lisabelle’s face.
She coughed hard. “Cough—cough—ack—”
Her throat prickled like it was full of nettles. She opened her mouth to bark a retort—but no sound came. Her lips moved uselessly; no voice followed.
The woman’s eyes glinted with something like amusement—and mild condescension.
“Cool your head, Princess,” she said smoothly, snapping her fan closed with a click. “No wonder your little sister won’t listen to you.”
“Lily! W-What did you do to her?!” Viena gasped, rushing to Lisabelle’s side and shaking her arm.
“Oh, don’t fret, little one.” The woman waved dismissively. “I just closed her mouth for a moment. Nothing too fun.”
Ignoring Lisabelle’s furious, silent gesticulations, she swept her fan once more—
and the flyer in Viena’s hand lifted off on a sudden gust, sailing straight into her waiting fingers.
“Oh-ho?” The woman unfolded the parchment and scanned it quickly, one dark brow arching. “Tell me, kitten—do you even know what this is?”
Viena sprang up on her toes, arms flailing to snatch it back. “I do! That’s why I grabbed it! Give it back, you purple hag!”
The woman’s eye twitched—but instead of scolding, she calmly reached down and pinched both of Viena’s cheeks in one hand, squeezing them mercilessly.
“Zhey sed sowmtin’ ‘bout gold! We meed wuney!” Viena mumbled through squished lips.
The woman let out a slow sigh, loosening her grip and releasing her.
“Betting is for adults, child. Rich adults. Because you never bet to get rich. You bet to be entertained. That is the only proper way to do it. Understand? You don’t get wealthy by gambling. You only get yourself ruined.”
Viena rubbed her sore cheeks, nose crinkling.
Her chin lifted, her blue eyes narrowing with impish defiance.
“You talk an awful lot like someone I know,” she sniffed. “But that sounds to me like a lame excuse for losers. I, Viena, have already won a bet, not so long ago!”
“Oh?” The woman tilted her head, lashes fluttering in mock surprise. “Is that so? What bet, exactly? And at which house? Hm?”
Her voice lilted sweetly, but a small crease tugged at her brow—her patience thinning.
“Uh—house?” Viena blinked. “Bernhard’s Corner… I think?”
The woman stilled. A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“Bernhard? That old dog still breathing?”
“I dunno what you mean,” Viena chirped, brightening, “but I won the milk-drinking bet, and the old man gave me a super jumbo sausage!” She stretched her arms wide for emphasis.
For a long moment, the woman simply stared at her.
Then her chest trembled—and she let out a low, unrestrained laugh.
Rich and velvety, it spilled from her lips freely—the first true crack in her polished composure.
“Listen, kid,” she began, fanning herself with a lazy flick. “This bet we’re talking about is a whole other—”
She froze.
Mid-sentence, her gaze snagged on Viena’s eyes.
Her amusement drained, lips parting slightly as something sharpened behind her lashes. Slowly, she leaned in closer—too close—her smile vanishing altogether.
Without a word, she reached out and tilted Viena’s chin up between two gloved fingers. Her touch was cool and deliberate.
“You…” she murmured, more to herself than to the girl.
A furrow etched into her brow.
Her fingers swept across Viena’s cheeks, gently stretching the skin, lifting her eyelids with clinical precision. It was no longer playful curiosity—it was an inspection.
“Are you sick?” Her voice had dropped low. No more lilt, no more sweetness.
Only quiet, pointed concern.
“Kuh! Haven’t you had enough? Get away from me!” Viena sputtered, twisting in place and shoving at the woman’s hand.
But the woman didn’t flinch.
Her fan snapped closed in her other hand with a sharp click.
“Answer my question,” she said evenly.
No smile. No softness.
Viena swallowed hard, her bravado flickering out. Slowly, reluctantly, she shook her head.
“N-No…”
For a breath longer, the woman didn’t move. Her dark eyes stayed locked on Viena’s face—calculating, as if weighing whether to believe her.
Then, abruptly, a sharp smack!
Lisabelle’s hand slapped away the woman’s wrist.
Lisabelle had regained her voice—and her scowl. She yanked Viena back behind her, her stance guarded and furious.
The purple lady blinked, visibly startled by the slap. She drew a step back, her fan resting lightly against her lips in thought.
After a moment, she let out a slow breath through her nose.
Fine. Pushing harder wouldn’t get her answers. Not from a girl this stubborn.
Her shoulders eased—just a little—and her tone softened again.
“. . . Then tell me, kitten,” she said quietly, her fan lowering at last,
“What do you need the money for?”