Moonlight and Ashes (3 page)

I couldn't let him finish. My throat dry, I managed to say, firmly, ‘Thank you, and goodnight, Father.'

He just nodded, looking miserable and shamefaced and afraid. Part of me, the childish side, wished he would do something – anything – that would break this wall of ice between us. The greater part of me – proud and strong – was glad to turn away and leave him without another word or look, to leave him with that fearful question in his heart as to how I could possibly have known. I knew he would tell nobody. I had seen it in his eyes. And I had seen something else: that from now on he would avoid me even more than before.

I was just leaving when I was stopped by Grizelda popping out of her room like a sinister jack-in-the-box. Although my stepmother is a hard, strong woman without the slightest trace of compassion or tenderness for anyone beyond her daughters, she has an ethereal and fragile beauty, with her cloud of silver-blonde hair, her alabaster skin and her dark blue eyes. But there is nothing in the least that is fragile about my stepmother in reality. Of course, when my father first married her, she was all sweetness and light – even to me – but it took very little time for her to change or, rather, to reveal her real self. And by then it was too late. He was in thrall to her, body and soul, and I – well, I was just the price that had to be paid.

‘What did Sir Claus want with you?' she barked. She'd never refer to him as ‘your father' to me.

‘None of your business,' I flashed. Though I have submitted to her rule in so many ways, and I know from long experience what a show of defiance costs, I cannot
stop myself sometimes. She had thought to have me broken by now and the fact I'm not is something she can neither abide nor understand. If I had been more cowed, who knows, she might have shown me, if not kindness, at least a condescending tolerance. As it was, I was a challenge to her – a constant reminder that no matter how much she had done to me, no matter what she'd won, the victory still wasn't complete, and that she could not forgive.

She advanced on me, her eyes sparking with anger, her black velvet dressing gown swirling around her like a storm cloud. ‘How dare you!'

I looked at her and said nothing. ‘You will answer me,' she hissed.
Or else
hung in the air. I knew what she could do to me but even then I might have continued to stonewall her if I hadn't had the twig in my pocket. She mustn't know about it. I knew my father wouldn't willingly tell her but I could not risk her questioning him. So I bit my tongue and swallowed my pride, excusing myself in the most humble tones. I told her my father had brought back a gift for my birthday and showed her Maria's locket.

She looked at it. I could see she was annoyed that my father had bought me a gift at all but was mostly glad that it was a cheap little thing. She must have thought it showed just what value he placed on me compared to her daughters. After all, for their birthdays, hadn't he given Odette an emerald bracelet, and Babette a ruby one? With a smirk, she said, ‘Not good enough for you, is that it? You ought to be grateful he remembered your birthday at all.'

She thought I'd been rude because I was angry over receiving such a poor gift! It was an unexpected blessing.
I played up to it and whined, ‘Of course. I'm sorry, Lady Grizelda. Please forgive me. I don't know what came over me. And, please, don't tell my father.'

‘You hardly deserve forgiveness, you wicked, ungrateful girl,' said my stepmother, sharply. She thought I was suffering, and she liked that. ‘But I don't want to worry Sir Claus with such trivial matters. So get on with you back to your room and if ever you talk to me like that again, I'll –'

But I did not wait to hear the rest. With a browbeaten duck of the head, I scuttled off downstairs, leaving her to look after me with a self-satisfied smile. She'd probably tell her daughters about my father's supposed gift, which would mean that I'd have to put up with their sneers and slights. It was a small price to pay and my heart was light as I returned to my room. The twig was safe and, with it, the story of how I'd come to get it. I also didn't have to hide the locket any more either.

But what was I supposed to do now? Safely back in my room, I looked at the twig. It looked so ordinary – just a hazel twig with a closed bud or two. But there must be something special about it . . . why else would Mama have told me to ask for it? Feeling a little silly, I held it tight, closed my eyes and made a wish. Nothing happened. The twig remained unchanged.

I had a look through Mama's old books which I keep in my rickety old cupboard, hoping I might find a clue. I found one book about the lore of the woods, with a small section on an old legend which said that ‘at the right time and place, at new moon, the hazel may become touched with wild magic'. But there was not a word about how it worked. Of course, if it had had anything to do with moon-sister magic,
it would have been forbidden knowledge and Mama would hardly have kept a book that might betray her own secret. In the end I gave up, put the twig under my pillow and went to bed, hoping that my mother would tell me what I was meant to do with it in another dream.

But though the same green-lit forest was in my dreams again that night, Mama was not. All I could see were the trees and the grass; all I could hear were the rustling leaves and the sighing wind. No guiding vision, no understanding to take back to the waking world. So when I woke early the next morning, everything was as it had been with the twig still under my pillow, unchanged.

No, wait . . . not quite unchanged. The buds had begun to unfurl; a frilly hem of green now showed at the edge of the buds. But the stem looked like it was withering, drying out, and suddenly I was filled with panic. Whatever else it might be, the hazel twig was a link to my mother. I couldn't let it die!

I had to do something quickly. The kitchen was dark and quiet, but the bustle of the day would soon begin. I went outside and drew some water into a small jug that wouldn't be missed. I put the twig in it and then hid it in the cupboard in my room. I'd think of how best to keep the twig alive more permanently later but for the moment it would have to do.

