“As you say, Ma’am,” said Clovermead. She curtsied, turned quickly from Lady Cindertallow, and shuffled along the edge of the Ballroom. There were a great many things she wanted to say to her mother, but all that came out of her was a muffled growl.
When she came near to the musicians’ dais, Clovermead plucked a pitcher of water from a tray held by a balding servant. “I’m taking this for the musicians,” she said.
The servant blinked at her with startled goggle eyes. “The water is for Lady Turnbolt, Demoiselle. She particularly asked—”
“Bother Lady Turnbolt,” said Clovermead. “She can’t be as hot as the musicians. If Lady Turnbolt has words for you, tell her to say them to me.”
A slight smile sneaked across the servant’s face. “It will be my pleasure to serve you in this, Demoiselle,” he said softly. He bowed quickly to Clovermead and scuttled away for more water.
Clovermead looked at the dais. It was three feet high, and she didn’t think she could jump up there without spilling the water. There were steps to the dais twenty feet down, but it was impossible to get there past the whirling feet of dancers. “Now how do I get up?” she asked herself.
“With help,” said Sorrel. He was by her side, resplendent in a domino mask and full-dress uniform. He hopped up onto the stage in an instant and held out his hands. Clovermead gave him the pitcher and he ran swiftly to the musicians’ side. He left the water with them and in another instant had hopped down to rejoin Clovermead. The musicians couldn’t stop playing to thank them, but they added a joyful, grateful tune to the dance. The fiddler winked at the two of them.
“Thank you,” said Clovermead. She inspected his uniform critically—and suddenly fell backward against the dais. She moaned.
“What is wrong with you, Clovermead?” asked Sorrel. Anxiously he put his hand to her forehead. “Are you too hot? I can take you out of here.”
“He looked so handsome in his yellow coat,” said Clovermead dreamily. “My knees wobbled and I couldn’t stay on my feet. Oh, those Tansyards!” She bounced upright and shook her head in amused disgust. “How long did you polish your buttons? They’ll blind me.”
Sorrel looked relieved and stung. “I wish to look presentable, little imp who does not scruple to trifle with my cares for her health. We do not suffer from vanity on the Steppes. I am motivated solely by respect for the occasion.”
“You’ve put something in your hair, haven’t you? It shines,” said Clovermead. Sorrel glared at her, and Clovermead giggled. “I don’t mind if you preen. I just want a chance to have a dig at you.”
“You accuse me of preening? You, who has put on a dress for the first time ever? You, who looks—” Sorrel examined Clovermead’s dress closely, then held his tongue until Clovermead couldn’t stand it anymore, and she punched him in the arm. “You must get out of that habit, Clovermead, before I am bruised from head to toe. You look quite the lovely young miss. You should wear such confections more often.”
“Don’t be silly. I can hardly move in this.” But Clovermead was blushing happily. It was the first time she’d worn a gown at Chandlefort, and she’d been afraid that she’d look ridiculous.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been looking for you all evening. Milady said I’ll be able to leave the Ball in a few minutes, and I’ve found a marvelous new passageway behind the wine cellars for us to explore. It’s full of spiderwebs and old wooden crates that don’t look like they’ve been opened for a hundred years. I think they’re full of forgotten gold.”
“I think they are full of moldy apple cider,” said Sorrel. “Still, I will be glad to explore them with you tomorrow evening.”
“Not tonight?” asked Clovermead. She pouted.
“Alas, no. We cadets must stay at the Ball and dance. But I will meet you tomorrow at the guard post.” He fiddled with his lapel, and Clovermead saw that he had pinned Saraband’s daisy to it. His eyes caught something in the room, he smiled, and he bowed hastily to Clovermead. “I must be going. Until tomorrow.” He dashed away.
“Bother being a cadet!” said Clovermead to herself. “Bother dancing! And why does he still have Saraband’s wretched flower?” She began to sidle back to her mother. Lady Cindertallow was talking with Waxmelt—Clovermead’s eyes widened. What’s Father doing here? She hastened toward the two of them. Please don’t be arguing.
“No need to frown, Clo,” Waxmelt said as she came close. He gave her a reassuring smile. “I was wandering by and I saw Milady alone for the moment. I thought I would seize the opportunity to apologize to her for my shortness with her yesterday.”
