Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

  A CHAPTER WITH

  A KING IN IT

  THE KING CAME home. Reluctantly. He’d never really wanted to be king. Being a prince was okay. you got everything you wanted — the best suits and the finest cars — plus people had to be nice to you. it was kind of like being a rock star. King Jarvis, for that was his name, was born to royalty, but he’d long ago ceased appreciating it. fancy food tasted ordinary to him; he’d have been just as happy with a burger and fries. His marriage had been arranged, so he dutifully wed Lara, a gorgeous princess of a girl whose parents had made a shit-load of money in real estate. Unfortunately, as time went by, the king found marriage a bit of a rip-off. Lara’s moods were erratic, and their only child turned out to be as grumpy as her mother. so King Jarvis found as many reasons as he could to leave the palace: snowboarding, snorkelling in fiji, drinking soy latte in cafes with his gay chum, Duke Eddie. Today, as he rode towards the palace, the king felt little joy. Queen Lara would greet him with a whining Where have you been? Then his daughter would demand What did you bring me? Usually, the king returned with something classy, such as a designer handbag or a new cover for Mirabella’s mobile phone, but this time he had a different answer to his daughter’s question.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Crap! Parents!’ muttered Mirabella. ‘Why were they ever invented?’

  THE WRITER

  On second thoughts, perhaps not.

  THE WRITER

  Once upon a time, the writer had snazzy-coloured hair, but she quit colouring. She’s limiting her chemical input and avoiding a tacky grow-out line, but now her hair’s salt-and-pepper, which is a teensy-weensy bit ageing. The writer seeks a creative solution and settles for a red headband that looks good, in a gypsy sort of a way, and some new perfume.

  The Reader

  › Life is dull. I felt like doing something different to my hair, so I did. It’s now short and red. ‘Nice,’ says my father. I love Dad. He always supports and encourages me. But Mum can be a different story. ‘I wish you’d asked me. I hope you know what you’re doing, Nova,’ she says when she sees it. Actually, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m only fifteen, and there’s no map for it.

  A CHAPTER WITH

  A KING IN IT

  THE KING CAME home. Reluctantly. He’d never wanted to be king. Being a prince was most satisfactory. you got everything you wanted — the best velvet breeches and the finest horse — and, what’s more, people had to be nice to you. Being a king was not so good. Harold, for that was his name, was born to royalty and he accepted it, but he did not love it. for one thing, he’d long ago ceased appreciating the merits of his elevated position in society. The finest dishes tasted ordinary to him, the buttons on his elegant jackets still popped off at annoying moments, his horse didn’t always seem to like him. Harold married the daughter of the neighbouring king and, though it was an arranged marriage, he’d accepted it willingly, for Petronilla’s smile was as radiant as a sunset and her lips were red as rubies in the snow. Unfortunately, as time went by, Harold found life with his lovely bride a little harder than he’d anticipated. Some days she was sweetness and light, but sometimes she was like an angry scarecrow dancing in the wind. Harold was further saddened by the fact that, in sixteen years, he and the queen had not managed to produce a son and heir. He loved his daughter Mirabella, but she seemed so unhappy these days. She had always been a challenging child, and now she was as stormy as her mother. So, King Harold found as many reasons as he could to leave the palace. Any excuse would do: visiting the silver mines, seeking lost bears, playing chess with Tarquin, the duke of a neighbouring kingdom.

  As he rode towards the palace, the king felt little joy. He knew how Petronilla would greet him. Why didn’t you come home earlier? He could hear her demanding voice already and knew that whatever he answered would be wrong. He also knew what his daughter’s greeting would be. What did you bring me? It had oft been his habit to return with costly baubles for Mirabella, such as a rosebud made of gold, or a dainty purse embroidered with butterflies. This time, he gave a different answer to his daughter’s question. Nothing.

  As expected, Princess Mirabella was not thrilled with her father’s lack of a gift. At first she imagined that the king was playing a little trick on her and had some precious offering hidden in his pocket; a bracelet, perhaps, that she could wear to the ball.

  ‘Where is it? Is it perchance in the inner pocket of your waistcoat? Oh, do tell.’

  ‘I’ve already told you. I have no sparkling gee-gaw for you today.’

