Chapter One: Looking Back

“Emma, it’s time to wake up. You’ll be late for breakfast.”

Emma peered out of her cozy blankets to glare at the booming voice. It was too early. It couldn’t possibly be time to get up yet. Mrs. Austen met her morning-eye stare with a look full of such seriousness that Emma felt obliged to wake up out of fear.

Mrs. Austen was a full-figured woman with a uniform that did not show off her “curves” in a positive manner. Emma had thought that she once was quite a voluptuous and sought-after lady of the town, but after having three children, her curves had turned to concrete. Though her thick brown hair was always in a tight bun, giving an unknowing stranger the notion that she was a mean woman, Mrs. Austen had a kind heart. She was both trusting and demanding; her job as the house maid made her this way. Mr. Rigozzi accepted her, and so did Emma. Mrs. Rigozzi wouldn’t have cared about her at all.

After a bit of a light stretch, Emma pulled open the curtains that covered the large window next to her. The sunlight streamed in without restriction. No riots today, she thought. No wonder I slept so well.

Mrs. Austen laid out her day clothes on the bed, told her that her father had a surprise for her, and that she needed to be downstairs in a half an hour. Emma grunted in response. Mrs. Austen gently shut the door behind her.

Emma slipped into her delicates, today a matching purple bra and boxer panties, and buttoned up a simple black dress that highlighted her petite build. Though she didn’t know it, all of Emma’s friends were jealous of her looks. Her long reddish brown hair, her penetrating blue eyes, her tiny yet womanly figure attracted looks from manly passersby. Emma knew nothing of it, of course, but her father was quick to hide his blooming daughter from anyone he deemed possibly “inappropriate.”

The Rigozzis had been an upstanding family in the area since her grandparents had immigrated to the East Coast from Italy. Her father had fallen in love with her mother when they were at college together, and they were only a year out of college when they decided to get married. Her mother had been a carefree woman in her youth, but during the birth of Emma’s sister, Samantha, her mother’s woes caught up with her. Mrs. Rigozzi died in childbirth but, miraculously, Samantha lived. That had been four years ago, when Emma was thirteen.

After the death of her mother, Emma often tried to relive some of her favorite moments of them together. When she was feeling alone, Emma would look up at the stars and recall the numerous times that her mother and she had tried to count them. They’d be lying on a blanket, trying to keep the bugs and dirt off of themselves, and end up counting around 450 stars. Usually when they passed this number Emma would fall asleep and her mother would stroke her hair.

Even if her mother were alive, they never would have been able to do that again. The Revolution had caused too much chaos, and the stars were rarely even visible, no less countable nowadays.

Emma glanced about her room, admiring the soothing blue color scheme that she had decided upon a few months earlier. Her bed, dresser, and desk all matched one another, and her favorite part of her room was the mirror. The mirror ran on the wall opposite her bed, and went from the floor to a few inches above Emma’s head. Its frame was made of thick and decorated gold. When she opened the curtains to her window, the mirror would always shine.

After approving herself in the mirror, Emma found a pair of black sandals that fit her comfortably, and, after exiting her room, flew down the stairs with the grace expected of a girl who had been cooped up for hours on end.

“Good morning, Father,” Emma beamed as she set herself down at the dining table. “How’s the war going?”

Her father, a rather burly man of middle age, looked up thankfully from his low-calorie breakfast to the gleaming smile of his eldest daughter.

“According to the papers we’re winning and expanding our boundaries. But of course you never know who the hell is writing these articles these days.” Her father paused, and, realizing that young Samantha was at the table, scolded himself for using such colloquial profanity.

Though Samantha was young, inheriting her mother’s beauty and sense of humor, she appreciated her father’s dialogue and smirked at her sister.

“So, Father, Mrs. Austen spoke to me about some surprise?” Emma questioned hopefully.

“Yes,” he laughed heartily, taking a bite of a blueberry muffin top, “there is a surprise. However, I’m not sure how you will be taking to it. Or should I say, to him.”

Samantha giggled. Emma scrunched her face in puzzled amusement.

“I doubt that a new business partner of yours is going to frighten me that much.”

Her father laughed deeply again. “Oh, my daisy, how delightfully wrong you can be sometimes. Well, Mr. Spencer is getting old. He can only run this home’s affairs for so long without feeling run down and spent. When he gets to that point, I do not want our family to suffer, nor him. Therefore, I have hired a new hand who will, hopefully, take Mr. Spencer’s place when I see fit.”

Emma had been collecting a plate of fresh fruit, swiftly popping pieces of cut up pineapple into her salivating mouth, while her father was talking.

“Well, Father, how splendid! I am happy that Mr. Spencer will finally be able to seek retirement. I am sure that you have made an excellent choice in your replacement. I do not see the problem with your logic.”

“That’s just the problem, my love,” Mr. Rigozzi sighed. “The replacement is a wonderful man. Actually, he is probably one of the few people I would trust with this job.”

Mr. Rigozzi took a large gulp of his coffee. Samantha stirred in her seat, growing terribly bored of this conversation.

“I hired Mr. Jared Portier,” said Mr. Rigozzi. He followed up quickly, trying to support his decision. “I know that we do not agree with all of his family’s choices during the Revolution, but after his parents were arrested, he was left with nothing. He is in desperate need of a job and a place to live, and I promised Mrs. Portier, before she was jailed for conspiracy, of course, that I would take care of Jared no matter what. I am keeping my promise, as any Rigozzi would.”

Emma was exasperated. Her childhood friend, whose parents had defied the government, would be serving her this afternoon’s tea. If the shower in her bathroom quit working, who would come to her rescue? No, not Mr. Spencer, who used to engage in witty banter with Emma and make her day, but instead, Jared. Jared Portier. He would be living, according to her father, just down the hall from her, in the designated guest room.

“Although he is working for our family, he is, and always will be, considered a guest in our home.” Emma looked at him with frustration. Her father continued, “We are helping him by providing him with means, dearest Emma. He will help us by providing us with a way to keep our household going. He’s a bright one, that Jared. He will go a long way, especially with our help.”

Emma took another bite of pineapple. Samantha asked to be excused and was escorted to her room by Mrs. Austen.

Trying to take this decision in stride, Emma looked for some positive reasons to dwell upon. She could think of only one.

Maybe now he’ll apologize.