Her godmother clapped her hands again, and more servants entered. They sat Ellen carefully on a low stool, with her skirts spread out around her, and expertly applied cosmetics to her face. Then her long hair was brushed through with a shining pomade and twisted up into an elaborate coiffure.
After that, to Ellen’s rapturous delight, jewels were brought in. A choker of rubies, ruby and diamond pins for her hair, a ring and bracelet. The servants placed them reverently upon her, and she was ready for the ball, with the exception of her feet.
“Oh, what about slippers?” As she had stood to admire herself in the mirrors again, Ellen felt the slick floor beneath her bare soles and realized that she wasn’t even wearing stockings or garters beneath her gown, let alone shoes.
“This way, my darling girl,” her godmother said, and took her arm with one soft hand.
“I have such special slippers for you that you will not need stockings,” the smiling old woman continued as they went down a long corridor lined with flowers made of glass. “They would only spoil the effect.”
The cold glass floor chilled Ellen’s feet. She couldn’t fathom going out in public without stockings—she would be half-naked! What if she lifted her skirts too high and exposed her bare legs to the royal court?
Her godmother read the girl’s alarm easily and chuckled. “Now, now! Have I not provided for everything else? These are very special shoes, as I’ve said. They will help you to dance like a dream! No one will notice that you aren’t wearing stockings, even if they do catch a glimpse of your ankles. Don’t you trust me?”
Not wanting to seem ungrateful to the kind lady who had given her so much, Ellen pushed aside her fears and smiled back. She went with her godmother into a circular room she had never seen before, and let a servant help her into a large chair with a footstool. Both chair and footstool, like so much of this glorious palace, were made of delicate glass that was as hard as steel. She sat rigidly, not wanting to crease her gown or muss her hair on the tall back of the chair, and her godmother bustled over to a long table where there were strange instruments and bubbling pots set over weird green flames in golden pans.
Goose bumps broke out all over Ellen, and she felt sweat starting on her temples. She gritted her teeth, not wanting the powder on her face to run. But here was magic, magic beyond walking through a fireplace into a palace.
And it was going to be practiced on her.
She looked down at her gown, at the rubies on her wrist and finger, and straightened her spine. It would be worth it, to dance in this gown, these jewels. To win a prince’s love and leave drudgery far behind.
And besides, her godmother would never hurt her.
Honored Guest
welcome, all, to the first night of our royal gala!”
King Rupert stood atop a dais that had been erected in the Tuckington Palace gardens. The dais was cleverly positioned at the edge of a large pond, and the water helped carry his voice to the assembled crowd, who cheered.
“We hope you will all enjoy yourselves while you get to know our most honored guest, Prince Christian of the Danelaw!”
Another huge cheer and Christian sheepishly took his place beside the king. He gave the crowd a small wave, feeling self-conscious, and looked for a friendly face. Thank heavens tonight wasn’t the masked ball: he was still preparing himself for that. In his experience, masked balls were rife with opportunities for people to do and say things they wouldn’t normally, and for good reason.
A gown of white and red at the front of the crowd caught his eye. White and red, worn by a young woman with black hair and milky white skin. It was Poppy, naturally. No other young lady would be so daringly dressed. Beside her was Marianne, looking demure but lovely in green. He couldn’t quite tell, but it seemed that Poppy was either smirking, or at the least smiling, at his discomfort. He decided to use his “guest of honor” prerogative to steal a dance with her.
“Let the gala begin!” King Rupert raised his hands grandly, and fireworks erupted from each side of the dais.
There was more cheering, and then Christian could make his escape. Or so he thought. The king at once handed him off to the queen, and Christian found himself leading Her Majesty into the palace ballroom to open the dancing. As he moved in stately circles around the room, Queen Edith twittered in his ear about this lady and that lady, making sure that he knew exactly whom his hosts expected him to dance with. He wondered if he would even have time to eat something, let alone persuade Poppy to dance just this once.
