Frances

I wake in a dark room. A seam of light glows above me where thick curtains don’t quite connect. Rolling around, I move one slightly to allow just a bit of sun to enter the room. It’s bright and I wince.

Another brilliant October day. Where’s the rain the Farmer’s Almanac promised me?

Dragging myself out of bed, I lumber over to my dresser, and I stop to pet a stuffed raven perched atop it. Then I reach for a pair of thick, round black glasses. I slip them on, and my blurry room comes into focus. Then I look back to the raven.

There are many such oddities cluttered here; arrowheads I’ve taken from the riverbed behind the property, multicolored gemstones collected in an ashtray, a vase of dusty, black silk roses, a crystal ball. I haven’t tried using it to contact anyone from the other side, yet. I’d be too scared to.

I’m not a practitioner of the occult so much as I am fascinated by it. I think it’s all real, ghosts, devils, that sort of thing. But I’m terrified of the idea of them walking around my house.

No, I’m no oculist. I’m simply morbid, delighted by all things macabre. The gruesome, the tragic and the darkly romantic. Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster, werewolves, I feel a certain kinship with each of them. Monsters, outcasts, hated, lonely… That’s me.

The Cowbird.

The clock on the wall reads 8:50. I slept in. But not too much, I think, to avoid my younger siblings at breakfast. Benjamin and Louise don’t typically roll out of bed until ten. On a Saturday, they might sleep even later.

Beneath a long, thigh length corset that attempts to quash my oversized breasts and hips into the trendy ‘box’ shape, I wear a gown of navy blue foulard with long sleeves and a drop waist. I belt it low with a sash of the same fabric. In front of the mirror, I stop to brush my short, impossibly straight black bob. My skin is pale and my cheeks are flabby. Black eyes like buttons are hidden behind glasses and sunken beneath a heavy brow, set over a lantern jaw and a too-thick neck.

Ugly as ever.

The richly furnished hallway is illuminated by large windows at both ends. Even in this innocuous space all the vast wealth of Stanley Porter, my grandfather and the founder of our sweets empire, Porter Chocolates, is on display. A long, ornate Persian runner in crimson covers the mahogany floor, while the paintings of the great masters, contemporary and long dead, line the walls. I move past them without stopping to appreciate the luxury or consider the cost. To me, they are ordinary trappings. Only what I’ve known all my life.

Downstairs the long dining room table is empty save for Father’s secretary, Edith Appletree. Hearing my approach, she lowers her paper and rises quickly, bidding me a polite good morning before hurrying off on dainty little feet. I watch her go without any special feeling. Then I take my usual seat.

 Susan appears at my elbow with a silver cart.

“Good morning, Miss Frances. Coffee?”

“Thank you, Susan.”

The maid prepares it the way I like, a large cup with plenty of hot cream and no sugar, and leaves me alone with the slightly used morning paper, the Solaria Times. The date in the corner reads Saturday October 22, 1927.

Sipping my coffee, I glance through the headlines.

Police are still looking for the motorist that ran down an eleven-year-old boy on his bicycle and fled the scene. A tragedy, the story’s gripped our little country for a week now. And it happened just fifteen miles from the Porter mansion, too, on a quiet country road.

Other than that, there’s not much news. Continents to the east and west remain peaceful, and all’s quiet on the southern border. Recently there have been rumors of another war with Kertzrift looming on the horizon, but for now things are peaceful on our humble, mid-Atlantic island of Zessland.

Susan returns with breakfast, Mrs. Agate’s famous apple fritters with spiced syrup and eggs Benedict with Hollandaise. I tuck in with relish. Then I become aware of movement at the other end of the room.

Louise.

My sister is dressed in a dusty salmon colored frock with several layers of fringe. It comes nearly up to her knees, revealing her slender, shapely calves. Her beautiful blonde hair is wavy and chin-length, her eyes are a brilliant turquoise blue. Around her neck is a long rope of pearls.

She scoffs when she lays eyes on me.

“Just look how she eats,” she remarks to no one in particular. “What a slob.”

I wipe my mouth with a napkin and consider my breakfast. Then I glance down at my breast to see a drop of Hollandaise sauce on my dress. I mop it up quickly with a finger and return with a shrug to my meal.

“You’re up early,” I remark as Louise sits a few chairs down from me.

