Venice Craven

I woke late that morning. It was not unlike any other. The shouts for me to wake up had assailed me for the last few hours. But they had been ignored. The blankets duly pulled up over my head as I burrowed within and promptly slipped back into a light slumber. I enjoyed my sleep and had no intention of getting up for at least another hour if I had anything to say about it. It seems so long ago this morning when I was only fourteen summers old. Spring had just left and the festival to celebrate the first week of Summer had unfolded yesterday, my date of birth had passed a few weeks prior, and the family business seemed to be doing well.

We were merchants, or rather my father was. He dealt in a variety of wares and owned a number of the shops on Tradesman's and Smith's Way. Though with my father, as with everything it was never enough. He wanted more and in particular he sought to gain the elusive title of Lord. He dutifully served the Mao House and that prize (like the proverbial carrot to the donkey) was dangled constantly just out of his reach. They asked him to jump and he asked how high and off what bridge.

If only that had been the worst of his faults then perhaps I could of forgiven him for it and everything that has passed since then.

This particular morning, my little nap lasted not much more than a few more minutes before my Mother shouted out in a voice that I knew meant business. "Venice Leif Craven, if yer are not up and out of tha' bloody bed by tha time I count ta ten, I swear, I'll sell it an' you'll be sleepin' on tha' hearth fer the rest of yer life."

In case you are wondering, Leif was my grandmother's name. She is the one who can be blamed for my love of Whiskey. Oh so many times have I heard her say: "Whiskey, it'll cure anythin'" in a gravely voice that is reserved for people over the age of a hundred (well maybe she wasn't a hundred years, but she certainly looked like she'd been around at the start of King Strahdech's reign). She was good to me, more so than I ever deserved. My father thought she spoiled me with all her gifts of books which put 'ludicrous' notions into my head. Illusions of grandeur. I would lie if I said that magic fascinated me at that age. In fact, despite all the attempts by my grandmother to the contrary, it bored me to tears. I had no interest in it whats-so-ever. I was not a prodigy child. I did not start studying at the age of five.

But I did read. Books fascinated me, and I had ruined numerous wool blankets with dripped wax as I huddled beneath the covers at times well past the hour when I should of been asleep.

However, I digress, this morning I (more so than others) had no desire to get out and face the world. The previous day's events lead to an embarrassment that I felt sure would haunt me till my last breath. How wrong was I? It was a simple enough affair. A crush (as young girls often have) upon one of my father's caravan guards who barely noticed my existence. But then again? Why should he? I was just a spoiled sniveling brat of the man who paid his wages. But certainly his co-workers noticed the way I hung around longer than I should of at the shops when they were making deliveries or picking up goods. And it was them that laughed uproariously at my attempts to gain his attention (today a new yellow ribbon to match the dress I wore).

Of course, nothing could ever be so simple, this day was no exception and my joyful skip was suddenly turned into a stumbling fall (had I mentioned yet how clumsy I was?) as I landed face first in a muddied puddle. The pain of the grazes was barely noticed in comparison to the humiliation I felt at having fallen thus right in front of them. My face turned crimson at the sound of the laughter and with it ringing in my ears, I leaped to my feet (knees grazed and bleeding my skirts muddied) and ran off as fast as my short legs could take me (did I also mention I was short?).

As bad as I had felt, my cheeks aflame with colour (and boy must I of looked a sight) when I ran through the house, slamming doors the entire length of the way before hurtling onto my bed. But this humiliation was not the cause of my running away. Though I admit the thought did cross my mind when faced with the prospect of seeing Taliesin and the rest of the guards again.

"The day had only just begun", to quote the first line of one of my more preferred books. I sulked. Shouted. Shed a few tears, threw a few things around. Did everything that was typical in my temper tantrums. It was in the middle of one of my sulks that my father entered the room. His presence caused my emotions to immediately 'sober up', he had no time for such nonsense. So I pulled myself up and sat (in a demure fashion as possible) upon the edge of my bed. His disapproving eyes, more grey than mine are blue, moved around the room at the destruction I had wrought. Taking in my disheveled state, the muddied dress, my grazed knees and my tear-stained face. He made no comment but I could hear the mild tut-tutting sound before he spoke.

He threw a wrapped package down into my lap and stated in his aristocratic voice, "We have a guest dinning tonight. Clean yourself up, put that on and be ready promptly at eight."