Saving Alison

It was top of the nineteenth century when I had my sights first fall on her. She must have been no more than sixteen, and I — having lived nearly a century — had already aged past that innocence. She stood in the half-light, her fair skin reflecting the sparkling from the crystals above and her pale eyes tracing the movements of young men and women, dancing in the strict, traditional way.
Something about her focus on their footwork made me observe the entirety of our surroundings. The ball, as many would call it, was held by the Wells family in their fairly new home. A home. I laughed inwardly at that. This empty stained glass and marble building was meant for throwing lavish parties and to host the most "suitable" candidates to marry Mr. Wells' beautiful daughters, as well as to impress the parents of the new Mrs. Wells — his only son's wife — whomever she may be.
I glanced back at this beauty.
God, don't let it be her.
But she didn't seem at all interested in the extravagance around her. That is, until light hit one of the dangling crystals above in just the right way, causing a rainbow to dance across her bare arms. Something in me leaped. She dressed differently, to say the very least. Her beautiful, long tresses were piled atop her head in the usual fashion, a twinkling gem-encrusted barrette secured tightly to the right of her head. But she had bangs! Wisps of hair that fell just past her brows, which were dark and angled intimidatingly perfect. Her face was almost heart-shaped, her lips pulled together in a mindless pout that told me she didn't want to be here, that these weren't her people.
Well, good for her! I thought, She's mighty a looker to be entangled with numb-minded types. Never once did she glance at me while I stood and observed her mystical beauty.
"If you're so fascinated, why not ask for a dance?" Miles, my greatest companion, my pack-mate, goaded.
"Oui, because it really is very easy, isn't it?"
I, for one, definitely was not French. Not even a smidge, but that was our go-to back-story. Miles shook his shaggy blonde hair at me, and then swept up another attractive young woman, vying for proposal, and nothing more. My beauty was still there, hands clasped before her. She lifted her face just them, lifted it to the sparkling ceiling. She only kept her face tilted towards the heavens long enough for me to trace her portfolio, long enough for me to notice those long, dark lashes and the cherry of her unpainted lips, that button nose. And, oh, yes. Her eyes were blue. True, pretty blue.
I shuddered out of pleasure, right there on the edge of Wells' ballroom. Then she lowered her head and finally — finally — looked at me. At least, I thought she had, until a young man, about twenty in age, stepped from beside me, towards her. I immediately averted my gaze, focusing solely on their interaction but making as if to eye a pudgy redhead from across the room. This curvy woman waggled her fingers at me shamelessly. Her blonde, pinched-looking female companion swatted at her. A yard away from me, this young man with a strange shade of dark blonde hair and the most stoic, silver eyes stood much too close and leaned even closer. He murmured to her. He had asked her how she was enjoying the party.
She lifted her hand to suppress a sarcastic smile. "Fine, and you?" I watched her lips ask.
He flattered her, then took her hand and kissed it so light, I saw her to struggle to comprehend whether or not he really did so.
Oh, Lord. Please let them be brother and sister.. Or first cousins! Don't let him have her heart, or take it, I prayed silently.
He stepped away from her, and she faded into the crowd that was settling down to dine. I touched the arm of a sweaty, pig-faced man. He'd seen me watching her.
"Who is she?"
He blew at me, his face a mottled red. "Who is whom? Her? That's Governess Asher, and him? Oh, he's her lover. Sickening."
I gripped the lapel of his suit, and that is when he realized I was not interested in gossip games. "Alright, alright," he huffed, swatting my tight fist away. "Name's Alison Kempt. Poor thing, her daddy up and fell ill on her mother years ago. Little thing did all she could to save the ol' man, but it was the sickness, you know? Anyhow, little Ali's mom - that's what she goes by, Alison - was not but a baby when she married the late Mister Kempt and conceived Ali. "And when Daddy left, well, Ali's mom lost it. Poof. No more functioning adult. Just Ali, a shell of a mother, a whole lot of memories, and that beautiful house up on Blueberry Hill. She gets by just fine, and I'll say, little thing is a dead ringer for her grand-momma."
I felt a chill inch up my spine.
"And the young man?" He clucked his tongue, perhaps in disapproval. "Half brother. Illegitimate. Mom was a bar made. Useless. Damn near abused the boy half-to-death, then dumped him on Daddy's stoop at age nine. Poor kid never had the chance to forgive and reconnect before his dad caught the sickness. Sad, really, it is."
For such a heavy-set man, he sure loved to talk, because he continued with the same gusto, "He sure favors Ali, though. Probably snatch her up himself if they weren't such close-knit kin, you know, having the same father and all." The sweaty, gossipy red-faced man blew a low whistle at her, though she was deep in the dining hall. "Sure is a looker, that one. My, if I was ten years younger and half as sober, I'd have smarted up and snatched me a looker like that one. Mm-mm."
I shot him a threatening look with my dark eyes, and he fell silent for a moment.
"Get this," he said as his departing words, no doubt called by the luscious scents of the evening meal. "She's only sixteen." This stopped me. All my senses froze. It was a shocking enough to unsettle Miles, my faithful and ever-caring pack-mate.
"Find her out?" he mumbled, unsure and feeling anxious.
"No, but I will; I'm going to make her meet me."
Miles shook his head with a smile. "Watch yourself, Mister. These are troubling times to find mates." Then he waggled his fingers in the same repulsive way that the sloppy redhead had moments earlier.