1. The Beginning

There are times when we do not want to do anything, even when we actually have lots of things to do. We start feeling irritated with everyone and everything, and start questioning our decisions and our will and interest to do activities that we had taken up, or decided to take up previously. We often end up ruining our mood and wasting our time. These instances usually happen during hot and stuffy afternoons.

Something very similar was happening in the Kertesque household. Except, it was not a hot and stuffy afternoon. Oh no, it was a pleasant (weather-wise) and early morning, and a very important one, mind you. This was because the eldest and only child of the household, Viola Kertesque, was going to board a train called the 'Winnochian Jevcrest' , which was supposed to take her to finishing school, but would end up being the most important train journey of her life, one that would change it rather drastically.

Quite naturally, no one in the household is aware of this yet. All they know is that they certainly wish they were not part of the household at this moment. Because everything was a big, fat, chaotic, mess. Absolutely nothing is going as planned.

Naydia, the maid, has been trying to close the suitcase since the past seventeen minutes, with no luck. Bowram the butler has lost the train tickets. Chucky Chevre, the usually jolly and amiable chef is frustrated. He has given up making the food as well as all hope that they will ever find the tickets. He is currently helping Molly, Polly, and Dolly, the triplet servants to try and sew the hanky, which Penisson Kertesque, the lady of the house had trod over with her heel while she was frantically pacing around and scolding the absentminded darling Dolly, who had lent their carriage to the nosy nasty neighbours next door, who had borrowed it happily while fully knowing its importance for the day.

And to make things ten times worse, a band was standing outside the house, playing a merry and rather fine tune, in stark contrast to the havoc inside, and only because Chucky Chevre had ordered them to do so under Lady Kertesque's commands to try and keep the household happy during what was supposed to be an emotional morning. But Alas! The sound only seemed to make looking for the tickets more difficult!

Oh, but amongst all of this mess, this junkyard, this clattered table, where is our centerpiece, whose show what the table is being set for?

Viola Kertesque sat in front of a mirror, trying to pin up her hair, but strands kept falling loose. She had tried various hairstyles over the past hour, but with no avail. She sighed. A woman who couldn't make herself presentable had no place in finishing school. Not that she wanted to go, but that's where destiny seemed to want to take her.

She surveyed herself. A distraught maiden. Her netted black dress fluffed up at the sides and was cut just as deep as she liked. Rhinestones peeked through, with a shine that her face should have carried. Beaded black jewelry grasped her neck and hands. Excess makeup lined her eyes and face, damp from all the sniffling. And her hair, her annoying hair, thick yet fairly silky, and toned between glazed brown and blonde falling everwhere. She didn't look that bad. A little overdramatic and maybe comedic. Like a beautiful and helpless bride, heartbroken on her wedding day.

She sighed once more before deciding to call her mother for help.

"Mother, do come here and help me pin up my hair will you?" she called.

There was a muffled shuffling of quick footsteps. Viola knew it couldn't be her mother. She always carried herself with grace, with slow and forced footsteps, with strong emphasis on every click and clack of her heels. Very elegant, you had to admit.

There was a sharp rap at the door.

"Mother? If that is you come in an-"

"I beg your pardon for the interruption Madame, but it is I, Bowram, who has come to your service," a clear, squeaky voice with a hint of decisiveness interrupted.

"Is my mother busy?"

"No, miss. She is quite free. She just finished scolding Molly."

"Tell me this Bowram, I called for my mother. Are you my mother?" asked Viola, already feeling like she had lost the verbal battle she knew was now going to take place.

"Of course not miss. I introduced myself as Bowram so that means I cannot be your mother unless you were my daughter, which explicitly, you are not, because firstly I am male and secondly you are the daughter of-"

"Rhetorical question," said Viola, through gritted teeth.

"Of course! I had a feeling Miss, you know. Forgive me for my foolishness."

"No," was the abrupt reply, dismissing the conversation.

The footsteps shuffled away, back to where they had come from. Sixteen years of putting up with him, and Bowram was not getting any smarter.

Viola bound a thin, delicate, rose gold watch onto her wrist as she gathered her dress and her patience that had tipped over , and floated towards the door. As she stared at the inherited, gifted beauty resting atop her hand, she realised she was getting late. She would have to go to the one who blessed her with this beauty, her mother herself.

She pushed open her maghanoy door and the sound of trumpets battered her ears. Its jolly demeanour seemed to wish her- "Good Morning! Good Morning!" , except for the fact that there was almost nothing good about the morning. The chaos hit her like a colossal wave; the servants of the house had created an uproar, but their noise seemed to sizzle down as she swished down the grand spiral staircase. She could hear whispers of "She's going to give him an earful now", and "Whas gon happun when shee learns aboout the teeckits?"

With the years of experience she had gained and whispers she had heard, it was safe for Viola to understand from the snippets of their conversations that something had happened to the tickets, and Bowram was the culprit. Presumably, he had lost them. And even though she knew it was the case, she hoped it wasn't, because enough had gone wrong already.

Viola had just begun to wonder where in the world her mother had gone when she heard the door flinging open, excited footsteps, and a "C-luck! C-luck!"

Viola's fists clenched. Viola's body tensed. Viola wanted to run away. Viola wanted to say many bad words and do many unimaginable, inhuman things. But Viola did nothing of the sort. Instead, Viola unclenched her fists, turned around and put on the realest fake smile one could possibly muster.