⇀

"what is paraphernalia, miss? surely you do not require all of this."

of all slicked-back, greasy men, this one was not the worst. roselyn had to admit that he wasn't in the least bit menacing, just unnerving with the way he eyed her. she was not particularly fond of the administrators, though often called butlers. they would come to ensure the arrivals of the competitors and were often quite grimy in countenance and behavior.

"look, sir, i'm just here for a husband, i don't see what my belongings has to do with anything." roselyn stood outside by the doorway, arms crossed, nose flared. what could fell men was the ability to assert utter, unequivocally unapproachable dominance with a mere gaze.

although she was never a natural talent at any given subject, sport, art, or anything that required skill, roselyn darcy caught on quickly with "the unapproachable stare."

all you had to do was stare a man down with confidence, and even more so if you lacked it for yourself. it was simple. faux eyes were always simple. however, they birthed complex consequences.

men were sometimes either too stupid or too stubborn to kneel a little lower in the presence of a woman.

the man paused and seemed to discern what kind of woman she was, whether born of ill-bred blood or in possession of high-class mannerisms that he knew not of.

it seemed that the butler did not care, for he shrugged, grabbed her bags, and let her in.

near the doorway was a staircase, a deceptively high one. roselyn wondered how many stories there were, both north and south. everything seemed so rustic and ancient, collecting dust like a renaissance artist's paintings.

"welcome to Morgue House, a house of amusement and controversy, miss darcy. you're the third and final contestant, correct?" a tall, youthful woman strode gracefully into the room, heels clicking against the marble floors. she had flaming red hair that roselyn couldn't help but admire and envy.

"i am saoirse byrne, first of the females here." she remarked.

roselyn could have been told that this beautiful woman was cold and standoff-ish and she would have believed it, had it not been for saoirse's penetratingly blue eyes.

cold words and cold tones always paired strangely with welcoming arms and kind auras.

"persephone, come down and greet the third. stop sulking on the stairs." saoirse called out.

a groan followed by rapid footsteps descended from the stairwell, and roselyn had never seen such a plain-looking girl before until her eyes landed on the owner of the footsteps.

"this is persephone lee, a formidable force in the highly esteemed art of failure." saoirse narrowed her eyes at the girl, who, in turn, glared daggers. "quite the expertise, if you ever see her in action." sarcasm oozed from saoirse's mouth like an infected sore.

"get off yo' high horse, mate. try livin' like one o' us unfortunate folk, uh? you scab-peelers don't know nothing but comfort and admiration. i don't even get taken seriously 'cuz o' da way i talk." persephone growled. roselyn guessed she used to live in the poorer parts of the city.

"call me persie, love. i ain't got nothin' against you." the girl continued and roselyn walked over to shake her hand.

"i'm roselyn darcy, miss persie. it's nice to meet you." she smiled, genuinely. something about persie brought out smiles.

"like 'pride and prejudice' darcy?" persie exclaimed, undeniably astonished by the news. "by golly, that's dandy! jane austen 'as mah favorite lady writer. never read somethin' more beautiful than 'er books."

roselyn beamed, "yes! i am quite fond of her as well, though i personally prefer charlotte bronte. if you'd like, you can call me jane, it's my middle name."

persie giggled, "I love that, but i like yer first name, roselyn. can i call you rosie?"

roselyn smiled, and ignored the glares from saoirse.

"of course you can."