“Shall we?” Christian flourished his rapier.
“With pleasure.” Roger picked up his own weapon and came forward to the center of the floor, where the polished boards had been dusted with powdered resin to prevent the combatants from slipping. “But be warned: I have learned a few things in my travels.”
“I like a challenge.” Christian grinned, and lunged.
“Is that why you are courting Princess Poppy?” Roger easily parried and made conversation as though they sat at tea.
Christian nearly dropped his foil, and only just managed to skip out of the way of Roger’s next attack. “Courting Poppy? We’re friends,” he said weakly. Sweat was pouring down his face, but that was from fencing. Of course.
“Ah”
“Roger has daring tastes in women as well,” Dickon said from the side of the room. “That’s why he went to the Far East.”
Roger looked irritated. “Actually, I went on the king’s request, as part of the new ambassador’s entourage,” he said icily. He wasn’t even slightly out of breath, while Christian thought he might have to forfeit before he collapsed.
“What was it really like?”
At dinner the night before, most of the conversation had been about the inconvenience of travel, and the general strangeness of foreigners, as viewed by Lady Thwaite’s mother. Poppy and Christian were apparently not considered foreign, since they spoke Bretoner and wore clothes, which the elderly lady seemed to think foreign peoples eschewed.
“Fascinating,” Roger said, and then he struck Christian, pressing the capped tip directly into the center of the Dane prince’s sternum.
“A hit,” the fencing master said, and clapped to end the bout. “Very nice, Lord Roger.”
“Thank you.” Roger handed his foil off to a servant, took a towel, and then turned back to Christian. “The Far East is steeped in magic in a way our side of the world hasn’t been in centuries,” he said. “When I returned and heard about Princess Poppy and her sisters, and the strange deaths that surrounded them a few years back, well, let me just say that I am not as prone to scoffing over such stories as some people are.”
Still gripping his weapon, Christian felt his face harden. “What do you mean?” If Roger was insulting Poppy…
“I simply mean that if any more strange doings erupt around the Westfalian princesses, I recommend that you pay heed to even the most bizarre rumors about their past.”
“Like Princess Rose stabbing someone with a darning needle?” Dickon had sidled over to eavesdrop, and now he laughed. “What kind of damage could that do?”
“From what I have heard,” Roger said, giving his brother a quelling look, “Rose’s husband, Galen, used a knitting needle to kill a creature that was nothing that I should like to face.”
Christian wanted to know more, much more, without it seeming that his interest was as a prospective suitor. Fortunately, he had already accepted an invitation from Dickon for tea at the Thwaites’ manor after their fencing excursion.
He had decided to accept any and all invitations he received in order to get as far from Tuckington Palace as possible. Princess Emmeline had decided quite abruptly that morning that she was heartbroken over Christian, and was trailing about the palace in a drab gown with her hair in a tangle, sighing and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief until she made the skin around them quite red. Christian suspected it had more to do with the Analousian novel he had seen her reading the day before than any fondness for him personally. In addition to that, King Rupert kept popping out of his study at random times to bark questions at Christian, demanding to know whether the prince preferred plump or slim women, dark or fair.
It was all too uncomfortable for words, and Christian counted himself lucky to have found so many friends so quickly in Breton. He was always welcome at the Thwaites or Seadowns, and other invitations came often. Of course, the latter came from households with eligible young ladies, but anything was better than the palace.
It was quite easy to ply Roger for information about the Westfalian princesses over tea. Although not someone who enjoyed gossiping, Roger clearly believed this to be more a matter of sharing possibly vital knowledge. Most of what he knew was hardly a secret, however. The princesses had worn out their dancing shoes in some mysterious fashion nearly every night, and the princes who tried to uncover their secret died afterward, but never on Westfalian soil.
What Christian and Dickon had never heard before, though, was that a dark sorcerer had been involved, and that Rose’s husband Galen had been working with some benevolent magicians to end the princesses’ curse.
