Chapter 2 {Alice}

I feel the corset press into me until I'm sure my whole rib cage has cracked. I let out a muffled sort of yelp, which is the only sound I can make at the moment, and the team of handmaidens pulling at the infinite lacings utter hurried apologies

I sigh, telling them, "Oh, carry on, it's not your fault these things are built like torture devices."

I insisted to my grandmother that I didn't need people dressing me as if I was three years old, and that it would just make me uncomfortable.

However, she informed me in her uppity way that "women of our class always have servants to perform tasks such as this for them, and only people with common and dull clothes dress themselves."

She then went on to preach how important this event was for my social reputation, and that it would be disrespecting her arduous upbringing of me for the past fifteen years to not appear as my best to our fellow gentry class. I had hoped that she would not force me to attend this particular social engagement because of the trauma of the day. However, her outlook on the matter was quite the opposite.

"We don't want that young hooligan's iniquity to present itself in you after that interaction," she had said, as the offending girl with the red scarf was dragged off by the constables.

She said the word "iniquity" as if it were a contagious disease.

"This is why you must attend the event tonight. All of the young adults of our society will be there, and it's important for you to make connections and mingle. I'm hoping you and that dashing Sir Rogerson will hit it off," she added, attempting to wink at me.

"You have been childhood friends forever, after all, and tonight would be the perfect opportunity to sweep in and catch him before anyone else does. Oh, I can only imagine how lovely your children would be…" I nodded without thinking, tuning out my grandmother's dreamings.

I was more concerned with the girl's whereabouts. Who is she, and what was she trying to accomplish today? Why is she different than all of the other girls my grandmother has forced me to associate with? I knew that I needed to know more, but first I had to satisfy my grandmother's request.

As I enter the filled ballroom, I feel the stifling pressure already starting to squeeze into me even more than my corset. That's always the way at these sort of events: the tension is palpable. Adults of the gentry class, most of them relatives of the young people attending, line the walls of the cavernous room like a fence. Their purpose is to chaperone, to ensure that everything stays prim and proper and perfect, just like life is for all of us. I feel their eyes scanning the room like vultures, pointing out what couples they deemed suitable, whose dresses they admired and whose they detested, and which young adults had their parents' dashing good looks and which did not. I can see the desperation in the girls' eyes; they know they must find a suitor here, as fast as possible.

"Lady Poppington!" I hear from behind me.

At first I'm confused, looking about for my grandmother. I'm not accustomed to being referred to by her title. When I turn around I spot the very boy my grandmother wanted me to see.

"Care to dance?" William Rogerson says, extending a gloved hand to me.

"I would love to," I say, taking his hand and transitioning into a waltz.

We spin around the ballroom, me trying to avoid the approving, gloating gaze of my grandmother, who is stationed in the corner taking advantage of the refreshments table. Her cheeks are already flushed red and what I assume to be not her first serving of wine is dwindling in her glass.

"I miss your grandmother's antics at events," William says, chuckling as he follows my reproachful stare.

"Well, I miss you, Will. You're always busy now, as the son of the commander of something or other," I reply airily. "Or should I address you as Sir Rogerson now, as everyone else does."

He frowns slightly, and we both shudder.

"That title is reserved for my father, the man who used to chase us around when we were children," he says with reverence.

I smirk as I recall all of the devious tricks we played on William's father. I was, and still am, terrified of that man.

"He was recently promoted, if my sources are correct," I add. "How has that affected you?"

We spin more as he deliberates, his concentrated face barely recognizable as the boy I grew up with.

"I have many new responsibilities now, for my father is too preoccupied to manage things he used to. He has burdened me with them recently."

"Such as…?" I ask, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Well, just today I interrogated a young girl at the prison who caused quite the public commotion today. She was quite contrary, dressed like a boy, with a tall top hat and a red scarf."

My ears perk up at the mention of such a distinctive description. Had I not just observed a red scarf on the odd girl who held me captive?

"Can I tell you the oddest thing?" He says, looking off I tot he distance a cloudy look filling his eyes. He continues without a response, "She was intriguing, like nothing I have ever seen before. And I can't fathom how she got to be this way. Needing to investigate further I looked through the archives to find more information about her. She is British so there should be some information on her… there was simply nothing!"

"Nothing? There must be past criminal records, and there positively has to be a birth certificate?" I inquire.

William shakes his head slowly, an odd look on his face.

"There's information on every person in England in the archives a birth certificate at the least, it's easy to find to. Everything is sorted on a pulley system. You simply choose the first letter or last of their last name, a place too if you know where they live, and the files will come to you, clipped to a wire sorted alphabetically. I searched under S, every single paper, no mention of a Scarlett Sparrow anywhere! No other Sparrows either, I even checked the name of her ship. Nothing. Alison she doesn't exist."

I look at him in disbelief there must be some mention of her or a relative somewhere.

"Maybe she gave you a fake name?"

"She didn't seem the type, she didn't seem to be hiding anything, honestly I don't think she cared what happened to her. It's the oddest thing though," and here he looked directly into her eyes, "I know her. Some distant memeory I can't place I've heard that name and seen that face, she's like some kind of ghost," his voice was shaky.

I could keep it in anymore, my exient overcame me.

"What prison?" I ask, innocently batting my eyelashes.