by Maggie Hoyt
“I am simply doing my job, which I’ll remind you is to make her attractive at court.”
“No, it isn’t! Your job was to help her learn how to present herself.”
“Surely I don’t have to tell you that physical appearance matters in your presentation at court? Your daughter is slightly too thick to be considered attractive, and—”
“Enough! Just get out. Get out!”
“May I remind you who sent me?” Roompilda said in understated indignation.
“You may. Is the queen really going to force a tutor on my daughter? Doesn’t she have better things to do? We’re done. I never should have accepted your ‘help’ in the first place. You’ve done nothing but browbeat my daughter into someone she’s not! We are done with your meddling. Go.”
I thought I caught a smirk on Roompilda’s face as she marched out the door. I chalked it up to her supercilious self-importance.
Fan met me in the hallway after I’d slammed the door on Roompilda. Her eyes were puffy and a little red, like she’d been crying again this morning.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I should have known from the beginning. I never should have let her in the house.”
Fan shrugged, which I hoped meant she wasn’t blaming me.
“I’ll get you out of this. If you don’t want to keep this up, I’ll write the queen and tell her … I don’t know, but I’ll make something up.”
Fan thought for a second and shrugged again. “I can keep going. For Ella.”
“And you don’t need lessons. You’ve always known how to be popular. You used to work a party so well, I’d send Henry to follow you around and make sure you didn’t get into trouble. You’re probably rusty. God knows I am. All those fake smiles and gabbing about hairstyles—I haven’t done it in ages. We both just need to warm up.”
She looked at me with tear-filled eyes. “But I can’t do that anymore. It’s all gossip and making fun. No one actually liked me then, either. No one really likes anybody. It’s all talking behind someone’s back, and I don’t … I don’t really want to deserve that kind of luck.”
Oh, those stupid frogs! For a brief moment, I wanted to tell her there were no fairies, and she didn’t need to limit what she said. But that wouldn’t help her feel better, I thought. What would I tell her—that the frogs were an accident and that she can gossip and backstab as much as she liked? That wouldn’t be a relief. She’d still feel like a terrible person.
“But I figure, it doesn’t really matter if people like me,” she continued. “I just need the title so that I can visit Ella. I’ll muddle through.”
She turned to leave, then stopped and said, “Thanks for yelling at Roompilda, though.”
“Anytime, love. My pleasure.”
My copper and zincum arrived a few days later. After Fanchon had fallen asleep, I sneaked downstairs to the kitchen. I poured a bed of zincum filings in the crucible, wound some of the copper wire on top, and covered it with more zincum.
With my crucible prepared, I turned to the oven. I started the fire and let it burn for a few minutes to heat the bricks. Then I scraped out the coals, mopped the floor of the oven to create a little steam, and stuck the crucible inside before the bricks had a chance to cool down.
Then I waited. My mother had tried to teach me to bake when I was young; among the many reasons I had failed was that I couldn’t stand waiting. I’d try to peek at my creation every few seconds, which only released all the heat. I was only marginally better as an adult. After several very long minutes, I opened the oven door, turning my face as the heat hit me, and realized I didn’t have a way to remove the crucible from the staggeringly hot oven.
I searched the kitchen, which had been sensibly furnished by Gerta. Leaning against one wall was our peel, a rectangular board attached to a long handle. I grabbed the peel and used it like a broom to push the crucible out of the oven. I hadn’t prepared a bucket of water like I was supposed to, so I grabbed two potholders, took the lid off the crucible, then ran and dumped the contents in the basin of dirty dishwater.
Coughing and spluttering, I had to stagger back as the steam enveloped me so that I could take a breath. When the air was finally clear, I used a set of tongs to remove the copper wire from the dishwater. I’ll admit, my heart leapt when I saw a golden gleam. I sort of wanted to squeal. This could work, I thought. This could fool people. It wouldn’t fool Lord Piminder, but he wasn’t really my target.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Experiment successful. I couldn’t do the whole batch now—I needed a better system, obviously, or I was going to light myself on fire—but I knew it would work, and it might even look good. I cleaned up the kitchen, with the exception of the dishwater. I’d have to dump that down the drain in the floor, and knowing me, I’d do it so loudly it would wake up Fan. I took my gold straw back to my bedroom and went to sleep.