And he wanted to squire Marianne as well. She was not only a delightful dancer, but he enjoyed teasing her. He knew that there were some rumors about his fondness for the Seadowns’ daughter, but he thought of her as one of his own sisters, and was hoping to be invited to her wedding before the year was out.
At last his dance with the queen ended, and as he bowed he caught a glimpse of scarlet and white in the doorway of the ballroom. He gave another flourish, and turned toward the flash of color, saying, “My next partner, I think.”
But when he faced the young lady who had just entered, it was not Poppy at all.
He had thought that only one person would possibly wear such a dramatic gown, or have that gleaming black hair, but it seemed there were two. This young lady was beautiful and her coloring was similar to Poppy’s, but her hair wasn’t as black and her eyes were more blue than violet. Close up, he never would have mistaken the two girls.
But now here he was, facing this lady who looked slightly familiar and was smiling at him in an expectant way. The entire room had paused, staring, and he gallantly held out his hand.
“Would you care to have this dance?”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Her voice was light and caressing, and again very familiar. It taunted him, and he racked his brain for her identity. He had met so many young ladies during his stay in Breton, but surely he would remember one this beautiful, and with such striking coloring. She wasn’t a Casterton, and definitely not a Richmond. A Blythe?
There really had been far too many prospective brides paraded before him. They couldn’t possibly expect him to know all their names. He swallowed his pride as the figures of the dance moved them closer together.
“I’m quite sorry, but I seem to have forgotten your name.”
“That’s because we were never formally introduced.” She gave a light tinkle of laughter. “My name is Lady El—Lady Ella.”
“Lady Ella … ?” He waited, but no family name was forthcoming.
“We’ve only seen each other in passing, it would hardly have been memorable.”
“Ah.”
Their conversation continued in this stilted fashion for the rest of the dance. Christian tried a few sallies: where had they met? Did he know her parents? But she replied only with mysterious smiles and increasingly forced laughter, even though none of his attempts were all that funny.
It was with great relief that he bowed to her at the end of the dance. She reached for his hand again, rather boldly, to encourage another dance, but another gentleman came up just then.
It was Roger Thwaite, and he was staring at Lady Ella with an expression of shock. “Eleanora?”
Lady Ella bubbled with laughter, but it sounded even more strained than her previous giggles. “Oh my! It seems that no one can remember my name this evening!” She tapped Roger’s arm with her folded fan, and then Christian’s for good measure.
Christian barely stopped himself from rubbing the spot where her ivory-and-silk fan had struck him, and hoped that she’d been a little gentler with Roger. Really, the girl was quite strange, stranger than Poppy even.
“I don’t know who this Eleanora is,” she babbled. “I’m Lady Ella.”
“Sorry.” Roger drew himself up, embarrassed. “For a moment I mistook you for an old friend.” He gallantly held out his hand. “Please say you will honor me with this next dance, so I may make up for my mistake?”
Lady Ella looked at Christian, who was tongue-ti
ed. Roger clearly wanted to dance with this odd young woman, and Christian wanted to find Poppy, but Ella seemed to have set her cap for the prince.
The awkward moment was saved by a small hand being laid on Christian’s forearm, just where Lady Ella had slapped him with her fan. He looked down to see Marianne smiling up at him.
“I believe you promised me this dance,” she said, smiling.
“Ah, Marianne, sorry to make you wait,” Christian replied with relief, and whirled her away.
The dance had already begun, but it was a reel and anyone could join in. On the other hand, it was so fast that there was no way for them to talk. Christian wanted to ask where Poppy was, and Marianne kept questioning him about Lady Ella. In the end they excused themselves before the dance was finished, and went to one of the refreshment rooms to talk and drink lemonade.
“Where’s Poppy?”
“Watching the jugglers in the gardens,” Marianne said. “I came in to dance, and saw that girl and her gown.” Her cheerful expression darkened. “Mama will be so put out! She specially wanted Poppy and I to have unique dresses, but it looks like someone bribed our dressmaker to copy one of them. Who was she?”
