A centaur colt! A little beauty. If only I could see him, and pet him, and let him know me.
The tears that hadn’t come in the afternoon came now. Mandy would be desperate if she knew I hadn’t eaten in three days and if she knew I was under the thumb of a monster like Hattie.
The next morning, Music Mistress led us in song, and singled out my off-key voice.
“Ella does not notice that there is more than one note,” she told everyone. “Come here, child. Sing this.” She played a note on the harpsichord.
I wouldn’t be able to. I could never carry a tune. What would happen when I couldn’t obey?
I sang the wrong note. Music Mistress frowned.
“Higher, or we shall send you to a different school to sing with the young gentlemen.” She depressed the key again.
My next attempt was much too high. One lass covered her ears. I wished her an earache.
Music Mistress played again.
My temples throbbed. I sang.
“A little lower.”
I hit the note. She played another. I sang it. She played a scale. I sang every note. I beamed. I’d always wished I could sing. I sang the scale again, louder. Perfect!
“That’s enough, young lady. You must sing when I tell you to, and not otherwise.”
An hour later Dancing Mistress told me to step lightly.
My partner was Julia, the tall maiden who had teased Areida the night before. I pressed on her arms, using her to support my weight so I could step lightly.
“Stop that.” She pulled away.
I fell. I heard giggles.
Dancing Mistress took Julia’s place. I couldn’t lean on her. I pretended my feet were balloons. I pretended the floor would crack if I didn’t move lightly. We stepped. We glided. We sprang forward, jumped back. I wasn’t graceful, but I didn’t shake the ground. My gown was soaked with perspiration.
“That’s better.”
At lunch Manners Mistress said, “Don’t rap your knuckles on the table, Ella. The king would be ashamed of you.” She frequently invoked King Jerrold.
Tables were forever safe from me.
“Take small stitches, Eleanor, and don’t yank the thread. It’s not a rein, and you’re not a coachman,” Sewing Mistress said later in the afternoon.
I stabbed myself with the needle, but my stitches shrank.
It was the same every day. I dreaded new orders. The curse didn’t make me change easily. I had to concentrate every second. In my mind, I repeated my commands in an endless refrain. When I awoke, I instructed myself not to bounce out of bed. Leave the nightdress for the servants to put away. At breakfast don’t blow on my porridge, and don’t spit out the lumps. On our afternoon walk, don’t skip, don’t leap about.
Once I actually spoke aloud. It was at dinner. “Don’t slurp,” I instructed myself. I said it softly, but a pupil seated near me heard, and she told the others.
The only subjects that came easily were those taught by Writing Mistress: composition and ciphering. She also taught penmanship, which was the one subject in which I did not attain excellence, because Writing Mistress issued no orders.
She taught Ayorthaian but no other languages. When I told her I knew a little of the exotic tongues and wished to learn more, she gave me a dictionary of exotic speech. It became my second-favorite book, after Mandy’s present.
Whenever I had time, I practiced the languages, especially Ogrese. The meanings were dreadful, but there was an attraction in speaking the words. They were smooth, sleek, and slithery, the way a talking snake would sound. There were words like psySSahbuSS (delicious), SSyng (eat), hijyNN (dinner), eFFuth (taste), and FFnOO (sour).
My progress in all my subjects astounded the mistresses. In my first month I did little right. In my second I did little wrong. And gradually, it all became natural: light steps, small stitches, quiet voice, ramrod-straight back, deep curtsies without creaking knees, no yawns, soup tilted away from me, and no slurping.
But in bed, before I fell asleep, I’d imagine what I would do if I were free of Lucinda’s curse. At dinner I’d paint lines of gravy on my face and hurl meat pasties at Manners Mistress. I’d pile Headmistress’s best china on my head and walk with a wobble and a swagger till every piece was smashed. Then I’d collect the smashed pottery and the smashed meat pasties and grind them into all my perfect stitchery.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Except for Areida, I had little pleasure from the society at finishing school. Only Hattie’s set pretended to be friendly, and they treated me with the same oily condescension Hattie visited on me in public. They were an odious group, Hattie and the two she called her special friends, Blossom and Delicia. Blossom was the niece and sole heir to an unmarried earl. Her conversation was mostly worries that the earl would marry and have a child who would replace her as his heir. Delicia, the daughter of a duke, spoke rarely. When she did, it was to complain. The room was too drafty; the meal was ill prepared; a housemaid had acted above her station; one of the other pupils wore rouge.
The mistresses came to dislike me too. At first, while I struggled to satisfy them and began to succeed, they made a pet of me, which I hated. But when “finished” behavior became my second nature, they learned I was nobody’s pet. I spoke as infrequently as I could and met their eyes only when I had to. And I returned to my old game.
“Sing more softly, Ella. They can hear you in Ayortha.”
I became inaudible.
“Not so soft. The rest of us would like to hear your sweet tones.”
I sang too loud again, although not so much as before. Music Mistress had to spend a quarter hour inching me along to the desired volume.
“Lift your feet, young ladies. This is a spirited gavotte.”
My leg shot up above my waist.
And so on. It was a tiresome game, but I had to play it or feel a complete puppet.