It wasn’t until the light of day that I noticed the patches: copper patches, specifically. The gleaming brass was mottled with reddish spots, where the zincum apparently hadn’t bonded to the wire. It was with considerable annoyance that I hoisted that basin of dirty water and tipped it over into the drain. That meant I’d have to try it with lye, which would stink to high heaven and require thick gloves and a set of pans and basins that could never, ever be used for food preparation.
I bought lye from the lady who makes soaps, and tins and gloves and a new basin in the market.
“Is that a new basin?” Fan said when I arrived home with my purchases.
“I thought the old one was looking a little shabby,” I said. “Did you walk home with all that?”
“Yes.” Which, coincidentally, might explain why I’d come home so cross.
“You should have hired a carriage!”
“This time of year? None available.”
“Mom, do you know what’s happening with Clarrie Babcock? At the ball the other night, I heard someone saying she was going to spin straw into gold, like in the stories.”
“Ah. Well, Clarrie and Terence Piminder want to get married, but Lord Piminder won’t agree to it. Lord Babcock, in trying to persuade Lord Piminder, said that Clarrie could spin straw into gold. Now Lord Piminder has said he will allow the marriage if Clarrie can prove it.”
“Is that why you didn’t like him very much?”
“I found him to be quite kind and gallant to me and borderline cruel to the Babcocks. So, yes.”
“It’s not fair that he’s planning on humiliating her. It’s not her fault her father lied. I’ve heard how the girls are talking. She’s going to be a laughingstock!”
“Unless her fairy godmother shows up.”
Fan scrunched up her nose. “That would be the last story I’d want to have happen to me.”
“Why?” Oh God, did this have a bad ending? Weren’t these all about young women who had fairies come in and solve their problems? The fairy turns the straw into gold, the end. Right?
“The girl is locked in the tower or cellar or whatever,” Fan explained. “And she can’t spin the straw into gold, so she’s crying and this little man shows up and says he’ll do it if she gives him things.”
“Wait, what?”
“I know, right? This little tiny man just appears in the cellar with her.”
“What, exactly, does she have to give him?” Oh Lord, this could go so, so wrong.
“The first two are jewelry, like her ring and her bracelet or something.”
“And then?”
“The last time she promises him her firstborn child. But then she gets it back because he gives her three chances to guess his name, and I think she figures it out by eavesdropping or something.”
I—well, I didn’t quite breathe a sigh of relief. But it certainly could have ended so much worse.
“Well, I certainly hope Clarrie doesn’t get a—is he a fairy? I hope no bargaining little men show up in her spinning room.”
“I know, right? Um, Mom, also while you were gone I got an invitation to go
to the derby with Herb … um … and I accepted.”
“Oh!”
“I thought I should give him another chance. Since I wasn’t that nice to him.”
“If you want to go, sweetheart, that’s fine with me.”
“I do. He was very nice to me at the ball. He was interesting to talk to—he knows so many important people! And I would like to go out.”
I didn’t think it was a good idea myself, but no one had asked my opinion, so I kept my mouth shut. It was the hardest balance for me to keep. I so wanted to protect her from making bad choices, but I couldn’t always tell her what to do. At least Herb hadn’t struck me as particularly dangerous. He was an ambitious name-dropper with an eye on acquisitions, but a rather transparent one.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun. The derby is exciting.”
She nodded and went quietly back to her room. I sighed. Even when she wanted to do something, she wouldn’t let herself get excited about it. She’d lost nearly every ounce of cheer or vibrancy since this whole thing started. We’d just worked back from a total loss of self-confidence, and as soon as the summer was over, we’d have to start all over again. And here I’d thought this would be harmless.