  ‘But why, Papa? I love the gifts you bring me.’

  ‘Are you not pleased to see me, Daughter? Is my homecoming not gift enough?’ At that, the princess was silent.

  ‘What a meal,’ continued the king, wiping a drip of ale from his beard with a fine linen napkin. ‘A simple meal, but a delicious one. These berries are particularly sweet.’

  ‘Mrs Blossom is indisposed again. Rolf, the kitchen boy, prepared this food.’ The queen had almost forgotten how annoying her husband could be, with his endlessly cheerful nature.

  ‘Well and good, well and good. So, what other news since I’ve been gone?’

  The queen, who’d been waiting for this very invitation, recounted the events of the preceding days: the death of Cherry, the loss of Alice, the saga of the poisoned soup, Elda’s bee sting, and the lack of a suitable dress for Princess Mirabella to wear at the ball.

  ‘A good night’s sleep, My Dear, will solve most problems,’ the king replied when the queen finally drew breath. He belched merrily, said he was tired, and trundled off to bed.

  ‘Oh, the bothersome man.’ The queen tossed her napkin down with irritation.

  ‘I agree, Mama.’

  Annoyingly, Petronilla then changed her mind. ‘You mustn’t speak ill of your dear papa, Mirabella. Perhaps he’s right, and it will all seem better in the morning. I’ll see you at breakfast. I’ve had a new thought about your dress.’

  ‘Tell me now, Mama. I must know!’

  ‘No, it must wait ’til the morrow. I’m exhausted, and you need your beauty sleep. You must look your best for the ball. Once you have decided on a husband, you must be sure the young man finds you as lovely as a flower.’

  THE WRITER

  The writer is practising Random Acts of Strange these days. Today she wiped a wet knife dry on her kitchen curtain, which—even for her — is a bit odd. She’s also taken to talking to household objects, as in: ‘Oh Hello, My Glasses,’ and eating breakfast foods (like porridge with soy milk and raisins) for dinner. Some days, the real world does not seem as real as the world in her book.

  The Reader

  › Today I found a small rubber snake under my desk at school. On the way home I cunningly placed it on a leafy branch by the wall outside the library. It looked very realistic. I also wrote the words ‘Chocolate Stardust’ on a scrap of paper, and tucked it in my dad’s fishing hat. I think I’ve found my true calling. My new slogan is: Co-operate with Destiny.

  CHAPTER WITH

  BALL GOWN AND

  TUMBLES

  THE MORNING DAWNED, bright and sunny. Glory ate her creamy porridge in the kitchen, where Mrs Blossom was back on her feet as if nothing had happened. glory didn’t linger, because Mrs B was busily preparing hares for a casserole, and they were hanging rather disgustingly with their heads upside down in buckets to catch the blood. she strolled across the mossy courtyard and peeped in the leadlight window of the apothecary. she wanted permission to return to service, but Miss oleander was nowhere to be seen, so glory retraced her steps and headed towards the main house. The courtyard bustled with life. groomsmen tended their horses in the sunlight, dogs barked, and a noisy delivery of live ducks poked their inquisitive heads out from a large wicker basket. and there was Arlo, chasing Arabella. Glory wished she’d time to stop and play with the merry bundle of fluff. She entered the palace by the servants’ doorway, stepping over a maid who was busily scrubbing the steps. The halls were bustling
, too, with hot water being transported hither and thither in huge urns, flowers being arranged, and a jester practising his juggling in the music room. When Glory arrived, the door of Princess Mirabella’s chamber was open. She entered quietly and curtsied. Mirabella, who had been sitting staring glumly in the mirror, rose to greet her.

  ‘You’re back.’

  Glory stared at Princess Mirabella, who quickly spoke again. ‘I mean . . . good morning, are you recovered?’

  ‘Good morning. Yes, I’m much improved, thank you.’ Glory smiled. She wasn’t certain what she’d do if Princess Mirabella kept behaving like a right royal pain, but they’d agreed to a fresh start so it had seemed worth risking a glare to remind the princess of it. ‘What would you like me to do?’

  ‘I must choose my outfit for the ball. Nothing I have is suitable, so we’ll visit my mother’s chamber. She has set aside some gowns for my consideration.’

