Once upon a time (the time of whence this story takes place is irrevelant; but for those readers living by a timetable, we shall say the time is at the turn of the century; minor detail; merely fluff), there lived a girl. We'll call her Kate. She was a seven year old going on sixteen with a tongue as sharp and biting as the sheep farmer's shearing scissors. Her mother, a single woman of thirty-two, recently transplanted them in her parent's estate located in the rolling London countryside. Leaving behind her life of ignorant and unimaginative boys and girls in her overheated and clammy classroom was the best thing Kate could ever come to know. Now her wild and vivid imagination could rampage like the bulls in Spain. The journey to the estate was bumpy. The carriage hot; they had to keep the tiny windows shut or gravel could fly inside. (If you asked Kate if she cared more for the heat versus the protection, she'd quickly say she'd rather have the breeze tousling her thick mane than die of the heat to protect her young porcelain skin.) Her mother tried to keep her thick brown hair pulled back in a braid but with the wind blowing through the windows it was impossible. Upon arrival, Kate was a dusty mess with hair flying all about. She didn't care about being dirty; she rather liked it.
The girls at Kate’s new school didn't understand why Kate didn't bring her dolls to the playground; or why she'd run around in circles with the boys; or why she'd rather wear blue jumpers instead of pink. Trevor said blue was for boys, not girls. He often teased her until one day, one beautifully wretched day in the playground, Trevor teased Kate for the last time. They were playing football and it was a delightfully overcast day, promising rain at any moment. Trevor ran up to Kate to snag the ball away from her calling her all kinds of nasty tricks. She'd had it. Trailing him and almost tripping to stay right on his tail, she stuck her long left leg in between his stride. Into the mess of dust below he tumbled, face first, the ball scooting on ahead, poetically stopped by the playground monitor. Reveling in her pursuit of destruction, Kate walked, head held high, to Trevor's side and kicked him in both shins. That day set a tone, created a reputation for her. She was not to be messed with. She was not to be teased about her favourite colour being blue or for the freckles spattered across her face. But what she didn't know, was this simple action of vengeance would pay her back twofold: 1-She would become an outcast, boycotted by her classmates; feared and revered simultaneously for Trevor was a bully. 2-This community boycott would force her imagination into high gear. Undoubtedly the best thing to happen to her, for what is a seven year old little girl without her imagination?
On her grandparent's vast estate, she would be nothing. In a life with her single mother, she'd be alone. It was different now. She had an imagination of her own and it ached to be explored and exercised.
Kate sat quietly in the library, flipping through a giant book of fairytales told by the brothers Grimm. Her mother bustled about preparing for her lady friends.