“She said her name was Lady Ella, but she wouldn’t give me a family name. She looked familiar, and told me that we’d met in passing, but I just can’t remember where.”
“Ella?” Marianne’s brow creased. “Ella who?”
“Are you certain you don’t know her?” Christian simply could not put his finger on it, but there was something about Lady Ella that nagged him.
Carrying her glass in one hand and resting the other on Christian’s arm, Marianne steered them both back to the ballroom. She scanned the dancers until she spotted the lavish white and scarlet gown, watching the girl who wore it with narrowed eyes. Then she drank half her lemonade in one gulp.
“I don’t know her,” she hissed. “But someone here must! She’s wearing more jewels than the queen, and Society is not that large.”
“She claims that she and I did meet,” Christian said. “But we weren’t properly introduced.” He blinked eyes a few times. His vision was filled with scarlet roses on white, swirling beneath the glittering lights. Lady Ella’s shoes flashed like rubies.
“Very odd,” Marianne agreed. “But why did she have to ruin Poppy’s dress by copying it? What is her game?”
“Game?” Christian felt incredibly thick. Couldn’t they just stand and watch the girl in the scarlet shoes twirling around and around? Why did Marianne have to talk so viciously about poor Lady Ella?
“Yes, what’s going on?” said a voice behind them. “Someone told me I absolutely had to come in and view the dancing.”
Christian turned to find Poppy standing there looking puzzled. Unconsciously he reached for the silk watch fob that Poppy had knitted for him, hoping she would notice that he was wearing it. The muzziness in his head cleared, and he could see that her dress was different from Ella’s. The red was more subdued, and the flowers on the skirt were poppies, naturally, not roses. She also had a long red shawl draped around her arms, and her hair was thicker, her eyes larger. He couldn’t believe that he’d mistaken anyone else for her.
“Look over there. Dancing with Roger Thwaite!” Marianne grabbed Poppy by the shoulders and turned her.
Still looking puzzled, Poppy looked out into the dancers for a moment, and tilted her head to one side. “Who is … I can’t quite see …”
“What do you mean? She’s right there!” Marianned pointed again.
Christian gave her an irritated look. She was disturbing his reverie. The red roses on white silk whirled by again.
Poppy muttered something, and then gasped in shock. “It can’t be her!”
“You recognize her?” Marianne stared. “Where did you meet her? She introduced herself to Christian as Lady Ella, no last name.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Interesting,” Poppy said slowly. “I guess she did find a patron, but did she have to upstage my gown?” Poppy made a face.
Christian fought down a sudden urge to shake Poppy. Wouldn’t someone tell him more about the fascinating Lady Ella? He brought himself up short with that thought, and took a drink of his lemonade. He felt very strange.
“Not just that,” Marianne said, and Christian realized that the two girls had more or less forgotten his presence. “But she’s dripping with jewels! Why do I not know who she is?”
This brought Poppy’s attention fully away from Lady Ella and onto Marianne. “You don’t recognize her at all?”
“No! Who is she?” Marianne shifted uneasily. “And why is everyone staring at us?”
“Why wouldn’t they stare?” Poppy said. “They want to know what I think of that gown!”
Christian threw up his hands. “Will someone please at least tell me why this girl shouldn’t have a gown and jewels?”
Poppy patted his shoulder but her eyes were still on Lady Ella, as were the eyes of everyone there. “Sorry. It’s just that … this girl … has no money. So how did she come by the gown and jewels? It’s troubling.” Poppy was running the edges of her stole through her fingers, staring at Lady Ella.
Christian didn’t care who Lady Ella’s patron was. He only knew that she was beautiful, and danced like a fairy creature. He wondered if Roger would mind Christian cutting in, even though the dance wasn’t finished.
“Now, now, Your Highness!” A voice behind them boomed and someone clapped Christian on the back so hard that he nearly fell on his face. “No stealing all the young ladies!”
