The paths that went through the farmlands were bare of any grass from the constant trampling of hooves and wheels. It was a common route for farmers to deliver their merchandise to the markets, and not considered scenic unless one happened to enjoy endless views of cornfields and grapevines. Usually the only carriages that passed by were old, rickety, and pulled by a donkey or mule. This time a fancier metal carriage strolled by. It had telltale markings of the Wingside land's national emblems and latest fashions.

The oldest and most commonly used emblem was a five-pointed star. By law of the matriarchs, every citizen had to wear this emblem over their left breast to prove their patriotism. Originally it was a symbolic representation of the Mother-God's nurturing heart, but over the centuries it had transformed into an ugly embodiment of insolence, ostentation, and power. Who wore the biggest, brightest, shiniest star? Who could afford to wear one? Who bought it as a dainty pin, and who had to make it and sew it on all by their lonesome? In fact, it created nothing more than a hierarchal pyramid in a society once perfectly equal.

Inside the metal carriage, the most extravagant star was pinned on the well-known Olympe Pierpont. Her fame and recognition came solely from her being a frequent partygoer, and quite the player. Her quiet husband, Aimé Pierpont, sat next to her with a smaller star, barely noticeable under the rest of his colorfully embroidered fabrics. Finally, the last passenger in the carriage wriggled around under the curtains, not really caring how big or small his star was.

"Honestly, Marcel," said Olympe sternly and she pulled her son away and guided him to his seat. "Can't you sit still? If you want to look out the window, just pull on the tassels."

"Marcel is only eight. It's not unusual for boys his age to fidget," said Aimé.

"And it's absolutely silly. Marcel, you must act like a proper boy." Olympe held Marcel's jaw and forced him to look into her deep eye sockets and noble nose. "Do you know where we are going?"

Marcel shook his head as much as he could in Olympe's grip. "No."

"Of course not, because you haven't been listening to me, have you!" Not much provocation was needed for Olympe to become scary. She explained, "We are going to Greythorn Valley to meet the Clough family's daughter. I don‘t want any rude behavior coming from you."

Greythorn was a very different land. Unlike Wingside, they had a patriarchal social structure. The hierarchy was more intense, with ranking not only by gender and wealth, but also with influences from age, parents, and even children.

For the most part, Greythorn and Wingside tolerated each other, and there were a few trade lines between them. This did not affect their slanderous views towards each other. To one land, the other was always portrayed as a wild, backwards nation with vulgar citizens and loss of all morality. The upper-classmen quietly hated each other, and any communication was done in reluctance. If it weren't for their dwindling militaries, there would certainly have been numerous incidents of genocide. However, there was one thing that brought together the Pierponts and the Cloughs. It transcended culture, borders, and history. It was beautiful. It was money. Only money, because money can make anyone respectable.

The Pierponts and their fancy carriage entered the outskirts of Greythorn Valley, where the awful stench of commoners reached them from all directions. Though the poverty-stricken citizens were unfamiliar with hygiene and manners, there seemed to be an enjoyable party happening all around. Marcel pulled on the window tassels, opening the curtains and became mesmerized by the excitement before him. There was fantastic art with amazing shapes and patterns, and music with up-beat melodies and jovial singers. Marcel's eyes lit up and the grin on his face stretched from ear-to-ear. He never could have imagined in a million years that such wonderful art and music could exist beyond Wingside's dull selection.

Aimé quickly shut the curtains closed.

"Filthy peasants," he muttered.

Aimé did not like it when Marcel enjoyed himself. Because of Olympe's promiscuous nature, there was a high chance that Aimé was not Marcel's father. It's only natural for fathers to be unhappy about this. There was quite a tough situation for the Wingside men. It was considered normal for the women to sleep around, but usually a husband's only task was to impregnate his wife. If the child didn't belong to him, what good was he as a husband? Was he merely leeching off his wife? It was an awful double-standard.

When Aimé wasn't watching, Marcel looked out the window again. As they ventured deeper into the valley, Marcel watched the buildings gradually become taller and the vibrant colors faded into a placid gray. He also noticed something peculiar about the people. Their clothes and the way they walked were different. The women were caked in makeup and wore strange, frilly outfits. Most striking of all, something was missing on their wardrobes.

"Where are their stars?" asked Marcel.

"Only Wingsiders wear stars," replied Olympe promptly.

Marcel wanted to ask why this was, but the last time he asked a "why" question, Olympe went through a fit of, "What do you mean ‘why?' Don't ask so many questions! You don't need to know! That's just the way it is!"

The carriage stopped in front of a mansion with a dark brown roof. They went up to the butler who waited by the gate and they stated their business.

"Oh yes, the Pierponts," said the butler in a strange accent Marcel had never heard before. "Right this way, please."

They followed the butler into the mansion. What the architecture lacked in color was made up for by form. The main entrance hall was striking and displayed a giant spiral staircase as the centerpiece. Along the corridors were paintings and white-washed sculptures of naked fairies and cherubs. None of these things were appreciated by Marcel. He trailed behind his parents' legs, waiting for the day to end. He had gone on these outings before, and usually he found himself as the only child around. When he heard he was going to meet the Cloughs' daughter, he expected a young adult to be throwing another tea party or anniversary event.

