The Countess de Alvarado, looking rather like she'd been dug up for the occasion, stood with a stiff upper lip and a shawl that screamed, "I've seen better days."

Her hands, clasped as if holding an invisible cup of tea, trembled slightly; perhaps from the sheer weight of maintaining such a dreadfully serious expression.

Behind her stern facade, you could almost hear a voice saying, "Oh, just get on with it already!"

Lady Eleanor, at seventeen, bore the weight of her lineage with a quiet resolve.

Her pale face, framed by the somber black velvet of her gown, revealed nothing of the inner turmoil--a life already mapped out by others, sealed by the brooch on her chest, a relic of her mother's ambitions.

Every stitch of gold on her dress whispered of duty, while her eyes, just barely, hinted at the dreams she could never claim.