Hattie didn’t tell anyone about my obedience. When she had an order for me, she’d tell me to meet her in the garden after supper when no one else was near. On the first such occasion, she instructed me to pick a bouquet for her.
Luckily, she didn’t know I was goddaughter to a fairy cook. I picked the most fragrant blooms, then ran to the herb garden hoping to find something useful. Effelwort was my preference. If I found it, Hattie would have an itchy rash on her face for a week.
Most of the herbs were the ordinary sort, but as I turned to leave, I spotted a sprig of bogweed. Taking care not to breathe its scent, I plucked it and placed it next to a rose.
Hattie was delighted with the flowers and buried her face in them. “They’re sublime. But what…?” As the scent of the bogweed worked on her, her smile faded, and her expression became vacant.
“What would make you stop giving me orders?”
She answered in a flat voice, “If you stopped obeying them.”
Of course. I had wasted a question and I had no idea how long the bogweed scent would last. But as long as it lasted, I could ask her anything and she would answer honestly.
“What else would stop you?” I asked quickly.
“Nothing.” She thought. “My death.”
No likely release from that quarter. “What orders do you plan to give me?”
“I don’t plan.”
“Why do you hate me?”
“You never admired me.”
“Do you admire me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’re pretty. And brave.”
She envied me. I was amazed. “What do you fear?” I asked.
“Ogres. Bandits. Drowning. Becoming ill. Climbing mountains. Mice. Dogs. Cats. Birds. Horses. Spiders. Worms. Tunnels. Poi—”
I stopped her. She was afraid of everything. “What do you want most in the world?”
“To be queen.”
A rabbit queen. Only I would obey her.
Her face was changing, resuming its usual expression of gleeful malice. I tried one more question. “What are your se
crets?”
She didn’t answer, just tugged cruelly on a handful of my hair. Her eyes lost their dull cast.
“Why am I standing here?” She looked down at her flowers but didn’t sniff them again. “Oh, yes. What a good lady-in-waiting to bring me such a beautiful bouquet.” She frowned. “But one scent is not sweet. Take it out.”
I removed the bogweed and ground it under my foot. If I had thought of it, I could have asked her how she could be defeated.
Hattie’s orders were chiefly chores. I think she lacked the imagination to devise more interesting commands. I brushed her clothes, cleaned her boots, rubbed her neck where it ached. Several times I had to sneak into the pantry and steal cookies. On one occasion I had to clip her toenails.
“Do you rub brine into your feet?” I asked, trying not to choke.
I took revenge whenever I could. Spiders and mice from Madame Edith’s cellar found their way into Hattie’s bed. I’d stay awake at night and wait for the satisfying shriek.
And so it went. Hattie issued commands and I retaliated. But there was no balance. Hattie was always ahead. She had the power. She held the whip.
Areida was my only comfort. We ate our meals side by side. We sewed together. In our dancing lessons, we were partners. I told her about Frell and Mandy and Char. She told me about her parents, who kept an inn. They weren’t wealthy, another reason she was unpopular. When she left school, she would use her accomplishments to help them.
She was kinder than anyone I’d ever known. When Julia, the tall wench, ate too many grapes from Madame Edith’s arbor and was sick all night, Areida nursed her, although Julia’s friends slept soundly. I helped, but only for Areida’s sake. My nature was not so forgiving.
In the garden one evening, I found myself telling Areida about Mother.
“Before she died, we used to climb trees like this one.” I rested a hand on the trunk of a low-branching oak. “We’d go way up and sit as quiet as could be. Then we’d toss twigs or acorns at anyone who passed beneath.”
“What happened to her?” she asked. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”
I didn’t mind. When I finished telling her, she sang an Ayorthaian mourning song.
“Hard farewell,
With no greeting to come.
Sad farewell,
When love is torn away.
Long farewell,
Till Death dies.
“But the lost one is with you.
Her tenderness strengthens you,
Her gaiety uplifts you,
Her honor purifies you.
More than memory,
The lost one is found.”
Areida’s voice was as smooth as syrup and as rich as gnomes’ gold. I cried, steady tears, like rain. And, like rain, they brought ease.
“You have a beautiful voice,” I said when I could speak.
“We Ayorthaians are all singers, but Singing Mistress says my voice is too husky.”
“Hers is thin as a string. And yours is perfect.”
A bell rang in the house, calling us in to prepare for bed.
“Is my nose red from crying?” I asked.
“A little.”
“I don’t want Ha—the others to see. I’ll stay out awhile longer.”
“Manners Mistress will be angry.”
I shrugged. “She’ll only tell me I’ve disgraced the king.”
“I’ll stay with you. I can watch your nose and tell you when it’s not red anymore.”
“Pay attention. Don’t let your eyes wander.” I wrinkled the feature.
Areida giggled. “I won’t.”
“Manners Mistress will ask what we’re doing out here.” I was laughing too.
“I’ll tell her I’m watching your nose.”
“And I’ll tell her I’m wrinkling it.”
“She’ll want to know what the king would think of our behavior.”
“I’ll tell her the queen watches every night while he wrinkles his nose seven times.”
The bell rang again.
