Everyone bleeds red. She’s acutely aware of this, particularly in the dark and cold halls of her home, when she remembers the words she was told as a child, of these people, of their ways, whose company she now attends. Beneath skin and flesh and sensibilities, there is a universal truth by which everyone is carved. She is as aware of this as she is of her whiteness in this sea of black. She is by no means fair or pale, but with everyone around her surrounded by an inexplicable darkness, she becomes the bright blemish on the proud, noble house of nobility, making the shadows that much starker. They’re good, she knows, but they can not shed what they were born with, what their very blood is made of. She is aware of this as she looks out and sees the physical differences between her, the stranger, and these indigenous people of the ancient land, through the rosy red blooms of her garden, spotted by fresh snow, white as the crown of her hair.