Soot and Slipper

by Kate Stradling

  “Her manner was,” Marielle replied, a thorn in her cultured voice. “Dancing with the same man so many times? At an unmasked ball, such behavior would be a scandal even if they were married. At a masquerade, it only passed because there were so many dominos in the crowd. She might have changed partners, though it’s almost certain she did not. And that she disappeared with him so early in the night does not speak volumes for her virtue.”

  Eugenie, the unwitting subject of this condemnation, wished to sink into the floor. “I’m sure it was all very innocent,” she said in a faint voice.

  Her stepmother’s attention snapped to her face, and the severity around her lips cracked into a smile. “Oh, you sweet child, so unversed in the ways of the world. Perhaps it was innocent, as you say, but I suspect not. Rakes and libertines abound at a masquerade, ready to prey upon unsuspecting females. Her costume really was lovely, though. I wish you could have seen it.”

  The compliment fell flat as the kiss on the staircase flashed into Eugenie’s mind. Her guilt magnified. Was Sir Pip a libertine? Was she only the first in a string of conquests he made last night?

  The lovely memory turned to ash. Had she not challenged him to kiss other girls? But she hadn’t believed he would, even shrouded in anonymity as they both were.

  “That’s not to say the costumes you made were any less beautiful,” said her stepmother, misreading her dismay. “I had so many compliments I couldn’t keep track of them. Florelle and Aurielle never went without a partner, all the way up to the unmasking. Everyone asked for the name of our seamstress, and we delighted in withholding our little secret.”

  “Even the prince himself complimented us, and he was dressed as the most outlandish popinjay you’ve ever seen,” said Aurielle smugly.

  “But a popinjay doesn’t pair well with the sun!” Florelle stamped her foot. “I want to match the prince!”

  “He certainly won’t dress as a popinjay again,” her mother said, but she was beyond reason.

  “I want a pink dress! I want to be a rose! Eugenie said she could make me a rose, and I don’t want Aurielle ruining it!”

  Her sister’s face screwed up into a sneer. “Your taste is in your mouth, Florie. You wouldn’t know a good costume if it strangled you. Why shouldn’t I be a rose? A lovely white one!”

  They lunged at one another’s throats, and Marielle separated them again with a reproving glance toward her stepdaughter. “Eugenie, I wish you would’ve consulted me before making promises.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Girls, if you can’t come to some agreement, neither of you will go as a rose. And Aurielle, you know that pure white makes your complexion turn swarthy. You’re much better suited for jewel colors.”

  “Ha!” Florelle crowed in triumph.

  “I want to go as rubies, then,” said Aurielle with a flash of menace. “A lovely, deep red ruby!”

  Her mother opened and shut her mouth, the blood draining from her face.

  “I could probably manage something like that,” said Eugenie, recalling her jet-and-onyx bodice from the night before. “If we could find enough colored glass, I mean.”

  Three pairs of eyes turned on her. Florelle looked as though her world had caved in, while Aurielle puffed up with hope. Marielle bit her lower lip.

  “And if we have a red dress to start from,” Eugenie said, already engulfed in a creative trance. She scribbled in her open sketchbook a bodice pieced with broken glass. It would have to be a structured garment, far more difficult than the ribbon-roses of Florelle’s requested design.

  “A rose and rubies,” said her stepmother, barely above a whisper. “And what would you dress me in?”

  Eugenie jolted from her sketch, her eyes huge upon the petite woman, whose expression was closed, unreadable. “What would you like to go as?” she asked, hesitant.

  “I don’t know. Surprise me.”

  A shiver ran down Eugenie’s spine. Marielle, usually the sweetest of women, sometimes exuded a bloodless aura that could quell even the most stalwart of hearts. She gathered her daughters to her, ushering them toward the hall.

  “What about a raven?” Eugenie asked.

  Her stepmother paused on the threshold, a question in her eyes. “Because it starts with the same letter as rose and ruby?”

