The old clock struck midnight and the manor was filled with the deep tones as it declared the late hour. But a different tune reverberated through the house, distinct from every other hour.

“Are you ready?’ The call came from the first floor and was carried up the stairs by the almost mournful tones from the antique clock.

Arabella laid upstairs, decidedly ignoring her mother calling her down. She continued to listen to the chimes, her feet dangling off the edge of her bed as she laid and stared at the ceiling. Even though it was an old clock, it could still be heard throughout the manor, as though it chimed in every room. For all she knew, maybe it did.

As the clock began its sixth chime, it began to change. The low tones thinned, rising in octaves, yet grew softer just the same. By the seventh, it was a lighter, more gentle chime that seemed to linger. By the eighth, the air seemed to hum along and a scent reached her nose, one she was more than familiar with. Something like rosemary, but warm and sweet – the scent of magic

“Hurry up and come downstairs! It’s time!”

She sighed. It was surprising that her mother hadn’t marched up the stairs to get her yet. With the old grandfather clock chiming, she was turning 18. A big moment as she legally entered adulthood. But an even bigger moment was waiting for her downstairs. It was time to get out of bed.

Arabella tied a blue sash around her waist and looked in the mirror. Her long, black hair fell down past her waist, while shorter locks framed her face and green eyes. Up or down? Considering she needed to be downstairs before the clock finished declaring midnight, she left it down.

She did a quick spin in front of the mirror, checking to make sure she looked okay. The dark blue dress wasn’t something she would have normally worn. It nearly reached the floor and the silver specks along the hem looked like someone splashed paint in an attempt to create the beginnings of a starry sky. It looked almost childish. But her mom had said it was “tradition”.

Arabella didn’t mind tradition. What she minded was that it was an old hand-me-down and if she looked close enough, she could see the stitch lines from how often it had needed to be repaired. She could even see fraying at the end of the sleeves. Why couldn’t there have been something traditional that wasn’t so…old? There wasn’t much she could do about it though. It was only for one night. Not even a whole night. It was only for one hour.

She made her way downstairs, nearly tripping down the final steps. Her grandfather was there to steady her. He was old and his hair was greying, but he was as strong as ever. The only sign of age aside from greying his hair were the few wrinkles around his eyes from years of smiling, and the faded scars that decorated his skin like tattoos. Except she’d heard the story for each of them.