I haven't looked at the answer yet, but from everyone else's response, mine seems kind of simple.
Julia was born to a noble lineage. Some would have called that fortuitous.
Not Julia.
"If only I'd been born of the prolitereate," she'd muse, holding a sunflower in front of her and plucking its petals away from each other. "I'd have been the happiest girl alive."
Andrea.
Andrea was born to a common lineage. Some would have called this a curse.
Not Andrea.
"My days are filled with mirth," she explained to her father, who'd just asked her for the umpteenth time how the daughter of a poor mender could always be so happy. "Because of you, and mamma, and of course Peter!"
Peter.
Peter was a simple fellow. He knew what he knew and once he knew it, it was forever known. Not stubborn. Or callous. Or jaded. Simply simple. What he knew, he knew. And if there's one thing Peter knew, it was that he loved his bride-to-be with all his heart.
Andrea rode her fine Arabian down the dusty path of Main Street. Its silky main silhouetting her own golden matte as the wind toyed with them both in unison. She rode at an even pace. Not too fast, not too slow -- the governing law of the socially elite. A law she hated.
Then suddenly her mom died, she fell in love, and she offed her sister. (I wonder why?)
THE END