“Yes, well, it’s a big day. Or did you forget?”

I blink questioningly and she rolls her eyes dramatically. I do seem to recall the servants have been rather busy this last week. What was it for again?

Just then my brother, the middle child, appears. He’s looking a bit unkempt in brown plus fours and a beige and green argyle sweater over his shirt and tie. His blonde hair is messy, his face is haggard with dark circles beneath his eyes that otherwise resemble my sister’s in every way. Really, they might be male and female version of the same person, and not just in looks.

“God, the Cowbird’s having breakfast,” he grumbles the moment he sees me.

“Good morning, Ben,” I reply.

“Shut up.”

He takes the seat across from me and swears at Susan when she starts to make his usual coffee. “No, just black, can’t you see I have a hangover?”

“Out drinking with Jackson again last night?” Louise smirks unkindly at our brother.

“None of your business,” he glowers in response.

“And now you’re off to play golf with your model friends. You know none of them like you.”

“They don’t have to like me. So long as they smile for the camera. Bought a new one just last week. Roll film camera, high quality lens with diaphragm leaf shutters and aperture blades, fits right in my pocket…” he trails off when he realizes no one is listening to him.

At twenty-three years old, Ben’s a photographer of growing notoriety, and he’s always looking for opportunities to expand his portfolio. This, I have examined at great length unbeknownst to him, and was properly scandalized by his so-called ‘art.’ Until that day I had never seen anyone’s naked body other than my own. I’ll confess I studied the male subjects in particular with intense interest, only to return to my room and pray for forgiveness later. Sadly, my virgin eyes will never be the same.

I chew on an apple fritter and my gaze flits between my siblings while Susan hurries around the room, serving them breakfast. Across from me, the hungover Ben tucks into his meal hesitantly while to my right, Louise makes a disgusted sound.

“Ugh. How can you sit across from the Cowbird? If I had to watch her eat, I’d puke.”

Ben ignores her jibe. I pretend to. I’ve heard their name for me so many times it shouldn’t bother me anymore. But even now, at the age of twenty-six, these childish barbs still sting.

Cowbird. A brood parasite, the females lay their eggs in other birds’ nests, tricking other species into raising their chick for them. Big, evil and ugly, a misfit from birth by no fault of her own, gobbling up her step-sibling’s food all while looking nothing like her nestmates. She doesn’t belong. Shouldn’t be there at all…

My siblings are beautiful golden creatures, slender, perfectly proportioned with angelic faces. But I am dark haired, big and ungainly. At five foot nine, I’m taller than many of the men I meet, and probably just as heavy. What’s more, I am graceless, too strong and awkward in my movements beside my naturally athletic siblings. Like a cowbird raised beside sparrows, I may as well be a different species altogether.

People say I am the child of my father’s mistress, a woman he kept in the early years of his marriage to Mother. Probably, they are right, though my parents never speak of it. As for me, all my life I’ve taken consolation and even a private delight in imagining I’m the child of a secret lover. I sometimes lie awake at night and imagine what my real mother might have been like. I wonder if she’s still alive, if I’ll ever meet her one day.

Perhaps, to such a mother, even a daughter like me might have been just a little… lovable.

“It’s fine if you want to go golfing with your friends this morning, but be back by noon,” Louise interrupts my thoughts to nag Ben. “You know Father’s hosting my ‘pre-engagement party’ party to dear William Junior this afternoon.”

“A pre-engagement party for the engagement party, which is really just a pre-wedding party. And then the wedding and the reception. Just how many times are we meant to celebrate your union with the illustrious St. James family?”

“At least that many,” she replies without missing a beat. “And though today’s event is just a garden party, make no mistake: everyone who’s anyone in all of Rettonia will be here, so you’d be a damned fool to miss it, Benjamin.”

“As you wish, Princess,” he replies mockingly. “Tell me, is Will Senior going to be there? I know you’d be very disappointed to miss him.”

Louise’s blue eyes go positively glacial as she glares at Ben from across the table. I continue to watch their exchange in silence, eating steadily through my apple fritters.

I’ll confess I don’t know much about my sister’s husband-to-be; only that he’s the son of William St. James Sr., Secretary of something or other, a very important person in the capitol, rather close to the king himself.

