Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

‘Would you care for some of this delicious beverage?’ the princess offered unexpectedly. There was only one goblet, and Glory knew a chambermaid should not drink from the same vessel as a princess, but the day was hot and the offer was tantalising, so she nodded.

  ‘Here, fill it to the brim and come sit by me. Let’s drink this taste of summer together.’ The princess wriggled her toes some more, and giggled, for no real reason. Really, this fruity fizz was proving most delightful. It was not long before Glory also felt the benefits of this most efficacious brew. All her troubles floated gently away. The two young women laughed and talked of ball gowns and baubles, but, as the bottle emptied and the afternoon wore on, the conversation turned to more serious matters.

  ‘This magical wine has cheered me greatly, but our lives will still await us tomorrow.’ The princess sighed.

  ‘If I may say so, your life seems to be a desirable one, Your Highness.’ The wine had loosened Glory’s tongue. Since she was facing her own death, there seemed little point in niceties and falsehood.

  The princess did not seem troubled by Glory’s honesty. ‘It may seem that way to you, but . . . the truth is that I am trapped, and it makes me feel wretched,’ she replied.

  ‘But surely you have everything a person could want? A fine palace, delicious foods, the best medicines when you are ill, servants who attend to your every desire . . .’

  ‘These things provide pleasure of a certain kind, it is true, and no doubt I could be more grateful for it. Yet in my heart I’m lonely and sad. My life is that of a caged bird, even though my cage is wondrously gilded.’

  ‘I see it differently, if I may say so, Your Highness. For are we not all caged in some way?’

  ‘Royalty is a rare kind of prison, but it is a prison, no less. Common folk may marry whom they wish, choose their own occupation, kiss whatever boy they like. They do not have to suffer the eyes of the world upon them.’

  ‘It may seem like a life of freedom to you, but we are all bound by conditions, Your Highness. Some are bound by poverty, some by illness, and we are all bound by the restrictions of our society. I myself would like to be a landowner, but this is only allowed to men.’

  ‘Yes, it is as you say. I see through my own eyes . . . it’s good to glimpse the world through yours. One’s own troubles always seem the most important.’ The princess sighed again, then continued. ‘At least my lot is not as bad as poor Queen Claude’s. She was betrothed, when she was but six years old, to her cousin. She wed at fourteen and gave birth to seven royal children. She was only twenty-four when she died, utterly exhausted, or épuisée, as they say.’

  ‘That’s horrid beyond belief.’

  ‘Oh, but let’s not dwell on serious things. Let’s cast dark clouds aside, including that hornswoggler of a gypsy and his ridiculous fortunes. We must not waste such a lovely evening. What say you to a stroll along the stream?’

  THE WRITER

  After the fruitcake and the frolics, the tinsel and the tears, the new year begins. The writer is worried that the paper world she’s created may have thinned and vanished, but, no, it’s still there. Despite the summery call of the beach, the pile of books beside her bed, and the dear friends who want to have a cuppa, the writer closes her door. She has a deadline. Douglas Adams said, ‘I love deadlines. I especially love the whooshing sound they make as they go flying by,’ but the writer is keen not to hear that whooshing sound. She sits for ages, waiting for something to occur. As Stephen Leacock remarked, ‘Writing is not hard. Just sit down and write it as it occurs to you. The writing is easy, it’s the occurring that’s hard.’

  Tired of thinking, the writer tidies. She folds her sheets the way she saw on the Martha Stewart show and arranges fresh flowers in every room. In another life, the writer wants thin legs, three dogs, curly red hair, and to be a messy squirrel, but in this life none of the above applies. When the writer finishes tidying everything in sight, she eats afternoon tea, even though it’s morning, and sets to work yet again.

  The Reader

  › It’s late, but I can’t sleep. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I dread seeing Dylan. I think I’m going to tell Ms Golightly that I’ve changed my mind about hanging out with her. This whole thing is really freaking me out. My fears toss and turn and refuse to leave. Mum sticks her head in, bearing tea and shortbread.

  ‘I saw your light was on. I was thinking, Hon,’ she says, ‘about friends.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I reply, propping myself up in bed so I don’t spill my drink.