  Eugenie kept her voice neutral, her pulse quickening in her throat. “Because it would complete the set: animal, vegetable, mineral. And because you look lovely in black—a rich blue-black, with feathers and beading.”

  They had plenty of black dresses to choose from, too, though she forbore from adding this detail.

  “It sounds interesting,” said Marielle. “We’ve seen for ourselves how lovely a black costume can be, and as the mother of two other guests, I can hardly wear a bright color. I look forward to seeing the finished product.” With nothing else, she led her daughters from the workroom, leaving Eugenie to her scraps and sketches.

  A raven, a rose, and a ruby. She wiped her brow with the back of her wrist and scribbled a list of necessities into her book. If last week’s work was difficult, this week’s might be near impossible.

  Time passed all too quickly. Eugenie spent her days from sunrise to late night dyeing and cutting and sewing. Marielle found some cast-off panes of red glass at the flea market in town. They smashed nicely, but their sharp edges would slice through any binding threads. Eugenie spent an afternoon in their derelict farmhouse, wearing down shards on the old grindstone there. She sewed the polished results onto a blood-red bodice that sparkled like a many-faceted jewel.

  Florelle’s requested rose required two dresses instead of one, so that the costume’s skirt could layer into drooping petals. Luckily, the girls had gone through a period where their mother had dressed them in the same colors. The pale pink had not suited Aurielle, but getting her to donate the second gown was still a fight. In the evenings Eugenie sewed ribbons into dozens of rosettes and attached them in clusters at the shoulders, the waist, and at gathers upon the skirt.

  The masks, pink and red satin, had embellishments of cut glass and more rosettes. She called the two costumes “Corunella” and “Rhodella.” Her stepmother’s raven, “Branella,” lagged behind in its construction.

  “As long as my girls have something to wear, it’s no matter if mine gets done,” Marielle said as the days progressed. But she also checked the status of her costume every afternoon when she stopped by to make sure her stepdaughter had eaten.

  Raven feathers they had none. Eugenie used chicken quills instead and steeped them in a vat of black dye. Her stepmother had worn mourning clothes for a full two years after Eugenie’s father passed away. Within her wardrobe was a lovely black-satin gown that needed little alteration to render it perfect for a masquerade. Black beading added some extra embellishment, and a plumed mask and headdress completed the ensemble.

  Eugenie barely finished in time. When the last feather was in place—on the very afternoon of the masquerade, no less—Marielle surveyed the black gown with a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

  “You really are a wonder,” she said, and Eugenie blushed. Marielle favored her with an apologetic smile. “I do wish you could come as well. If they gave us more time between these events, you might make yourself a costume.”

  Surprised by her stepmother’s seeming change of heart, she said, “I could always go as the sun, moon, or stars.”

  “Oh, no,” said Marielle, scandalized. “To wear a second-hand costume? Everyone would know who you were, and they would know we couldn’t afford to get you something of your own. How could I bear it if you had to suffer such indignity?”

  To which Eugenie only smiled and surmised that her stepmother didn’t want her there after all. But it was nice of her to pretend.

  Florelle and Aurielle shoved their way into the workroom, preventing any further conversation. They squabbled over whose dress was prettier and carried away the mounds of fabric to their own rooms, manhandling the exquisite constructions a
s they went. Marielle, more careful with her own disguise, paused in the doorway.

  “We’ll make it up to you, somehow,” she said, her voice wistful. “At least you’ll have a quiet evening all to yourself.”

  Eugenie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Disappointment lodged in her throat, against her wishes. She had attended last week’s party, after all. She had no cause for resentment or dismay.

  Still, there were three perfectly beautiful costumes she might choose from, should Marielle but allow it. Even second-hand, they would serve her better than staying home alone.

  She squashed the desire. It was imperative for Florelle and Aurielle to find husbands, and one less rival would increase their chances for success. Besides, she’d already disgraced herself once. Obviously she couldn’t be trusted at a masquerade.

