It was late. The sun was already setting, and the tall mountain peaks were dark and shadowy against a background of dusky-pink, which was punctuated by an occasional twinkling star. The silvery leaves of the trees shimmered beautifully in the moonlight, and birds called to one another in soft, hushed tones, as though afraid to disturb the stillness which was beginning to settle over the world.

Flora Nightswood, a large, matronly woman who was fast-approaching her fifty-fifth birthday, stepped out onto the veranda, wiped her floury hands on her apron, yawned and stretched. Running a motel, practically single-handedly, wasn't an easy task for someone who had 'passed the half-way mark', as she liked to put it. She was looking forward to the day when Gal would be earning so much money that she would be able to give up her job, buy a nice cottage in the country, and settle down with her hobbies and cats. Until then, the dream would keep her going. She was motivated, and what she lacked in physical energy, she made up for in determination.

She felt someone lay a hand on her shoulder. By the strong smell of coffee, she knew that her son had come to join her for a quick coffee-break. She turned and looked into his kindly, consoling face. It was a tired face tonight, but neverthelss, as always, it was etched with a smile.

Day 3

I'm looking out over the beauty of the morning once again. The sky is clear, the air is fresh, the birds are singing, and the brightly-coloured flowers are opening up to receive the morning-sunshine.

There is a butterfly resting on the flower nearest to me. I think it's a Painted Lady. It's twitching its wings in preparation for flight. I can almost hear it thinking, 'What flower shall I land on next?' This may sound strange, but I envy the butterfly's freedom. It can choose to land on whatsoever flower it wishes. It could land on a flower close-by, or on a flower further away, or even on a flower in another field. Nothing hinders it, nothing restricts it. It doesn't need to worry about meeting the expectations of other butterflies. It doesn't answer to anyone. It's free, free, free to be itself.

And it's beautiful.

Something's been stirring inside of me. The desire to get away, to start a new life, just keeps getting stronger and stronger. I feel that if I don't do something soon, this desire will simply choke me to death. So I've been hatching a plan. I've been hatching it for some time now, and every time I think about it, I feel more strongly that I must go through with it.

The plan evolves around a simple action. Which is not such a simple thing when it comes down to the outworking of it, or to all the risks involved, and to the consequences which could follow suite, should the plan not go to plan!

In short, I want to run away.

Day 2

Today it's raining, so I'm writing this from the comfort and solace of my bedroom.

This morning I had a piano lesson, a singing lesson, and a lesson on French grammar. In twenty minutes I have a lesson on communication, followed by Philosophy (I think it's Existentialism today, I'm simply giddy with anticipation!)

This is my morning break. I'm allowed twenty minutes to do as I please, so long as I don't leave the castle grounds. I thought I'd use the time productively to write about something very interesting that happened last night. And since it's just you, diary, I feel I can be very open and personal.

So here goes.

Ever since I turned eighteen, I have spent a great deal of my evenings at social functions, where I mix with people of high social standing. It is not a secret to many people that the purpose of these functions is primarily to find me a suitable candidate for a husband. I have met many distinguished gentlemen, noblemen and even princes, but very few have taken my fancy.

Last night I was introduced to a certain 'Sir Baddenhein' from Germany. The man was in his late twenties, had a massive gap between his front teeth, wore a waistcoat with a pocket-watch, and had the annoying habit of rubbing his hands together whilst he spoke.

It seems that many people, including Aunt Marjorie Armiennes, had cherished the hope that he might have been the one to steal my heart. It appears that he fits all the unspoken criteria; i.e. he is the son of one of the richest men in Germany, he can speak eleven languages, and he likes to play croquet. I wish him no harm, but when I first saw him I found it insanely difficult to keep from laughing outright. His facial characterisitics and even his mannerisms remind me of a shrewd little weasel. When he asked me to take a walk with him through the gardens, I politely excused myself, saying that I felt the need to retire early to bed. And indeed I did feel the need. It was such a laughable occasion.

My whole life could be laughable, if I was able to look at it from a different perspective. But unfortunately its inconveniences, its monotony and its lack of true happiness prevents me from having a flamboyant attitude towards it. I see only a very grey, dreary life, made up of a strict routine, a busy (but deadly boring) social life, and a desire to get away from it all which grows stronger and stronger every day. As this desire grows stronger, so does my discontent, my unhappiness and my restlessness.

