by Sharon Shinn
Marguerite shook her head and turned toward the bedroom, motioning to me. I followed her, and the echoes trailed behind us. “The housemaids would have brought me tea and cleaned up my mess, but I can’t think of anyone who would have sat by my bed and wiped my face.” She paused by one of the tables holding a vase of flowers, pulled out the wilted bunch inside it, and shook water off the stems. Laying them on the table, she selected new flowers from one of the echoes and began arranging them in the vase.
“Your mother, maybe—?” I suggested.
That just made her laugh. “No.”
“But then what happens when you’re ill?”
She examined her new arrangement critically, swapped a red rose for a pink one, and moved on to the next vase. “A nurse is hired to stay with me.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, since How very sad didn’t seem like an appropriate response. I finally managed, “Well, I’ve sat up with my sisters and brothers dozens of times when they had every kind of cough and fever and horrible, disgusting symptom you can imagine. It never bothered me. I certainly wouldn’t ever want you to get sick, but if you do, I’ll be right there.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “That’s why I told Constance I picked you.”
In a few more minutes, she’d replaced all the flowers in the suite. Without being told, I gathered up the discarded ones and placed them in a pile by the door. I could take them downstairs on my way to dinner and toss them into one of the scrap barrels in the kitchen that—I had learned during my earlier tour—were filled and disposed of every day.
Marguerite was yawning. “I think I’ll rest for an hour,” she said. “Then you must help me dress for dinner tonight. It is just family and a few local businessmen, so I don’t need anything fancy.”
“Do you pick your own clothes or am I supposed to advise you?”
“Winifred never let me pick and Daniella never expressed an opinion so— I don’t suppose I care.” She tilted her head to one side. “You could choose three possibilities,” she suggested. “Then we will see how well your tastes align with mine.”
“What if you hate all the ones I pick?” I asked nervously. I didn’t want to fail during my very first day on the job.
“Then I will select something else! But we must learn how well we work together, and tonight is as good a time to start as any.”
I nodded and watched her slip away into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. The echoes filed into their own room—also to sleep, I supposed, though I couldn’t be sure, since they closed their door as well. I was left with the run of the other three rooms and a puzzle to solve.
A quiet family dinner with no one to impress but my new employer. What kind of outfit did that call for? I had already browsed through some of the contents of Marguerite’s closet, but now I sorted through the dozens of dresses with a greater sense of purpose. It was clear they’d been arranged to some extent by category—ball gowns in one section, warm morning dresses in a second section, lightweight summer evening wear hanging on another rod. I thought there were probably certain rules that I didn’t know—for instance, were particular colors and fabrics appropriate for some hours and seasons, and not for others?—but I would learn those as time went along. For now, I weighed what I knew of Marguerite’s preferences and chose three gowns and three different sets of accessories.
Sunset was falling and I was lighting lamps in the sitting room when Marguerite and the echoes emerged simultaneously from their chambers. I glanced at the three echoes before turning my attention to Marguerite. How had they known she was awake? I hadn’t even heard her stirring as she moved through her suite.
“Did you have a nice nap?” I asked her.
“Indeed. I feel quite refreshed and ready to take on my family over dinner.”
“That makes it sound like it will be a battle.”
“Sometimes,” she said. “My brothers vie with each other for my father’s attention, so the conversation can be quite—clamorous. They are generally better behaved when there are others present at the table and they know they must show some decorum.”
“My little brothers were always very loud,” I agreed. “I had to shout if I wanted to be heard.”
“I rarely bother shouting,” she said.
“Do you and your mother sit together and talk while the men are all showing off for each other?”
Her smile was ironic and brief. “No.”
It was early days yet, but I was not forming a very favorable opinion of Marguerite’s family—or the place that Marguerite held in it.
“Then I hope there is someone at the table tonight you will enjoy talking to,” was all I said.
“I hope so, too. Let’s see what you’ve picked for me to wear.”
Somewhat nervously, I indicated the three dresses I had laid over the back of a sofa. They were all simple, with relatively high necklines so she didn’t have to be watchful about bending over and with loose sleeves so she was comfortable in the summer heat.
“I thought the pale purple one was such a lovely color. It’s very plain, but you could wear that lace shawl over your shoulders to dress it up. The dark blue might be too heavy for summer wear, but it’s the kind of color that brightens up your face if you’re feeling tired after a long day. And the pink dress—if you liked that one, I could braid a few of those tiny roses into your hair just for something light and pretty. You wouldn’t do braids or flowers for a formal dinner, but if it’s just a casual meal—” I shrugged. “It might be fun. You seem to like flowers so much.”
Marguerite was smiling, rubbing the fabric of the lavender dress between her fingertips. “You have chosen my three favorite outfits from my whole closet,” she said. “I would hardly have been able to pick from among them, except that you mentioned the roses! Now I must have roses braided into my hair! Can you really do that?”
I nodded, relieved and pleased. “I did it all the time for my little sisters. I had to teach my mother how to do it before they would let me leave for the city.”
“Then let’s get started.”
