When she was young her mother used to braid her hair. She braided it in such a way that it was adorned with flowers and ribbons. Not even the unruliness of a young child could unfurl the intricate designs woven into her mane. As her hair grew longer so did the patterns become more striking and complicated. Her gowns were a mirage of lace and silk interwoven with velvet and satin.

Her silk stockings were pressed and folded so tight, that not a tear could cut itself into them. She wore shoes that looked as if they were made for porcelain dolls for; they were polished and shined so that when the sun shined upon them it would blind any that had the misfortune of glancing down to them. Her tailor was always the same person that her mother entrusted with being her shoe smith, and was the same man that bought the fabric for each masterpiece.

His name was unimportant and he was often times ignored but it seemed to suit the silent man with the white hair and clear blue eyes. Those eyes seemed to see something others didn’t, for they could create things fit for a goddess not a young spoiled child such as her. The man was nothing short from marvelous. His genius though perhaps, was the disguise on which he shrouded himself under. His clothes were rough wool and the colors which graced his slim form were as follows tan, brown, and beige.

To her his talents always seemed to be wasted on her wardrobe and better spent when he painted. She would in her youth oftentimes sit on her balcony and watch him from the room across from her. He would sit in his white veranda and create splendor where there was once an empty canvas. He would spend months on just one. She remembered the first.

In the beginning it was nothing, then something she didn’t recognize. Finally, when the figure began to take shape he withdrew the blinds of his room and was not to be disturbed for a week. Her mother had seethed in a way that only women with hair the shade of flames could, for it was in the week of one of her balls, and she needed him sew her party dress. They were grand things that need further explanation when the time came, but for now what was important was that her mother had three butlers knock down artist’s door. His room must have been a glorious thing for they were so very shocked and mesmerized, though all one could really read in their faces was astonishment. After staring for at least five minutes her mother shook her head and walked away as if nothing had happened. She was followed by her henchmen only a second later, they had stayed behind to lift the door in its proper place.

On the next day she awoke to find a painting of herself on her bed. On the corner was written in almost unreadable letters his name and her own, Constantinople. She took his name and etched it into the bottom most fathoms of her cold, uncaring, selfish, and childish heart. She would never admit to anyone but herself that she loved the old man with the neatly cut beard. It was an unreadable mutual love that went unsaid, and for the sake of her pride and her family’s integrity ignored. It was the first present of many that hung in her room. These gifts were wrapped in leftover bolts of silk. They were hand woven tapestries with stories of dragons and demons, and flowers that were dried and pressed yet still held their perfume.

Every gift seemed to glow with the presence that was unmistakably him, from Alvise. When she was young she was ignorant of how beautiful she was. She was innocent to how her golden hair mixed with almost undetectable fine red lines when the light hit just right. The girl did not know how her hair straightened then curled to unparalleled perfection at the ends. She did not know how her eyes pulled in those that stared into their fathomless golden depths, yet she was not blind to the treatment which she was accustomed.

She did not have to realize to know she was exceptional. Perhaps that was why she had become the way she was. It was not that she was in any way malevolent or wicked: it was just that she had always been treated with the placidness of a being higher than others, so since there was no one to contest the idea of her being a little if not a lot better than everyone else that was her excepted reality. It was with this egocentric idea that she was raised with after all. In the mornings her mother would awaken Constantinople with kisses and her soft voice. She always told her that she was named such because Constantinople was once the jewel of the Roman Empire and she was after all the jewel of her mother’s heart. It was with such a softly spoken claim of glory that her dear mother did in fact awaken her in the morning.

It was her favorite part of the day. There was nothing she did not adore more than seeing her mother with her red hair and soft green eyes sitting next to her bed. She was always tidy and clean, her hair in some intricate pattern and her makeup making her look even more pale than she already was except for her ruby red lips that seemed to always be colored. She was forever glittering with rubies, diamonds, and sapphires everywhere. She once heard her mother say that she was naked without her jewelry.

Her clothes were more fashionably cut and made by dozens of seamstresses even though to her, her gowns never compared to her own, they lacked character and creativity, yet they were elegant and in fine fabric. She would take her upon her soft warm lap and hum a tuneless song that only the two shared until they were disrupted by her father with the long whiskers and his golden pocket watch who would taka her mother’s hand and whisk her away to an adventure she was never invited to. In fact Constantinople had never left her home that was honorably dubbed orchid manor for its extensive gardens that was made up of only that flower which was her mother’s favorite.