“Which he has done more politely than half my noblemen could manage,” said Lady Cindertallow. She made herself look directly at Waxmelt for a moment, then glanced away. “As I recollect, I provoked your shortness. Do you think I should apologize to you, too, Lord Wickward?”
“I don’t ask for any apology, Milady,” said Waxmelt. “All I ask is that you listen to me about the servants.”
“Dear Lady! Between you and Clovermead I’ll never hear the end about these servants.” Lady Cindertallow’s eyes flicked around the room. Everywhere there were servants in livery bowing, fawning, sweating, and jumping out of the way of the dancing lords and ladies. Some were anxious, some uncomfortable, some simply looked hungry as they stared at the food the lords devoured. One or two surreptitiously lifted sandwiches from the tables of food by the windows and popped them into their mouths.
“The way they are treated is not just,” said Lady Cindertallow in a low voice. Her eyes fell from the scene. “I know that, Lord Wickward. I just wish that Our Lady had chosen some other man to tell me so.” The dance ended, and Clovermead turned to look at the dais. The musicians took gulps of water with great relish, mopped their faces with their handkerchiefs, then started playing a fresh tune with renewed energy. “Tell me, Clovermead, were the musicians grateful?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Clovermead. “They had gotten awfully hot and dry.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Her mother studied the dais, then made herself look back at Waxmelt. “You raised her to be kindly.”
Waxmelt smiled fondly at Clovermead. “I raised her to be quick with cups of ale in the dining room and never to let our guests get thirsty. She was born kind.”
“Ambrosius must have given that to her,” said Lady Cindertallow. “I lost my kindness when he died.” Her fists clenched for a moment and only slowly loosened. “Come to me again some other day, Lord Wickward. I’ll try to listen more temperately about the condition of my servants.” She smiled wryly. “We should go somewhere private. I’m sure I’ll yell at you at some point, and I’d rather do that without letting the whole Castle know.”
Waxmelt chuckled. “I’ve been told that our last argument is common knowledge. Where would you like to meet, Milady?”
An idea struck Clovermead. A brilliant idea! she told herself modestly. “How about a picnic? We could all go out and sit under a tree and eat cold chicken, and the two of you could hash things out afterward while I nap or climb a tree or something. Maybe you wouldn’t yell at each other so much if I were around. Wouldn’t that be nice, Ma’am?”
Lady Cindertallow’s face lit up. “That is a lovely idea, Clovermead. I haven’t been on a picnic since, gracious, before you were born. Dear Lady, it’s been a while. Lord Wickward, shall we go picnicking the day after tomorrow? There’s a hayfield in the western fields that will make a delightful spot.”
“With pleasure, Milady,” said Waxmelt. “Though I warn you that Clovermead will eat more than her fair share of drumsticks if you don’t keep an eye on her.”
“I’ll watch her like a hawk,” said Lady Cindertallow. Then she sighed. “Here comes that fearful bore Lord Tamarisk. I have to talk with him, but there’s no need either of you should. Stay here while I go intercept him. Clovermead, you may leave the Ball now if you like. Good night the both of you, if I don’t see you again.” She swept forward with a practiced smi
le to meet Lord Tamarisk.
“I once served at a ball like this,” said Waxmelt. “I never expected to attend one as a lord of Chandlefort.” He looked at the scurrying servitors in livery, then at his own noble clothes, and plucked bemusedly at his silk sleeves. “Milady’s generosity is whimsical. I’m no better a lord than I was a servant.”
“You could open an inn in Chandlefort town,” said Clovermead. “Would you like that?”
For a moment Waxmelt looked tempted. Then he shook his head. “If Our Lady intended for me to stay an innkeeper, she would never have let Lucifer Snuff come to Timothy Vale and make us flee from Ladyrest. I think she means me to do something to help the servants here. I may be a second-rate agitator, but there’s no one better available.” Waxmelt’s eyes widened as he recognized a fat man standing behind a table by the window, who was clearing away a pile of dirty glasses. “Lady’s mercy, that’s Charfennel Comb! I didn’t know Char had become an indoors servant. Look, his hair’s gone white!”
