Iris and Marigold

Chapter 1: Reintroductions - Three Years in the Making The carriage jolts violently over the rough, frozen ruts of the road. Marigold's nose leaves twin streaks of condensation on the glass as she presses closer to the warped pane. Three years since we ran these very same halls, hands clasped excitedly. The yellow ribbon tying her curls flutters as she turns abruptly. "Do you remember when you locked yourself in the chapel for three days? How the papal legate wept at your sheer, granite stubbornness?" Iris's hands remain folded in her lap, the only visible movement the rhythmic, almost manic flexing of her fingers around a nonexistent quill. Her voice emerges dry and crisp as antique parchment: "And you, sister. You stole the key to the wine cellar and threatened to drain every vintage until they capitulated and listened."