Chapter 2. The Beginning of an Awakening Part 1:

Clara.

Thanks to the advice of the queen of grand entrances, Alian Caroline Miller, I told myself that I would appear haughty and confident and pay no attention to anyone—especially not to that attractive, dark, tall, muscular eighteen-year-old with deep green eyes and a haughty gaze. Unfortunately for me, he had been the recurring source of my romantic fantasies since I turned twelve.

I think I succeeded for the first six steps until my impatience, curiosity, and insecurity got the better of me. I quickly looked into the crowd, trying to locate the object of my youthful infatuation. I was disappointed to discover that he and his friends were leaving through the door leading to the terrace without looking back. From there, you can access the garden.

Apparently, even dressed like a beautiful princess, I couldn't get that fool to notice me. The splendid smile I had put on for the occasion faded from my face, leaving me feeling disappointed. However, I didn't have much time to dwell on it because, when I reached the bottom of the stairs, all the guests came up to congratulate me. Among them were my parents and godparents.

"This is the lovely Amelia Earhart," Connelly said happily when, after several minutes of greetings and congratulations, I reached her. As always, she hugged me tightly and affectionately.

"Thank you, Betty Boo, but to tell you the truth, I would sell my soul to the devil to get rid of these damn heels." Wendy doesn't understand that, even though I'm three years younger, I'm taller than her. With my height, five centimeters of heel is equivalent to at least a broken bone if I fall,” I whispered in her ear as we hugged.

"I'll trade you your heels for my princess sandals from the Kingdom of Fantasy. I hate being eleven. At least they don't treat you like a little girl," said the beautiful redhead. Unfortunately for her father and brother, she had a more mature mindset than they would have liked—and certainly much more mature than her age suggested.

I couldn't respond with our usual joke because, at that moment, a shrill, unpleasant voice interrupted us. Connelly and I looked at each other with weariness and regret about what was coming.

"It's amazing what a few pounds of makeup and a somewhat decent dress can do for a tomboy like you, Amelia Miller. Don't you think, girls?" A cascade of hysterical laughter, sounding like the cackling of chickens to my ears, confirmed my suspicions. Penelope's voice, along with the laughter of her quartet of harpies, had just ruined my party.

"Connelly, did you hear that? I think someone left the gate open on a farm around here, and several chickens got out," I said, looking at my best friend and ignoring my annoying guests. Betty Boo smiled at me knowingly.

"Yes, I think I'll accompany them, too—an annoying, squeaky goose," said the redhead, making me burst out laughing.

"Very funny, both of you. Hey, shorty, don't you have to go play with your dolls? This is a conversation for adults," said Penelope stupidly to Betty Boo, making her first big mistake.

Unfortunately for her father and her idiot older brother, Connelly had inherited her mother's temper. Even at eleven years old, she was capable of responding in such a way that you would think twice—very, very twice—about messing with her again. I envied that quality in the youngest Blake child because I had always been calm and unconflicted and rarely lost my temper. In fact, I practiced martial arts, such as cardio boxing and jiu jitsu, on the orders of the goddess. All my siblings did it; it was like a family tradition. But, in reality, I was the strangest of the Miller heirs. Only my family knew about my belligerent side, which rarely surfaced. But when it did, even the great King Arthur—Roy William Miller—trembled.

"If I were you, I wouldn't be so sure, Gansa. You'd better find a less formidable opponent, because if I set my mind to it, I can make your life miserable." Remember whose sister I am. I know about your romantic intentions toward him. What would happen if I appeared before my brother with torn clothes and a bruised face, accusing you and your friends of attacking me?" the eleven-year-old said, looking at the five of them with a dangerous gleam in her eyes while smiling devilishly.

"I...that would be a lie," said Penelope abruptly, stammering. She was surprised by the level of manipulation evident in the eleven-year-old.

"Yes, of course, but what do you want me to say? Only we know that. Who do you think they're going to believe, you conceited goose? Your chorus of chickens? Or their two beloved, defenseless sisters?"

The eleven-year-old demon now looked like the very picture of childish weakness.

Penelope and her friends must have realized that all was lost because, with a gesture of disgust, they disappeared, leaving us in stitches.

"You're scary, little one. When you grow up, you'll be terrifying. I don't think our brothers and parents will survive you," I said, laughing.

"Well, that's my mission. Don't you think?" That's why I'm the youngest in both families. You and your sister are too docile and good. Those stupid Miller and Blake boys lead too passive a life." As I listened to her, something told me that this phrase wasn't Connelly's; it was the product of that preteen's manipulative mind. I was sure I had heard it before from my terrifying godmother, Kimberly Blake.

"Well, never mind. Now, let's get to what I wanted to ask you. How about we have some fun before they sing 'Happy Birthday,' you blow out the candles, and open all those presents?" Betty Boo said to me with a bright, persuasive smile.

"What have you got planned, you devil? Do me a favor and wipe that smile off your face because we always get into trouble when you put it on,” I said, distancing myself from her a little.