“Your nose isn’t red now,” Areida said.
We ran for the house and met Manners Mistress at the door, on her way to search for us. The sight of her set us off again.
“Young ladies! Go to your room. What would the king say?”
In the hall, still giggling, we met Hattie.
“Having a nice time?”
“We were,” I answered.
“I won’t keep you then, but tomorrow, Ella, you must spend some time in the garden with me.”
“You shouldn’t associate with the lower orders, like that wench from Ayortha,” she said the next evening.
“Areida is a higher order than you are, and I choose my own friends.”
“My dear, my dear. I hate to cause you grief, but you must end your friendship with her.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hattie returned to the house, but I stayed outside. I watched her leave, hating her way of walking—a mince combined with a waddle. She stopped to pick a flower and lift it to her nose, posturing for me.
I sat on a bench and stared down at the pebbled walk. In all the times I’d imagined the miseries she could inflict on me, I’d never imagined this. I’d thought of injuries, and I’d imagined terrible embarrassment, but I’d never thought of this kind of hurt.
Areida was in our room now, waiting to give me a lesson in Ayorthaian. I remained seated. I couldn’t face her.
Was there a way to stop being her friend without hurting her? I could pretend I had suddenly become mute so I wouldn’t be able to talk to her. But in that circumstance she’d be my friend as much as ever. She’d talk to me, and we’d invent a sign language, which would be great fun. And that wouldn’t be ending our friendship, so the curse wouldn’t let me do it. Besides, a mistress would be sure to say, “Speak, Ella,” and I would have to.
I could announce I’d taken a vow of loneliness. But Areida would be hurt that I’d taken such a vow.
If only Mother hadn’t forbidden me to tell about the curse. But then again, explaining would be an act of friendship, which the curse also wouldn’t allow.
The bell rang calling us to bed. I was late again, but tonight there was no Areida to joke with about our tardiness.
In our room, she sat on my bed, completing a letter for Writing Mistress.
“Where were you? I’ve been reviewing the imperative.”
“I’m tired,” I said, not answering the question.
Perhaps I did look tired, or troubled, because she didn’t press me. She only patted my arm and said, “We can study imperatives tomorrow.”
In bed, I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to savor the last few hours before I had to hurt her.
Sleep on, Areida. Be my friend for one more night.
A long vigil lay ahead. I pulled out my magic book. It opened to a letter from Dame Olga to her daughters.
My sweet darlings,
Your poor mother is desolate without you.
I attended a cotillion last night at the palace. I wore my wine-colored taffeta gown and my ruby pendant. But it was for naught. The company was thin because King Jerrold is away, although Prince Charmont was there. That charming man, Sir Peter, wasn’t there either. I was desolate. I understand he is off traveling and becoming richer, I imagine. I wish him well and will be first to pay my respects on his return.
Three pages followed describing Dame Olga’s social calendar and her wardrobe. In closing, she remembered she had daughters and was writing to them.
I hope both of you are eating well to keep up your strength. Olive, pray remember not to eat Madame Edith’s flowers. If you were to sicken or die, I should be desolate. Hattie, I hope you have found a trustworthy servant to dress your hair. Madame E. promised it could be arranged.
I expect the two of you are amazingly finished by now. But do not toil too hard, my dears. If you can sing and dance charmingly, eat daintily, and sew a little, you will be fine ladies and I shall be proud of you.
Your adoring mother,
Dame Olga
Why was a trustworthy servant necessary to dress Hattie’s hair? I compared the luxuriant tresses of Hattie and her mother with Olive’s thin curls, and I remembered Hattie’s attack on my hair after she smelled the bogweed. I laughed out loud. Hattie and Dame Olga wore wigs!
Thank you, Dame Olga. I hadn’t expected to laugh tonight. I turned the page.
On the verso was an illustration of a centaur colt—Apple, I was sure—nuzzling a young man—Char. The colt was a beauty. His hide was deep brown with a tan mane and an irregular tan star on his chest. Skinny and leggy, he was made for speed, although he was too young to bear a rider. Would he ever really be mine?
On the right was a letter from Char to his father.
Dear Father,
I hope this finds you safe and well. My mother and my sister and brothers are in good health, as am I.
Since I received instructions to join you, I have been filled with gratitude for your confidence in me. The knights you have chosen to follow me are stout fellows and bear the command of a stripling with good humor. My mother worries, but I tell her they will not let harm befall me.
In truth, Father, I am so stirred up by the thought of my first military duty—even if it is only reviewing border troops—that I hardly hear my good mother. Who knows? Perhaps the ogres will raid and there will be a skirmish. I do not fear injury, only that I may not acquit myself well.
Skirmishes with ogres! How could there not be danger?
Char continued to describe the visit of a trade delegation and the same ball that Dame Olga had attended, although he didn’t mention what he had worn.
Near the bottom of the page, my name appeared.
I am training a centaur colt for a lass I know. Her mother was the late Lady Eleanor. I admire the daughter, Ella, but she has gone to finishing school, where I fear she will be made less admirable. What do they teach in such places? Sewing and curtsying? It is a great distance to go to learn such paltry tricks.
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