We moved into the large dressing room, Marguerite sitting in a plush chair before the vanity, the echoes clustered behind me, watching intently as I began to fix Marguerite’s hair. It was a very simple style, two long locks pulled back from the sides of her face and woven together down the back of her head, with a scattering of small blossoms tucked between the plaits.
“Will the echoes be able to braid each other’s hair?” I asked Marguerite. “Or shall I do it for them?”
“They learn quickly, as a rule,” she said. “Let’s see what they’re able to manage.”
Indeed, they had already moved a few steps away and started the job of replicating Marguerite’s look. One echo stood quietly while another worked on her hair and the third one waited nearby, handing over sprigs of roses. I could tell that the plaits were not as tight as the ones I’d put into Marguerite’s hair, but otherwise the echo had done a competent job of copying me.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “It took my mother a couple of hours to get it right.”
“Patience is usually the first one to pick up any new skill,” Marguerite answered.
I had turned to reach for her dress, but at that I turned back. “‘Patience’?” I repeated. “They have names?” Then, even more surprised, “You can tell them apart?”
Marguerite looked slightly flustered, as if she hadn’t intended to let slip that piece of information. “Most people say that echoes have no distinctive traits—no personalities at all—but I’ve always been able to see very slight differences among them,” she said. “Patience is the one who’s most focused, the one who stays calm even if I’m upset. Prudence is the one who holds back. If I’m getting in a boat, for instance, she’s always the last one on board.” She smiled. “And Purpose is always the first one on board. The one who always seems most in tune with my moods.”
I glanced doubtfully between Marguerite and her shadow
s, who were now engaged in making sure the second one had her hair correctly braided. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to make those distinctions.”
“No, well, most people can’t,” she answered. “I asked my mother once what she’d named her echoes and she called the nurse because she thought I was feverish. I was pretty young at the time,” she added. “I would never ask anyone that kind of question today.”
“Maybe your brothers would tell you,” I suggested. Having watched her father and his lookalikes striding across the atrium this afternoon, I didn’t even have to wonder if she would ask him about differences among his attendants. It had been clear even from that brief glimpse that there was no variation among them at all.
“I don’t really have conversations with my brothers,” she said.
“No. Well, brothers can be difficult,” I replied. From what I could tell, Marguerite didn’t have conversations with anybody in this household. Which seemed like a lonely way to live, but naturally I couldn’t say so. I made a little motion that indicated she should stand up. “Let’s get your dress on.”
By the time I had slipped the pink silk over her head and laced it up the back, the echoes had finished with their coiffures and filed out of the room, presumably to gather their own clothes.
“I thought the echoes dressed just like you, but their closets aren’t nearly as big.”
Marguerite shook her head. “No. All of their clothes are identical, but they have a much more limited range. I have seven blue dresses—they each have two. I have three white dresses, they each have one. The styles are similar enough to suggest that we are dressed alike. Although for certain very important functions, we do dress the same and their clothes are identical to mine in every detail except for being a shade or two lighter.”
“What sorts of very important functions?”
She smiled, but I thought the expression was sad. “When I marry, for instance, they will wear dresses that are exact replicas of mine.”
Privately I thought that would be the last time I would want to run the risk of anyone mistaking me for someone else. The last time I would want someone to dress like me, too. But I spoke in a cheerful voice. “Well! That will be something to see on that day, won’t it?”
“Yes,” Marguerite answered without much enthusiasm. “It will be something, indeed.”
CHAPTER FOUR
By the end of my first three weeks as a lady’s maid, I felt I had found the position I had always been destined to hold. Marguerite had received enough compliments on her new braids-and-blossoms hairstyle that she started to adopt flowers as her signature look. I began to accompany her on visits to the flower markets where we debated which blooms would look best with her gowns, which would stay freshest the longest and not wilt before the end of a long dinner. She could not wear such a simple hairstyle to fancy events, but it was surprising how many elegant coiffures could be enhanced by one or two carefully placed blossoms.
I was delighted that my offhand suggestion had inspired Marguerite’s favorite new fashion accessory, but that wasn’t all that made me so happy in my position. Truth be told, I simply loved the life. I loved the constant bustle of the mansion, which seemed to be the beating heart powering the entire city. I loved that there was always work to be done, and that I had to constantly think about the next event, the next outfit, the next impression that Marguerite would make. I had never been thrilled with the endless busyness of the posting house, but so much of the work there had been sheer drudgery: cooking, cleaning, laundering, gardening. Here, the work was sometimes hard and the demands were unceasing, but the urgency was exciting, and the need for creativity kept me constantly at a high level of alertness.
And Marguerite could not have been an easier mistress. She was never short-tempered, always appreciative, and unfailingly generous. I guessed this made her fairly uncommon among highborn women. It even made her unusual within her own household where, naturally, the residents were a constant topic of conversation among the servants.
