THE THING ABOUT HOUSE RENOLD
Marigold promised herself she was going to look at things from a positive vantage point. While the sun continued to gently emerge from its slumber, Marigold found herself enjoying the lavishly adorned carriage. The plush velvet cushions cradled her delicate frame, providing a sense of comfort amidst the unknown. Her eyes wandered, taking in the sights as the carriage traversed the picturesque streets of Durnford. Her birth home, she didn't remember much of it. Not that there was anything to remember of it. Marigold remembered the servants would never allow her to go out because they feared what her father would say if he caught wind of it. Marigold also remembered the servants hated touching her. Her younger self had believed it was something her mother had done. What else was a child going to think when their own mother was a subject of controversy in the house? But things were crystal clear now. It had been because she was Arcan. It had been because her mother was Arcan.
Gliding through the village, Marigold caught glimpses of the townsfolk awakening to the day's tasks. The bakers of Durnford, renowned for their delectable creations, busily prepared trays of pastries, their sweet aromas wafting through the air. Farmers, their sturdy hands stained with soil, tended to their fields with unwavering dedication. The village came alive, bustling with the symphony of morning routines and the anticipation of a new day. The sisters always said that Durnford was a busy place since it was the capital of the kingdom of Haske. But Marigold could only now believe now that she had seen it with her eyes.
But Marigold's attention was soon captivated by a breathtaking sight—the grand Castle of the king, standing tall against the horizon. Its majestic towers reached towards the heavens as if aspiring to touch the clouds. Bathed in the golden hues of the rising sun, the castle exuded an aura of regality, reminding Marigold of the kingdom's might and splendor. It reminded Marigold of the reason she was free from the walls of the temple. To save her family's reputation and ensure that they kept their heads. Marigold did not know much about the King. But she did know any head that carried that much power had the tendency to run mad. Heads were surely going to fly if the wishes of the King were not fulfilled.
The awe she had been staring at became disillusioned and Marigold was abruptly brought back to reality as the carriage turned into the gated entrance of what Marigold vaguely remembered as her house. She stared at a sprawling estate nestled amidst rolling green hills. The mansion stood as a testament to opulence, its architecture a magnificent blend of intricate carvings and towering pillars. Marigold's heart fluttered with a mix of trepidation and excitement as the carriage came to a halt. She knew this place and while there was some flowery feeling that came from seeing something else grace her sights, Marigold felt her empty stomach twist into knots as it dawned on her that she would have to step down and meet her father's new family. A new wife and a pregnant daughter that probably had no idea she existed until now.
As the carriage door swung open, Marigold's arrival was met not only by her father but also by a flurry of elegantly dressed staff members, eagerly awaiting her return. With practiced precision, they swarmed around her, tending to her every need with a graceful efficiency that spoke of their expertise and training. Their eyes shimmered with anticipation, recognizing the significance of Marigold's presence.
"Welcome home, sweetheart," her father greeted her, his voice infused with warmth as he extended his hand toward her. His desire for her to accept his gesture was palpable, hoping for a connection that could bridge the divide between them, a façade of the best of friends.
Marigold, dressed in her worn and faded gown that mirrored the hues of the cobblestones beneath her feet, stepped onto the pathway with a grace that belied her inner turmoil. Taking a moment to steady her breath, she reluctantly accepted her father's outstretched hand. If he desired a spectacle, Marigold was determined to put on a show.
"House, behold the daughter of this household, my firstborn, Marigold," her father declared, his voice laced with an air of authority.
The servants' eyes revealed volumes, their unspoken words resonating through their expressions. Though their lips remained sealed, their demeanor painted a vivid picture. The faces Marigold gazed upon were unfamiliar, their features alien to her memory. She wondered if she would even recognize the servants who were meant to attend to her all those years ago. A moment of hesitation washed over her, leaving her uncertain of her next move.
The teachings of the temple echoed in Marigold's mind, a relentless reminder that every soul who entered the sanctuary of Adora was deemed superior to her. It was ingrained within her, enforced with the strength of a cane. In the presence of the bowing servants, a wave of queasiness washed over her. Her heart quickened its pace, and her hands trembled with a mix of nervousness and apprehension. Succumbing to the familiarity of an old habit, Marigold gave in to the pressure and returned the gesture, offering a bow of her own.
There was a collective gasp that echoed through the air as the servants threw themselves to the ground, their voices unified in a chorus of repentance. "Forgive us, Lady Marigold, for we have sinned," they cried out, their words laced with desperation. Marigold couldn't fathom the reason behind their fervent response, her brow furrowing in confusion. Raising her head, she sought answers, her gaze shifting towards her father. She could sense his seething anger, tightly concealed in the presence of his subordinates. Yet, Marigold couldn't decipher whether his fury was directed at her or the prying eyes that bore witness to the scene. With a tight grip on her hand, he led her inside the grand mansion, his next course of action unfolding before them.
The spacious halls stretched out before them, adorned with exquisite tapestries and shimmering chandeliers. It was a sight to behold, a testament to wealth and opulence. However, Marigold found herself unable to admire the surroundings as a sudden blow struck her face, knocking her to the ground with an abrupt force. Dazed and disoriented, she peered up to find a new figure looming before her. The cacophony of voices reached her ears once the ringing subsided, and she discerned the piercing words spoken by the intruder, a figure who clung onto her father's clothing and shook him violently.
"The bitch is uncultured. Tell me, husband, is this the dog that will save us?" The words resonated with clarity, cutting through the air as Marigold struggled to make sense of the volatile situation unfolding before her.
Marigold's vision gradually cleared, allowing her to discern the figure before her—a woman of striking appearance. Despite the veins visibly pulsating on her overly powdered face, there was an undeniable air of elegance and sophistication that enveloped her. Adorned in a gown of intricate French lace, its delicate floral pattern intertwined with exquisite embroidery, the woman exuded an aura of refinement. The gown, fashioned from the finest silk, cascaded gracefully over her figure, emphasizing her slender waist and impeccable posture. A high neckline adorned with a row of shimmering pearl buttons added an extra touch of sophistication. In one hand, she held a set of keys, a symbol of her authority within the house. It dawned upon Marigold that this woman, the one who had struck her and belittled her, was none other than her stepmother—the mistress of the house.