Later that night, I snuck back down to the kitchen. This time, I opened the window before I started, I pumped water into the old basin and set it next to the stove, and I kept the peel at the ready. I’d also filled a smaller tub with water so that I could dissolve the lye. I strapped on the gloves, and—oh, I probably should have worn some sort of spectacles to protect my eyes. Well, I’d have to be very careful not to splash.
Milburn had said to swirl the zincum in the lye solution and heat it gently, so I started the oven while the lye dissolved, then let it cool as I stirred the zincum filings into the lye. I let the mixture warm for a minute or two, then pushed it out of the oven with the peel and put my strands of copper wire in the tub. Then, unfortunately, I had to wait.
It was too dark for me to read. I had a lantern so I could see what I was doing, but that was hardly enough light to see a book. I didn’t dare go to sleep, as I’d just wake up in the morning with a tub of lye at my feet. I fidgeted for a few minutes, checking my wire every few seconds until it had changed from reddish-brown to silver.
Now it was time to let the fire roar. I lit another fire, scraped out the coals, and immediately inserted a flat pan with my silvery wires. I waited nervously until it was time to push the pan out of the oven with the peel. With a set of tongs, I plunged the wires into the basin. When the steam had settled, I examined a wire in the lantern light. It certainly looked gold to me. Fingers crossed, I thought. I cleaned up and went to bed.
As soon as the sun was up, I grabbed the gold wire from my nightstand. My pulse quickened as I searched the wires for imperfections, any red or silver giveaways that would ruin the spectacle before it got started. I found none. I had a lovely, gleaming gold sheen on a piece of wire that sure, didn’t look much like straw but would to a crowd of people longing for a fairy miracle. I wanted to shout for joy, but I contented myself with a whispered cheer.
I was remarkably cheerful all morning for a person who’d hardly slept the last two nights. If I just did a small batch of wire every night, I’d easily have it all finished. In fact, Lord Piminder had given Clarrie enough time that I could probably give myself a night off now and then.
Now I needed to work out where Clarrie would spin the gold. Fan had said that in the story, the girl was locked in a tower or cellar, which would work beautifully. If we simply spread the word that Clarrie was going to be shut in the Babcocks’ cellar, everyone could gather to wait for her to emerge.
Of course, then I’d have to get the straw into the cellar. I didn’t fancy my chances of sneaking in armloads of wire while Clarrie was asleep, and I certainly didn’t want to play the voice of her fairy godmother. I felt rather lucky my squeaky fairy voice had worked on Ella. One thing I was certain of: there would definitely be no little men bartering with Clarrie. I wasn’t exactly sure what message that story sent, but it wasn’t one I supported—I was sure of that. Besides, I’d have to resort to puppetry, and that had disaster written all over it.
By late morning, Fan had left for the derby. She’d seemed quite excited—she was quite pleased with her hat, and she gushed about what a beautiful warm day it was—but she stiffened when Herb Relish knocked on the door. However, as soon as he complimented how exquisite she looked in her outfit, she beamed.
After she left, I headed over to the Babcocks. They’d gone to the derby, so one of their servants showed me their cellar and let me be. As soon as I saw it, I realized the flaw in my plan. Like most cellars, it was simply a small room with only one entrance. Clarrie would have to be practically unconscious not to catch me sneaking downstairs with a sack of brass wire.
I wandered the Babcocks’ grounds, looking for inspiration. They did have a barn, I noted, and in addition to the front door, it also had a large back window. I walked around the back of the barn. That window was too high for me to climb through, but I could still lower the bundle of wire in if I had a winch …
“Evelyn,” I could hear Henry saying, “are you sure you’re not going a little bit overboard? It’s your decision, of course, but this is a lot of effort …”
Well, the Babcocks are in considerable trouble, I thought, but yes, a pulley system is probably too complicated.