“How do you know this?” Christian stirred his tea but didn’t drink, too engrossed—almost sickened—by the story.
“An herbalist from the Silk Road region of the East was with the ambassador for a time, just before I came home. His Lordship suffers terribly from the headache,” Roger explained. He added sugar to his tea and sipped it in his elegant way. Really, he was one of the most self-contained, even graceful, men that Christian had ever seen. “Lon Qui knew the white magicians who aided this Galen Werner.”
“What did you say about Galen?”
The parlor door had just opened, and Poppy and Marianne stood there. Marianne’s mouth was open in surprise, but Poppy looked murderous. She clutched at her reticule as though it contained a weapon. Realizing that it probably held some very sharp knitting needles, Christian reflected that it did.
“Ah, Your Highness!” Roger actually seemed nonplussed. He got to his feet hastily, his napkin falling from his knee to the floor. Christian and Dickon rose as well, but all they could do was stand there looking guilty.
“What did you just say about Galen?” Poppy demanded an answer when none of the gentlemen would offer one.
“We were merely, ah, talking,” Roger said evasively.
“I am well aware of that, and you seem to be talking about my family.” Poppy’s voice was icy.
“Roger was just telling us that there was magic involved, when your brother-in-law… the slippers … and all that,” Christian babbled. There was something in Poppy’s face. She wasn’t angry … she looked hurt. There was a great deal of gossip about her family, and he imagined that it never got any easier to walk into a room and find that you were the topic of discussion.
“And what does Roger know about it?”
“I am acquainted with an Eastern herbalist, Your Highness, who knew the magicians who assisted your brother-in-raw.” It didn’t take long for Roger to regain his composure; Christian had to give him that.
“How nice for you,” Poppy snapped. “Marianne? I’m leaving; do you wish to stay?”
“No,” Marianne said. She flashed a confused look at Dickon, who could only open and close his mouth like a fish. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Before Christian or his companions could react, Poppy and Marianne were gone again, a footman trailing in their wake and looking as embarrassed as Christian and the Thwaite brothers.
Gown
I’ve changed my mind,” Poppy said.
“What, again?” Lady Margaret’s voice was amused and calm.
She was always calm. Poppy had to admit that she found herself behaving better in the face of Her Ladyship’s sublime tranquility. Even now, refusing to go to the ball she had tentatively agreed to attend, Poppy was trying for serenity rather than fleeing the room and hiding.
“Just wait a moment before you decide,” Lady Margaret said. “Wait until you see your new gown.”
Taking Poppy by the hand, Lady Margaret led her over to the windows, where a dress form had been draped with a thin sheet of muslin. Letting go of Poppy’s hand, Lady Margaret took hold of the sheet and drew it aside with a grand flourish.
Much to her embarrassment, Poppy had a completely girlish reaction: she gasped, and even clapped her hands. Then she blushed and would have fled, but the dress was too magnificent and she had to inspect it from every angle.
The dressmaker had agreed that wh
ite would be too plain for the pale-skinned princess. So the gown of heavy white silk was trimmed with poppy red, and her namesake flower was embroidered randomly across the skirt. It was gorgeous and daring and everything Poppy could want in a ball gown.
The only drawback was that if she wanted anyone to see her in it, she would have to attend a ball. Imagining Christian’s face when she walked into Tuckington Palace in that gown would be worth it, however.
“Christian has to see you in this,” Marianne said breathily, echoing Poppy’s thought.
Ducking her head so they couldn’t see her face, Poppy fingered the neckline of the dress. It was low, and the red silk trim was wide and luxurious.
“It is a very fine gown,” Poppy admitted. “Thank you, Cousin Margaret.”
“You are quite welcome, my dear,” Lady Margaret said, a knowing look on her face. “Does the prospect of wearing it entice you to attend at least the royal gala?”
“It does,” Poppy agreed graciously.
