I'm planning to expand this one day. Perhaps.

She was once again sitting on stone steps, out in the bright sunshine, reading a romance novel. The sun made the pages too white and she was squinting something awful, but she doubted ultimately whether the squinting would matter in the grand scheme of things.

Her face was not delicate even when arranged into composure. She therefore didn't even lift a hand to shield her page from the rays.

Anastasia had abandoned her earlier that morning, disappearing "Only for a moment" to buy a croissant and some cheese. Drizella had spat after her, and to no avail, of course, but she felt better nevertheless whenever she was able to let her anger out. And so, to the book shoppe! To thumb through cast-off novels, to sample a page or two, to look for the apt phrasing and the interesting plot line. She selected one about some French aristocrat and some French rake, who eventually was to be tamed. Elaborate scenery and the like. She bargained down the price and settled in to her favourite reading spot, hardly caring that her unflattering dress would get dirty.

It was not near lunch time yet when they brought him to the pillory, and for the twelfth time this week. She rolled her eyes.

"Miss Tremaine," one of the struggling officers panted. "Perhaps you ought to go; you should shield yourself from this beast's profanity, which he is doubtless," - here his words were punctuated by a swift punch in the guts by the accosted fellow, who was then beaten over the head with a baton a little bit, - "to use, even in the presence of a lady."

"Not to worry, Officer. I'm acquainted with the fellow. He won't disturb my reading. In fact, I'll sit just so," and she came closer, reseating herself just behind the pillory, "and he'll provide me with some shade."

The officers didn't look impressed, but they had no choice but to leave her to it. The Tremaine name was still good for something, after all. Indeed, more so now, with their connections to the palace, however strained those connections might be.

The officers moved off, refraining, Drizella supposed, from spitting on the prisoner because she was there to be polluted by the indecency of such an action. They tipped their hats at her. She nodded demurely.

She hated this village.

She returned her eyes to the page and read as Pierre made a saucy remark to Celine, read as Celine decided what to wear come tomorrow. She glanced up at the prisoner. But only once.

She was halfway through the novel before he spoke. "How's Lady Anastasia?"

She ignored him.

But she glanced up.

His lips were pursed in annoyance, and he was covered in scratches and bruises. He drummed his fingers on the pillory, which struck Drizella as rather comical. She twisted her mouth against the smile.

He didn't speak again, and finally she succumbed. "What did you do this time?" she asked indifferently, not taking her eyes off her page.

"I insulted some lord or another. Called him some variation of aristocratic slime. Harmless, really."

"Ah, yes. You do know how to be a mover and a shaker. You've managed to accomplish so much social change in so short a time."

He didn't answer, and she supposed she'd stung him. Triumphant, she looked up again, but it was only to find him attempting to scratch at his neck. Apart from grimacing, discomforted about the itch, he looked rather unscathed. She bitterly returned to the novel.

"So how is Lady Anastasia?" he repeated.

"Why do you want to know?" Drizella snapped.

"I'm worried about her, that's all."

She glared up at him now, and unbeknownst to her the pages began to slowly turn themselves until the book snapped itself shut. "You have no business worrying about Lady Anastasia, pauper."

"I guess you're right. But you should be, you are her sister, after all."

"Thank you, I had no idea."

She looked at her lap to find the book closed and hissed. She flipped through trying fruitlessly to remember her page, and had to resort to skimming until she found where she had left off.

The truth was, though she'd never admit it to him, that she was worried about her sister. She'd be in the bakery right now. That was all she did during the long morning and afternoon hours. She sat in the bakery and talked to that damned baker's son while he was working. "I don't know what you're so concerned about, Drizella. We just talk. He's very interesting. Much more interesting than anyone at those silly balls we always go to. He has things to say, and he listens to the things I have to say. What's the harm in that?"

The harm was that even if by some miracle of divinely inspired delusion Anastasia wasn't aware of her own feelings for the lad, the truth was noticeable from miles away to everyone else. That baker probably was aware of it. He was probably waiting for his chance to manipulate her foolish, innocent sister. Indeed, Drizella had noticed several months back, and apparently even petty criminals who had not a penny to spare on a modest slice of bread still had the time and opportunity to notice that the youngest daughter of Lady Tremaine was swooning over the village baker's son. At least mother wasn't aware of it, thank God almighty.

And Drizella didn't need to be reminded about all this, not right now. She was reading her novel in the sunshine, Chrissake, and she'd be damned if she'd let this insolent trouble maker ruin her day. She wasn't going to think about it.

"This is tedious," he said, apparently unaware of Drizella's newfound (thanks to him) fluster, and her eyes were clearly not moving through the words on her page. He was drumming idiotically again. She hated him for it, for his carefree nature. She supposed being poor made one amply able to be carefree. The layabout, the trouble maker.

She stood abruptly, and he stopped drumming to watch her dusting off her skirts.

"Where're you going?"

"To finish my book in peace," she snapped, and stormed off.

"I'll be here if you need me," he called after her in a fatalistic sort of way. She scoffed as she fled.

