And here Christian was, pretending to have no interest in any woman but Lady Ella. Well, it was partially true: he wasn’t interested in anyone else. But the majority of his interest came from the fact that Poppy would be Lady Ella tonight.
Would the Corley uncover their deception, and what would happen to Poppy if she did? If she didn’t, would Poppy’s feet be all right? They still weren’t sure if Eleanora could be healed.
And would Poppy really dance all night with him?
Christian kept turning to look at the door of the ballroom but didn’t expect Poppy to arrive any time soon. After all, Lady Ella always appeared late and made a grand entrance, and the masked ball had only been underway for half an hour. Most of the guests had arrived with unusual punctuality, and were also craning their necks around. He suspected that they, too, were waiting for the mysterious Lady Ella, since she had captivated not only Christian, but all the noblemen of Castleraugh, even as she alienated the women.
He wondered if the spell would be broken tonight. Would all the nobles of Castleraugh be talking about Lady Ella to their grandchildren? Or would the magic fade once the Corley had what she wanted?
Or better, once they stopped her.
Christian was drawn from his thoughts by the hush that fell over the ballroom. It was Lady Ella; the guests wouldn’t be so quiet for any other reason. He turned to face the double doors and saw a magnificent figure framed there. All in peacock blue silk with plumes of that very bird rising around her head and trailing from her skirts, Poppy looked magnificent.
And there was no doubt in Christian’s mind that it was Poppy. No one, he thought, could mistake that proud bearing or sheer vibrancy of spirit. No mask or glamour could hide the fluid grace that said she was a born dancer, for all her professed hatred of dancing. And he couldn’t help noticing that her hair was darker and glossier than Ellen’s, and her figure? Well, Poppy had a very nice figure.
It wasn’t hard to push the other gentlemen out of his way to reach her side first. It wasn’t hard to bow and kiss her fingers, and it was without any compulsion at all that Christian asked her to dance.
A small mischievous smile curled Poppy’s lips.
“I would be honored, Your Highness,” she said, and slapped his arm with her peacock feather fan.
Christian laughed and took her arm, steering clear of the fan. “Can you dance?” He teased as they took their places on the polished floor among a host of dashing pirates and romantic beggar maids. “Or are you merely fond of the occasional entrechat?”
“I have some meager skill,” she said airily.
The orchestra began to play a gigue, one of Analousia’s more intricate dances, which did make use of the entrechat. Two steps to the left, and Poppy twirled up and down in Christian’s arms flawlessly. A woman nearby stumbled, either from clumsiness or because of her elaborate costume, and Poppy skipped lightly out of the way.
Christian marveled that Poppy claimed she hadn’t danced in nearly three years. She was the most skilled partner he had ever had, as light in his arms as a butterfly, while carrying on a conversation as easily as though they were seated in the Seadowns’ parlor.
Laughing at his expression of amazement, Poppy said, “You must understand: for ten years I danced nearly every night till dawn. You should have seen my feet: blisters, bruises, horrifying. But eventually they healed.” Then she made a face. “They’re feeling rather delicate now, though.”
When they came to the end of the dance, she swept aside her skirts a little, to show him why.
Her gleaming blue shoes were a thing of great beauty. There were swirls of green, and an overlay of gold filigree, all of it made of glass. She wore no stockings, and the blue and gold and green stood out starkly against her pale skin.
“They hurt like nothing you have ever felt,” Poppy said fervently, dropping her skirts. “I think I’d rather be run through with a rusty cavalry saber.”
Wincing with sympathy, he took her hands and led her into the next dance. They would have to dance every dance, lest the Corley suspect that something was amiss.
“So what do we do now?” Christian wanted to relax and enjoy dancing with Poppy, but he couldn’t help but worry about what was coming next. “Do we just wait for the end of the evening? Am I supposed to propose to you?” This last idea did not seem all that repellent, actually.
