Marci was frazzled organizing the Princess’s changes of clothes—three or four a day. Not only did Her Highness require a certain kind of dress for every event, but shoes, jewelry, shawls, and even gloves and parasols. Each selection had to be perfect. Not just any pair of gloves would suit the fawn-colored walking dress; Princess Mariposa must have the turquoise cotton gloves. Which she hadn’t worn in two years. (It was a good thing Marci and I had just turned the closets inside out searching for the starlight slippers. Otherwise we might not have been able to produce the gloves on demand.)
Once Princess Mariposa had worn something around Lady Teresa, it could not be repeated. Whether anyone had noticed it—like the pearl bracelet she wore half-hidden by the lace trim on the sleeve of her rose-colored afternoon gown—or not.
For the first time, I understood why the Princess had six closets.
And in the middle of all this, the wedding preparations continued.
* * *
—
Gillian and I dropped onto the bench in the kitchen. My dinner plate steamed on the table before me. I was so tired I didn’t think I’d be able to pick up my fork, let alone get it into my mouth.
“I ache so much my curls are sore,” Gillian moaned.
Roger sat down across from us. The Stable Boys had all been so busy; he’d forgotten he was mad at us.
“You girls were mooning over the royal wedding,” he said. “You’re singing a different tune now.”
“We are not.” I snatched my fork off the table.
“What a goose you are, Roger,” Gillian said, unfolding her napkin. “I’m glad to suffer in the service of my Princess.”
“Yeah,” I said.
I neglected to mention that Gillian’s extra work had been dumped on her; I’d volunteered for mine. Late afternoons, when I’d ordinarily be finishing up, I had to work on the Girls’ dresses. I’d sewn so many pieces of blue silk together that I’d begun to dread the sight of it. But I knew better than to complain to Marci.
And I’d jump off the castle roof before I’d admit it to Roger.
“What have you been up to?” Gillian asked. “Polishing your ponies?”
Roger slapped his leather cap on the table. “I came here to eat,” he said, and dug in.
Gillian hid her smile behind her napkin, dabbing her lips ever so delicately. “So, Darling, did you hear the latest?” she asked.
Between the Baroness and Lindy, she heard most things before I did.
“No, what?”
Gillian cut her chicken into tiny, bite-sized pieces. “You know how excited the Princess was about those slippers?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ann told Kate that her mother said every lady in the court ran to the Royal Cobbler begging for lace shoes.”
“Better off with a decent pair of boots,” Roger said.
“Well, the Prince sent the Royal Cobbler a note saying, ‘Please don’t make lace shoes,’ ” Gillian said, ignoring Roger.
“Cost him a lot of business, that would,” he said, gesturing with his fork. “The Royal Cobbler’s got wages to pay and a family to care for, same as everybody else.”
“We know,” I told him. “So what happened?” I asked Gillian.
“So the Prince sent the Royal Cobbler a purse of gold—much more than the shoes would have cost—just so Princess Mariposa will be the only lady in the kingdom with lace slippers. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Really?” I sighed. “He’s so nice.”
“And handsome,” Gillian breathed.
Roger snorted in disgust. “All you girls are in love with that guy,” he said.
I gasped, appalled by the very idea. Prince Sterling was the Princess’s own true love.
“No, we’re not!” I said, banging on the table. “It’s that he’s—he’s a—”
“A prince,” Gillian said, as if that explained everything.
Before Roger could retort, Dulcie slid onto the bench next to him.
“Hi, Roger,” she said, blinking up at him. As usual, her braids were mussed, and she had a suspiciously jam-colored smear on her apron. “Whatcha doin’ tonight?”
“I’m poofing,” he said, and shoveled in the last of his supper.
“Can I disappear with you?” Dulcie asked.
“No,” Roger said. “I have to get back to the stables. The horses I care for are huge. Big, scary, stamping monsters.”
“But I like horses. I fed them carrots on the farm,” Dulcie said. “Horses like me too.”
“You grew up on a farm?” Roger asked, collecting his cap.
Dulcie sat up straighter to demonstrate how grown up a nine-year-old she was.
“Yep,” she said. “I fed the chickens and gathered the eggs and weeded the garden and snapped the beans and shelled the peas and—”
“I’m working, not playing,” Roger said.
Dulcie turned the full force of her pleading, little-neglected-orphan eyes on him.
“Okay,” Roger said. “Meet me after supper. But no talking.”
Dulcie sealed her lips together.
“See you guys later,” he said, and left.
“It’s Girls, Roger.” Gillian stuck out her tongue after he left. “Not guys.”
I giggled at her expression and forked up another bite of mashed turnips.
“Prince Sterling never gets confused,” I said. “That’s one reason why we like him.”
“And there are so many others,” she agreed.
“I have to go,” Dulcie said, wiping her chin off on her fist. Which I was pretty certain she’d later brush off on her clothes.
“I need the key,” Gillian said as soon as Dulcie was gone.
“What?” My fork stopped in midair. I’d been planning to have a look through Lady Amber’s armoire that evening.
“To go to the library,” Gillian said. “The Baroness wrote Master Varick a note. Remember?”