“Like I said,” Louise replies coldly, “our guest list is quite prestigious. So don’t you dare make me look like a fool today.”

Ben rises from his half eaten breakfast with a sneer. “You’ll hardly need my help for that, now will you?”

Without waiting for a response, he leaves me alone together with the frosty Louise. With no one else to set her demands on, my controlling little sister turns to me. 

“Frances.”

I jump a little. “Yes, Louise?”

“Today’s an important day for me. Don’t bring it down by showing up with that depressing face of yours.”

I blink in response, not sure what I’m meant to say to that. After all, it’s my face. There’s only so much I can do to change it.

With a light scoff, Louise also rises from her half eaten breakfast. She starts to walk away, then stops herself to call back, “Oh, and don’t you dare show up in one of those dismal dark sacks you call day dresses. Find something cheerful to wear for a change, will you?”

“I’ll be sure and dress nicely for your garden party, Louise. I know how much it means to you.”

“Good.”

Glad to be left in silence again, I finish the last of my breakfast, and smile awkwardly at Susan when she comes to clear it away. She flashes me a fleeting, cheerless response, and gets on with her task. I hurry from the room and make my way back upstairs.

I view my closet with a scrutinizing eye. I suppose my wardrobe is rather dark now I think of it. I’ve never given much consideration to fashion. So long as the clothes fit me, so long as they don’t stand out too much, that’s all I ever cared about.

Perhaps a new dress is required for the occasion, after all. Louise is my sister, and though its only a garden party, as she said some very important people will be there.

I check the time. It’s not yet ten o’clock. I still have time to buy something in town. 

Grabbing a black cloche hat, gloves, coat and purse, I hurry downstairs, on the way passing an enormous portrait of my grandfather in the main hall. The sight of his smiling face puts a pang of sorrow in my breast as it always does. Though he died of cancer over ten years ago, I still mourn the loss of the one family member who ever showed me any kindness.

Nearing the door I see my mother up, dressed in a long, silken ivory robe. Her golden curls are mussed with sleep, and she sips on a cocktail first thing in the morning the way another might their coffee or tea. She’s staring balefully out the window at the car garage.

“Good morning, Mother,” I greet her as I pass. “Just going into town. Need anything?”

“He’s with his secretary an awful lot these days,” she murmurs in response, still staring out the window.

I don’t have to ask who she means. It’s true, Father has been spending more time than usual with Miss Appletree. Even I’ve noticed they’ve been acting rather clandestinely, and I’m usually oblivious to this sort of thing.

“Perhaps he’s having some sort of trouble at the factory,” I suggest in an effort to placate her, but Mother seems hardly to hear me. I slip away slowly, leaving her to her pill and alcohol induced thoughts, trying not to think too hard about any of it.

Marching into the cold October morning, I cross the lawn to the garage on determined strides, coming upon the door just as Father and his secretary appear in the Benz. He drives past without acknowledging me, while in the seat beside him Miss Appletree checks her makeup in a compact mirror. This too, I try not to think about.

The garage already being open, I walk straight in before our new mechanic can close the big doors.

I feel melancholy when I see him, recalling his predecessor, Earl, a sweet, fatherly old man, another one who always treated me kindly. But Earl retired a month ago, and was replaced by Samuel Withers, or just Sam as he was introduced to me, a man in his early to mid-thirties who strikes me as very average all around. Average height and weight, brownish hair with a non-descript sort of face. His eyes are special though, I remember remarking to myself on our first meeting. Quick. Keen. They seem to mark everything that goes on around him. I recall they made me nervous when they lingered on me. As though seeing just a little too much.

“Good morning, Miss Porter,” he greets me in a very ordinary way and lifts a hand to his cap. “Be needing the car today?”

I meet his eyes fleetingly, marking the way they’ve changed from our first meeting when I thought they were very green, to a dull grayish brown. They squint a little, pulling down slightly at the outer corners, while the brow is set at a severe angle in the opposite direction. A distracting contrast.

“Miss Porter?”

“Yes, I do need the car,” I say, hoping my face hasn’t gone red to be caught observing him so intently. “I need to go into town to buy a dress before the party.”

“Certainly, Miss,” he says, wiping greasy hands on a rag in his pocket. “Give me ten minutes to get cleaned up.”