  Mirabella set off, with Glory following a few paces behind. In the queen’s chamber they were met by Arlo, admiring himself in the full-length mirror. When he saw them he pretended to be wiping a smudge off the glass.

  Glory had never known such a sumptuous room. There were gilded mirrors, a huge carved bed hung with damask draperies, antiquities and dainty ornaments, sparkling crystal chandeliers, and an abundance of roses bathing the air with a deep, sweet fragrance.

  ‘Good morning, Your Royal Highness.’ Arlo bowed low. He was a fetching sight in blue velvet breeches, a dark green coat, and wedge-toed shoes adorned with pearl buttons. ‘The queen is meeting with the head florist, but she’s instructed me to help you fetch the gowns, if you wish.’

  Mirabella was surprised to realise that she had begun to enjoy having Arlo around. Despite his swagger, he was very easy on the eye.

  ‘Thank you. Please help Glory bring out the gowns.’

  Glory and Arlo went into the dressing chamber, a dark exotic cavern fragrant with sandalwood and oriental perfumes. She hardly knew where to cast her gaze in the treasure trove of shoes, necklaces, jewel boxes, hat boxes, and rows of gowns in velvets, silks, and satins.

  ‘These are the ones the queen suggests,’ said Arlo, taking an armful from the end of a rack and instructing Glory to carry the others.

  ‘Thank you, Arlo. You may go.’ Mirabella amazed all three of them by giving her page a winning smile. After he’d left, she stripped down to her lace undergarments, donned a pair of white satin dancing slippers, and began trying on her mother’s gowns. True to form, the princess was not readily pleased. The first gown was too frilly, the second too drab, the third too shiny. Luckily, the fourth garment found favour, much to Glory’s relief, and Mirabella slipped it on.

  ‘My mother wore this to the summer ball several years ago. I doubt anyone will remember it. What do you think?’ Mirabella twirled around. It was a dreamy creation, cut from the finest silk in a delicate shade of palest green, with a plunging neckline and a swirling skirt just made for dancing.

  ‘I like it too. You look . . .’ Glory was searching for the right compliment when the princess twirled once more, caught her foot in the rug, tumbled into a lampshade, and landed on her royal posterior. To Glory’s surprise, Mirabella remained sprawled on the carpet and started yelling.

  ‘Stupid dress, stupid ball, stupid life! I don’t want to be married off to some idiot prince!’

  Glory wasn’t sure what a chambermaid was meant to do in such a circumstance, but it seemed that a mixture of sympathy and sensibleness was required.

  ‘Must you go to the ball?’

  ‘Yes, you numbskull!’ wailed Mirabella. ‘There’s no escape. It’s all arranged. I’m to choose a husband.’

  Glory decided to let the numbskull bit go. ‘Well, if you don’t want a husband, you could wear something quite unflattering.’

  Mirabella stared at her in horror. Neither looking dreadful nor being forced to marry were acceptable options for this pampered princess.

  ‘However, if you want to look beautiful, this dress is most fetching,’ Glory hastened to add. ‘You simply caught your foot in the hem because it’s a fraction too long. Couldn’t the royal dressmaker take it up for you?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ snivelled the princess.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to rest awhile after your tumble. Let me help you remove the gown, and while you take some ease I shall arrange to have it altered. Would you like me to bring you some hot milk with honey?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.’

  Glory delivered a mug of hot milk and honey to Mirabella, collected the dress, and was given directions to the dressmaker’s studio, a spacious, well-lit room looking over the rose garden. Madame Star, the dressmaker, was a tiny woman, dressed entirely in lemon yellow, who was sewing what looked like an extremely large curtain. Glory wondered why many of the inhabitants of the palace were an odd size: the queen so tall, Elda so runty, Mrs Blossom so huge, and now this small person. Although, she had to admit that Rolf and Arlo both seemed to be just perfectly proportioned.

  ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I’m Glory, Princess Mirabella’s new maid. I’ve brought the princess’s gown. It needs the hem altered, so she can wear it to the ball.’ Madame Star gave Glory a strange look, but her words seemed normal enough.

  ‘How much should it be taken up?’