“You have aged better than he has,” Clovermead said thoughtfully. “You’re not nearly as pudgy, and I do think balding is better than white-haired.”
Waxmelt clutched his head. “His white hair means he has three daughters. Will you excuse me, Clo? We were friends once, and I haven’t talked with him in twelve years.”
“Shoo,” said Clovermead, and Waxmelt hurried away to greet his old comrade. “Now, where were those sandwiches?” Clovermead asked herself. “Ah, over there in the corner. Fortunately, I’m still a growing girl. I think I can indulge without danger to my waistline.” She started to sidle toward the refreshments.
Clovermead saw Saraband coming down the nearest line of dancers. She wore an impossibly lovely gown of white lace, slender cut and beaded with pearls, that was demure and fetching, and left her feet free to move with giddy abandon. Her domino mask was made of cloth-of-gold, and she had sprinkled glinting gold dust into her raven hair. Her body moved in perfect time to the music, her feet were tireless, and her face was full of a joy that went out to everyone she danced with, inspiring them to dance with renewed vigor and skill. She was more beautiful than ever, and she left a trail of admiring men behind her. Her gauzy sleeves showed all her arms, up to the shoulders. Clovermead’s stomach knotted as she looked at the translucent fabric on Saraband’s unscarred flesh. The music was ending, and a new dance was about to begin. Some lords approached Saraband.
Sorrel stepped out onto the dance floor, slipped his way past the lords, and stood in front of Saraband. He took the daisy from his lapel, bowed low to Saraband in her domino, and proffered it to her. “May I present you with a token of my esteem, Lady Saraband?” he asked.
Saraband smiled demurely. “Certainly, Cadet.” She took the daisy and tucked it into an eyelet on the fringe of her sleeve. She raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any other business with me?”
“I would be honored if I could have this dance,” said Sorrel. He held out his arm.
“How presumptuous you are!” said Saraband. She took his hand in hers. “I’m glad you asked.” They smiled at each other and they began to dance.
They were a wonderful sight. Sorrel didn’t have Saraband’s grace, but he danced with a supple strength that matched her dancing well. Their white and yellow clothes shone like jewels in the torchlight; their smiles and their enjoyment of the dance caught the eye even more. They could not keep from gazing at each other, and their distance and formality lessened by the minute. They whispered to one another and laughed in delight.
“Hello, Demoiselle,” said a voice behind her. Clovermead recognized it, and she looked back and saw the tall man. He wore a domino mask over his eyes and a green wig to cover his red hair. “I told you we’d meet again.”
“What are you doing here?” hissed Clovermead in alarm. She looked to see where her mother was. Lady Cindertallow was talking with Lord Tamarisk at the other side of the room. “You’re one of Ambrosius’ Yellowjacket friends, aren’t you?” The tall man nodded quickly and Clovermead hurried on. “Milady told me she’d sent them all away from Chandlefort, and I think she just might kill you if she knew you’d come back. You have to get out of here!”
“Don’t worry, Demoiselle. I’m well enough disguised for the evening.” The tall man gestured at his mask and wig. “I haven’t been to a Chandlefort ball in many years. Give me a little time to enjoy it.”
“Please,” said Clovermead. Her dream was suddenly as vivid as ever, and she could see her mother shoveling earth over the tall man. “I don’t want to take the risk. I don’t want you to die.”
“Life away from Chandlefort is no life at all,” said the tall man. “Let the risk be what it may, I’d like to enjoy myself now that I’ve returned.”
“You’re mad as a hatter,” Clovermead informed him. “Also you’re completely barmy and you’ve spent too much time in the sun. You’re leaving now.” She tugged at the tall man’s arm and determinedly pulled him toward the door. The tall man laughed, then shrugged and let Clovermead take him from the Ball.
At the Ballroom doors the tall man stopped and looked wonderingly at Clovermead. “How curious. You care whether a stranger lives or dies.”
“Of course I do,” said Clovermead crossly. “Anyway, how could I let one of Ambrosius’ friends get killed?” She let go of the tall man, then glanced nervously toward her mother. She and Lord Tamarisk were still deep in conversation, and Clovermead relaxed a little. “Really, what on earth possessed you to come here?”