When she was away from them it seemed her demeanor clouded and she became an unruly and undisciplined child. It seemed to her that everything she wanted had to be given to her immediately and in perfect quality, and so began her day. On her bedside table lay a vanity. It was obviously of Victorian style painted over and glossed white, so as to fit the wishes of the five year old. It was perceptibly carved by a master sculptor that had a fondness for beautiful things. It was engraved with the images of angels and flowers though, if one was to look closely at its legs you would find the little devils that held it up. That went unnoticed of course and if one was to observe the normal running of the house the vanity suited the little girl well. On this piece of furniture lay a tray with an assortment of different sized silver bells.

She rang these according to her mood. When she was in a good mood witch was never very often all one heard was the slight pretty sound of a small tinkling bell. More times than not though she would choose one of the others that were by some magic incredibility loud and obnoxious. These horrendous objects served to awake her staff to begin the administration of the household. Her favorite maid Gertrude would come to her room to bring her to her feet.

She was her favorite for the simple fact that she did not speak to her and only answered when spoken to with a polite and formal title that was used by all her servant Lady Albertina as was her last name. She was also and efficient servant. Her bath was always drawn with rose petals and lavender oil. It was set to the best temperature according to the weather. She was scrubbed, and spent a long time in the large tub. Her hair was lathered brushed and washed in the water by different products then, washed twice more. She was fitted with more often then not, a new creation that Alvise had orchestrated. When her dress, stockings, and shoes were placed on her she would give the order for breakfast. On that particular day she requested fresh strawberries slathered in sugared cream and fine old whine from her parent’s vineyard. She sat that day on a cushioned chair sitting in a small quaint yet fine table enjoying her meal. The sun was a bit too much that day so she was sporting a rather pretty sun hat. It was of crisp new straw with pink and white roses intertwined upon it. The flowers were real of course and since it was her favorite hat to wear out doors new fresh ones were placed there every day. She wore a light white dress of silk and trimmed with lace. To say it was a fine dress would be an understatement for it was just glorious. The dress had a bit of a train flowing behind her and rice pearls interlinked into a simple yet extravagant pattern on her torso. She looked if one was to put it modestly, like a queen.

Her white minx coat hung on the back of her chair, and would have been worn if it was not such a stifling morning. Still, Constantinople would never leave the wonderful newly made coat indoors if she could parade around with it in the open. In truth the only people that she was flaunting her wealth to were her begrudged and often abused servants.

To the so very little girl though, it was as if the sun and birds itself stopped to admire her grandeur. She was not lonely because she was never truly alone. If she wanted someone to talk to, she needed but speak to Gertrude. The woman would sit and listen to her without but a comment witch fit her mood very well because she didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion, and when she wished to have a conversation it meant she wanted to be heard. She would talk about some small trivial aspect of her life. She did not care to hear others. It never occurred to her to be forlorn because there was no one her age to talk to because she had never met another child, and didn’t think anyone like her existed (It fit her ego well.) This day though Constantinople did not know it, was the day she would begin to become human, for the girl was too human at least not in the philosophical view of the word. She cared nothing for others and only had to emotions of selfishness, want, and glee. Of course even with everything she had glee only appeared to her when something went wring with others so she could laugh and punish those she saw had faulted. The most inhuman thing about her though would have to be the complete ignorance of her actions. She found no wring in what she did because she was never taught that it was wrong to do such things.

It happened because suddenly Gertrude became awfully sick in the stomach, and it was not surprising given the food the servants were meant to eat. Constantinople looked at her sweaty pain, pain stricken face with her squinting scowl look as if she had just sucked lemons. Then of course she raised her chin like the little aristocrat she was and plugged her nose with a perfectly manicured hand.

“Gertrude,” she grimaced with an all too pretty voice. Even with the snobbish tone she sounded like running water and hummingbirds. “You both look and smell like a pig this morning. Your sweaty face is both sickening and unpleasant to my delicate senses. Please remove yourself from my sight and do not touch anything in my house.” The old plump maid was so used to such comments and in so much pain she barely responded to the sour comment, but as she began to stand she was stopped by the crisp little voice once again.

“Oh, and before I forget servant, Bring me a new companion for the day.”