  ‘I reckon there are different sorts of friends for different occasions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, when I was at uni, my best friend was Carla. She was my wild friend, for dangerous fun and heavy drinking.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘I know, I know, it was a lifetime ago. Anyhow, after I married Dad and we had you, Carla and I didn’t have much in common. She was still single and partying hard, so we just drifted apart.’

  ‘What about now?’

  ‘Let me see. Viv is my comfortable friend. We share things from our gardens, and we laugh a lot.

  She radiates kindness, and she’s the least judgemental person I know. Rowena is my intelligent friend, for books and philosophy. Maggy’s my movie chum and an expert in clothing advice.’

  ‘What about Freya?’

  ‘Freya is my everything friend. But not everyone is lucky enough to have an everything friend. Annie is yours, maybe.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I really miss her. Cheers, Mum, anyway. That was helpful.’

  ‘Is that girl Dylan still giving you trouble?’

  ‘Yeah, kinda. I’ll tell you about it, but not now, okay?’

  Mum wants to probe but, to her credit, she refrains. ‘Sweet dreams,’ she says, and tootles off to bed. I realise with amazement that she hasn’t tried to improve me lately or suggest I do stuff her way. It’s a blooming miracle. I snuggle down and read a few pages of my book. I wish they’d hurry up and get to the ball. I can’t wait to see what happens. I think Mirabella might be going to elope with Arlo.

  CHAPTER

  NEARLY THERE

  AND A BIT

  MISS HOPE, THE florist, was soaking her weary feet in a bucket of peppermint water, Mrs Blossom had a dreadful headache, the footmen were squabbling amongst themselves, and the Mpeacocks had been relegated to a meadow far away because their squawking was driving everyone mad. it had been a week of scurrying madness, but now everything was in place for the grand ball to be held that very evening, the night of the full moon. Huge vases of pink chrysanthemums entwined with dainty fernery graced the entrance hall; the ballroom floor had been waxed and polished until it gleamed. The supper tables, spread with finest linen, were laden with a magnificent array of food: Mr Alfred’s saffron buns and almond tarts, Mrs Blossom’s spicy forcemeat balls dusted with nutmeg, chicken savouries, crab quenelles, caramel crepes, and marzipan mice. Posies of white roses decorated trays of glistening glasses which were waiting to be filled with ginger-fizz punch. Elda carefully placed a strawberry in each one, sighed, and looked down at her brown brogues. How she’d love to be a dancing duchess at the ball. Elda tried not to mind being a servant, and managed — most of the time. She was hoping scraps of gossip would filter down to the kitchen with the footmen as they delivered dirty glasses and platters to be washed. Rolf whistled as he wiped down the marble kitchen benches with hot soapy water, trying to drown out Mrs Blossom’s whingeing and complaining.

  ‘I never had a more difficult day in my entire life. My head is aching fair fit to burst. I do believe a bunch of trolls is doing a ju-ju dance in my noggin, it thumps so bad. As for supper, what a disaster! My pastry for them almond tarts is stodgy as a parson’s lecture, and my forcemeat balls is saltier than mermaid’s widdle. There will be complaints for certain. Mercy me, I should never have become a cook, but stuck to milk-maiding like my muvver said I ought have . . . If you don’t stop that bleedin’ whistling, Rolf, I’ll have your guts for
sausage skins.’

  In Mirabella’s chambers, Glory was helping the princess dress for the ball. The last four days had been the longest in her life. Fear was her constant companion, accompanying her everywhere like a skull perched on her shoulder. However, nothing untoward had happened, unless you count Mrs Blossom’s threatening to leave, which was apparently common on such occasions. Though Glory had not spoken of it, her friends knew how troubled she was, and had tried to comfort her.

  ‘I don’t believe in curses and witchery,’ Rolf said. ‘Such things are not rational and scientific. They are old wives’ tales, designed to keep folk frightened. You must not let it scare you. Midnight will come and go, but nothing bad will happen, you’ll see.’

  Rolf believed his own reasoning, yet he was worried. He daren’t burden Glory with his anxiety, but his hands trembled a little as he went about his chores.

  ‘I fear there’s truth in magic and spells, though I’ve never seen any magic with my own eyes. Perhaps if you don’t believe in the curse it will not come true? If you don’t give it no power over you.’ Elda suggested.

  ‘Thank you, Dear Friends.’ Glory appreciated their kindness, but it did not lesson her rising terror.

