And now they were racketing through Castleraugh after the golden carriage, which was traveling at an insane speed. It was fortunate that there were a number of carriages about this night, or it would have been very noticeable that they were being followed.
After a number of twists and turns, the golden carriage and the buggy following it had to slow down as they entered a well-lit but narrow alley that ran behind some very fine manors. Looking around in confusion, Poppy recognized the back of one of the enormous houses.
“We’re behind Seadown House,” she hissed to Roger, who nodded.
After their wild chase through the streets, they had looped right back to where they had started out, or almost. Normally those riding in the carriages were let out in the front of the house, not back in the mews.
To Poppy’s continued consternation, Lady Ella’s golden carriage drove through the Seadowns’ back gate. Where could Ellen possibly hide a team of horses, a golden coach, and half a dozen servants?
Roger stopped the buggy in the alley close to the fence, and they stood up to look over at what was happening in the back courtyard. A large bonfire had been built near the kitchen garden, but had fallen to ash. As they watched, the coachman drove the horses straight for this ashy, cindery mess.
Poppy almost cried out: the red heart of the bonfire was still visible, and the horses would be burned for certain. But Roger put a hand on her arm to stop her, and they watched in awe as the horses unfalteringly walked through the remains of the fire and disappeared, followed by the golden coach with coachman, footmen, Ella, and all.
“Did you see that?” Poppy’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Yes,” Roger replied, sounding just as shaken.
Poppy had never seen anything like it before. The entrance to the Kingdom Under Stone had been magical, true, but she had known it her whole life. This was something else entirely, making a coach and horses and servants all disappear before you could blink, and Poppy’s confidence crumbled in the face of it. What did she know, really, about breaking such a spell?
Nothing.
“We need to tell Lord Richard,” she whispered.
“I agree.”
Roger pulled his buggy through the gate and gave the reins to a startled groom who came sleepily out of the stable with straw in his hair when Roger shouted. Poppy asked him about the bonfire, and he looked at it as if he had never seen such a thing in his life.
They went into the manor through the kitchen and sent a maid to fetch Lord Richard. Poppy didn’t want to get trapped among the guests once more, so they slipped along the passageway and into His Lordship’s study.
Lord Richard came in a moment later, looking elegant in his evening clothes but with a line between his brows that hadn’t left since Poppy and Roger had told him about Lady Ella the week before.
“She left at a quarter to midnight,” Poppy said without preamble. There was, of course, no need to explain who she meant. “She got into a carriage made of gold, pulled by twelve white horses and manned by mute servants in white livery. We followed in Roger’s buggy, and I don’t think they noticed us. The coachman drove through the streets at breakneck speed for ten minutes or so, then doubled back and drove into the mews behind the manor. There was a bonfire there in the courtyard, or the remains of one. The carriage drove into the ashes and vanished.” She sat down in one of the high-backed leather chairs and folded her hands in her lap, watching Lord Richard’s face.
The handsome older man merely nodded. He looked at the ornate clock over the fireplace and nodded again. He reached out and pulled the bell, and they all sat in silence until a maid came.
“Lydia, please send Ellen to me,” Lord Richard said.
“Oh no! What’s she broken now?” Lydia grimaced.
“Nothing,” Lord Richard said mildly. “I merely need to speak with her.”
“Yes, Your Lordship.” She bobbed a curtsy and went out.
“You’re still not surprised by any of this,” Poppy said.
“I’m afraid not,” her host said. “I see that you have given charms and the potion to both Christian and Marianne,” he said, changing the subject.
“Yes.” Poppy followed the transition, seeing that he was not going to explain himself further. At least until Ellen arrived. Behind her, she heard Roger stir, and he finally sat in the other seat across from the desk. “And just in time, too. They were both behaving quite foolishly.”
“I don’t think that fainting is foolish on Christian’s part,” Roger said. “I think it’s a sign that things are terribly wrong.”
