The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

and memory were empty prior to that awful night of dust storm and rage.
    Anger born of frustration tore at her reason. She wadded her cat’s cradle into a mass and flung it in the general direction of Janataea.
    Rosie’s fingers arched and flexed. She stretched and yawned, slowly and deliberately, as she turned her back on Janataea and the maid behind her.
    “Rosie!”
    Janataea’s vexation couldn’t touch Rosie.
    She continued her vigil in the window seat where she preferred to sit out the lonely hours. A streak of autumn sunshine warmed the spot.
    Janataea’s hand stroked Rosie’s hair, just behind her ears. The princess leaned into the caress.
    “Hmmm.” She shut her eyes. Almost. A narrow slit allowed her to continue to observe her governess.
    “Come now, Rosie. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Janataea’s fingers massaged the sensitive spots behind Rosie’s ears. “Choose a dress so we can join your brother and your uncle at the court. Then there will be a nice banquet. With fish.”
    “I like fish.” Rosie started to drift off into another nap. She hated making decisions. Janataea always chose her gowns for her, unless another servant was in the room. Then the elaborate protocol of the court demanded the governess defer to the princess. For the temptation of fish she just might accept the role assigned to her by a fate she couldn’t comprehend. “Very well, the brown velvet with gold trim.” Barely a decision. When forced, she always chose that gown.
    “That gown suits you best of all. The golden brown is so like your own hair.” The governess gave the bold white streak in Rosie’s waist-length mane one last caress.
    “A witch’s mark,” the castle servants whispered.
    The story that flew through the castle like dust on the wind said that Rosie’s Uncle Rumbellesth, regent of Rossemeyer, had locked her in a tower room as punishment for running away. That same night, Rosie’s pet cat had turned up missing. Rosie had howled and screamed, torn her hands trying to claw her way to freedom, and driven the entire castle nearly mad with her violent protests.
    Exhaustion had claimed her at dawn.
    Everyone within the environs of the castle had walked cautiously and spoken in whispers for many hours. At last, Regent Rumbellesth had summoned his willful niece. She faced him in the grand audience chamber a changed woman, quiet and docile, with no memory of her life up to that moment.
    The streak of white hair was a constant reminder of the emptiness that taunted her. Uncle Rumbellesth proclaimed that the once defiant princess had been branded as a result of exorcising her demons.
    The whispers continued. Princess Rossemikka had been marked by a witch.
    Rosie held her arms out from her sides so that Janataea and the nervous maid could clothe her. Not a word passed between them. Rosie rarely spoke unless directly addressed.
    As the heavy cloth folded around her slim body, Rosie ran her hands down the soft nap of the velvet. Just like silky fur.
    “Your uncle has requested that you sit at his left tonight. Please remember to use your knife and fork when you eat the fish,” Janataea instructed her charge as she adjusted the high-waisted gown just under Rosie’s firm breasts.
    The bodice was barely wide enough to cover her nipples, but it was less revealing than most of the gowns worn by the women at court. In Rossemeyer the display of an ample bosom proclaimed a proud ability to bear and nurse children.
    The skirt drifted from bust to floor in straight lines. Her hair was bound up and hidden beneath an intricate cap and snood of gold lacework from SeLenicca. No hint of a woman’s hair or ankle could be revealed in Rossemeyer, lest they incite a man’s lust.
    The maid was dismissed before Rosie spoke again.
    “Isn’t Mama dining with us?” A stir of unease penetrated Rosie’s mind. Verbal assaults were limited when the Queen Dowager joined the family at table. Otherwise, “Uncle Rumbelly” and Rosie’s brother Rossemanuel argued continuously all night.
    “Queen Sousyam is ill again. She hasn’t been truly well since you demanded the impossible in exchange for your consent to marry Lord Jhorge.”
    “My uncle’s son is a pimple-faced, squeaky-voiced, viper. His hands feel like snakes on my skin.” Rosie practically hissed her dislike of her cousin.
    “Then it’s a good thing the boy withdrew his offer.” Janataea circled the princess three times, widdershins, as she inspected her