It was a tiny thought.  Simple in its execution, radical in its scope.  Grand ideas were not for people like her.  Some might say that she’d lost the right to those ideas when her father had died.  She thought it had been earlier, the day her mother had died and her father had hastened into marriage with the elegant widow and her two merciless daughters.  She was only a person for small ideas now.  This one, though?  It was hers, and once it had her in its grip, it was strangely reluctant to let her go.

It was a good position, so she was continually told.  She must be grateful.  She must be. With no proper upbringing, she was unused to those finer feelings that my lady prized so highly.  It must be gratitude that formed the hot knot in her chest when my lady sent her to muck in the pigs’ stalls so that the prince in the parlor could dine with her stepsister uninterrupted.  Gratitude that left her devoid of speech while her stepsisters tore her mother’s old gowns to rags to stop their courses.  She was lucky that there was this place for her.

She stood in front of the cold fireplace, fire neatly laid and waiting, ashes from the cleaning still on her hands.  Then she looked at the room around her, the rich silks and tapestries, the ornately carved chairs, not a single thing of her parents’ left but their daughter.

Standing there, she lit the match and let it burn.

Welcome to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge!  This week called for 33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word RADICAL (adj.):