She Shall Have Music

The sun is hot on my back and I wish I could be wearing something made of a thinner material.
The sackcloth itches where rivulets of sweat have caught between the rough fibres and my delicate skin. Even my ordinary clothes are of finer thread than these that have been thrust upon me.
I look down at my hands and try to be grateful.
At least I still have my rings. I should be glad that they did not take them from me, too.
One for each finger, sparkling with semi-precious jewels. Family heirlooms.

My family.


Mother says if she had not been there, she would scarcely believe she had given birth to me, I am so different from the rest of them.
They are hardy gypsy folk, ruddy-skinned and muscular.
They toil through the heat of the day with no ill effects, and through the dark of night they huddle around the roaring campfire and sing strange songs of magicks I fear I shall never understand.

My name is Mina Skye.
But they call me "The Fine Lady."

When I was younger I took it as a compliment.
I used to spend hours daydreaming that indeed, I may be of a different creed to the uncouth, dark demeanored creatures who surrounded me.
Perhaps I was a princess, kidnapped for a great ransom but somehow 'recued' by the gypsies and raised as one of their own.
Perhaps one day in the distant future, my real family would find me, and I would be taken to a palace filled with the finest luxuries conceivable.

And in this dreamworld, I spun through bejewelled rooms with ceilings so high as to be barely visible, my dainty feet stepping lightly over veined marble floors that were cold yet comforting to the touch.

I wore dresses of silk and satin, and in the bleak winter months these were covered over with furs of great opulence, keeping the chill far from my pale skin.

But of course, all young girls have such fancies, and I soon grew out of them.
But not out of the feeling that I didn't belong.

The title of "Fine Lady" became hateful to me, a mockery by my peers, and a constant reminder that I was not like the others.
While they relished the chance to run and play beneath the sun's rays, I preferred to stay inside. My ivory skin was more easily scorched than theirs, and a few hours of wood cutting or fetching water caused painful blistering.
Mother would bathe my sores and comfort me, but I just felt like an outcast.
Without my dreams to distract me from the daily grind, I soon became sullen and withdrawn.

Mother came up with an idea.
Why couldn't I work as a Lady's maid in the village?

"There's some grand houses," she said, "And I'm sure them young ladies would be grateful for some help dressing. Someone t'braid their hair, serve 'em meals, and help them t'manage their affairs. You could stay indoors where it's cool, and be around people...better people...than us. People with them fancy manners and flowery speech. It'll be good for you, Mina."

So I left the camp where I had spent the first fifteen years of my life, and started afresh.

The house was not like the ones I had dreamed of. The foors were not marble but wood, and the ceilings were low, with thick splintered beams.
My lady was Arabella, and how I envied her!
She was pale, like me; but where I was wan and listless, she was porcelian, peaches and perfection.
We were both brunette, but my hair was lacklustre thatch compared with her burnished locks.
And while her manners and deportment were impeccable in front of her parents and the many men who came to call, in private she was every bit as unrefined as my siblings.
She spoke to me as though I were lower than an animal to her. She scowled and glowered and complained no matter how hard I tried to please her; and if I showed defiance, she had me beaten like a dog.

"Gypsy," she spat on that fateful day,"Hurry and do my hair. Master Hawkins will soon be here, and I will not have him see me in such disarray."
Carefully, silently, I piled her hair atop her head and arranged it so that it fell softly at the nape of her neck.
She looked beautiful.
But she was not pleased.
"Idiot girl!" she screeched, "You make me look like some wanton hussy!"
"I'm s-sorry, Miss," I stammered, "I'll do it again."
"Don't bother," she huffed, striding over to her wardrobe.
"Just lace me into my corset. If that's not too difficult a task for you."
I did as I was bid, obedient, outwardly an automaton programmed only to serve.
But my fingers twitched and inside I could feel anger bubbling like lava.

Arabella continued to berate me as she stepped into the boned garment.
"Fool, freakish child. I should have you whipped. I don't know what father was thinking, hiring the child of a gypsy. Thieves, tramps and vagabonds, all of you!"
'I'm not like them!' my mind screamed, 'I'm like you...a lady.'
"Filthy whore!"
'No. No, I'm not like you at all.'
Suddenly I snapped. I was possessed of a strength I had no idea I had, and pulled the strings of the corset tight. She grimaced. "Tighter, gypsy!" I tugged again, the ribbon leaving a deep groove in each palm. Arabella smiled grimly."That's more like it, you filthy--"
Her breath caught as I placed my knee in the small of her back and pulled even harder. Her gasp matched my own as the ribbons drew blood from my delicate hands. But still I pulled, forcing her body to arch forward over the dressing table.
She began to struggle, knocking her hairbrush and some small decorative bottles to the floor.

I could not stop. Suddenly I was as strong as the men from back home. What fueled me were bitter, jealous thoughts.
Arabella had the life I wanted. This hostile, spoiled, vain, AWFUL girl...how was she more deserving of wealth and status than me?
More deserving of the attentions of a gentleman like Master Hawkins?

I had met him, on several occassions, when acting as chaperone to Arabella. A good man, a handsome man. Sometimes, when Arabella was busy showing off her skills on the piano, I caught him looking at me. If she was gone, maybe....?

I heard a snap as one of her ribs broke. She didn't scream. She whined pitifully, and in the mirror on her dressing table, I saw her eyes bulge and her jaw drop open slackly.
As it became harder and harder for her to draw breath, she clutched at the sides of the dresser, wheezing like the old bellows for the fire.
Her red lips began to take on a purplish tinge, and tiny pinprick red veins showed in her eyes.
She stopped fighting.

One final tug, and then I froze; Arabella's terrified gaze mirroring my own as she slowly slipped into unconsciousness.
A satin pillow placed over her mouth and nose for a few minutes did the rest.

I arranged her on the bed, to look as though she was sleeping. But I couldn't bring myself to touch her eyelids, to close those accusing eyes. And they gave me away.

When they knew what I'd done, they didn't listen to my story.
They didn't care that I hadn't intended to hurt her; that she had goaded me for months until I could stand no more.

They said I was a witch, a plague sent upon the village by an angry god as punishment for allowing heathens and gypsies into their midst.
My punishment was decided while I sat in a dimly lit cell; moths circling the flame of the gas lamp, eager to be embraced by its fatal glow.

And now, here I am.
I try to imagine, as I am bundled onto the horse and strapped onto it's saddle; that it is not sackcloth I wear, but one of the glorious gowns of my dreams, its length sweeping the dust as I ride.
But it isn't. The sunlight hurts me, singes my flesh and blinds my eyes.

The bells strapped to my fingers and toes jangle tirelessly as I am jostled about by the movements of the beast. They are not a decoration. They are an announcement- ringing out the news that I am a murderer.

Their peals are heard by the villagers, and they come out of their houses to greet me with rocks and stones.
These rain down on me, heavy and solid, biting into my fragile skin and letting blood spring forth to drop onto the white flanks of the steed who carries the burden of my weight.
The pain is great, but it is the sound of the bells that causes me the most discomfort.
I cannot stand the carcophany, the music following me everywhere, spreading the lie that I am some heinous creature, damned and deserving of torture.

As I ride through Banbury Cross, through the blur of my tears I see a crowd of my own people.
They eye me disdainfully.
Their "Fine Lady," condemmed to have music wherever she goes.