Violet was bored. It was nighttime, her sisters were in the parlour chatting with their father about their latest portraits, and he was drunkenly showing them pieces of jewels that were meant for their mother - you. Better known as Princess of Wales, you were popular among the British people. Your husband, William, did not treat you with such respect after you had a son, Edward, and gradually slipped away from your love. He took on mistresses, although was common practise for the 1850s. He didn't by jewels for you often, and when he did, your three daughters, Celine, Helena and Lucy, were led on by him thinking it was for them. And, he usually forked it over to the three girls, all in their late teens and being courted by handsome men.

She did not approve, if she was being honest. Violet was cared more about clothes than jewels, and her little brother agreed they were more significant in an outfit. Edward was kind, gentle, and probably gay, in your opinion, but could you blame him? Men's hair was to die for. Regardless, he was ten and not exactly deemed old enough to decide. Violet was fifteen, and quite offensive, in her words and looks. But she was glad you shared it. The door opened, and you stepped in, sitting down across from her as her eyebrows furrowed and she frowned, an exhausted sigh leaving her lips. "How many jewels did he pawn off this time?" Her question was genuine - her mother was such a figure she adored.