I was right about Grizelda telling my stepsisters about my locket. Later that day, I was summoned to bring up the mended clothes to Odette's room and when I arrived I
found both sisters there trying on new hats in front of the big mirror. When I came in they pretended not to see me at first, then Odette feigned a yelp of surprise.

‘Good heavens, Ashes! What do you mean by creeping in here like a thief?'

‘Your mending,' I said curtly, dumping it on the bed.

‘Ooh, Babette, do you hear how she speaks to us?'

‘We should box her ears,' said Babette distractedly, admiring herself in the mirror, the delicate lace and feather concoction she was trying on emphasising the pale beauty so like her mother's. Odette is darker and shorter by comparison and altogether less striking, though she's a long way from being ugly. If they'd been characters in one of those old tales Mama used to read to me when I was little, my stepmother and stepsisters' real selves would show on their faces, twisting them into gargoyles. But most people consider Babette and Odette to be perfect models of young womanhood: pretty, gracious, elegant, nicely spoken. And
charitable
, for with their mother they occasionally grace the ‘deserving poor' of the district with their perfumed presence, bearing baskets of leftover food and pious platitudes. News of these occasions is, of course, always discreetly released in plenty of time to the social correspondent of Ashberg's most fashionable magazine so that a touching photograph or drawing can be published for the edification of readers.

Oh, I am turning into a veritable cat – an alley cat, that is – all claws and teeth and bitter heart. But that is better than becoming a mouse, which is what they'd like. I ignored Babette's comment and turned to go when
Odette called me back. ‘Show us what
our
dearest father so kindly gave you,' she said silkily.

Her soft brown eyes were aglow with an unpleasant gleam. I knew what she intended by saying ‘our father'. She meant to suggest he was hers and Babette's, and not mine at all, while at the same time reminding me of the fact I was indeed his disregarded daughter. Babette may look most like her mother but it is Odette who most shares her scheming, spiteful heart. Most of Babette's thoughts revolve around herself, while Odette also thinks of others – only not in a nice way. And more than once she has caught me out with a clever shot, straight to the heart.

But this time it was I who had the advantage over her. I made a great show of reluctance over showing them the locket and pretended to be embarrassed as they commented on ‘how kind', ‘how generous' my father had been and ‘how well he'd chosen the gift, it's just perfect for
you
'. It took a good deal for me to keep a still tongue but I managed it, knowing they'd tire of their game soon enough if I didn't respond. As I was leaving, Odette took one final shot: ‘I suppose you might even wear it next week at the Prince's ball.' I stopped, stunned. ‘Oh dear, didn't our father tell you?' she added, her hand flying to her mouth in mock surprise.

‘Don't be silly, of course
she
can't go,' said Babette petulantly. ‘She's a nobody.'

‘That must be why our father didn't say anything,' said Odette in a hushed tone. ‘Me and my big mouth! I really
must
learn to control it.'

I looked at her and in that moment I resolved to do two things: first, I would no longer submit to this torture; and
second, one day I would be revenged on the lot of them. Tonight, promise or no promise, I would pack my things and go.

But that night, as I finally staggered back to my room, exhausted after another long day, my resolve had dimmed and reality set in once again. I had hardly any money, aside from a few coins I'd managed to hoard. I could swipe some food from the kitchen, but once it ran out I would starve unless I found work, and the only work I knew was that of a servant. If I tried to get a job in any other big house in Ashberg, I'd be found out and brought back in disgrace – for though my stepmother would no doubt love to get rid of me, she would be furious if my flight brought gossip onto the family. Indeed, no matter where I went to in Ashberg, I would be likely to be found out. Which meant I'd have to head into the countryside, where there was the occasional large house with a staff of servants. But I'm a city girl through and through – I've only been to the country once and only for a few hours, and that was when I was little and had gone to stay with a cousin of Father's in a large estate about an hour's carriage ride from Ashberg; I could hardly go there. As to Mama's home village, it was much further, more like two or three days away, deep in the forest lands. And though she talked about it sometimes, Mama had never gone back there. Even supposing I might get there, who knew what I'd find? I'd heard that the forest villages were practically empty these days. There would certainly be no work there as a servant, especially
considering there were no big houses there as far as I knew. And I had no relatives that I knew about who might look after me.

Coward, I told myself bitterly, as I changed into my nightgown. You are a mouse indeed. Suddenly I heard a rustling, scratching sound coming from inside the cupboard. Talk of the devil and he shows his tail, Mama used to say. It sounded like there was a mouse in there, gnawing on my hazel twig!

I don't mind mice, not usually. There was one friendly one who kept coming to my room last year and who became a bit of a pet. I would feed it crumbs I'd kept back from my meals and it would eat them out of my hand. And then my stepmother found out. Horrified that I would ‘encourage vermin', she ordered a trap be set, and every night I'd disable it. So, one day, she set out poison without telling anyone and, because I didn't learn of it in time, the mouse died. It was my fault. If I'd not shown it kindness, the mouse might have escaped Grizelda's notice – my foolish attachment had put it in greater danger than it would have been in. I would not make the same mistake twice.