He noticed that he was not experiencing any of the fogginess, the twisting of his thoughts, that he had had with Eleanora as Ella. Was it the potion and the charms at work? Or was it because it was Poppy wearing the glass slippers?
“I suppose,” Poppy said shortly. She had a funny look on her face, but it might have been the mask. “I have to leave before midnight, so we’ll do it sometime before then. Roger and all three of the Seadowns are armed with charms and what have you, waiting for the Corley’s next move.”
Her voice was breezy, confident, but Christian thought he could detect a slight tremble to it, and saw her chin pucker. He held her a little more closely than the dance demanded, and felt her lean into him.
“Did I ever tell you that the first time my sister Rose danced with her husband Galen, he was invisible?” Poppy’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“Invisible?”
“He had a cape that made him invisible. That’s how he was following us down to the King Under Stone’s palace,” she said. “He stabbed the king with a knitting needle.”
Christian let out a quick laugh. “Is that all we need? One of your knitting needles? The Corley will be gone, poof?”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” she said, laughing breathlessly.
“I wish I was able to do more,” Christian said, voicing his frustration.
“Don’t you worry,” she told him. “Roger has a knife for you, almost a short sword, forged out of blessed silver.”
Christian felt relieved: they were going to need him after all. He was good with swords and knives. He rather wished Roger could have located him a rapier, but he imagined that the Corley didn’t follow the gentlemanly rules of fencing.
No, better to hack and slash with a sturdy (and magical) short sword than prance back and forth with a needle-thin foil.
“See, Roger is signaling us now,” Poppy said. “Let’s dance over that way, and get your weapon.” She gave a little sigh. “I have one, but it’s not half as impressive.”
Christian couldn’t help laughing as he guided their steps toward a severe-looking figure in judge’s robes with a noose tied to his waist. For one thing, it was just like Roger Thwaite to dress as a “hanging judge” while everyone else was romantically garbed as pirates or knights, and for another, it was just like Poppy to be jealous that her weapon was smaller.
“I shall buy you a short sword for your birthday,” Christian promised.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Poppy said.
“Who is this mysterious lady?” Roger stopped them at the edge of the dance floor and kissed Poppy’s hand.
“Oh, sir! Don’t tempt me to reveal myself,” Poppy simpered, and slapped Roger’s arm with her peacock feather fan, shedding a plume.
Christian stifled a snicker at her impersonation of Lady Ella. He’d had a chance to speak to the real Eleanora yesterday, and thought she was a delightful, shy young woman. He had no idea why being Lady Ella made her slap people and pout all the time.
“If you continue to dominate this lovely lady’s dance card,” Roger said to Christian, “I may have to call you out!” He flapped his robes with uncharacteristic drama, which allowed him to pull out a long knife in a black sheath and press it into Christian’s waiting hand.
Christian quickly concealed the knife in the folds of his own robes, not sure what to do with it now. He couldn’t very well dance with one hand clamped to his side. He saw Poppy and Roger purse their lips, as though coming to the same conclusion.
A young woman dressed as a hareem girl in a daring costume of billowing trousers and a low-cut, tight bodice came fluttering ov
er to them. She even had delicate gold shackles on her wrists, Christian noticed, and was further distracted by the fact that her bodice and trousers did not quite meet over her waist. Poppy jabbed him in the ribs with the handle of her fan when she caught him staring.
“Costumes are so difficult to manage, aren’t they?”
The hareem girl, to Christian’s shock, was Marianne. Her brown eyes twinkled from behind her spangled mask, and her black hair was covered by a headdress dripping with cut-glass “jewels.” He swallowed and nodded, still taken aback by the amount of flesh she was showing.
With a laugh at his discomfiture, Marianne took the long knife from his hand and tucked the sheath through the sash of his imperial robes. She tugged at the knot of the sash, making sure it was tight enough, and then gave a satisfied nod.
“You would have to wear the full regalia!” Her voice was louder now, for the benefit of those watching the little group. “I don’t know how you expect to dance with all these fans and things hanging off of your sash!”