A large, florid man—Duke Something-or-other—was looking over both Poppy and Marianne with a roguish eye. “You’re supposed to be looking for a nice Bretoner wife,” he announced, blasting whiskey-scented breath at Christian. “So I’ll take this one off your hands!”
Without waiting to see if Christian protested or if Poppy agreed, the duke took hold of Poppy and spun her out onto the dance floor.
“Poppy doesn’t dance, everyone knows that,” Marianne said, bristling with indignation now that the initial shock was over.
Christian fought down a surge of jealousy. He’d been planning on convincing Poppy to dance with him—just once! And now this drunken duke had taken her off against her will. She would probably never dance again after this.
It was clear that Poppy was trying to get free of her partner’s overzealous grip. Every time the dance called for a turn or spin Poppy tried to slip away, but the duke kept hauling her back to his side. It would have been comical but for two things: Poppy was such a skilled dancer that she made it look like part of the dance, and the expression of outrage on her face made it clear she was not attempting to be funny.
“What an odd person this Princess Poppy is,” said Lady Ella, tripping up to Christian with Roger Thwaite in tow. “I can assure you, Your Highness, that I love dancing. Shall we?” Once more she held out her hand for Christian to dance with her.
Christian found himself reaching to take her hand without thinking about it. At the last second he remembered his manners and stopped to look inquiringly at Roger.
“I would like to speak with Lady Marianne,” Roger said in a stiff voice.
“If I’m not imposing, then,” Christian murmured, and took Ella’s outstretched hand.
Christian did his best, as they danced, to not be distracted by Poppy’s situation. Ella was a good dancer, and she seemed more relaxed now. The smell of her perfume made him want to bury his face in her hair, and he concentrated on Poppy to avoid making an idiot of himself over the beauteous Lady Ella.
His partner, for her part, kept shooting the odd glance back at Roger and Marianne, who were deep in conversation on the opposite side of the room.
Christian wondered if it would be rude to ask her outright where she had gotten her gown, and why she had copied Poppy’s, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he laughed heartily at the mysterious Lady Ella’s forced jokes, and led her through the measures of the dance.
&
nbsp; Dance
Poppy could not believe that she was dancing for the first time in three years, and it was with this … this …
No epithet was strong enough to describe this horrible drunken clod, in her opinion. Adding insult to injury was the fact that he was such a terrible dancer.
She contemplated faking a faint, or a sprained ankle, but didn’t want her boorish partner to turn heroic and try to carry her off somewhere. Hearing the titters of the other dancers who noticed her trying to slip away, she forced herself to relax. It was just one dance, and then she would hurry to the gardens before anyone else could try and pull her back onto the dance floor.
A flash of scarlet and white made her turn her head, and she saw Christian dancing by with Ellen. She forgot about her partner—the dance was an Analousian pavane, something she had been able to do in her sleep since the age of eight—and turned her mind back to the Ellen situation.
She didn’t for a moment think that Ellen had found some wealthy Society patron. No, she had gotten herself caught up in some sort of an enchantment, which Poppy considered far worse. No wonder Marianne couldn’t recognize her own maid: just trying to look at Ellen had made Poppy’s eyes blur, and she was wearing protective talismans. It wasn’t until she had said a rhyme that Galen had taught her that she had been able to see Ellen clearly.
Now Ellen’s soot-covered ramblings through Seadown House were explained, but not entirely. Who or what was helping Ellen? Nothing human could have made a gown that elaborate in less than two days, and no one but the dressmaker and his assistants had seen Poppy’s gown before it was delivered.
And that was when Poppy began to worry. The jewels that Ellen wore gleamed in a way that was almost taunting, and so did her gown. Ellen dipped and spun as the princess watched her, and Poppy caught a glimpse of her dancing slippers.
They looked to be made out red glass, but Poppy clearly saw them bend with Ellen’s foot. The sight of them seared her eyes, and she almost had to veil her gaze with her shawl to clear her vision.