Marguerite’s mother, Lady Dorothea, was the family member who was most disliked by the other servants. She was rumored to be cold to her husband, despite having presented him with so many children; and she never showed much interest in her offspring, either. Her interactions with servants only had two modes: ignoring them as if they were invisible, or berating them for making mistakes. Naturally, everyone attempted to be invisible around her. The household staff greatly preferred Lord Garvin, considering him a fair man who could be counted on to thank someone for extraordinary service. Marguerite’s many brothers roused neither hatred nor devotion in the servants’ hall. And as I had no dealings with them, I formed no opinions about them at all.
I did have the chance to observe Lady Dorothea for myself not long after I took my position as Marguerite’s maid. We had begun assembling Marguerite’s wardrobe for Prince Cormac’s upcoming visit, and Lady Dorothea accompanied us one day as we visited various modistes’ shops. “You know I must come along,” she said as she settled herself into carriage, “because otherwise who knows what kind of unsuitable dresses you might be bamboozled into ordering.”
The carriage was the biggest one I’d ever seen, large enough to hold Marguerite, Lady Dorothea, their echoes, and me. It was an oddly built vehicle, with two backward-facing benches, one behind the other, and one forward-facing bench. Lady Dorothea and her echoes had the prime seat, while Marguerite and two of her echoes sat across from her. I shared the final seat with the one I assumed was Prudence. At any rate, she had been the last one to climb into the carriage, and Marguerite had said Prudence was always the laggard of the lot.
From my vantage point, I had an excellent opportunity to study Lady Dorothea, whom I had never seen up close before. She looked a great deal like her daughter, with the same fair hair and heart-shaped face, though her eyes were a faded brown instead of Marguerite’s misty blue. And her expression was far different, bitter and dissatisfied; her mouth was twisted in a perpetual frown. She passed the first half of the trip in absolute silence—except to complain about the heat or criticize Marguerite’s posture.
What fascinated me about her was that every slight gesture she made, every brief change in her expression, was perfectly imitated by her echoes. When she glanced out the window, they did, too; when the carriage jounced over a rut in the road and she audibly sighed, both of them sighed in unison. What made this even more impressive was that she never even glanced at them. It was as if they were not even in the carriage with us.
Though apparently she was highly aware of echoes. Just not her own.
This became obvious as the carriage jolted to an abrupt halt and all of us were nearly pitched out of our seats. In fact, both Patience and Purpose, on the bench in front of me, grabbed wildly at the hanging straps to keep their balance, while Marguerite clutched at both of them, and managed not to fall on her face.
“And that’s another thing,” Dorothea said, as if she hadn’t sat utterly mute for the past mile. “You exercise no control over your echoes.”
“Of course I do,” Marguerite replied.
Dorothea sniffed. “You treat them as if they were playthings—even friends. Independent creatures. It’s unbecoming. People have remarked on it. I can’t imagine what Prince Cormac might have to say.”
At first, Marguerite didn’t reply, but by the rigidity in her shoulders, I could tell she was seriously annoyed. After a moment, she straightened on the bench—while beside me and in front of me, her echoes did the same. Then, with slow, delicate movements, Marguerite crossed one leg over the other, lifted her right hand to her cheek and pressed her left hand to her heart. The echoes matched her, gesture for gesture.
“Don’t be afraid I will embarrass you in front of the prince,” Marguerite said in a quiet voice. “I know exactly how to behave.”
“Oh, you know how,” Dorothea replied. “You just don’t bother to do it. I can only suppose you want to spite me.”
“I’m sorry
that I’m a disappointment to you,” Marguerite said, folding her hands in her lap. The echoes did the same.
“A mother’s life is nothing but disappointments,” Dorothea replied. “As you will find out for yourself someday when you marry.”
“You certainly make it sound like an attractive prospect.”
Dorothea loosed an unexpected crack of laughter. “Attractive enough if you marry the prince, as you very well might!” she exclaimed. “So don’t argue with me when we arrive at the dressmaker’s. I know exactly what colors and cuts look best on you. The prince’s visit is too important for us to leave anything to chance.”
The day was long and exhausting and I wasn’t even the one patiently enduring all the measuring and poking and prodding. Marguerite turned to me occasionally for advice, but Dorothea had little interest in the opinions of maids, so mostly I waited in the background, always ready with a smile or a nod if Marguerite looked in my direction. But my main responsibility was to stay out of the way.
Despite the tedium, I rather enjoyed the outing. I had never been to a really fashionable dressmaker’s shop before, and I practically gaped at the piles of exquisite fabric, as well as the spools of lace, the feathers and buckles and jewels on display. Beside every bolt of vibrant emerald green or luscious pink silk was a second pile of the same color, one or two shades lighter in hue. These modistes catered to the very highest echelons of society and knew they would be making dresses for echoes as well as highborn ladies; they stocked up accordingly.
I was also interested to see that, while each dressmaker carefully took Marguerite’s measurements, no one bothered to do the same for the echoes. At one shop, after Marguerite had called me into the dressing room and we were alone for a few minutes, I pointed this out.
“Their measurements are always the same as mine,” she answered.
“Really? If you gain five pounds, they do, too?”
“Yes.”
“Then you didn’t even need to bring them with you today, did you? They could just have waited for you at home.”