"I love him," she was saying, over and over again like a parrot who had only been taught one simple, useless phrase.

"Don't be a moron!" Drizella snapped. "You just like him because he pays attention to you."

"No," sighed Anastasia, and she turned over on her back, waving her hands around like an awkward ballerina. "I really do love him. I've only just noticed."

Drizella stood above her in her frilly nightgown, looking at her sister's upside down goofy face; her hands were on her hips and she was glaring as furious a glare as she could muster.

"What?" asked Anastasia, and it sounded as though she was completely indifferent to whatever "what" was.

"Anastasia!" she snapped.

"What?" she asked again, but this time she let her hands drop and her eyes focus on her sister. She sighed irritably and flipped back over.

"He's the son of a… of a…" she gestured inarticulately, searching for the word, and, finding it, let it go in one despairing shriek, "baker!"

Anastasia raised her eyebrows.

"And you, Anastasia," she said, regaining her composure, "are the daughter of a Lady. He'll inherit a tiny little village bakery and roll pie crusts all his life! You are supposed to marry an aristocrat!"

Anastasia hopped off her bed and stomped to her mirror. She flung herself into the seat moodily and glared at her reflection. "That's all very well for you, Drizella. You have Lord Ashbury to talk to at the functions. You have any number of judges and doctors to dance with at the balls. Nobody pays me any attention there. I'm miserable all the time, except when I'm with him."

"Like I said," Drizella snapped with a dismissive flick of her hand, "you only care about him because he's willing to spend time with you. And anyway, he's probably only willing because you're a paying customer. A rich paying customer."

Anastasia's reflection glared at her for a moment before she stood and threw herself into bed. "Goodnight, Drizella."

Drizella stared at the lump that was her sister covered completely by a thick duvet, sighed, and blew out the candle. She found herself suddenly very tired.

It wasn't nearly as bright as the last day she'd sat here reading. The clouds made the task a lot more comfortable, though, so she wasn't complaining. It was a different book today. It was about a kidnapped princess and a menacing but darkly handsome foreign king.

"This is tedious," he sighed, once again locked in the pillory. This time for stealing food right out of a distinguished Lady's banquet hall. "And I'll likely be unable to perform any manual labour when I'm an elderly chap, because I'm always bent at the waist like this for hours at a time. If they want me to earn a living they might think about that."

"You might think about that," she trilled, eyes not leaving the page, but her mind was already far away from it. "You might stop getting into trouble."

"How can I help it? This world was designed to get people like me into trouble."

"Yes, the dreadful plight of the layabout."

"No, not layabouts. Layabouts have all the luxuries of the world. I'm talking about people who are sensible. People who care about their fellow man."

"You care so much about your fellow man and yet you're always stealing from them, vandalizing their goods, and shouting insults at them."

"Those men aren't my fellows. I'm talking about the downtrodden."

"Oh, you are such a martyr indeed."

There was silence for a while. A couple of pigeons strutted nearby, searching for crumbs or bugs between the cobblestones.

"When you gaze up into the heavens like that, with that soft, sweet expression, what is it that you are thinking about?" the dark king asked her, taking her slender arm in his strong, firm grasp.

Another pigeon fluttered down to the street to join his companions. They strutted individually but as one.

"So, what do you contribute to society?" he asked, rubbing his middle finger and thumb together thoughtfully. "As an upper class young lady, I mean."

Drizella leaned back and watched the clouds. "I search for a mate so that I can raise a new generation of upper class, a new generation to maintain the order."

"Ah. Is it much work, this endeavour of yours?"

"Indeed it is. I've many obstacles to overcome. First, the others of my rank. They tend to be more graceful and delicate than me."

"Come on, you're fairly graceful."

She raised one eyebrow. "I trip over my train almost perpetually. And my frame is rather awkward. It'd better suit an orang-utan."

"You're too modest." Now he had raised a matching eyebrow.

"Other women tend to possess a certain natural beauty in their features that I can't even achieve with liberal powdering."

"Don't be foolish. There's nothing wrong with your face, much."

"Hmmm," she said, smiling humourlessly at him. "I have no talent with which to make up for my lack of beauty and grace."

"There must be something you're good at," he said earnestly.

"Not a thing."

"You can't dance?"

"I can, awfully."

"You can't sing?"

"I can sing as beautifully as a goose. Shall I entertain you?" She stood, still smiling gravely, and thrust out her chest with an enormous inhale. "Oh, sing sweet nightingale, sing sweet… nightingale," and she twirled inelegantly. "Ah sir, don't I sing so well as to tempt you never to commit another crime again lest you become once more my captive audience?"

He smiled widely. "Oh, I don't know. I've heard worse."

Drizella sighed and shook out her skirts. She retrieved her book from the steps and took them two at a time. His smile disappeared.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere," she snapped.

"Have I said something to offend you?" he called after her retreating back.

"Not at all," she huffed. "I do so enjoy being mocked."

She was halfway across the square now, and he frowned after her.

I think I made light of the pillory. Oh well.