“Oh, thank you! How kind!” Poppy fluttered her fan at Marianne. “Now if you don’t mind!” She steered Christian back onto the dance floor as though jealous.
“Her costume,” Christian said in a strangled voice.
“The original design called for one of those long veils, all the way to the floor. But then she decided this morning that it would get in the way when she danced.” Poppy gave a wicked laugh. “Have you seen Dickon? He’s dressed to match.”
“No, I—” Then Christian stopped, because he did see Dickon, or he assumed it was Dickon, taking Marianne’s hand to lead her into a dance.
In complete contrast to his brother’s restrained garb, Dickon Twaite was wearing a pair of billowing trousers like Marianne’s, a sash with a long knife, a turban, and a mask.
And nothing else.
Christian let out a low whistle.
“Lord Richard is dressed like a cavalier,” Poppy said.
At first this seemed to be a rather off-the-cuff remark, but then Christian noticed the tall Analousian cavalier lurking to the side of the dance floor, his masked gaze clearly on Marianne and Dickon. Christian started to laugh, and found that he couldn’t stop.
It infected Poppy, too, and soon they were both laughing like maniacs as they twirled around the floor. It was all too surreal: the Corley, Eleanora, the glass slippers … and here was Lord Richard worried about the fact that his daughter was wearing a revealing costume and dancing with the young man who was on the verge of asking for her hand anyway.
For hours they laughed and danced, and pretended that there was nothing more horrible to come than the end of the ball.
Christian wondered how he could ever have thought about asking Lady Ella to marry him. Not with Poppy in the same room, even in the same city. She was clever, and witty, and without a doubt the finest dancer he had ever partnered. Eleanora’s awkward flirting, fan-slaps, and stilted conversation simply could not hold a candle to Poppy’s free and easy manners.
Of course Christian knew that it was hardly Eleanora’s fault. She hadn’t had a happy life, and she had no experience with balls and parties. There was also the small matter of her being in love with Roger, while trying to attract Christian’s interest on the Corley’s orders.
Poppy filled him in on all this as they danced, including her suspicion that Roger would have eloped with Eleanora if he weren’t so honorable.
“As it is, I still think he might. If we don’t defeat the Corley tonight …” She trailed off briefly, then shook herself. “He may just take her and run for it anyway.”
“I can’t believe that Roger Thwaite could do something so wild,” Christian argued. “Of course, I can’t believe that Roger could have a childhood sweetheart, either. Dickon yes, but Roger?”
“Well, they both do. So perhaps it’s a family trait,” Poppy said. “Dickon and Marianne really should be married with all possible speed. Look at them!”
They both twisted to look as they skipped through the steps of the current dance. Dickon and Marianne were trying to stay as close as possible, gazing into each other’s eyes like they had never seen anyone so fascinating, and all while they were involved in one of the more intricate Venezian caribas.
“They’re going to trip,” Christian agreed.
“And so is everyone around them, if they don’t start—”
But Poppy never finished her thought.
The enormous clock at the far end of the ballroom began to toll the hour: eleven.
“Oh,” Poppy’s voice was barely a whisper. “I suppose now we should … you will have to …”
“Er, yes.” Christian took her arm and they eased themselves out of the pattern of the dance, through the glass doors at the end of the ballroom, and onto the veranda.
Poppy leaned against the stone balustrade, her face unreadable behind her mask. The moon was full, and it dulled the colors of her brilliant costume and made her seem like some unearthly creature of the night. He went down on knee, and she loomed over him, her plumed headdress making her even taller.
“Poppy—,” he began, but she hissed and he stopped. He coughed, and tried to remember that this was part of a ruse and not a real proposal. “Ella, my love,” he said, trying to sound infatuated. “Will you do me the very great honor of, um, making me, I mean, becoming my bride?”
