Soot and Slipper

by Kate Stradling

  “Indeed.”

  “What proof have you that she is a maid and not your stepdaughter?”

  Triumph flashed in Marielle’s eyes as she lifted her gaze from the floor. “I send her wages to her parents every month. If you will but dispatch a messenger to them, they will verify that their daughter, Nanette, works for me. The whole of Hazelcross village knows it too. As for her being my stepdaughter…” A short, disbelieving laugh crossed her lips. She surveyed the crowd, soliciting their support. “Almost everyone in this room attended Eugenie’s funeral. The royal coroner signed her death notice. Her name is inscribed with her parents’ names upon their memorial.”

  Eugenie trembled beneath the weight of her stepmother’s words, that her deception could be so complete. “It’s not true,” she whispered. She looked to her stepsisters. “Florelle, Aurielle, please—”

  Both girls refused to meet her gaze, their spines stiff as they stared straight ahead.

  “Marielle, please don’t do this,” Eugenie said.

  Her stepmother spared her a piteous sidelong glance and only said, “Send a messenger to Nanette’s parents, Your Majesty. You will have the truth from them.”

  But before Queen Patrice could respond, a cheerful voice rang out at the top of the stairs. “No need to send someone. I’ve gone and brought them here.”

  14

  Combustion

  “Lord Theophilus Pierrick Sebastien Alexis Michel, Fifth Earl of Mereloye,” said the royal herald in sonorous tones, “with Joseph and Sarah of Netherford Village.”

  Theo disappeared and then returned to usher a humble couple—somewhere between fifty and sixty years old—down the stairs. In dress they were no more elaborate than Eugenie, their clothing worn and their faces lined with years of labor. She studied the pair, seeking even a glimpse of recognition in them. Some strange familiarity tugged at her, something in the spread of the husband’s nose and the curve of his wife’s neck.

  Her discomfort simmered. Why should she recognize people she had never seen before? Was her memory of Nanette playing tricks on her, the daughter’s inherited features manifested upon her parents’ faces?

  They gaped at the company of nobles, clinging to one another as they reached the last step.

  “I did what you told me to, Nic,” said Theo just behind them. “Don’t be angry at the outcome.”

  “I won’t,” said Pip, his attention on Marielle.

  Eugenie looked to her stepmother, who forced a pleasant smile even though the blood had drained completely from her face. As the couple approached the throne, she edged toward the crowd.

  They dropped into an awkward bow and curtsy before the queen.

  “You are the parents of the maid, Nanette, who works for Baroness Lavande?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am—Your Majesty, yes,” said the husband. “Our Nanette has worked for the baroness these past four years.”

  “And you receive her wages for her?”

  “Every month she sends what she can,” he said.

  “She’s a good girl, our Nanette,” said his wife, her voice faltering.

  “And when was the last time you saw her?”

  “She don’t come away from the manor house,” said the husband.

  “Do you see her here?” asked the queen.

  The pair looked around the room with wide, searching eyes. Their gaze slid right past Eugenie as they peered among the nobles.

  “Is our Nanette here?” asked the wife.

  The crowd murmured, glancing from Eugenie to Marielle, who now could not melt into their ranks.

  The baroness straightened, answering the challenge. “Her appearance has changed in the past four years, Your Majesty, as is common in girls her age.”

  The queen gestured the couple to look at Eugenie. “Is this your Nanette?”

  They recoiled. “No,” said the man.

  “Not our Nanette,” said his wife.

  “Your Majesty—” the baroness began, but Queen Patrice cut her off with a raised hand.

  “Are you sure?” she asked the pair.

  “Begging your pardon.” The husband wrung his hat in his hands. “She’s nothing like our Nanette.”

  “We couldn’t give our children such pretty looks,” said the wife. “We gave them pretty names instead. Our Nanette is a good girl, but she’s plain, and humble about it. Where is she, please?”

  The question hung upon the air. Dread took root in Eugenie’s soul, as the only logical conclusion surfaced. The queen spared a sidelong glance to her prince consort, who squeezed her hand in reassurance. “Baroness?”

