Let me tell you about a friend I have.

She's been my best friend since I was five. I know all her embarrassing secrets, her strangest behaviors, her face-palm-worthy moments. And she is by far the weirdest person I have ever known. This is coming from who is most likely her closest companion in her life. So when I say she is weird, take it to the heart--she is weird.

Her name is Rosa, and she is a mathematical freak. Feel free to call her Rose, though, like I do.

"Sir," she was saying at the moment, peering over a man's shoulder to look at the nicely dressed gentleman's scribbles, "you calculated that wrong."

The man frowned and turned around. "Excuse me?"

"You shouldn't have used that formula if you wanted to calculate the entire volume of a container of apples." She used her chin to gesture towards a part of the equation, and the man glanced at it with her. "You're not accommodating for the pockets of air that would be between the apples, see?" A beat later, she added, "With all due respect, sir."

The man stared at her, speechless. Rose did a shallow bow and made a move to go back. She even took a few steps away from the table before the man came to. "Wait!" he cried, half-rising in his seat, "Then tell me how to fix this formula!"

What an intellectual conversation, no? And if this was the Academy, sure, I'd be totally on board with this kind of event. This could definitely happen, oh, at least once in a while or so. (Though as a commoner, I've never even touched the outer walls of that place, so I wouldn't know.) But this was not the Academy. This was a pretty seedy bar-slash-restaurant where Rose and I are waitresses, and well, this isn't normal. 

We've spend our entire lives together and I have no idea where she learned the higher fields. Heck, I can't even read and I've been getting along fine enough. And I only know how to read numbers because Rose taught me, but who taught Rose?

But that's not the only thing weird about her. She spouts off weird things, too, nonsensical things that don't make sense, like-- 

"Curse my sister!" she would say.

I'd pop up from somewhere and ask, "Which one?" because she has four sisters and one brother, all younger than her.

She'd huff and say, "None that you know."

"But I know your entire family!"

"No, no, I have another one. She's in hiding. Wait, no, I am. Not to worry-- you'll get to know about her in five years or so."

What eleven-year-old (because we were eleven then) says this? And looks totally serious to boot?

Oh, but if I sat here explaining away the very weirdness of this friend of mine (and did I mention that no matter how long she goes without washing her hair--and trust me, I know how long she goes without washing her hair--it always stays pretty and shiny and shimmery? What's the logic in that? And what about her golden eyes? Who has golden eyes and can pull that off?), we'd be sitting here for years. I won't even talk about how her hands have never seen a single blister in her life doing restaurant work. It's just always been that way with her, and I've half given up figuring out why.

In all honesty, though, up until we were sixteen it wasn't that bad. Just the little things, here and there, that made me stop at times or keep me awake for an extra five more minutes at night. No, the downwards spiral started when we were sixteen and she turned out to be nothing less than the high Duke's illegitimate daughter, and the entire world as I knew it turned-- as Rosa would say-- 180 degrees.

And that is where this story truly begins.