After Her Own Heart

Summary:
Almost thirteen years old, Azalea Saren lives in the land of Sorania, one of thousands of kingdoms in the known world at her time. After the Ladies' Revolution, a huge war in which all girls and women who were discriminated against fought for their rights, every kingdom but Sorania has equal rights for all girls and women. Azalea must fight for her rights as a Soranian woman--to be set free from being a woman. When a strange visitor arrives at her house on an incredible and intrepid mission, Azalea learns about what it really means to be a girl.

Prologue:

The land of Seliah was a very shocking place. So it seemed from a typical Soranian’s point of view. Not just because the land was far and exotic, but also because the women acted like men.
When twelve-year-old Azalea Saren saw pictures of Selian women riding horses, wearing breeches and their hair long and flowing instead of in a proper braid or bun, a tug of wistfulness pulled at her heart, but then she remembered that her mother told her it was improper for a lady to do such things. She had had to pretend she was horrified at the pictures when her mother had shown them to her. “They believe that a woman has the same power as a man does,” Azalea remembered her mother saying. She had only been six at the time; not old enough to understand the unfairness of it.
“But don’t we?” questioned Azalea.
“Certainly not,” said her mother sharply. “Why do you think we cook and sew all day? Why do you think we wear aprons and frocks and the men wear breeches and boots?”
This had puzzled Azalea. She hadn’t thought much about what her father and uncles did during the day. She supposed they worked, or rode horses or played outdoor games with the dog, who was called “Demy”. It never occurred to her that if she lived in a different kingdom, she would be able to do those things too.
That same night, Azalea had let her hair down instead of re-braiding it before she went to bed. She hardly ever looked in the mirror, because her mother had told her that a lady had more important things to do than gaze at herself, like the ladies from the kingdom Geraldine did. Just this once, she thought, it was okay to look in the mirror. She realized that the last time she looked in the mirror was long before, and she hardly recognized herself. Of course, her main features were still the same—pale blond hair, glittering blue eyes, and a small, thinly set mouth. She peeled off the layers of petticoat and apron she wore, and crept into her cousin’s room to steal some breeches. When she tugged them on, though they were too big, she felt powerful. Not weak or useless like she did when she wore her dresses; but powerful.
She hadn’t thought about the feeling for years. The feeling had crept to the very back of her memory, and only when she saw her father, cousins, and uncles did she sigh with wistfulness for the way the horses galloped, their hooves clattering against the dirt road that led into the Soranian village. She watched them leave, only six years old, and vanish into the village. If some little boy the same age as her were lucky enough, they would climb onto the horse and get a turn to ride. But no little girl would.

Chapter 1. 


