A/N: This is the tale of Grace Patience Fieni, more commonly known as Mace. This is in tribute to my good friend, Chris. More to come soon

-AJ

18 December 1699

My life is over. Utterly and despicably over. This was what ran through my mind as I walked down the main street of Carloforte toward my home, my ever-impending doom quite apparent by the mass of chaos surrounding the manor. No, no one had died, no fire or flood had occurred, no elemental disaster of any kind had disturbed the town. I, actually, would have preferred that to what was happening. My preference being fire, as I am quite a pyromaniac.

My father had gotten into his head that Italy was stuck in a rut. Nothing was happening at the current moment. He thought that we should move. Yes, that's right, I said move. You may be thinking, "What is so horrible about that? It's an adventure!" Oh, I'm all for adventure, but where we were going, nothing even remotely exciting would happen until the end of time. We were moving to … England. Not only were we moving to a floating island with a stuffy monarch, but we were moving to one of the smallest and most insignificant areas imaginable where the most exciting thing happening would be a stupid ball where you would have to wear stupid dresses and act all proper and stupid. Pembrokeshire, England would be my new home. I mean, Pembrokeshire isn't even in England. It is in Wales. How my father thought that Pembrokeshire was more exciting than Italy I have no idea.

My mother died giving birth to me but her dying wish to my father was that I should be given a good Italian name with grace and patience. My father is a very literal man who always thought our last name was one of Italy's finest, thus my name became Grace Patience Fieni, a good Italian name with Grace and Patience. I have spent the rest of my life being the complete opposite of my name. I am only graceful when dueling and am known for having an extremely quick temper. One thing that is often said of me is that my temper is shorter than I am. I am almost five feet and constantly made fun of for it (in England). Almost five feet is perfectly acceptable for an eleven or twelve year old. The only problem is I am fifteen. I knew the second I met Dri I would never live it down.

It was one week after the arrival of my father, my elder brother, and me, that my complete destruction was revealed. In order to "Welcome the New Century," as the invitation stated, there was to be ball at the Duke of Pembrokeshire's mansion. The ball was actually on the twenty-fourth of December instead of on the thirty first. For this ball, I would be forced to do three things I hate. One being going shopping for a dress, two being wearing said dress and three being to have to waste my time in the company of idiots. Now any "normal" girl would most likely love to do these things, but I have never been and will never be a "normal" girl.

As previously mentioned, my mother died when I was young, leaving my father to raise me. He had absolutely no idea how. When my brother took fencing lessons, so did I. When he learned mathematics and the sciences, so did I. When he played rough with the boys, so did I (and won more times than I lost). I adamantly refused to study fine literature and embroidery. I did take up art lessons but my tutor despaired of my future as a lady. I was quite fond of drawing scenes of carnage and dragons, finding unmoving fruit quite dull. No one made fun of or teased me in Italy as everyone knew I was a lethal weapon, sword or not. It was only in England that I discovered the extremely silly rule that girls were fragile yet perfect and well-rounded. If they were so well-rounded how come they couldn't lift a sword?

England/Wales did not sound like a very fun place to live.