  These past days, Princess Mirabella had been kind and even-tempered towards Glory. She felt much fonder toward her maid since their time together in the rose garden. However, she did not known how to handle the matter of the curse. Realising the delicacy of the situation, the princess consulted her parents. After some deliberation, the king and queen advised her not to mention the curse but to ready herself for the forthcoming occasion and treat her chambermaid as usual. They knew no way around the problem, and their attention was focused on a flurry of protocols and preparations for the ball, the outcome of which would determine their own fate.

  One afternoon, when her fear almost overcame her, Glory visited Miss Oleander. She saw through the window that the apothecary was busy tending a sick groomsman, so she didn’t linger, but walked back and forth in the rose garden until her alarm subsided and she was calm enough to return to her duties. Mirabella did not mention her absence, and royal life continued as usual, the curse put aside amongst the petticoats and pearls.

  ‘Are you sure my tiara is pinned securely and my hair is firmly fastened? It mustn’t tumble down during the evening. Drat and dragons, my complexion looks as mottled as old cheese rind.’

  ‘All is as it should be, truly,’ Glory assured the princess, tucking a last curl into place. ‘You look radiant. Your dress is exquisite, your jewels are dazzling, and your skin is smooth as milk.’

  Glory glanced at the clock. It was seven o’clock, half an hour before the guests would arrive in their coaches and carriages. There would be music, merriment, and magnificence for many on this magical night, but not for her. Time had run out. Midnight was imminent. She was doomed.

  The Reader

  › I wake with a vaguely sick feeling in my guts, shower, get dressed, thump around the kitchen, and shovel in a bowl of muesli.

  ‘What’s wrong, Petal?’ Mum asks, but I can’t tell her. I pin on my lucky blue glass dragonfly, throw a mandarin in my bag along with my ham salad roll, air-kiss Dad’s photo on my way down the hall. I have to face the day. There’s no escape.

  THE WRITER

  Some of the threads in her story are weaving together nicely, but others dangle in her brain like wet spaghetti.Trust the Process, the writer’s sister suggests in an email. The writer prints Trust the Process in big letters on a big piece of cardboard and props it on her desk. It’s the right wisdom to help guide her to the end of the book. Creativity usually triumphs, despite her worrying that it won’t. Amongst what’s for dinner, hair appointments, friends who pop in, walks, email, groceries, and a bit of telly, the story is worming its way out of her brain, out of the pile of notes on her desk and the dark fertile cosmos and onto the page.

  CHAPTER WITH

  DRAMAS, DANCING

  AND DOUBTS

  KING HAROLD, QUEEN Petronilla, and Princess Mirabella stood in stately attendance in the marble entry foyer as arlo, in new red velvet livery and black hose, announced the arrivals. Mirabella kept a royal smile upon her face, but her heart sank as the procession of underwhelming guests was presented: fat counts, doddery dukes, and prattling princes who were far too young and rather spotty. William de Montague cut a fine figure, but the queen had warned Mirabella about his character: ‘Don’t waste your time considering him, Daughter; there is good reason why he’s known as William the Bastard.’

  ‘I am honoured to finally meet you, Princess Mirabella. I have long heard tell of your beauty and charm,’ de Montague said, bowing low. ‘Sadly, my brother, Bernard, is unable to attend this grand occasion, though he sends his most humble apologies,’ de Montague lied, trying to forget the sight of his drooling brother handcuffed to his bed, making gutteral sounds.

  ‘We’re so sorry Prince Bernard is unable to join us this evening,’ Queen Petronilla replied graciously. ‘Please, enjoy your evening and pass along our kindest regards to your brother.’

  ‘Whew, one less to consider. That gets rid of Bernard the Mad,’ Mirabella mentally noted.

  ‘Prince Swythyn of Alderly,’ Arlo trumpeted, as the next guest approached. Poor Swythyn was trying so hard not to trip over his shoes that he bumped into the floral arrangement, spilling a puddle of water onto the marble floor. His poor, silly face reminded the princess of her childhood hamster.

  ‘Charmed and delighted,’ Mirabella curtsied. If I have to cut off my ears and eat them, I shall not be marrying you, she thought to herself.