  Marielle only shook her head, her face ashen.

  “I regret to inform you,” said the queen to the couple, “that in all likelihood, your Nanette has died and was buried three years ago in another person’s grave.”

  The whole court erupted. A wail of anguish burst from the mother’s lips. “No! Not our Nanette! Two daughters taken from us? It is too much to bear! Too much!”

  The queen, in concern, sat forward on her throne. “Two daughters?”

  “Begging your pardon, Majesty,” said the heartbroken husband as he cradled his sobbing wife. “Our oldest child disappeared when our Nanette was just a babe. We’ve never learned what happened to her yet, though it’s certain she fell afoul of some wandering rogues. Hush, Sarah,” he cooed to his wife. “We’ll add Nanette’s memorial to Marielle’s.”

  Shock thrummed through Eugenie, one of the few people close enough to hear this reassurance. “Marielle?” she said sharply. Her attention snapped to her stepmother, who stood frozen across from her. She looked at Eugenie with bloodless hatred in the thinning of her lips. Almost imperceptibly she shook her head.

  Could it be—?

  “Is that your Marielle?” Eugenie asked the grieving pair.

  “Of course I’m not,” her stepmother snapped. “There’s more than one Marielle in the country, you stupid girl.”

  The couple looked up, but no sign of recognition manifested on their faces. “That’s not our Marielle,” said the husband.

  Triumph flashed across the baroness’s face.

  “She’s much too pretty,” said the wife, and the triumph vanished into livid rage.

  “No!” Marielle shrieked, and she stamped her foot. “Don’t say it like that!”

  A peal of laughter echoed through the hall, reverberating through all who heard it. Otherworldly, it cut through the tumult of confusion. A hundred nobles looked to the ceiling, to a whirling ball of magic with a firefly heart. It plunged and landed beside the pedestal where the quartz shoes yet rested. Sparks burst from the impact, and a humanoid figure blossomed in their midst, with fiery red hair and merriment plain upon her face.

  Eugenie’s throat constricted.

  “You walked right into that one, little soot-ling,” said the fairy godmother with a giant grin. She spoke not to Eugenie, but to Marielle.

  The baroness replied through clenched teeth. “You cheated.”

  The dainty creature pranced forward in a silent jig. “Fairies can’t cheat. We make the rules.”

  Upon her throne, the queen chose her words with utmost care. “To what do we owe this most noble visit?”

  “I’m here to collect my own,” said the fairy with a dimpled smile. “Beauty for ashes—that was our bargain, was it not?” This question, directed toward Marielle, received no response. Unperturbed, the fairy returned her attention to the queen. “She’s fairy-cursed, this one, and of her own making. She wanted a pretty face, but everything comes with a price. Was it worth it, soot-ling?”

  Marielle quivered, her hands clenched.

  “What was the price?” asked the queen.

  “Beauty for ashes, as I said. Everything she gets with that pretty face turns to naught.” The fairy shifted a mocking look upon the baroness. “She snagged herself a baron, and it led to ugly babies and a ruined fortune.” She broke off in a merry laugh.

  Florelle and Aurielle, further down the line
from their mother, squeaked their faint protest.

  The fairy continued her taunting. “And her second husband doted so much on his first wife and child that he refused to muddy the inheritance with another heir. Too bad, soot-ling. You should have taken your price with good humor. But then you played a nasty trick: you stole a fortune not by your looks, but by your wits.”

  The crowd, captivated by this unfolding of events, shifted their attention to Marielle for her response.

  She trembled with rage. “You cheated. You interfered.” She flung a finger toward Eugenie. “You sent that little brat to the masquerade? That violates our bargain!”

  “Hmm, no.” The fairy bestowed a sickly sweet smile upon her. “She always thought you were beautiful. I had every right to incinerate that—just like I can’t let you escape recognition now by your looks. Ashes, ashes, it all turns to ashes,” she finished in a sing-song voice.

  Horror plunged across Marielle. “No,” she cried.