  ‘About this much.’ Glory indicated with finger and thumb, having not thought to measure.

  ‘I’ll tack it up, then you can take it back to the princess for her to try.’ Madame Star took a pin from her sleeve, made the necessary mark on the hem, and set to work. ‘Would you care to look around?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Glory was entranced by the wide array of fabrics, some neatly folded, some in large rolls: crepe, chambray, georgette, lawn, mousseline, organza, taffeta, and tulle. There were cottons, yarn and ribbons in every shade, and filmy wisps of chiffon drifted from a dressmaker’s dummy like angels’ scarves. A vase of red peonies dropped fat petals beside a workbook displaying sketches of unusual border patterns. Glory was about to comment on the intricate designs when she felt a big sneeze coming. Without thinking, she reached into her pocket, but instead of a handkerchief she pulled out the scrap of fabric she’d found in the secret box.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Madame Star’s voice was sharp and serious.

  Glory explained how she’d come to be in possession of the little piece of coral silk. ‘First the box was empty, but then this appeared in it. It’s as if . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ the dressmaker asked quietly.

  ‘As if someone’s trying to tell me something, but what?’

  ‘Come sit with me, Child. There are things you must know, and the time has come for you to hear them.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be getting back? Mirabella may need me.’ Though she could not explain why, Glory was flooded with sudden, dark fear. An age-old, ominous cloud of doom penetrated her heart, her stomach, her very bones. It made no sense, but she wanted nothing more than to run for her life.

  ‘Don’t worry. It won’t hurt that girl to wait.’ Madame Star smiled and winked, and the atmosphere lightened a little.

  ‘The story I’m about to tell you is a sad one. But you must be brave and open your heart and mind to what I’m about to say. Do you have the courage?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘The cloth is a scrap of the dress your mother was wearing the day Prince Oscar died. I imagine it was put there by Miss Oleander, to lead you to me.’

  ‘Why couldn’t Miss Oleander tell me herself, if there is something to be told?’ Glory felt great confusion.

  ‘Listen carefully and you will understand. When Rosamund, your mother, came to the palace, she and Persia, or Miss Oleander as she is known now, became best friends. They were like two white roses in the moonlight, radiant and fresh. Their lightness and laughter attracted Prince Oscar, despite Persia and Rosamund’s lowly rank. The three young people loved to spend time together, walking in the gardens or sitting by the river. Thei
r liaison was much frowned upon, but the young prince did not care. As time went on, your mother and the prince fell in love, for Cupid’s bow cares nothing for convention. At that time, Persia was apprenticed to the old apothecary, training in herbs and arcane rituals, and that is how she acquired the book.’

  ‘What book is that?’ Glory wondered what all this had to do with her. Remembering her weary mother, cooking gruel and mending, she struggled to understand how this tale could possibly be true.

  ‘It was a grimoire, a book of spells. Persia was born into a family of healers, and she had magic powers, though not yet strong ones. Your mother, being the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, also had mystical abilities, but again her powers were undeveloped, unruly, like breezes not yet tamed. The two young women wove a spell to enable Oscar and Rosamund to spend one perfect day together, outside time, before the prince was betrothed to someone else. Rosamund would never be queen, yet surely she deserved one sweet day of happiness. They cast the spell light-heartedly, not fully believing it would work. On a summer’s morning, Persia braided your mother’s long golden hair with ribbons and dressed her in a borrowed gown of coral silk. Your mother went alone to the meadow to await the prince.’

  ‘Did they get their perfect day?’

  ‘Tragically, on his way to meet his love, Prince Oscar fell from his horse and was killed. A terrified servant boy, who’d overheard the plan, let the secret out. Oscar’s mother, Agatha, was crazed with grief. That’s when she cast a curse.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this? Why didn’t my mother or Miss Oleander tell me?’

  ‘Those associated with a curse are forbidden to speak of it, but I am not. I’ve been waiting for you to come. It was only a matter of time until this unfolding of events.’

  ‘Does everyone around here have magic powers?’ Glory mumbled.

  ‘Not everyone, but Agatha certainly did, though many did not believe in her abilities. Her magic was strong. Furious and bitter, she took revenge, believing that your mother had caused Oscar’s death.’