“Oh,” I said, eating my turnips, stalling.
I could feel the key through my clothes, a reassuring weight on my thigh. In my mind, Lady Amber + armoire + missing key = Inheritance. A deed. A jewel. One of Magnificent Wray’s secrets written on a sealed scroll.
“I finally have the chance,” Gillian said, not noticing my discomfort. “I’ve been waiting for days. I’m so excited.” Her curls bounced with her enthusiasm.
It was her turn. I fingered the key. Fair was fair. I took it out of my pocket. The starburst on the bow twinkled at me. My pulse raced. I glanced up, ready to protest.
Gillian slid her hand under the table, palm up. Her eyes danced.
I surrendered the key to her.
“I’ll try to test as many as I can tonight,” she said.
“Sure,” I said.
“Just think,” she breathed. “In a few days, we’ll have our hands on it. Whatever it is.”
“Yeah,” I said, torn by jealousy.
I wanted to be the one to find the right lock. Me, Darling Skunk, False Friend, and Inheritor of All Things Wray. For a moment, I knew how Magnificent had felt in his search for magic. It had to be there, and he had to be the one to find it.
The loss of the key jabbed me like a pin forgotten in a hem. Marci didn’t help matters. She stalked into the wardrobe hall, armed with a box of mousetraps and a block of cheese. She made me bait and set the traps and then follow her from closet to closet while she strategically placed them where she thought a mouse was most likely to squeeze in.
As the traps guarded the closet floors like wooden soldiers with sheathed swords, I spent the remainder of the afternoon on pins and needles. I didn’t think Iago or his family would run around the wardrobe hall during broad daylight. But I had to warn them.
The sooner the better.
I gobbled my supper down, and then I
bolted upstairs to the Girls’ dormitory. My crate marked ARTICHOKES was empty.
I sat on the rug next to my bed and thought. Should I wait for Iago to return? Leave a note? Go look for him?
Iago watched the dragons on the roof for me, but the only way up there was through the door in the north tower, to which I didn’t have a key. The only person who did was Marsdon, the Head Steward, who had definite opinions about children doing dangerous things like climbing out on roofs. And if Iago wasn’t there, he could be anywhere in the whole enormous, sprawling castle.
In the end, I promised myself I’d wait up and talk to him after everyone was asleep.
Which left me, Darling Wray Fortune, All-Important Under-assistant to the Wardrobe Mistress and Storyteller Extraordinaire, with absolutely nothing to do. It was too dark to sew on the Girls’ dresses, and my best story audience, Gillian, was unavailable.
At times like these you appreciated your true friends.
I headed for the wardrobe hall, whistling, certain there was a dress or two that required my company. As I passed Marci’s desk, the starlight opals glimmered in the dim evening as though someone had poured the Milky Way into a cup. I felt that I could dip in my fingertip and bring it out wet with stars.
I picked up one of the slippers, cradling it in my hand. The opals didn’t look as dark as before. It must have been my imagination. I turned the slipper over. A starburst was etched in the sole. I cocked my head to one side, considering.
The slippers were older than the closet, than the dresses. Well, older than most of the dresses. It was possible that One Hundred had been sewn before the slippers had been cobbled. But maybe not. Maybe One Hundred had been made for them instead of the other way around.
I scooped the other slipper up and headed into the closet. Lyric chirruped at me. The dresses jangled their hangers. The starlight opals glowed.
“Good evening, ladies,” I said.
One Hundred’s crystals sparkled as it flared its train.
“Have you missed them?” I asked, holding up the slippers. “They’re really pretty.”
I set them down on the rose-patterned carpet, where the rising moon kissed them with shimmering light. My toes twitched. I sat down and unlaced my boots.
“I wish you could talk,” I told the dresses. “Then you could tell me things.”
A dress near the door—one that Gillian always made a fuss over—waved a ribbon at me.
“She’s not here,” I said. “Tonight it’s just me and you, ladies. Like it used to be.”
The dresses grew quiet. I pulled off my boots and tossed them aside. I popped one of the slippers onto my foot—all the better to admire the starlight opals. And then, because no one could see me and no one would know, I put on the other. I stood up and faced the mirror so that I could see me, Darling Damsel, Princess of the Night Sky, wearing Queen Candace’s slippers.
They weren’t magic, but they were beautiful. And I felt very pretty wearing them.
“What would it be like to dance at a ball?” I wondered aloud.
A vermilion ball gown fluttered a ruffle at me.
“Thank you, my dear,” I said. “But these slippers require an extra-special dress.”
I reached for One Hundred. It shrank from my touch, pulling against my hand and clinging to its hanger. Startled, I let go. I’d never had a dress refuse before. In fact, I didn’t know they could.
“You don’t want me to try you on?” I asked, stunned. “You don’t want to go out? See Her Highness? Visit the Prince? Have some fun?”
One Hundred receded even further.
“All right,” I said, holding up my hands. “I just wanted to see them on. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to them.”
I stepped out of the slippers.
“Anyway,” I continued, “as I was saying, if you could talk, you could help me.” I picked up a slipper to show the dresses the sole. “I have a key with one of these on it. It belonged to Magnificent Wray. Do you know what it opens?”