  “Yes,” said the fairy with a grin as broad as a jousting field. “I’m afraid our bargain has reached its end. It’s been a delight, little soot-ling—for me, at least.” She flicked her wrist, and magic flared around the baroness.

  Marielle shrieked and covered her face. Those near her retreated as the fairy-spell twisted upward. It left behind a quivering woman with streaks of gray shot through her mouse-brown hair. She peered through trembling fingers, her eyes slate-colored.

  “Marielle,” said Joseph of Netherford in wonder.

  “Don’t look at me!” she screamed, and she backed away when he took a stilted step toward her. The whole room hushed, waiting for her next move. She slowly withdrew her hands.

  Her face was not much altered. The eyes were smaller and closer together, with pale stubby lashes. The nose was broader at its base and more upturned, and the mouth thin-lipped and wide. Her chin was round instead of pointed, and her neck gangled in a familiar bow.

  But she wasn’t ugly. Merely somewhat plainer.

  “Marielle.” Sarah of Netherford moaned. “Our Marielle, what have you done?”

  “Mama,” said Florelle and Aurielle, stricken as they reached for her.

  Marielle flung them off. “Get away from me! Miserable, mewling creatures! Constant reminders of what I most despise, you ugly little toads!”

  Her daughters backed away, aghast, as she staggered toward the center of the room. “So what?” she said to her enraptured audience, spreading her arms wide. “So I bargained with a fairy when I was young. It’s not a crime. I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

  “Like you did with Nanette?” Eugenie asked.

  “Oh, precious Nanette,” Marielle spat. “I gave her a job, and all she could do was dote on you. ‘Isn’t she such a pretty girl?’ You were supposed to die of that illness, you little wretch, and she nursed you through the worst of it. Then she caught the influenza in the village and died in her own bed. And who can blame me for switching the pair of you?” Her words lowered into a growl. “Who can blame me now?” She launched herself at Eugenie.

  Shrieks erupted from the crowd. Eugenie, stunned, barely had time to raise defensive hands as they toppled to the floor. Marielle grappled at her throat, but the struggle ended almost as soon as it began. Bodies wrenched her back, pinning her by her elbows. A protective arm around Eugenie’s waist tucked her away from further danger.

  She looked up in wonder at Pip upon the floor beside her.

  When had he left his throne?

  Marielle thrashed against her restraints, to no avail. Her voice rose in a frenzied pitch. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

  “I think we’ve heard enough,” said the queen, and a hush descended upon that stentorian decree.

  Eugenie, self-conscious, extracted herself from Pip’s safekeeping and stood, hardly worse for wear. Cautiously she approached her stepmother, considering her. The court held its collective breath as it waited for her to speak.

  But Marielle broke the silence instead, hatred oozing from her. “I should’ve smothered you in your sleep and tossed your body in the pond before we left this morning.”

  A bolt of fear shot through Eugenie, at how close she had come to an unnatural end. “What stopped you?”

  Her stepmother lifted her chin, deigning not to answer.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” The redheaded fairy, almost forgotten in the fracas, glided between the pair with catlike satisfaction upon her face. “She was afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Eugenie said.

  “Afraid,” the creature repeated, and she tapped Marielle’s nose to emphasize the word. The woman grimaced. The fairy, meanwhile, twirled around Eugenie as if to music only she could hear. “A counterfeit can’t exist without a masterpiece. She thought if she killed you herself, the glamour on her would disappear.”

  Eugenie’s brows drew together, her confusion manifesting as she followed the fairy’s flighty movements. “What?”

  “It’s simple, my child. She is fairy-cursed and you are fairy-blessed. In the same hour that she made her bargain, you were born with everything she desired: beauty, title, fortune, charm—only yours is genuine and hers was fake. There has to be balance.” The fairy twirled again, a euphoric giggle on her lips. “When she found you, she knew what you were, but she was afraid—afraid that if she killed you, she would revert to her old ugly self again. So she delayed, hoping to marry her ugly girls into a fortune so their futures and her own would be secure. And once they were settled, she would dispose of you free and clear. It was a lovely plan, and you, so innocent and obedient, would have played right into it. Aren’t you lucky to have a godmother like me?”

