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Thimelle duNuit
Profile: Thimelle is small and mousy: completely anonymous in every fashion. Her hair is a nondescript golden brown. Her eyes are a common greenish hazel. She has the usual complement of facial features, body parts, and brain cells (we hope.) Since she has arrived in disguise (don't ask!) she's prone to highly exaggerated gestures and a worried expression. Once she loses that, she'll be far easier to live with. She's masquerading as a lady of some importance (darn self esteem issues!). Biography: Life just isn't fair. When you have to be born a potato farmer's daughter, you should at least get a bit of interesting mystique about you. There should be a touch of romance somewhere, shouldn't there? Is it too much to ask for a hint of nobility or maybe a scandal? In my case, I suppose it was, but then again, I've learned to be careful about what I wish for. In Andor, as it is throughout the Westlands, the land is owned by the nobility and farmed by everyone else. My father had tried farming tabac once, but our fields simply didn't like it: it got the brown spots, withered, and died. That was a lean year, and the year I was born. Potatoes are safe, edible, and raise a modest price: I am plain, serviceable, and not worth much more. But I've never been content with that. At twelve, I left home to become a potmaid for the manor. I scrubbed and scrubbed, and it was easier than digging and digging, so I suppose I did well enough. I was promoted to serving maid at thirteen, and a bedmaid at fourteen. The trouble with me, though, is that I never know when to stop dreaming, and I suppose it always shows up to trip me. You could say I'm not the girl you think I am. It was early summer when the caravan left for the Tower: in Andor, those subjects loyal to the Queen (and of suitable birth and disposed to large amounts of money) have their education at the White Tower, with the Daughter-Heir if there is one. Carrassi was unexcited about it, but I was mad to go. Tar Valon is, you see, about as far from potato fields as you can get. But when the day came, and left, it left me with nothing. You can't take a bedmaid with you to the White Tower. There was nothing to do then, but make certain that I did go somewhere I wanted to go, and that when I got there, they wouldn't turn me away. Obviously I couldn't go to the White Tower, I thought, as I walked. At first I was content to go anywhere, and I found the villages outside the narrow sphere of my existence fascinating. I worked in an inn in the summer, in a tavern as autumn passed, and in the winter, I had money enough to pay the master of a caravan going east, to the Tower I had heard was in Cairhien. Perhaps it was foul luck the first time the driver tipped his hat to me and called me milady. It brought that fault of mine raging to the surface again. I had a little money - surely it was enough to buy an education? - why not pretend? Carassi had left in woolens no finer than mine. I'd heard they burnt everything when you got there anyway. Nobody would expect rich finery when flames were waiting for it! I could be what I wasn't, and perhaps that would make me good enough. I changed my name as we traveled east: plain and simple Tima became the fascinating and horribly fabulous Thimelle. Surely, someone with a name so fancy couldn't be as plain as me? I had to be in disguise. However, nothing colored my hair for more than a few days, and it was all prone to running in the rain: radiant red, bright blonde, raven-wing black. Paint made me look odd, and I despaired of my sturdy features: was I going to be shown as a liar before I could even step foot in the door? I couldn't afford to go home. In the end, it was a simple thing to pass between the metal gates and stand in the hall with a dozen other women, all there on their own errands. The only disguise I had was my cloak, and it was all I needed. It didn't work, anyhow: I could feel eyes on my back everywhere I stepped. Floundering about within my own memory, I tried to remember why my father had always said never to have dealings with an Aes Sedai, but I couldn't. Wait, wasn't it that they could read minds? "You are here to see the Mistress, aren't you, child?" a young woman in white with a banded hem inquired. She didn't look much older than me, but she certainly sounded it. My heart fell a little as she brought up Carrassi: of course, she'd tell everyone and I'd be hooted out in disgrace. Well, there'd been a village down the road: I could work there until spring or summer and have an easier trip back home to Da's potatoes next fall. "No, I don't think I'd like to see her," I answered, spitefully determined to keep the last laugh. "She can kiss the bottoms of my boots as I walk away, I think." I was quite proud of that, but the pretty girl in the strange dress just stared at me, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she wanted to smile. Fabulous, I'd found one of the chit's friends. "You can also tell her that I didn't follow her stuck-up, priggish bottom here," I declared, with asperity. "So she couldn't make it at the White Tower, could she? Well, I'm here, and she can't send me away the way she used to." The girl's mouth had gone from the promise of a grin to confusion, and her bright, dancing eyes had gone a touch wide. What had her goat? "I think that you might not want to say that to the Mistress of Novices," she managed, after a few minutes of leading me through long halls. "Most young women who can channel just tell her their age and where they came from. Please don't call her stuck-up," the girl pleaded, knocking twice at a dark door. "And tell the truth, she always knows when you're lying." Of course she would, she could read minds! Well, I'd gotten this far as Thimelle, and that beat Tima any day. Half-confused and half-frightened, I stared at the dark door. It opened to another woman in that flaming white dress, only this one had no color at the hems. What was this, some sort of fashion statement? If it was all the same, I'd keep my blue wool dress. It looked a great deal smarter than this white one I'd seen so much of. "The Mistress of Novices will see you in a moment," the girl murmured, before she went back to her perusal of a large book. No, she wouldn't. I decided that nobody here would see me - who would want to? This strange, surreal place was nowhere for a farmer's daughter to be. I'd been right to decide to pretend to be a lady: nobody's door opened for a potato farmer's daughter. I straightened my back and lifted my chin, trying to be regal although I was riddled with doubts.
Tima could have doubts. Thimelle didn't.
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