Lyric rustled his feathers. The dresses folded their sleeves and listed sideways on their hangers as if they were thinking.
One Hundred bobbed on its hanger. It wanted to help me. But evidently not by being worn. Maybe it had something else in mind.
Maybe it missed the slippers. Maybe my wearing them had made it jealous. A burning desire to see the slippers with the dress overtook me.
I lifted the lace-covered hem of One Hundred, slid the slippers under it, and let the lace drift down over the shoes, leaving the starlight opals exposed. I rocked back on my heels. The shoes were the perfect complement to the dress.
One Hundred lifted its sleeves as the entire dress shivered with magic. Flashes of magic ran across the bodice and sparkled in its lace. A ripple spread through down the skirt, glazing crystals and pearls with a milky glow in the dark closet.
“Wait,” I told One Hundred. “What are you doing?”
Magic frothed in the garment’s hem and spilled into the starlight slippers like a gallon of comets soaring down from the night sky. The gems blazed, and all the little specks and glimmers of color in their surfaces twinkled like miniature galaxies. Each one pulsed with magic.
I snatched the slippers up, but it was too late. The magic in them throbbed in my hand, excited, eager, and aching to be released. I dropped the slippers to the carpet before the magic could do any more.
Lyric squawked in his cage.
“What have you done?” I asked One Hundred. “They’re full of magic now!”
One Hundred swayed on its hanger, turning a lace-covered shoulder to me.
I poked the shoes with a finger. Magic sizzled under my touch.
“I can hardly hold them,” I grumbled. “How am I going to carry them? I have to put them back.”
And then it hit me: an image of Princess Mariposa sliding her feet into the magic-drenched starlight slippers.
“The Princess is wearing those shoes to her wedding!” I cried. “What will happen when she does?”
One Hundred drew its train around itself like a cat curling up in its tail. If it could have talked, it would have purred. It was that pleased with itself. And the starlight opals crackled with magic as they echoed the dress’s delight.
When the dragons came, Father rose to the challenge. No longer did he seek magic for his own devices, but in the service of his sovereign. As the beasts ran rampant over the mountain—burning, stealing, killing—all the people of Eliora cowered in terror. Yet Father was fearless. He would halt these monstrous deeds. He would forge a great weapon.
Then the dragons took Mother. Father changed. His desire for magic’s power changed, and all our destinies changed with him.
I wrestled the starlight slippers into my apron and put them back onto the satin pillow in the wardrobe hall. The opals sparkled in the darkening evening. Worry gnawed a hole in the pit of my stomach. What was I going to tell Marci? Oops, I might have unintentionally soaked these shoes in magic. But not to worry, Marci. I’m sure that nothing very terrible will happen when Princess Mariposa puts them on.
Who was I kidding? I was doomed.
I sought comfort in the kitchens.
Jane sat knitting socks, eyes blurry, her mouth pursed in concentration. At the table next to her, the Head Cook scribbled in a recipe book while the Pastry Chef waved his rolling pin about, lecturing.
“You have to roll the marzipan thin, very thin, but not too thin,” the Pastry Chef said, demonstrating by flattening a ball of the stuff.
A row of delicate swans lined the table. Each one had sparkling black sugar eyes, arched necks, and dazzling white feathers. And they were all distinct and individual, no two alike.
“You have a wonderful attention to detail,” Jane remarked, counting the stitches on her knitting needle.
Jane couldn’t
see past the end of her nose. But she had mastered the art of conversing about things without actually knowing anything about them.
“Can you eat them?” I sat down and pointed to the swans.
“Eat them!” the Pastry Chef exclaimed. “These are works of art! Not food.”
“But aren’t you making them for the wedding cake?” I said.
“Of course,” the Pastry Chef said, taking a shaped tin cutter and pressing it into the marzipan. “But these beauties will swim along the rose-strewn layers of the royal cake—a glorious fantasy of sugar and marzipan!”
“So, after the Prince and Princess cut their cake, they’re just going to admire it?” I said, reaching out to pick up one of the swans.
“No touching!” The Pastry Chef slapped my hand away. “They will admire it. Everyone will. The applause will be stupendous.”
The Head Cook rolled her eyes.
“And, Charlotte,” he added, glowering at the Head Cook, “I will bake separate—supremely delicious—cakes for eating.”
“I’m sure you will,” she said, blotting her writing. “And the feast I’ll create for this wedding must be unlike any cooked for any other wedding!”
I’d been impressed with the feast for the failed wedding; I couldn’t wait to dig into this one.
“It does present a challenge,” Jane agreed. “But no one cooks like you do.”
The Pastry Chef cleared his throat ominously.
“Or creates dessert like you,” she added.
The knowledge that everyone was outdoing themselves so that Princess Mariposa’s wedding would be her dream come true stabbed me in the heart. While they slaved away, I was busy ruining it all. I squirmed on the bench.
“If you’re going to fidget, you should go outdoors,” the Pastry Chef snapped when I jostled his elbow.
The Starlight Slippers Page 10