Sorania
May


The clearing of the woods was far away, and Azalea was glad of it. Her heart beat with anticipation, speeding over to the sugarberry tree, its branches long and spindly. Settling beneath the shady comfort it held, she let the breeze stroke her cheeks and the sun warm her fingertips. Closing her eyes, she imagined that she was being swallowed up by drops of sunlight and into somewhere special, unique, invincible.
Invincible. That was exactly how she felt—like she could go anywhere and face anyone. That was a rare feeling. Often she took the long way home as to avoid people. Whenever she did pass them, she ducked her head away and pretended to be distracted, and when they said hello to her, she’d give a hasty and embarrassed nod. At nearly thirteen years old, she was afraid to ask the grocer if he had any strawberries, because she feared of talking to people she didn’t know. The girls at school called her a “mouse,” and her mother just shook her head every time she noticed her daughter’s lack of social interaction with others.
Azalea didn’t know what amount of time she sat beneath the sugarberry tree. It could have been one hour; it could have been five. She didn’t know and she didn’t care. It was only when she heard excited, noisy voices in the clearing of the woods, still a mile away, when she decided to go back and see what was going on. She would hide behind a bush, or linger from a distance.
Luckily, Azalea was a fast runner. It only took her five and a half minutes to reach the parting of the trees, which she slit open with her fingers. Her butterscotch braid swinging behind her, she fell out of the woods and into the field of daisy weeds that led to her house.
The first thing she noticed about the excited chatters were that they were coming from her younger sister, Camellia’s, lips. The blond curls bounced up and down and up again, her face illuminated with fascination and overexcitement. Her long blue dress creased in the wind, and her fingers were knotted together tightly in a gushing clasp. The person standing beside Camellia was unknown to Azalea. In fact, she had never seen such a person in her life. Standing before her younger sister was a beauty with hair the color of dark coals and eyes blue and piercing.
Azalea had never seen a person with hair as dark as that. Everyone in her family had blond hair, as did her friends and everyone in the kingdom of Sorania. Her history teacher at school had told her that people with dark hair and blue eyes only resided in the land of Seliah, which was very far away. Azalea could not imagine why this girl was here. Neither girl spotted Azalea, and once again she felt that burst of shyness and fear that she always felt when she was about to approach someone she had never spoken to before. Quiet, she approached them, head and eyes down. It was only when she was just a few yards away that Camellia noticed her elder sister.
Her ten-year-old eyes beamed. “Aza!” she said excitedly, her face spreading through a smile. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Camellia grabbed both of her sister’s hands and stood beside her so that Azalea had to look at the girl before her. She was more shocking close up, her hair as dark as nightime shadows against her porcelain skin. Her china blue eyes bore into Azalea’s, and her smile was winning but not quite friendly.
“This is Ollia,” Camellia introduced. “Ollia, this is my elder sister, Aza.”
Ollia reached out to shake Azalea’s hand. Azalea, startled, returned the handshake awkwardly. “Please call me Azalea,” she begged the older girl. She hated the thought of anyone outside of her own family calling her Aza.
“Of course,” Ollia replied, surprised. She sensed this girl’s feelings—unsure and quiet. Almost afraid—the slight wariness in her caramel eyes gave Ollia the reason to think so. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” responded Azalea, almost inaudibly. Something gave Azalea a touch of bravery. She looked at Ollia square in the eye and asked her where she came from. She assumed the answer, and she was correct—
“I come from Seliah,” said the girl, “It’s my first time in Sorania. It is quite beautiful here.” Her voice was less kind than it was before, and it frightened Azalea.
“And why?” Azalea asked coldly, barely a second after Ollia had said the words. She felt jealous toward Ollia for a reason that she couldn’t name. Something about the way the sun reflected off her blue eyes, and the way her lips were pursed, her nose slightly turned upwards. Yet, she was so sweet to Camellia. Ollia sensed her jealousy, and it gave her a twinge of satisfaction. Ollia returned the cold tone--
“I come to reside with your family,” Ollia said, and when she saw the flicker of dread in Azalea’s eyes, “I come to find the Solayas.”

Later that afternoon, Azalea examined Ollia closely. She herself was sitting in the yellow chair by the lamp that she had painted for her mother, and a pillow was propped against her back. Ollia sat across from her, quaint and polite, answering every question that Azalea’s father directed towards her.
Her hair looked as if dark maple syrup had been poured onto it. Even though the curtains were closed to block the sun, somehow the sun managed to escape through and illuminate her skin and hair. Her eyes were narrow in size, but her lips were full. Every time she talked, her cheeks sucked in, and while Azalea would have thought this would look unattractive, she thought it looked frustratingly marvelous on Ollia.
Obviously, the only person whom Ollia was coming across to as strange and suspicious to was Azalea. The rest of her family seemed to think she was marvelous. Her mother had even whispered to her, “Now here is a good example of what you want yourself to look like in a few years.” Azalea’s gaze fixed on her mother then, who was smiling like she had never seen her smile before. It wasn’t that faraway smile that Azalea’s mother often gave Azalea when she chattered about school or other things. It was a real smile. Azalea’s shoulders slouched.
Azalea tuned into the conversation. Her father was saying, “—long do you plan to stay?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ollia replied, her eyes wide. The teacup she held clinked against the plate, and some spilled out onto her lap and into the creamy white chair. She flushed and said, “How impolite of me. I apologize.”
“Do not worry,” her father replied, but you could tell he was nervous that it might stain. “Anyway, go on.”
“Whenever I seek the Solayas, I assume that is when I’ll depart,” Ollia responded, her head tilted so that her hair fell beside her neck and rested on her elbow. “I’m not sure if the conditions in Seliah are…are safe.”
Now it was Azalea’s turn for her eyes to widen. She looked at her father for an explanation. Surely there wasn’t a war. Seliah was one of the most peaceful kingdoms that existed. Her history teacher had told her that there had never been a war in Seliah, because the King and Queen were so friendly and peaceful.
Her father avoided looking in his daughter’s direction. A wave of silence had fell over the room, and even Camellia stopped looking at Ollia’s painted fingernails.
Ollia was surprisingly the one to break the silence. “Oh.” The word was slow and unsure, but loud and clear.
“’Oh’, what?” questioned Camellia. She sensed the awkwardness as well.
“Er—nothing. I mean—yes, Camellia, Azalea, I think it’s time that you’re off to wash up,” her mother said, her face gone pale. She looked at the clock. “Yes it is surely time.”
“What? Mother. I’m thirteen,” whined Azalea. She knew that made her sound even younger than that, but it was only eight o’clock.
Her mother wouldn’t hear it. She literally pushed the two girls out of the room and sighed when they were gone.
“You lied,” whispered Camellia.
“What?”
“You lied. You’re not actually thirteen. Ollia told me that she hates liars.”
Well, who cares, thought Azalea. Who cares what Ollia thinks. It was odd, for she did herself.

