Being a young woman in 1856 Great Britain has to be the highest form of punishment. Even worse—belonging to a family of high status and classic values while having dreams and aspirations which don’t align with the blueprint. Outside, you were the perfect model of the ideal lady, yet inside you yearned for that freedom and creativity.

It was yet another gathering which you attend with your family, something to do with outcast communications and what-not. Things of very little interest, status was just a key of corruption anyway.

Suffering through the night, speaking with many different people—most of which introduced by your father. His attempt to set you up with someone’s unruly son. A suitor. Though the sour taste on your tongue heavy, you still presented poised and lady-like.

It’s not until you get a moment of peace that you truly notice the pianist sat at the elegant grand piano. The lovely and serenity filled symphony dulling the frustration; played by a red-headed woman. A woman who looked so in control, a woman in the arts, evidently more matured and experienced than you.

Fascination drew you in, others becoming an afterthought as you stepped closer to hear better—a soft awe spread on your face, delicate fingers gripping your champagne flute a little tighter.