THE GOOD STEP-SISTER

Marigold stood frozen, her eyes wide with disbelief. The woman who should have been grateful and appreciative instead reduced her to the level of a lowly animal. She couldn't find the strength to move or respond, only able to listen to the harsh words being exchanged.

"Mercia, control yourself!" Lord Birley's voice held a stern tone. "The girl you're calling uncultured is the very one who will rescue us from the dire consequences of your daughter's actions. You should show some gratitude."

Although it felt somewhat staged, Marigold felt a flicker of gratitude that at least Lord Birley had come to her defense, even if it was just to maintain his own noble image and ensure his horse didn't grow an attitude.

"Keep Fleta out of this," Mercia shot back, her forehead veins throbbing and her voice strained. "You never once mentioned having a daughter, the one who supposedly holds the key to saving our family. And look at her now, bowing to the servants and dressed in rags! The rumors will spread like wildfire, Birley!"

Marigold watched as her father angrily slammed his cane against the marbled floor, the force suggesting he wanted to shatter it. "Enough with your paranoia, woman! Let them talk. This girl is my flesh and blood. If anything, I am honoring the king's decree. Marigold is my firstborn daughter."

"Why have you never spoken of her before?! Why has no one ever known that you had a child with your first wife? What is there to keep hidden about her?"

Marigold felt a lump forming in her throat. It became apparent that her stepmother's rage stemmed not from her supposed lack of manners, but from her clear ignorance about Marigold's existence.

"Not again," another voice chimed in. The sound came from behind Marigold. Before she could turn to face the source, gentle hands reached out and lifted her. "Are you alright?" the voice asked, directing the question to her. Marigold turned her gaze and met the eyes of the girl who had come to her aid. The girl was truly beautiful, adorned in a yellow dress that complemented her porcelain skin and delicate figure. Her jet-black hair glistened as if it had been coated in oil. Warmth emanated from her eyes, and her smile, accentuated by rosy lips, was near perfection.

"I am..." Marigold struggled to find her voice. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the captivating beauty before her, a noblewoman emanating an undeniable aura. There was something about her striking resemblance to Mercia, coupled with the way she carried herself, that led Marigold to suspect this was the girl who had brought her to this unfamiliar part of the world after all these years. This was her stepsister.

"You must be Marigold," the girl chuckled, a warm sound that resonated with familiarity. "My sister."

The words should have filled Marigold with relief and joy. Her stepsister had acknowledged her without the mention of steps or degrading names. She should have been grateful to encounter someone seemingly kind-hearted. Yet, beneath Fleta's benevolent facade, there was an air of pretentiousness that made Marigold wary.

"I am Fleta," the girl added, accompanied by a radiant smile that matched the sweetness of cherries.

Again, Marigold found herself unable to interject as Fleta took charge of the situation. Her expression contorted into a frown as she directed her gaze toward her parents, a mixture of disappointment and anger etched across her features. "Mama and Papa, can we please not do this right now? It's bad enough that you kept my sister hidden from me all these years, and now you allow Mama to treat her like an animal when she's doing us a favor by agreeing to this absurd arrangement?" Her words were specifically aimed at her mother, carrying the weight of betrayal and indignation.

Marigold observed as the look of disgust and betrayal on Mercia's face wavered, giving way to a realization of their collective reliance on Marigold. If she refused, their future would be jeopardized.

"I..." Mercia struggled to form a coherent response, the bulging veins on her forehead bearing witness to her internal turmoil. "I admit that I may have overreacted. But you must understand, Fleta. Your father kept this girl's existence a secret for far too long. We wouldn't even know she existed if we hadn't reached such dire circumstances. It makes me wonder what other secrets he's hiding."

"I'll leave you to reconcile this matter," Fleta declared, her voice laced with determination. "Meanwhile, I have some catching up to do with my sister."

Marigold couldn't even protest. The girl grabbed her by the hand and led her deeper into the house. There was no time to admire the beauty of the halls when all Marigold could see were blurs and colors. Fleta didn't stop until they were in her room with the doors locked behind them and on the bed. The act alone caused Marigold to question if her step-sister wasn't faking it. She was in rags. Filthy ones at that and this girl let her sit down.

"I have been waiting all my life for a sister," Fleta began when they were seated. "I cannot believe that you have been in some temple. I wish... I do. I wish the situations were different but this is how Adora has willed it to be. But for the time being, I want us to talk. Even after you get married."

All that character development seemed to sink back into the earth. There was a pit in Marigold's stomach. Something about the whole arrangement and her sister's kindness felt strange and she was starting to think it was the wedding thing that kept getting mentioned.

"My husband-to-be," I began. "What is he like?"

Fleta rose from the four-poster bed and danced towards her wardrobe. "I hear his hair is like roses. But when the sun kisses them, it is like gold. I know he is a man of the sword. He kills the forsaken ones. You know, Arcans." Fleta added, making eye contact with Marigold. The message was passed across and it made Marigold cold. Fleta continued ravaging through her dresses as she continued to speak. "I suspect he has scars. He is a man of war. He has to have one. Thinking about it makes me giggle. Can you imagine him coming back from battle covered in blood and you have to wash him and nurse all that scars?"

Marigold could not help but come to the conclusion that her stepsister was attracted to this man in question as the chances were if she was not swelling with another man's offspring, she would choose the man. So she asked. "If you weren't pregnant, would you be okay with this arrangement?"

As the words escaped her lips, a moment of silence ensued, carrying with it a weight of anticipation. Fleta stopped playing with her dresses and brought one out. It was a velvety black fabric with crimson accents that danced like flickering flames across the bodice. Delicate lace peeked from beneath voluminous sleeves, revealing a touch of ethereal beauty. It was elegant. Fleta waltzed back to her sister and put the gown on her.

"I do love the man I am with." She replied. "The reason why I decided to have this baby out of wedlock is because he is lower class and our parents would never allow me to marry him if they didn't have to save face. If I could have seen this coming. I would have played my cards smarter." She then paused for a moment and looked at Marigold in the eyes. Concern was burned into her demeanor. "You are having doubts, aren't you?"

"No," Marigold was quick to reply. Ten had been right. This marriage was a getaway carriage. It didn't matter why it happened. What mattered was that it happened and what remained was what she intended to do with that golden opportunity. "Marriage has always been political for most women. Is it not? If marrying this man will save our head and potentially change my story, then I am good with this marriage."

Fleta giggled. "You sound just like my mother."

"She sounds like a smart woman."

Fleta pressed the dress she had picked out of her wardrobe even tighter on Marigold's body. "Is it not beautiful?" She mused before tossing it on Marigold's laps. "I think you should try it on."