A Master and A Slave

Viscount Windemere was an old, wealthy aristocrat who lived with his wife and daughter in a vast mansion, his blonde hair, blue eyes, straight posture and the sword on his waist made him strikingly attractive, most of these weren't passed down to his daughter —who had the brown hair of her mother, but the sword was.

Celeste learned to ride a horse at the age of three, she learned sparring at the age of six, and had her first blade before her first jewel, ring, or dress.

When she was eight, as she was sharpening her daggers, because what else could she do, someone knocked on the back door. The door was only used by the household and their retinue, which is why knocking on it was far from usual. All those who would use it likely had the keys.

She did not care at first; others could respond, but for whatever reason, be it fate or destiny's call, Celeste Windemere was the one to open that door. In front of her stood a maid, one whom she had not seen for months. In tears, she carefully held a baby, stood silently for a few seconds, perhaps because she did not expect Celeste to be the one to open that door, but a smile soon indicated how grateful the woman was for that.

She extended her arms with the baby towards the little girl and spoke, "My Lady, you must take her, show her to your father," she paused, "her father."

Celeste's eyes opened widely. As she held her little sister, she silently removed the piece of cloth that hid her face, and the glitter in her eyes broke the maid's composure. The maid cried loudly, having made more sound than she'd hoped to; she hid her face and ran, and disappeared behind the walls of the mansion, all that and Celeste's eyes did not leave the little girl's.

She was small, fragile, weak, and beautiful beyond expression. The young lady discovered something she could never feel while swinging a sword, the chest that grew larger as she fenced to create more breathing room, was shrinking around her heart. The hands that steadily and strongly held all sorts of killing tools were trembling in fear, "What if she wakes up? What if she cries?"

Celeste walked slowly, trembling in fear, scouting the place for someone, anyone, and her eyes found her father, who also met her with shock, surprisingly, not shocked at the sight of the baby, but at that of his girl, drowning in her tears.

"Father..." She might have said something else, but her voice failed her.

Viscount Windemere drew near her and tried to take the baby, but Celeste backed off and held her tighter, unsure what she was protecting her from—only that she must. From the world, from her family. She just wanted to hold her. Own her.

Celeste Windemere was stepping into a swamp; she fell in love with the girl.

It took three servants many hours to convince Celeste to leave the girl, and once she did, she lost consciousness, and slept, in her sleep, she escaped the shouts that kept the house alive the whole night, it was common for an aristocrat to have an affair with other women, at least common enough for it to resolve in a one-night-argument.

The next day, Celeste woke up startled. She ran in the halls of the manor and shouted, calling her parents, until she reached a room where a maid stood next to the door, and hushed, "You will wake her up."

Celeste composed herself, straightened her stance, and walked in to see her mother holding the little girl, naturally she walked closer and closer, and got as close as she possibly could, she put her lips on the head of the little girl and kissed her, she took a long breath and spoke, "what is her name?"

"She does not have one yet," Answered the mother, "what should we call her?"

"Penelope! I saw her in my dream; her name was Penelope."

And time passed, as it always chose to do, Penelope stopped crying at night, and started jumping and dancing in the halls.

At the age of five, though, she heard the clash of steel for the first time. She opened the door to see her older sister’s brown hair, the flickering light from the edges of the swords, and the little child, before she could understand what was happening, was taken by the whole scene. She stood for a long moment, forgetting to move, speak, or even breathe; she just watched.

Her adoration was as much for the swords as it was for the girl of thirteen who sparred against an older, larger man, and showed no sign of weakness. Celeste was so elegant that the five-year-old Penelope couldn’t keep her voice down.

“Sister!” she yelled, her excitement visible in her eyes and audible in her voice.

But combat did not appreciate the audience; she needed focus, so when her beloved little sister screamed, she left more than just an opening in her stance, and a single blow unarmed her, and threw her to the ground.

“Stop!” yelled the little girl, “you’re hurting her.”

By the time Celeste raised her eyes, she saw the five-year-old child holding the heavy longsword, or at least trying to. Her face, red like a raging ember as she yelled, “Stay away!”

The older sister slowly took the hand of Penelope, helped her lift the sword, corrected her stance, and showed her how to move. Even at the age of thirteen, she knew that was a world she shouldn’t introduce to her sister, but it was all she had, and it was what she gave.

The next day, Penelope and Celeste went to the city and bought a Violin; they also made sure to find some courses as well.

That was how Penelope grew up to master the blade and the string…

That was when her life was filled with rainbows and sunlight, though she was too young to expect it; the night was to come.

At the age of twenty-one, Celeste took over the wealth of the family after both her parents were stabbed to death.

“Sister… Was there no other way?”

“Did you not hear what he said? ‘Not my child.’” Celeste said mockingly.

“He was just sick…” protested Penelope while washing the blood off the knife, “and mother did nothing wrong.”

“Yes, right, that’s right, Penelope. He was old and sick, he wanted to hurt you, and I won’t forgive anyone who even considers laying a finger on you; they brought it upon themselves.”

“But sist-”

“Hush, I will do far more than just murder to keep you safe.” You just keep shining in front of my eyes… just shine.

“Professor Wycliffe,” said Earl Whittemore, “an idea of who the murderer is?”

“The person who killed Baron Percival Greystone, Viscount Felix Hatherleigh, and Lady Agatha Linmere is none other than,” he pointed with his finger to where the sisters stood, though they were next to one another; it was clear his finger was pointing at Celeste Windemere.