“And that whatever it is you’ve been knitting is the same color,” Marianne pointed out.
“It’s a stole,” Poppy reminded her.
She had, fortuitously, been knitting herself a stole out of a fine yarn the exact color of these poppies. It would look stunning hanging from her elbows over the skirt of this gown. Everyone always told her that shades of violet and blue were her best colors, but Poppy had a certain fondness for red that she never got to indulge quite enough.
Which, of course, Lady Margaret had figured out.
“And don’t worry about dancing,” Lady Margaret told her. “At a gala like this one, there will be a great deal to keep you occupied. No cards, but food and music and fireworks. Acrobats and fire-eaters in the garden as well.”
Marianne twirled around in delight. “And scientific displays of strange machines, and poetry readings, and all kinds of things. When King Rupert hosts a gala, he spares no expense.”
“Apparently,” Poppy said.
She wondered, briefly, what it would have been like to be a princess growing up in the massive Tuckington Palace, with fire-eaters and gala balls. She herself had had to share a bedchamber and also a maid with two of her sisters. And until very recently, when Westfalin’s economy finally took a turn for the better, she had only gotten new gowns for very special occasions like Rose’s and Lily’s weddings. After all, she had four older sisters to pass on their wardrobes.
Someone tapped at the door and came in. It was Ellen, and she had a pile of freshly washed and ironed linens. At least they probably had been freshly washed and ironed at some point, but now Poppy could see at least one scorch mark and something like fine soot dusted across on the white cloth. She sighed. Ellen always had soot on her these days, and would never say why. There was a streak of it on her forehead right now. Since their confrontation last week, Ellen had refused to even make eye contact with the princess, and her household skills had degenerated even further.
“Why are there cinders on Poppy’s shifts?” Marianne blew across the pile as Ellen set her basket on a chair.
Another sigh, this one from Ellen.
Lady Margaret put a restraining hand on her daughter’s arm. “Ellen,” she said kindly, “did you still want to go to the royal balls?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship,” Ellen said demurely, but Poppy could swear she saw a secretive look in the girl’s eyes.
“There is still time for me to have Monsieur Delatour make a gown for you,” Lady Margaret said. “Or you are much of a size with Poppy and Marianne. We could retrim one of theirs …” Her voice trailed off as the young maid shook her head vehemently, shedding more black powder onto Poppy’s clothes and the floor.
“No, thank you, my lady. I have a patroness who has provided me with gowns.” Ellen’s voice was wooden, and Poppy’s eyes narrowed.
The other girl was hiding something: glee, disdain, some other emotion. And why? If there was someone willing to help her, why shouldn’t she let the Seadowns know?
Lady Margaret had the same question.
“How lovely, my dear! Who is it?”
“She wishes to remain anonymous,” Ellen said silkily. And then she turned and flounced out of the room.
Marianne rolled her eyes, but Poppy didn’t smile. Something was going on with Ellen, something beyond bad manners and worse domestic skills.
“If you two will excuse me,” Poppy said, with far more grace than Ellen would ever be able to muster. “I really must write to my sisters.” And Galen, she added mentally.
“To tell them about the gown, and how you’re going to the royal gala with us?” Marianne raised one eyebrow.
“Yes, yes,” Poppy lied. Though she might actually mention her beautiful new gown, she had other things to write about. Like asking if Galen knew of any spells that left a residue of soot.
“And wait until you see the costume I picked for the masked ball,” Marianne said as she and her mother left the room. “You have to come!”
“We shall see,” Poppy promised, giving her friend a small smile as she shut the door.
Secretly Poppy knew that she would never go to the masked ball. Nothing could be more horrible than being surrounded by strange people garbed in even stranger masks, their hard eyes staring out from hideous, inhuman faces …
She shuddered, and hurried to the writing desk. Galen might know something, and if not, perhaps he could find out for her.