Everything would be so much simpler, if I could only want to settle for the life everyone expects me to lead. A life of glamour, of expensive parties, expensive company, expensive dresses, expensive cars, and then an expensive husband followed by expensive children, and maybe an expensive greyhound or two...

But I use 'expensive' in a sense which is quite unfinancial. This stlye of life, and I am quite, quite certain about this, would cost me, and does cost me, more than I could every explain. It costs me my time and my focus and my hopes and even my deepest desires and ambitions. And it costs me me. It is a life with a price that I just can't afford to pay any more.

Don't get me wrong. There are aspects of this life which do and would appeal to me. I would like to settle down at some time, have a couple of children, and maybe even a few greyhounds. But I want something more. I have an aching longing inside me which I feel can only ever be satisfied by a complete renouncing of the kind of life I've been brought up to lead, and a turning to the kind of life which my heart craves for. A nice, ordinary life, surrounded by nice, ordinary people, in a nice, ordinary place.

And what would make my dream complete would be knowing that my father had time for me and was willing to love me again (if he ever did in the first place). I would like to meet him very much. Very, very much.

I suppose I could label the ache inside me. I think I'm crying out for my father's love.

I wish I didn't have unrealistic expectations, but I can't help it. I've always hoped for much more than life could really give me, and as a consequence I've suffered many disappointments.

Still, it's more fun to have an unfulfilled dream than to have no dreams at all.

That's what I think, anyway.

Day 1

I'm sitting at the edge of a field. Before me lies a vast expanse of green, green grass, tall mountains, sparkling lakes and enchanting forests, and towns and cities bustling with every-day people going about their every-day lives. Behind me lies the castle.

The dull, grey castle.

My name is Dalianna. I'm a princess. Or at least, part-princess. My father is the king, and my mother was Lady Catherine Armiennes. She's dead now, so I live with her sister, Aunt Marjorie Armiennes, in the dull, grey castle.

I'm never allowed to see my father. I'm told he's too busy to see me. I think the truth of the matter is that he doesn't want to see me and that he doesn't love me. You see, if I hadn't been born, Mother wouldn't have died. He probably despises me.

And I don't blame him.

I'm sitting beside a little trough of water. I can see my reflection in the water. I have a very thin, pale face and long, wavy, nutmeg hair. I can't decide if I think I'm pretty or not. Aunt Marjorie Armiennes thinks 'I'm nothing to look at', but she is always criticising other people. She finds fault with everyone and everything. She even thought my mother was 'nothing special', whereas I, and a great many other people, think my mother was the most beautiful woman that has ever walked the face of the earth.

I suppose I am a little biast. But I have drawn my conclusions from many a servant and stranger, and mostly from Hannah, the elderly maid who works at the dull, grey castle. She has told me many a thing about my mother, as she was her personal maid-of-honour, and they were very good friends. She tells me often that my mother was a rare beauty; a possessor of the kind of beauty which springs from a kind heart and a gentle spirit. I've been told that she was small and slight, with the most beatiful long, blonde hair and violet eyes, and a dress-sense that became her wonderfully.

I wish I had violet eyes. My eyes are a peculiar shade. I like to call them 'an undefined shade of brown'. I suppose I must have my father's eyes. I would love to see what his are like, in person. One can't really tell what one's father's eyes are like from a black-and-white oil-painting.

It's early. I slipped out of the dull, grey castle before anyone else was up. Ealry-morning is about the only time (except from late at night) when I can slip out like this and just be by myself for a little while, to gather my own thoughts together, and to let the silence of nature settle on my spirit. I find it has a calming effect on me. Calming and soothing from the heat of the business of my life.

Why is my life so busy? Well, for the simple (or not so simple reason!) of the fact that I am being brought up to become a Lady like my mother. In order to learn how to be a Lady, one must lead a very particular kind of life. Sometimes it seems like a very hard life, and I wonder why I even let myself succomb to its demands. Then I remember the words of Aunt Marjorie; words which I have heard so often that they have become an integral part of who I am. And these words are:

'You were born to be a Lady, you are being brought up to be a Lady, and there is no greater privilege than that.'

I beg to differ. The greatest privilege I can think of is to be able to know and have a relationship with one's parents.

What wouldn't I give for that, any day.