The meadow stretched endlessly, bathed in the golden light of the early morning sun. The delicate fragrance of wildflowers filled the air, and a subtle breeze danced through the grass, making the petals of daisies, buttercups, and lavender sway. Marie knelt in the tall grass, her fingers moving gently as she picked flowers, in bouquets. The stems were damp with dew, and her hands were stained with the soft scent of rosemary.

She smiled to herself, her face aglow with the joy of the simple task. Her thoughts were as light as the breeze, and as she tied another bouquet with a strip of ribbon, she held it up to admire the colors; the whites and yellows of daisies, the purples of lavender, and the soft blue of forget-me-nots. Her mother had always taught her the meaning behind each flower, and Marie liked to think that the bouquets she made were small gifts of hope to the people in her village.

As she rose to her feet, a giggle echoed from behind her, followed by another, more insistent tug at her dress.
"Marie! Look what I found!"
Her youngest sister, Juliette, barely seven, held out a handful of wildflowers – more weeds than flowers, really – but the joy in her wide eyes was infectious.

Marie knelt, smoothing back Juliette's wild curls.
"They're beautiful, ma douce." she said gently, taking the flowers from her sister's small hands and tucking one behind the girl's ear. "You have a talent for picking the best ones."

Juliette beamed, her missing tooth on full display. "Can I come with you to the market? Please?"

Before Marie could answer, her other sister, Camille, only a year younger than Marie at seventeen, joined them, carrying a basket full of freshly baked bread from their mother. "Papa says we have to hurry if we want to make it to the market before the heat comes. He doesn't want us walking too far with the sun high."

Marie nodded, standing tall and brushing the dirt from her skirt. She picked up her own basket, which was already brimming with flowers, and began the walk back to the village with her sisters at her side. The air was sweet with the scent of hay and earth, and birds sang their morning chorus above them.

The village of Saint-Étienne was small, a tightly-knit community where everyone knew each other. Its narrow cobblestone streets were lined with cottages, and as Marie and her sisters passed through the village gates, they were greeted with waves, smiles, and nods of recognition. Her family might not have been wealthy, but they were respected. And Marie, with her beauty, and gentle soul, was admired by all.

"Marie, mademoiselle!" an old woman, crouched at her window, waved her gnarled hand. "I need some of your flowers for my kitchen! Could you spare a few for an old lady?"

Marie laughed softly and walked over to the window. She handed the woman a small bouquet, the kind she made with such care.
"For you, Madame Lucille." she said, her voice as warm as the morning sun. "And I’ll bring you some herbs next time. Maman says you were asking for thyme and sage."

The woman smiled, her wrinkled face lighting up. "Always the thoughtful one, you are. You're an angel, my dear. Heaven on Earth."

As she walked through the square, she could feel the eyes on her, but it never made her uncomfortable. Boys her age – local farmhands, artisans’ sons – would stop their work and stare, some even blushing when she caught them looking. She smiled politely at them, though her mind never lingered on any of their faces. It wasn’t arrogance, nor disinterest, but rather an innocence, a naivety that came with her youth. Life, in her eyes, was still full of simple joys, untainted by the weight of expectation or the urgency of desire.

Her friends soon joined her at the market: a small group of girls her age, each of them laughing, teasing, and chatting away about the latest village gossip. They adored Marie, not just for her beauty but for her kindness. She always had time for them, always knew just what to say when one of them was feeling down. The girls would often joke that she wasn’t just the fairest in Saint-Étienne, but the fairest in all of France.

"Did you hear about the dance next week?" Madeleine, her closest friend, whispered as they browsed the market stalls.

"I did." Marie replied, as she picked out some vegetables for her mother. "But I’m afraid I’ll have to watch from the side this time. I’ll be helping Maman prepare food for it."

Madeleine shook her head. "You? Not dance? Surely the boys will drag you onto the floor."

Marie laughed, though a small part of her wondered if Madeleine was right. Though she felt no romantic stirrings just yet, there was a quiet curiosity that had begun to grow in her heart. Sometimes, she would catch herself wondering what it would be like to be courted, to be loved in the way stories always described. But love, like so many things, felt distant.

By midday, the market was buzzing with life. The flowers Marie had brought sold quickly, and she found herself walking home with her sisters, the basket now filled with bread, cheese, and fresh fruit for supper. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and she could feel the warmth of the afternoon settling into her skin.

When they arrived back at their simple, modest home nestled at the edge of the village, her father was waiting for her by the door. His face, weathered and kind, held a gravity that instantly quieted her sisters' chatter. Marie felt a flicker of something; unease, perhaps, though it was quickly buried by the calm that came from her father’s familiar presence.

"Marie." he said softly, beckoning her closer. "I need to speak with you."

She handed her basket to Camille, her hands now free but suddenly feeling heavy. She followed her father into the small sitting room, the worn wooden floor creaking underfoot. Her mother was already there, seated by the hearth, her hands busy with a sewing project, though her eyes lifted to meet Marie's as they entered.

Her father sat down, resting his hands on his knees. He looked at her with a mixture of pride and seriousness, the way he always did when he had important news.

"You’re eighteen now." he began, his voice calm, but firm. "And I’ve made arrangements for your future."

Marie blinked, the meaning behind his words slowly sinking in.

"Arrangements?" she repeated, her heart fluttering in her chest.

"Yes." her mother added, her tone reassuring. "A marriage. With a nobleman’s son. A good match, one that will give you a stable life. You'll meet him soon."

Her first reaction wasn’t fear, nor was it excitement. Instead, a quiet acceptance settled over her. It wasn’t uncommon for girls her age to be married off: many of her friends were already promised to someone. And while the thought of marriage had always seemed like something in the distant future, it didn’t frighten her. She trusted her father’s judgment.

Curiosity stirred in her chest.

"Who is he?" she asked, her voice even, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Her father smiled. "He’s from a good family, with lands just beyond the village. You’ll meet him at the dance next week."

For a moment, Marie let her mind drift. Her future, which had always felt like something far away, was now before her. The possibility of a new life, of love, of family, began to bloom in her mind. She imagined herself dressed in her finest gown, meeting this stranger, this nobleman’s son who could offer her a future full of promise.

The idea didn’t frighten her. It intrigued her.

"Thank you, Papa." she said softly, smiling at her father and mother. "I’ll do my best to honor this family."

She rose from her seat and made her way to the window, looking out at the familiar sight of the meadow beyond. The flowers still swayed lazily in the afternoon breeze, the same meadow she had played in as a child, and now the same one she would leave behind.

Her future, she realized, could be more beautiful than she ever imagined.