  The three Elles piled into their hired carriage, chattering like hens. As usual, Eugenie watched until they passed beyond the fence posts to the main road.

  As usual, they never looked back.

  With a deflated sigh, she turned to the house.

  “Aren’t you going again tonight?” asked the ethereal fairy from the direction of the garden.

  Anticipation thrummed through her, but she tamped it down. Certainly she had wondered whether the creature would appear again, and she had dreamed all week of meeting Sir Pip despite her apparent disgrace. She had had her fun once already, though. Tempting fate a second time could bring dire consequences.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she said. When she started up the stairs to the door, a flash of light arrested her. The fiery-headed fairy blocked her path.

  “Don’t be silly. A party is always a good idea.”

  Eugenie, much inclined to agree, swallowed that instinct. “I went last week. I don’t want to draw more attention than I already have.”

  “Do you think you were born to waste away on this estate, where no one but your chickens can ever see you? Listen to your heart and let your godmother dress you up. You deserve a party after all the work you’ve done, if only for the dinner you might have there.”

  Eugenie cast a wistful glance in the direction of the kitchen, where a stale quarter-loaf of bread and some sour milk awaited her. She might go to the party, eat her fill of good food, and come home immediately afterward. There was no rule that said she had to stay until midnight, or that she even had to dance.

  “And what will you dress me up as tonight?” she asked, curious. “Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

  “None of those,” said the fairy with a beneficent smile. “You’ll go as the force that consumes them all. Embers, my little Eugenie—embers to stoke a bright and vibrant fire.”

  Suddenly, more than anything, Eugenie wanted to see what a costume of embers would look like. She fairly itched for it.

  “All right, then. I thank you kindly for your help.”

  “And I thank you kindly for your mischief.” The fairy punctuated these ominous words with a smug wink. Eugenie, already ensnared, cast aside her worries and let the transformation proceed.

  6

  Innocence in Flames

  Vermillion flared against black, sparkling like live coals carried into the night sky. The bottom of Eugenie’s costume was fiery red, but it bled upward into darkness. Those jeweled embers—red, orange, and white—scattered up the skirt and onto the bodice in stark contrast. Her hair, piled in curls atop her head, had a gemstone clip to hold it into place, and her mask was veined with glittering orange against velvety black. The whole costume shimmered, dazzling to the eye.

  She took a deep breath as she left the shadowed confines of her phantom carriage and hitched her skirts, the red of her evening gloves so dark that they were almost inky. Her slippers, cut from smoky quartz tonight, clacked against the marble staircase as she climbed, their fit no less comfortable than their obsidian predecessors.

  Her heart soared with the music on the air, though anxiety swelled in her windpipe.

  She would go straight into the crowds tonight. She would eat a good dinner among the other ladies of the court and dance with as many different partners as would ask her. If Pip was in the throng, she would not seek him out nor pay him any special notice should he find her.

  All this she had decided during the carriage ride. Her reputation—even as a masquerader—depended on her conduct. She would cause no disgrace to herself or anyone else tonight.

  Even so, she hesitated on the palace threshold. Only when the guards at the door slid inquiring glances toward her did she steel her nerves and pass inside.

  Straight to the dance floor. Straight to the dance floor. She approached the stairs to the grand hall. From the path that led up to the balcony, a tumult of footsteps clattered.

  Startled, Eugenie paused. Her heart spasmed in her chest as a domino in full face mask bolted downward as though to intercept her. He halted six feet away, his brown eyes huge upon her.

  Words would not come. Neither would her feet move.

  Had he been watching for her?

  Pip swept into a low bow. “I beg your deepest pardon, Milady.”

  No special notice. She’d promised herself.

  “Do I know you?” said Eugenie in arch hauteur, but the desire to favor him quickened her heartbeat.

  Her domino dared lift his gaze. The full mask hid his reaction to her impertinent question, but his voice rang out in respectful tones. “I am your humble servant.”