  The next arrival was the Earl of Twickenham, a charming fellow whose reputation as a man who drank to excess was well-known.

  ‘Honoured and thrilled,’ Mirabella curtsied. If I have to kill butterflies and boil babies, I shall not be marrying you. Her smile was fake and frozen. The princess hoped her silent observations were not written upon her face for all to see.

  The procession of guests began to thin. Princess Imogen swanned in next, accompanied by her mother, Queen Lila. Imogen was a vision splendid in a creation of frothy pink tulle, tiny rosebuds in her dark hair.

  ‘Welcome, dear Cuz.’ Imogen was the first person Mirabella was actually glad to see. As children, the two girls had often enjoyed gentle games and laughter together, one so dark and one so fair, as fetching as Snow White and Rose Red.

  My toes are dreadfully pinched in these high-heeled slippers, Petronilla sighed silently. What a long night it’s going to be. Where, oh where, is King Gilbert? I call upon the fates: do not deny us the company of Prince Leonard and Prince Timothy. They’re our only hope.

  The king stood regally, to all appearances the genial host, but his heart was heavy. He knew it was wrong to marry off his daughter in order to further his own ends. He wanted to be a good king, to rule with a firm hand, and had tried his best, he was sure he had. But perhaps he hadn’t tried hard enough? For here he stood, like a stuffed parrot, at the mercy of the whims of others: his difficult daughter and the sketchy possibility of a husband who might not even eventuate.

  ‘King Gilbert, Prince Timothy, and Prince Leonard, of the House of Ussher.’ Arlo announced their arrival, then gave an extra loud blast on his trumpet. Queen Petronilla bestowed her most radiant smile, and the two kings shook hands mightily. They didn’t know each other well, but had once hunted together and found each other good company. Mirabella gave the portly visitor a deep curtsey. His face showed intelligence and good cheer, but her real interest was in his oldest son, for, despite herself, the princess was curious about Prince Timothy. She curtsied once more and raised her eyes to greet the young man in front of her. The first thing she noticed was his physique. He was tall and burly, as powerful as a stallion, and his composure was steady. Mirabella was overcome by a most peculiar feeling. It was as if she’d met him long long ago, for he seemed as familiar to her as her own feet. The princess found this a heady mixture of divine and unwelcome. She regarded th
e prince without expression, and his clear blue eyes met her gaze steadily.

  ‘Welcome.’ Her voice came out louder than she wished, and her heart gave a small, unseemly lurch.

  ‘Delighted to meet you. I’ve heard much about you,’ replied the prince, bowing low. He stepped briskly aside and his brother replaced him. Prince Leonard was indeed handsome, with fair curls and a winning smile, but the princess felt nothing special towards him.

  When the late arrivals had entered the grand ballroom, the king, queen and princess followed. They took their places on the podium and the king gave a greeting.

  ‘My dear wife, Queen Petronilla, and my lovely daughter, Princess Mirabella, and I welcome you. We bid you the happiest of evenings. Let the dancing begin.’

  The band struck up a waltz and the royal couple took to the floor, setting the scene for others to follow. William of Montague lost no time in asking Mirabella to dance, but even as her body performed the necessary movements her thoughts were drawn to Prince Timothy. She couldn’t help but notice that he’d beaten Swythyn of Alderly to partnering Princess Imogen in the dance.

  He lacked warmth towards me. Obviously my reputation as a difficult person has preceded me, Mirabella thought sadly. Imogen is both pretty and sweet-natured. I have no chance with him.

  As the evening progressed, the princess danced with every nobleman in the room except the one she wished for. William of Montague reminded her of a lizard, Swythyn of Alderly was a well-meaning simpleton, Thomas of Wychwood smelled peculiar, the Earl of Twickenham reeked of rum. Prince Leonard thought himself charming but had a braying laugh and spoke only of his own interests.

  In the kitchen, Glory, Rolf, and Elda sat solemnly. Mrs Blossom had retired for the night with a willow bark brew and a bottle of brandy, and the footmen were all on duty in the supper room. Elda tried to cheer the mood with small talk, to no avail.

  ‘I wonder how it’s going? If Mirabella decides upon a husband, perhaps he won’t agree to marry her. Everyone knows she’s not the easiest of women, although she’s been a lot nicer lately. I do believe your presence has softened her . . .’