Although the peacock feather fan was old it was as glorious as the day it left Constantinopolis in the baggage of a queen.
Beauty cared not that fans were thought unfashionable. She set fashion, and the swishing feathers perfectly expressed her moods. A jealous hand came over her shoulder and snatched the pretty thing, throwing it pettishly towards the roaring log fire.
But somehow it fell short and a handsome gentleman returned it with a bow and a smile.
She whose hand sought destruction felt as though she had grasped both fire and ice. Her palm bore the cicatrise forever…
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