  She hummed, as if considering. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Please, Cinderella, if you will but forgive my impertinence when last we met—” His voice arrested in his throat. He straightened, examining her wondrous costume. “But you are not Cinderella tonight, I suppose.”

  She could not fully rebuff him. Her partiality surfaced in the upward curve of her mouth. “The name should still suffice. I’ve only gone from soot to embers.”

  Her eyes met his, and an electric shock thrummed up her spine. What need had she for a reputation? She had done nothing very bad.

  “I should not have taken the liberties I did,” said Pip. He fiddled with the fingertips of his gloves, watching for her response. “I did not consider anything beyond the pleasure of the moment. When I realized what damage I may have caused, to your feelings and your reputation both, I was in agony—have been in agony ever since. Can you forgive me?”

  The apology was both sweet and disappointing. To hear him speak with regrets about an occasion they had both delighted in only confirmed her fears. She was in disgrace.

  But a rake would never apologize for such behavior. At least she could rest her mind on that count.

  “You took no liberties I did not allow, Sir Pip,” she said, her voice a gentle cadence. “The fault was mine as much as yours.” Gracefully she hitched her skirt a degree and started toward the stairs, but his jerking movement arrested her once more.

  He was rigid, one hand half-raised. Concern emanated from him. “Am I forgiven?”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she said.

  “Then may I keep you company again tonight? I swear I will behave like a perfect gentleman.”

  She glanced to the dancing throng below, her heart torn between desire and decorum. Of course he was no libertine. Two seconds in his presence would convince anyone as much.

  Yet still, Marielle’s condemnation rang in her ears. She chose her words carefully. “I am told it is improper for a lady and a gentleman to keep company with only one another at such a gathering.”

  “I was reminded of that as well,” said Pip. The formality of his words broke into frankness. “It’s a terrible rule, Cinderella. I don’t want anyone else’s company if I might have yours.”

  Warmth blossomed in her ribcage and spread to her extremities. Pink with delight, she opened her mouth to reply, but she didn’t get the chance.

  “Good evening, Milady Flame,” said a crocodile coming up the stairs. He bowed low, though he kept his eyes fixed upon Eugenie behind his scaled mask.
“Might I request your hand for the next set?”

  Pip stepped forward in haste, as though to block the newcomer’s further approach. “She is my dance partner.” He looked to Eugenie for confirmation, a silent plea in his eyes.

  The masquerader on the stairs stiffened, his shoulders going taut and his eyes narrowing. Before he could challenge Pip’s claim, she lowered into a deep curtsy.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said to the crocodile. “The gentleman is correct. I am already engaged to dance with him, but I thank you for the honor of your request.”

  Relief flashed through Sir Pip’s eyes.

  “Another time, Milady.” The crocodile bowed and retreated.

  Pip caught her gloved hand in his. “You are the most gracious of souls.”

  “Or simply,” she said, squeezing his fingers, “I find I don’t want anyone else’s company if I might have yours.”

  She descended to the ballroom floor on his arm, and they joined the forming sets. The royals had not yet arrived, so the prince was not there to call the dance. Instead the orchestra played a stately minuet, and the dancers followed their lead.

  To Eugenie’s eyes, Pip was the only person there. The others were mere phantoms that circled in and around her as the set progressed.

  The illusion broke when the music stopped. Half a dozen costumed men flocked to her to beg the next dance. She gaped, flustered, but Pip looped a protective arm around her waist.

  “She is my dance partner,” he said, almost belligerent in his claim. Teeth set on edge and shoulders stiffened, but their protests drowned in a blast of trumpets. The double doors at the head of the room opened, and a herald announced the arrival of the queen and prince consort—dressed as a cat and mouse, respectively—followed by their son in the garb of a vibrant goldfish, complete with a fish-faced mask that covered his eyes and nose. He waved webbed gloves above his head as he pranced into the room, his sleeves voluminous orange fins.

  How disappointed Florelle would be. Roses and goldfish didn’t mix any better than the sun and a parrot.