Inching its way across a silver leaf, the small beetle went about its day. It had munched quietly on some grass, an odd pale color that had never seen the sun. Now it moved onward, toward its next treat - the leaves of a small tree, growing out of a crack in the abysmal gray ground.

  “It reaches upward, waving its legs to and fro…” Watching from nearby, rear in the air, hands on the ground and chin on hands, the girl quietly whispered the events playing out in front of her. “Desperately it tries to no avail to reach the next leaf. Oh! It fell backwards.”

  Sitting up, she gently nudged the little beetle back onto its feet. “Don’t worry, little guy. I know you’re doing your best.”

  “Mao!” Like a rock breaking through a window, her father’s voice cut across the field, She sighed, turning her head toward the house. Everything closer to the house was dead. It was always dead.

  She rose, her ungainly height made painfully obvious in her shorts and torn shirt. She wore no shoes - they were confining. Pushing her long, unkept hair out of her face, she could just barely see him, standing at the door, swaying side to side.

  “Isn’t it morning?” With a sigh, she began to trudge back toward the house. Better that than let him screech again, leaving the beetle forgotten behind her.

  As she reached the house, too large for just them, the smell of drink hit her. Her nose twisted, but she made no comment.

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  “Yes, Father?”

  He took a swig from his glass - at least he was still at glass status - then eyed her for a moment.

  “How old are you now?” The question hit like a gut punch, but did not surprise her.

  “Fourteen.”

  “Little skinny for fourteen, aren’t you?” He frowned as he looked at her, then nodded. “Right…You’ll need a dress.”

  Turning on his heels, he stumbled back inside, his tall, slender form moving like a grotesque monster down the hall.

  She found herself following, unreactive to the dust under her feet as they went.

  “A dress? Why?”

  “Bah, I don’t know. Some silly celebration. Queen Cytheria requested you come.”

  Mao slowed to a stop, her heart thudding loudly in her chest. The Queen had personally requested her? But why?

  “Why?” The question came out as she thought it and she slapped her hands over her mouth. Her father paused, then kept going.

  “Don’t know. The dress maker will be by tomorrow. Bathe.”

  That was it. She knew in her heart that would be the most she got out of him today, yet she felt giddy. She took the stairs two at a time, knowing where to land to avoid a creak.

  A new dress!

  Except for her uniform, she hadn’t had anything new in…well…She couldn’t quite remember.

  Her feet bore her down the hall, stirring up the dust and musty smell of unclean. Into her room she charged, and flung herself on the bed. Despite her appearance, her room was the only clean space in the whole house.

  It wasn’t much, but it was hers. She had her bed, the blanket carefully mended when torn, her dresser, almost barren, and her desk and bookshelf. Every surface was covered in tomes she kept meticulously clean. “Aaaah….A dress! Should I get red? Be a daring enchantress?”

  Rolling onto her stomach, she snatched a book, flipping it open to a picture of a woman in a floor length, bell ballgown that shimmered on the page. “Or blue? Silver? Hmm…Maybe something less puffy.”