  Her tinkling laugh carried to the high ceiling. Eugenie, stricken, looked to her stepmother for confirmation of this tale.

  Marielle’s face twisted in contempt. “How is there balance? How can one person have everything, and another have nothing at all?”

  Behind her, the younger Elles huddled together and the older couple clung to one another. Sorrow and horror played upon their faces, grief-stricken at the monstrous actions of someone they loved—and who loved them not in return.

  “You had far more than you realized,” Eugenie said, her own dearth of family never so keen as in this moment. “You cast it aside because you couldn’t see its worth.”

  Her stepmother hissed, lurching as though she would attack again, but her captors held her fast. Even so, Pip hooked Eugenie’s elbow and pulled her further back from the seething woman.

  “Take her away,” said the queen upon her dais. “We will judge what to do with her when we have reviewed the extent of her crimes.”

  Palace guards escorted Marielle from the room, along with her daughters. Her parents, after a tentative glance toward the throne, followed amid murmurs from the crowd.

  “Fernand.” The queen locked gazes with her son and pointedly tipped her head toward his vacant chair.

  He spared Eugenie an apologetic glance before he left her side again.

  “You are, I believe,” said the queen to Eugenie, “as yet underage.”

  A blush crawled up her neck. “Yes,” she said, toying nervously with her fingertips. Her twentieth birthday was still half a year away.

  Queen Patrice swept a commanding gaze across the gawking throng. “It is with great pleasure that the Crown of Jacondria reinstates the House of Pluterra among its noble families. The Marchioness of Pluterra, Eugenie Vivienne, shall remain under guardianship of the crown until she reaches her majority. Complaints against Baroness Lavande, if there be any, may be registered with the bailiff of the court. You are all dismissed.”

  Conversations buzzed louder than a beehive. The fairy, beside Eugenie once again, clapped her hands and declared, “That was the best mischief I’ve seen in decades!” She lighted a kiss upon Eugenie’s cheek. Then, in a swirl of sparks, she vanished to nothing but her firefly heart, which winked out of sight.

  The queen and her consort stood to vacate the room. Pip bounded from his seat, but
he slowed upon the dais steps. Tentatively, he offered Eugenie his hand as token that she should go with them.

  Uncertainty gleamed in his eyes.

  Why had he so blatantly withheld the truth?

  Yet she placed her hand in his, and arm in arm they followed his parents from the hall.

  15

  Enlightenment

  The double doors into the antechamber closed, and the queen halted.

  “Dominic, go with your father.”

  Pip opened his mouth, but her tone brooked no argument. Prince Renaud tipped his head, his expression gentle, and proceeded out a second door, never watching whether his son followed. Pip, after pressing Eugenie’s hand with a pleading glance, obeyed his mother’s decree. He looked back as he crossed into the long hall, and again when he caught up with his father.

  How strange and hauntingly familiar, to have someone conscious of her existence once more.

  Queen Patrice waited until the father and son were out of sight before she spoke. “He never told you who he was.”

  “No,” said Eugenie, fighting back instinctive hurt on that point. How, with everything that had passed between them, had he not trusted her?

  The queen sighed. “My poor boy. This must have been so confusing for you.” With softened expression, she reached for Eugenie and guided her through a different exit. “He’s ‘Prince Fernand’ in public and ‘Dominic’ in private. We made the distinction when he was quite small, and for his own peace of mind. Theo used to tease him that people only liked him because of his rank.”

  Theo—Lord Mereloye, as Eugenie now knew—would be a cousin to the prince on his father’s side. No wonder the pair had been so familiar with one another.

  “I suppose he still clings to that fear in some form,” said the queen as they traversed a long marble hall. Her shoes clicked against the floor, while Eugenie’s worn slippers made not a sound. “Or perhaps it’s because he met you at a masquerade while pretending to be less than he was.” She paused in front of a wide door and favored Eugenie with a kindly smile. “Serves him right to have his tricks turned back on him like that.”