The one good thing about a barn, I suddenly realized, was that as a barn, it was probably full of straw. I could hide the gold wire in the straw well before Clarrie entered. I’d need a way for her to discover it, and I’d need the timing to work out, but right now, that seemed like my best option.
On my way home, I also stopped by the booksellers. Perhaps, I thought, it was time to read a few of these fairy stories. They had a lovely selection, a shelf practically bursting with pink. Some books left your hand coated in glitter; others had brightly colored illustrations of cherubic princesses and little ribbon bookmarks in the colors of the rainbow. There were some, of course, that seemed to be for boys and were only about knights, dragons, and animals. And a select few were for adults—preserving the record, I suppose, of how these fairy stories went when they were first written down.
I chose one of these more grown-up volumes and flipped it open. Good God, the stepsisters in “The Little Cinder Girl” really did have their eyes plucked out! As did a prince, it turns out, who fell into thorny brambles. And one stepmother tries to eat her two grandchildren! These stories were much, much more interesting than I’d been led to believe. If the girls at finishing school had mentioned plots like these, I might have read them. But this was never how Fanchon or Ella or Maribelle had told the stories.
Which meant, I thought with a sinking feeling, that this book wasn’t exactly going to help my business. No one wants a fairy story where someone claps hot irons on your stepmother’s feet and makes her dance. Not in real life anyway. Instead, I chose a pink tome with illustrations and gold leaf lettering on the cover, delicately crafted from hopes and dreams. I could always come back for the gruesome versions, I told myself.
When I returned home, I spent a pleasant afternoon snipping wire and dividing the straws into batches. I’d just retrieved my calendar and was scheduling the batches when I heard a commotion at the front of the house.
“Miss Fanchon, are you all right?” I thought I heard Mina say. I didn’t detect a trace of affectation. Oh dear.
I hurried toward the door. Was one success too much to ask? Apparently, yes. I reached the sitting room to find Fan sobbing on the couch, while Ethan Kingsley sat next to her with a hand on her back. He looked—well, he looked intensely uncomfortable, but on the scale of men’s reactions to women crying, he fell close to the average.
“What happened?” I asked, sitting across from them on the edge of the center table.
“Some lunatic yelled at her,” Ethan said.
“What?”
“I didn’t hear what he said,” Ethan
answered as Fan continued to sob. “I just saw him yelling and went to see what was happening, but I got there too late to hear anything.”
“Fan, sweetheart. What happened?”
“He called me Dad’s devil spawn!” she said, each word punctuated with giant sniffs. “He said he should have expected Dad to have his own devil spawn running around and that I was just like him because I was trying to elbow my way into the upper class where I didn’t belong so that I could leech the life out of everyone in my path.”
“Whoa,” Ethan muttered.
I was so enraged I was at a loss for words. For at least the third time in as many days, heat seemed to fill my head, putting a stop to all rational thought. The Season, I thought, is not good for my health. I sputtered for a minute.
“I can’t—How—Mmmn—How old was he?”
Fan shrugged. “Probably your age, I think.”
“A grown man shouting filth like this at a young woman in broad daylight? And he just came up to you and started screaming?”
Fan shook her head. “Herb introduced me to him. I think Herb works with him?”
“And Herb didn’t say anything?”
“He—he ran after him. Maybe he told him he was being rude?”
Even Fan didn’t believe that. My experience with Herb the name-dropper told me he’d run off to apologize. The disdain on Ethan’s face told me he figured the same thing.
“I just don’t see why he would do that,” Fan said. “Why would he hate Dad so much that he would do that to me?”
Unfortunately, that was a question with some easy answers. The hard part would be narrowing them down. But I’d never seen any reason why Fan had to know all her father’s worst qualities. He was good to her, and I didn’t think she needed me to ruin that.
“Sweetheart, your father was very successful. That can make people love you or hate you …”
“Mom, his face was inches away from me. He looked like he wanted to hit me! He didn’t just hate Dad because he was rich. I want to actually know.”