“Is that what happened?” Lord Richard frowned. “I wasn’t able to see.”
“The combination of the potion and Poppy’s knitted charm appears to have done the trick,” Roger said.
“But he was still a bit taken with Ella … Ellen … whatever she wants to be called.” Poppy wrinkled her nose and tried to keep her voice steady. “What if we can’t break the spell permanently? We’ve had to give Dickon three doses of the potion so far, and he hasn’t gotten as close to her as Christian.”
“Well,” Roger huffed. “It’s not entirely out of the question that Christian has feelings for Eleanora despite the enchantment, you know. She is very beautiful, and—”
He was interrupted by a soft scratching the door.
“Come in,” Lord Richard said.
They all turned, expecting to see Ellen, back in her maid’s uniform and looking innocent as a child caught with her hand in the biscuit tin. Poppy clenched her fists, ready to hear more of Ellen’s denials, but it wasn’t Ellen who came in.
It was Lydia again, looking triumphant.
“Pardon, Your Lordship, but she won’t come,” she said with great relish.
“Oh?” Lord Richard merely raised his eyebrows. Poppy opened her mouth, but he gave her a quelling look and she sat back in her chair. “Did she say why?”
“She said that she’s injured,” Lydia reported, still looking smug. “But she hasn’t done a lick of work all night! She disappeared before the ball, and now she’s lying under the blankets moaning.”
Poppy hopped to her feet. “I’ll go see what’s amiss.”
“Gently, Poppy, please,” Lord Richard cautioned. “Just because she has not been very agreeable doesn’t mean that she still isn’t a victim.”
Poppy grimaced. “I know.”
“May I come? I shall wait outside her bedroom, of course,” Roger said.
“No, no,” Lord Richard said. “Please rejoin the other guests, Roger. Poppy will probably do best on her own.” He smiled down at Poppy, who grinned back.
She positively flew up the stairs to the little garret room where Ellen slept, and entered without knocking. She had been hoping to catch Ellen up and about, not at all weak or injured, but again was stopped short with surprise.
Ellen was in bed, but she had thrown back the blankets and was clutching one of her feet. She had bitten her lower lip until it bled, and her face was wet with tears.
“What in heaven’s name—” Then Poppy caught sight of Ellen’s other foot, and couldn’t think of what to say next. After a moment she swore one of her brother-in-law Heinrich’s choicest oaths, and quickly shut the door behind her.
Ellen opened her eyes for a moment, but then shut them again. She rocked back and forth and whimpered, clearly beyond caring how she looked or who saw her.
And to Poppy’s mind, she had good reason to be distressed. Because from the ankle down, Ellen’s feet had turned into shining white glass.
Belle
Cold. So cold that it burned.
The paralyzing coldness of her feet was so intense that echoes of it shot up her legs like lightning bolts. Ellen lay on her narrow bed and sobbed, not caring that Poppy was there, staring at her.
How could her godmother have done this to her?
When the Corley first appeared to her—her own magical godmother to protect her and help her—Ellen had been filled with a constant thrill of excitem
ent. At last, her life would finally be put to rights. She could leave servitude behind forever and restore her family’s name. Her godmother had promised her all that and more: marriage to a doting and wealthy husband—a prince even! She would soon be the toast of Society, the most beautiful and envied woman in Castleraugh. The promises were all too glorious.
Far too glorious, in fact.
Since her first appearance as Lady Ella on the night of the royal gala, her godmother would hardly speak to her. In fact, she seemed annoyed when Ellen went to visit her in her glass-pillared palace. She had no time to talk, and when she did it was to scold Ellen for not dancing every dance with Prince Christian.
“But Roger Thwaite is an old friend,” Ellen had protested.
“We need to ensnare the prince,” the Corley said.