That night, Azalea walked slowly up to her bed chamber, her cream slippers barely making a tap against the precarious wooden staircase. Her mind hadn’t cleared yet; usually she liked to do so before bed. It gave her a way to fall asleep without dwelling on worries. She had taken a bath after supper, hoping to rid herself of thinking of this new predicament, but it had done nothing. Still, she thought and thought, even as she held the candle dangerously close to her face and blue nightgown. She tugged her hair out of its silky braid and sighed as the door creaked open to her room.
The maid inside of it jumped when she saw Azalea, but slowly regained her balance and folded her fingers together behind her back. “Hello, miss,” the maid addressed, “I put a hot-water bottle on your bed. Sleep well.” With that, the maid rushed out of the room and closed the door with a slight click.
Azalea slumped on her bed. She had had a maid when she was just four years old. Her name had been Rose. Rose told her that she had been named Rose because of the color of her hair, which was red. Azalea had seen many red-haired people, but none as dark as Rose. Rose had informed her that her father was Selian, and that was why she had darker hair than most. Her mother was Soranian, of course, because no one outside of Sorania had red hair. But two years later, Rose had gotten married and she hadn’t heard from her since. Azalea wondered if Rose had moved to Seliah with her husband. She hoped not.
Thinking of this made her mind circle back to Ollia, the Selian visitor. She had spent the rest of the afternoon with the girl and Camellia, who thought Ollia worthy of worship, just because of her dark hair and charming smile. Azalea found it unfair. Then she considered and thought to herself, If I went to Seliah, would I be worshipped because of my blond hair?
She could not wrap her mind around the fact that Ollia’s goal in coming here was to find the Solayas. The Solaya Mountains were long gone, and if they were still there, they were nothing but a flat stretch of land, for the Great Storm had destroyed them. Many believed that treasures lay in the Solayas. In history class, Miss Becker had told Azalea that it was only part of the Selian faith to believe that the mountains still existed, and that they had remarkable treasures beneath them.
During supper, when Ollia had been speaking of her journey, Azalea had blurted out rudely, “The Solaya Mountains no longer exist. Any intelligent one should be aware.” Everyone had looked unpleasantly shocked. Azalea usually said nothing during supper unless she was asked a direct question that she had no choice but to answer. It was rare that she said something so aggressive, so fierce, as well. After she had said this, Camellia had looked at her with such dissatisfaction and betrayal that Azalea was stunned. She heard not a fork clang on a china plate. Then, just five seconds later, the world seemed to begin again as Ollia had responded, just as sternly, “Well, that is your belief, and I have mine. We strive for different things.” She had given Azalea such a look that made a chill go down the younger girl’s spine.
Later during supper, Azalea’s father, Lord Thomas, asked of Ollia, “How many years are you?” with a glance in Azalea’s direction. The expression read, Stay quiet and eat your supper. Azalea tossed her fork through her beans, and shoveled them into her mouth impolitely.
“Sixteen come May, My Lord,” Ollia replied. Azalea stopped chewing. Ollia looked years younger than sixteen. She had expected her to be no more than fourteen. This inconvenience only added to her inferiority. Azalea’s cheeks burned with jealousy.
Slowly, Azalea tired thinking of this, and her eyes shut and when she opened them, it was pitch black and her hot-water bottle had been drained of warmth. She was very, very cold.