Preparations
Ellen lounged in the enormous bathtub, giggling with pleasure. Made of glass blown in the shape of a flower, it was easily the size of a small pool, with a padded bench so the bather’s head didn’t sink below the surface. She leaned against the back of the tub, perfectly curved to fit her shoulders, and inhaled deeply the scent of roses and precious oils.
She could feel all the dirt and degradation of servitude sliding away into the swirling water. It was glorious, and she never wanted it to end.
Tonight was the night of the royal gala, and she was in her godmother’s palace, preparing for her grand debut. She’d fabricated an errand, saying that Princess Poppy needed ribbons for her hair, to leave Seadown House. Then she snuck back in one of the side doors and ran to a guest room to build a fire and make her escape into her godmother’s realm.
A maidservant in green held out a towel the size of a bed sheet. Ellen stretched with languid grace and got out of the bath. The maid wrapped her in the towel and helped Ellen lie on a padded table. The maid began to vigorously rub her charge with the towel, then with oils and lotions. The unguents smelled so heavenly that Ellen drifted away into a wondrous dream.
In the dream she was dancing with a handsome prince on a cloud that smelled of primroses. The prince had dark hair and was so tall that the top of her head only came to the middle of his chest. Ellen frowned a little, and made the prince shorter and golden-haired, like Prince Christian. The maid rubbed her forehead to get rid of the frown lines, and once more the prince turned dark and imposingly tall. He reminded her of someone …
Ellen’s eyes snapped open, and another maid was hovering over her head. This one was combing out the girl’s long dark hair with a golden comb, while the other was now busy smearing something that tingled over Ellen’s feet. The maid moved on to a different lotion for Ellen’s calves, but the girl’s feet still tingled.
“I don’t believe I like that foot lotion,” Ellen said, closing her eyes again.
The maid didn’t answer. But then, none of her godmother’s servants ever spoke. It was odd, and a bit distressing, but they appeared to all be mute. However, even the eerie, silent servants could hardly detract from the glorious golden walls, the shining sapphire floors, the blown glass columns, and the rest of the ornaments of the Corley’s palace.
When a voice finally did answer her, Ellen jumped.
“That lotion is a special treatment for your feet,” said her godmother. “So you can dance all night!”
Her godmother laughed, and Ellen joined in.
Draped
in a shimmering silk dressing robe as light as gauze, Ellen followed her godmother into a room filled with gorgeous gowns. She had been there before; these rooms were hers whenever she visited her godmother. She had tried on many of the dresses, putting on one after another and admiring herself in the long mirrors. Silent seamstresses took her measurements and made sure that each bodice fitted as if had been pasted on, each skirt was just the right length, no sleeve was too binding or too loose.
Ellen knew exactly which gown she wanted to wear this evening. It was exactly the sort of thing she had dreamed of these past horrible years since her parents’ deaths. Sea colored, it seemed to float whenever she took it down to admire it.
“No, no,” her godmother said as Eleanora reached for the gown now. “Not that old thing. You must have something very special for tonight. But first …”
She clapped her plump hands, which made a surprisingly sharp noise, and servants came running in. They took Ellen’s dressing gown and put her in underclothes so white and fine that it was almost a shame to cover them. Then a corset, laced so tight she could hardly breathe, and after that layer after layer of petticoats, embroidered with tiny scarlet roses.
And then the gown. The magnificent gown.
It was so heavy that it took two women to carry it. Luxurious white silk nearly as thick as velvet, lined with scarlet, embroidered heavily with scarlet roses and encrusted with rubies and pearls at the neckline. There were no laces or hooks: when they had it over Eleanora’s head a seamstress sewed up the back seam of the gown.
It fit like her own skin, and yet was so heavy and dramatic that she knew she could never not be aware of it. She looked in the mirrors and tears began to drip down her cheeks.
“It is so beautiful!”
“And you deserve it, my lovely,” her godmother said. The woman was looking her up and down with satisfaction, almost greed. “You deserve it.”
Princess of Glass Page 7