“Ensnare? But why? And if he doesn’t fall in love with me—”
“Do not even suggest such a thing, Eleanora,” the Corley had retorted. “You will marry Prince Christian, and that is that! Now be off with you. It’s late, and you need your rest. You look peaked, and I have already expended my powers quite enough on your behalf without having to work over your face to make it less drawn.”
Terrified at what “working over her face” might entail, Ellen had fled. That had been last night, and so it was with great trepidation that she entered the Corley’s palace tonight for her toilette. But her godmother was all smiles, and once again she was petted and pampered, massaged and scented.
And then the slippers, again, of glass.
Her feet had not been right since the night of the first gala. The skin had seemed smooth and unyielding, and her toes felt stiff. She tried to shrug it off as lack of dancing practice, and only mentioned it to the Corley when the stiffness hadn’t faded by the night of Marianne’s ball.
“You should have returned to me before the clock began to strike midnight last time, dear one,” the Corley scolded as Ellen was sewn into the rose and gold gown. “Once you and your handsome prince are married, I will have time to fix your feet. But not now! Now we must get you ready for tonight. Let this serve as a reminder to be home before the clock begins to strike twelve!”
When she saw her godmother approach her with a swirling pan of liquid glass, gleaming like pink roses and gold, she felt sweat break out all over her body. Maids rushed to fan her and apply more rice powder to her damp forehead. She clenched the arms of the chair and didn’t make a sound as her godmother shaped the glass.
Taking her mind off what was happening to her feet, she thought about her gown.
She had been praying that she wouldn’t be dressed as a richer copy of Poppy again. It had made her feel a bit superior last time, but to keep doing it seemed mean.
But when she saw that she was to be gowned like a more luxurious version of Marianne, she felt her heart sink. Marianne was sweet, if a bit spoiled, and Ellen knew the girl would hate her for stealing away the young men at her birthday ball. It would be worse still to show up in Marianne’s own gown.
One look at the Corley’s face, however, her matronly smile fixed and her eyes hard, had convinced Ellen not to protest. For the masked ball she would have to be gowned differently from either girl. The whole point of it was to be unique so no one would guess who you were. And Poppy had said that she would not attend at all. Masked balls apparently caused her even more anxiety than the usual sort, something that Ellen was beginning to understand.
According to rumor, Poppy and her sisters had danced their shoes to shreds every night before the oldest two princesses had married. “Imagine what your feet would feel like if you had to dance every night,” she thought. Even without glass slippers it would not be pleasant.
When the Corley was done, Ellen looked down to see the exquisite shoes. They were like flowers of pink crystal and fine gold cupping her feet.
And they hurt more than she could possibly imagine.
The pain had been bearable last time but as the hot glass touched her stiff feet, steam rose up and she felt a cold so intense that it burned. The only bonus was that it seemed to loosen the stiffness in her toes.
Mute servants helped her out of the chair, and she swayed for a moment before regaining her balance. They fussed over her, straightening her hair and dusting rouge onto her pale cheeks, while Ellen fought the dizziness that was threatening to overcome her.
“Drink this,” the Corley had said, and handed her a goblet of something that smelled sweet and spicy at the same time.
Ellen drank, and blessed coolness ran down her body and into her feet. She could take a step, then another. The pain was still there, but remote now, and she felt her blood singing.
“Now, go and dance with your prince, my dear,” her godmother had told her with a smile. “Go and dance and dazzle them with your beauty!”
All this Ellen told Poppy, while the princess sat on Lydia’s bed in silence. It was a relief to tell someone what was happening, it was a relief to confide her fears that perhaps her godmother was not as kind as she had seemed, and it was a relief that Poppy didn’t say anything during the narrative.
But when Ellen finished, Poppy had plenty to say.
“I can’t even imagine what you were thinking, agreeing to do the bidding of some creature you had never met before in your life,” Poppy said, clucking her tongue.
“But she’s my godmother,” Ellen protested, bristling.
“How do you know that? Have you seen the christening record? Does it say ‘the Corley’ under godmother? You must have known she wasn’t mortal: normal humans don’t live in palaces that you enter through piles of ash.”
