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She’d always enjoyed observing more than partaking. The world around her was such a fascinating place, full of intriguing, curious, and often ridiculous people.
Sohuman.
Now she knew why she’d always felt like an outsider in this fantastical real world. And why she’d been more at home in her dreams. With this knowledge, ironically, she was more present. More aware and in tune with the world around her, no matter the realm.
Because, finally, Brigid knew who she was.
She knew herself.
She was dressed in her usual drab colors this night. Her dress was finely made and exquisitely tailored (only the best for the adored relative of an Earl, after all). But the brown and beige helped her blend into the background, just as she desired.
Her hair was twisted into a loose bun that left errant tendrils framing her forehead and cheeks. If one looked closely enough, one would see the dainty pearls pinned haphazardly throughout her wild mane. As well as shimmering from her earlobes, attached by an almost invisible silver thread, like dew drops.
She felt pretty with her simple embellishments and cream kid gloves that reached to her elbows. Her throat was bare, drawing the eye to her rather enviable décolletage, if she did say so herself. Finally, like the subversive rebel she prided herself to be, she wore her favorite pair of buttery walking boots under her dress rather than feet-pinching slippers.
She didn’t dress to impress. She doubted she could even if she tried. But that suited her just fine.
She rather enjoyed her own company to that of others. Though she did find some of the conversations she overheard amusing.
Since the start of the ball, the whole establishment had been abuzz with anticipation. After all, it was to one of the Rathbourne crew that the Pale Prince condescended to show his favor.
A mousy, strange-looking creature with spectacles, to be sure. But she was singular for receiving a beautiful god’s attention.
It was the only public event he attended. The only dance he danced.
And Rathbourne House was reported to be the only private residence to which he made a call. The unmatched pair of white stallions pulling the exquisite fairytale carriage that conveyed the Prince to his destination were captured in glorious detail in every newsprint and magazine since that fateful day.
And every day hence.
The Prince’s own likeness was drawn, painted and sculpted by no less than sixty-seven professional and amateur artists, Brigid was astounded to hear. His fame stretched even beyond these noble Isles to the exotic cities on the Continent. How many times his face and figure were reproduced in the private sketchbooks and diaries of eager young ladies (and elder ladies, for that matter) were simply too numerous to be recounted.
There had been no photographs, of course. The Prince had disappeared as soon as he came. Like a warrior angel come down to earth before returning to the heavens.
No one drew Brigid’s likeness, she was happy to discover, when she returned to Town from the Highlands a week ago.
Firstly, no one recalled what she looked like. Second, even if they recalled, her face and figure looked undoubtedlywrongnext to the magnificence of the Prince.
Third, it was ever so much more romantic if artists simply replaced her with the woman of their dreams, with the ideal face and figure. One of the fabled Greek Goddesses, perhaps. Aphrodite at the very least. Or perhaps a goddess on earth. Like Cleopatra or Helen of Troy.
As for the ladies of all ages and their private diaries, the preference was understandably to sketch their own likeness next to the Prince.
That was what fairytales and fantasies were for, wasn’t it?
Thus, no one recognized or noticed Brigid when she went about her quiet, unobtrusive way. Strolling through Hyde Park. Visiting museums and galleries. Taking tea at her favorite shop. And of course, hosting story time for the children at the bookstore.
Just like they didn’t notice her at her own family’s ball tonight.
Given that this was her home turf, she could slip in and out of the ballroom unannounced. When she was tired of people watching, she planned to tiptoe back to her room upstairs.
After all, she had much to do in the sleeping world. When she entered the other realm through her dreams, she was busy rebuilding every corner of the faerie courts the Master had destroyed.
The monsters had retreated into hiding. Deep beneath the earth, seas and absorbed into the forgotten shadows of the forests. The Master, trapped in the orb of light, was tucked away in a place only Brigid knew.
They could never be destroyed, only contained. For, without darkness, there was no light.
In her waking hours, Brigid was extremely occupied as well. At Castle Mar, she used her newly discovered powers to turn the residents back to themselves from the monsters the Master had forced them to become. She spent many hours a day visiting with the tenants on the Rathbournes’ land. Healing those who had fallen ill from the Master’s influence.
When everything was restored to their original splendor, she traveled back to London to rejoin her family.