They were led outside in the backyard garden where the Cloughs awaited them on the porch.

"Master Clough, your visitors have arrived," announced the butler.

"Oh yes, the Pierponts," said the master, Godric Clough, a gray old man with a large, rich belly who spoke in the same strange accent as the butler.

The Cloughs, or specifically, Godric Clough, was the owner of the county's bank, and had all the benefits of a well earned, high-profile life. He had a mansion, a constant supply of food, and even his young trophy wife, Lolicia. The only thing he did not possess was the assurance that his family would continue to run his business.

For the past twenty years, a law in Greythorn was passed to prevent nepotism from controlling the distribution of wealth. Sons could no longer replace their fathers at work. However, there was a loophole allowing non-blood-related family members to still be hired, and so suddenly every rich family was pining for a daughter to marry off. Godric, fully equipped with both a son and a daughter was no exception. His ingenious plan was to have his daughter marry a stupid, subservient boy and hire him as the legal bank owner. This would only be a false cover, as the new owner would then be forced to hire Godric's real son to do all the actual work in the background. Credit would be given to the legal owner, but most of the money would go to the Cloughs' son. To play the role of the puppet, a Wingside boy grown with the oppressive values of a matriarchy was the perfect choice. In return for the Pierponts' cooperation, they would be granted all the benefits and support of the Cloughs' earnings.

Marcel was completely oblivious to all of this. He barely understood the inner workings of a business, much less the ploys carefully weaved within. All he knew was that whether from a patriarchy or a matriarchy, he didn't like the adults. Most of all, he didn‘t like how they looked at him. To one family, he was just a burden as long as he was unmarried. To the other, he was a prize to behold, like some gift from the marital gods who has arrived to fulfill some horribly boring task. He didn't feel like a boy, or even a person, but rather a lump of gold being traded by jewelers.

Godric and Lolicia stood up to greet Olympe and Aimé. It wasn't the first time they met, but Godric's instinct was to turn to Aimé. He realized his mistake and quickly shook hands with Olympe. It was easy to tell in the way they nervously smiled that Godric and Olympe felt rather displaced and awkward. Aimé and Lolicia, on the other hand, were secretly comforted by the equality between them.

They sat down at a small table under an umbrella where they were served tea. They talked of weather and such before getting down to business. As they began to sort out "this is how much money is spent" and "here's where such-and-such takes place," Marcel began to grow bored. He wandered off unnoticed, making his way through the garden.

Like the rest of the architecture, the flowers were dull and bland. The roses were as white as the walls, and even the scents were muted. Marcel was about to sit down when suddenly a flicker of pink caught the corner of his eye. He turned his head, wondering where it came from. Then, a giggle whispered below him. He crouched down and looked under the bushes, but no one was there. Suddenly, a loud cry came from behind him.

"Who goes there!"

Marcel gasped and turned around, only to find a long twig pointing just below his neck. He looked up and couldn't believe his eyes. Before him stood a dark-haired boy no older than he. Seven? Eight? Maybe nine? This boy was unlike any other he had seen before. His eyes showed both confidence and curiosity. He stood with his feet far apart and his hands in fists. In fact, for a boy, he was rather intimidating. Marcel noticed a girl beside him, obviously the boy's sister, who wore a pink flower in her hair--the same he had spotted before.

"Uh-umm..." Marcel stuttered, not sure what to say.

The young girl jumped up and down, exclaiming, "A pirate! A pirate! We found a pirate!"

"No, he's not playing with us," said the dark-haired boy. He asked, "What's your name?"

"Marcel."

The dark-haired boy clenched his twig harder and pointed it at Marcel's forehead. "You're the one who's going to kidnap my sister!"

"What?" Marcel felt like he misunderstood him just then.

"You're going to take her far away to Wingside and do horrible things to her!" accused the dark-haired boy, grabbing Marcel by the collar and pulling him up. "I won't let you do that!"

"I-I would never do such a thing! Please let go of me," pleaded Marcel.

"He talks funny," noted the girl.

The dark-haired boy loosened his grip and stared at Marcel suspiciously. He circled around him, inspecting all angles. The boy commented, "You don't look like a boy, but you don't look like a girl, either."

Marcel wasn't sure how to take that. He looked at the boy's sister, who gazed at him with intense interest. "I think he's pretty," she said.

"You do, huh?" The dark-haired boy cocked his head to the side, contemplating what to do with this invader of their private garden.

Marcel felt a little uncomfortable with this hot-tempered and rather rude encounter, but he also felt relieved to see kids his own age. He wasn't sure whether to be scared or excited, but somewhere inside he was smiling.

A hand whipped out in front of him.

"My name is Foster," said the dark-haired boy. They shook hands. Foster gestured to his sister. "This is Rose." Rose giggled and did a little curtsy. "So then, if you're not here to kidnap her, what are you going to do?"

Before Marcel could reply, Lolicia called to them from the porch, "Children, come here!"

They walked over to the tea table. There was an uncanny resemblance between Foster, Rose, and the Cloughs.

"Oh, I see they‘ve already met," said Aimé.

"Yes, they should get along fine," said Godric. "Well then, is it a sure deal?"