Ellen wanted to argue with this, but she honestly couldn’t. She should have been more wary, she should have asked more questions, or at least not been so quick to agree to her godmother’s requests.
“But can you really blame me?” She asked the question after a long silence between the two of them, and was embarrassed at how meek and small her voice was. “She was so kind. And everything was so wonderful. The gowns—” She plucked at the coarse wool of her blankets. “The jewels …” She closed her eyes and leaned back on the thin pillow, waiting for a mocking comment from Poppy.
None was forthcoming, however.
“Yes, I know why you did it,” Poppy said quietly. “But you realize now that you need help, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Ellen said, her voice still small. “But how? I have to attend the masquerade. I have to marry Prince Christian.”
“Oh do you?” Now a snap came to Poppy’s voice. “Whether or not he wants to marry you?”
“I have to,” Ellen said again. And then, to her embarrassment, she burst into noisy sobs. Her nose started to run, and she clutched the blankets to her face. “I have to.”
If she didn’t marry Christian, what would she do? She had to get away from Seadown House, away from being a maid. Away from Castleraugh, where everyone knew her family’s shame.
“Stop that at once,” Poppy said. But she didn’t sound angry, more like uncomfortable. “I have eleven sisters, you know. I don’t exactly enjoy watching girlish hysterics.” The princess got to her feet. “Besides, blubbing isn’t going to get you out of this. But I will!” Poppy headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Ellen raised her face from the blankets.
“I’m going to tell Roger and Lord Richard everything you’ve just told me,” she said briskly. She opened the door, and they heard the clock strike two. “Oh, blast! No, first I’m going to help Marianne say good-bye to her guests, then I’m going to tell Roger and Lord Richard everything you told me.” Poppy swept out, breathtaking in her silver and violet gown.
After she was gone, Ellen reflected that, no matter how abrupt and strange the girl could be, Poppy would never need the Corley’s magic to help her snare a prince, or anyone else she wanted. She had the bearing of a princess, through and through, no matter the situation.
More tears leaked out of Ellen’s eyes, and she lay back and sniffled. Then she
fumbled a handkerchief out from under her pillow and tried to wipe off her face. Poppy had said that Roger was going to help, and she didn’t want him to see her looking all red and puffy.
Rejected
Christian felt like he was just waking from a long sleep. Something strange was afoot, but no one would tell him what. Lady Margaret still snapped at everyone, but Marianne was in better spirits and thoroughly enjoyed the rest of her ball. Christian was quite pleased about this, and danced with her twice after Lady Ella left.
But Poppy and Roger were missing, and Marianne would only hint that they were “setting things to rights.” Christian just hoped that they weren’t planning on doing something to humiliate poor Lady Ella for copying Poppy’s and Marianne’s gowns. It was rude of her to do it, but she was a nice girl and he didn’t want to see her completely undone by her folly.
Especially if he was going to marry her.
The thought stopped him cold.
He was standing near the punch bowl, having a drink with Marianne and a few other friends, and he froze with his glass halfway to his lips. Now where had that sudden conviction come from? He didn’t want to get married!
But his head was suddenly filled with visions of Lady Ella meeting his parents, walking down the aisle of the family chapel in a white gown … He could picture it all: what he was wearing, what she was wearing, the music that was playing, his little sisters as bridesmaids. What a queer thing!
“Are you all right?” Dickon Thwaite nudged his arm, and Christian slopped punch over his wrist. “Oops, sorry!” Dickon passed him his handkerchief.
“I just had a sudden … vision? Daydream?” Christian shook his head. He’d thought the muzziness was leaving him, but here it was back again!
“About whom?” Dickon waggled his eyebrows. “Lady Ella? Of course it was, you sly dog!” He lowered his voice. “And don’t think we aren’t all having the same daydreams!”
Princess of Glass Page 13