“Oh, la! I am too flattered!” Poppy’s voice was high-pitched, and Christian couldn’t tell if she was mocking Eleanora or frightened. “But of course I accept!” She smacked his shoulder with her fan as though knighting him.
Suddenly, there was a crash like a thousand plates smashing to the floor at once, and Poppy reeled. Christian leaped to his feet and took hold of her waist to steady her. Within the palace, all the clocks began to chime.
“It can’t be midnight,” Poppy gasped. “It’s only been a few minutes since eleven!”
“It’s the Corley’s doing!” Christian gripped her waist even harder as she started to pull away from him, her face contorted beneath the feathered mask. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s calling me … I have to go!”
Poppy slipped from his arms and ran, back into the ballroom, through the crowd of guests. No one was dancing, they were all milling about in confusion as the clocks continued to chime and chime.
As they tore through the front doors, Christian heard others following him. A quick look back showed Roger, Marianne, and the rest of their friends in pursuit. Outside, a golden carriage shaped like a round market basket was pulled up at the bottom of the steps, and the footmen were practically dancing in place with anxiety.
Poppy flew down the stairs, but tripped just as she reached the bottom. Christian reached out a hand, but one of the footmen all but threw her into the carriage. The coachman had the horses moving before she even sat down.
“Christian!” There was real terror in her voice as the carriage racketed away.
“This way!” Roger grabbed Christian before he tried to chase after Poppy on foot.
Another carriage had pulled up, and Christian saw Lord and Lady Seadown climbing into it, giving orders to the coachman to go straight to their manor at once.
“What’s that?” Marianne had stopped just as Dickon was trying to help her into the carriage. She was pointing at something near Christian’s feet.
The prince looked down just in time to avoid stepping on a high-heeled shoe of exquisite blue and gold glass. He bent and scooped it up, then leaped onto the seat of the Seadowns’ carriage beside the coachman.
Imposter
The golden carriage barreled through the rear gates of Seadown House and aimed straight for the banked bonfire Poppy could see waiting there in front of the stable. It was her last chance to quit, to jump to safety, but she just gripped the side of the carriage and said a quick prayer as they passed through the ashes and into the Corley’s palace.
The carriage slid to a stop, the horses nearly falling to their rumps on the slick glass floor. All
the servants leaped off of their perches and one of them grabbed Poppy’s arm, hauling her out of the carriage like a sack of potatoes.
“Do you mind?” She clambered to her feet, straightening her elaborate skirts with great dignity.
What she saw next made her heartily glad for the man’s rough manners, however.
Before their eyes the carriage was melting. In a matter of seconds it was nothing but a sizzling pile of orange gold slag in the middle of the floor. Poppy gulped, thinking what it would have been like to be trapped in the carriage as it melted.
She turned to thank the footman, but he, too, was gone. All the servants had faded back to wherever they came from, and so had the horses. At least, she thought they had. But there were twelve fat white rats scuttling around the smoldering remains of the carriage, their pink noses wiggling. One of them had a distinctly horsey look, Poppy thought, as it peered up at her. Then they all turned and scampered off to some unseen hole.
And Poppy was alone.
“Hello?”
She looked around. The room was circular, and there seemed to be one way in or out: an arch just large enough for her to pass through. The only sign of the carriage’s entrance was a streak of greasy soot on the floor. She took a step toward the arch, and yelped with pain as something stabbed her instep.
Raising her skirts high, she looked down to find that the glass slipper on her left foot had broken in half. The glass, which had been uncomfortably hot but pliable during the ball, had hardened now. Her right shoe was missing entirely, and Poppy couldn’t for the life of her remember where she had lost it.
She probed her feet with a wary finger, but there was no sign of the glassy hardness that had affected Eleanora. The broken glass had scratched her instep, but it was shallow and hardly bled. She knotted one of her abundant layers of underskirt into a pocket and slipped the two halves of the glass slipper inside.
Then Poppy padded off to find the Corley.