“I was never happier than when I danced in this room,” the tall man said quietly. “Perhaps it is madness, as you say, but I wished to see it again.” He looked around the glittering torch-lit room once more, then turned toward the front doors of the Castle. “Do not fear, Demoiselle; I have had my fill of Castle entertainment. Good evening.”
“Wait!” cried Clovermead. “You said you would tell me something about Ambrosius.” She gulped. “About my true father.”
“So I did.” The tall man looked at Clovermead and his lips twisted into a bitter, humorless smile. “I never dreamed that I would be the one to tell his daughter about him. What can I say? He was handsome and brave, modest and good-humored. He made friends easily and kept them tenaciously. He was the kindest man I knew.”
“How did you become friends?”
“He saved me from my sister’s wrath. I had somehow forgotten her birthday was approaching, and I realized half an hour before her party was supposed to begin that I had no present for her. I was in the Yellowjackets’ barracks, and I started to despair very loudly. I hardly knew Ambrosius then—we had spoken occasionally, sometimes fought with each other on the Training Grounds, but ours was a very casual friendliness. Yet as soon as he heard my laments, Ambrosius took a stick of wood and started to whittle it. In five minutes he had carved the wood into the jolliest clown’s head you ever set eyes on. ‘Give this to your sister,’ he said, and he put it into my hands. I knew at once it would be perfect for her. ‘I’m in your debt forever,’ I said, and I rushed out of the barracks.” The tall man laughed, and now there was no bitterness in him. “Sister did love it. I’ll warrant you she still keeps it on her bookshelf.”
“Thank you for telling me that story.” Clovermead couldn’t help but jump up and kiss the tall man on his cool cheek. “You really must go now, but will we meet again? I want to hear more about Ambrosius.”
“I don’t think we will,” said the tall man. His fingers trailed over his cheek, where Clovermead had kissed him. Then he glided out the front doors, into the Castle courtyard, and out of sight.
“I hope you’re wrong,” said Clovermead to the empty night. “Though I suppose that means I should spend more time away from Milady, since you can’t let her see you.” She turned back toward the Ballroom, to see if her mother was still talking to Lord Tamarisk.
Clovermead saw that Sorrel and Saraband were still dancing, and suddenly she was cold and empty inside. She turned from the dancing couple and stole away from t
he Ballroom as fast as she could, through the nearly deserted corridors of the Castle, back to her bedroom. It was dark, save for the moonlight that shone in through the window and glittered off the full-length mirror by her bedside.
Clovermead stopped to look at her reflection and saw a stranger. Her image had begun to stretch like pulled taffy the last few months. She was taller, she had lost some baby fat, and she was widening in the chest and hips. She looked more closely at her face. Her hair was unruly, she was sunburned, and her cheeks were remarkably full of freckles. Back in Timothy Vale, Card Merrin had once thought she was pretty, but then he had decided that Sweetroot Miller was prettier. Clovermead hadn’t much minded back then.
She smiled at the image in the mirror. Her lips drew up, and now there was no hiding the gap where her upper left canine had been before the bear-tooth ground it away. Every time you feel joy, the world will know you once were mine, Ursus whispered in her from far away. Laugh, and you will remember me. The old bear roared his own malignant laughter as Clovermead’s smile faded and the missing tooth disappeared behind concealing lips.
Clovermead stretched out her left arm, drew up the sleeve of her yellow dress, and exposed the long scar that ran from her palm to her shoulder. It didn’t hurt. Nothing was wrong with her arm except the way it looked. She tried to imagine her arm in gauzy sleeves, and bitter laughter almost choked her. “Wouldn’t you be the belle of the ball?” Clovermead told her image quietly. “Think of all the cadets lined up to dance with you.” No matter how well she learned to dance, her arm would still be scarred.
Clovermead could still see Sorrel and Saraband dancing in her mind’s eye.
She wanted to howl, she wanted to cry, and she lashed out with an arm grown huge and furred. Her claws crunched into the mirror, and silvered shards crashed to the floor. Only the top third of the mirror remained. In the reflection she saw the huge head and snapping jaws of a raging golden bear.
Chapter Four
In the Shadow of the Bear Page 27
