Princess of Glass (10 page)

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Marianne rolled her eyes, but Poppy didn't smile. Something was going on with Ellen, something beyond bad manners and worse domestic skills.

"If you two will excuse me," Poppy said, with far more grace than Ellen would ever be able to muster. "I really must write to my sisters." And Galen, she added mentally.

"To tell them about the gown, and how you're going to the royal gala with us?" Marianne raised one eyebrow.

"Yes, yes," Poppy lied. Though she might actually mention her beautiful new gown, she had other things to write about. Like asking if Galen knew of any spells that left a residue of soot.

"And wait until you see the costume I picked for the masked ball," Marianne said as she and her mother left the room. "You have to come!"

"We shall see," Poppy promised, giving her friend a small smile as she shut the door.

Secretly Poppy knew that she would never go to the masked ball. Nothing could be more horrible than being surrounded by strange people garbed in even stranger masks, their hard eyes staring out from hideous, inhuman faces ...

She shuddered, and hurried to the writing desk. Galen might know something, and if not, perhaps he could find out for her.

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***

Preparations

Ellen lounged in the enormous bathtub, giggling with pleasure. Made of glass blown in the shape of a flower, it was easily the size of a small pool, with a padded bench so the bather's head didn't sink below the surface. She leaned against the back of the tub, perfectly curved to fit her shoulders, and inhaled deeply the scent of roses and precious oils.

She could feel all the dirt and degradation of servitude sliding away into the swirling water. It was glorious, and she never wanted it to end.

Tonight was the night of the royal gala, and she was in her godmother's palace, preparing for her grand debut. She'd fabricated an errand, saying that Princess Poppy needed ribbons for her hair, to leave Seadown House. Then she snuck back in one of the side doors and ran to a guest room to build a fire and make her escape into her godmother's realm.

A maidservant in green held out a towel the size of a bed sheet. Ellen stretched with languid grace and got out of the

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bath. The maid wrapped her in the towel and helped Ellen lie on a padded table. The maid began to vigorously rub her charge with the towel, then with oils and lotions. The unguents smelled so heavenly that Ellen drifted away into a wondrous dream.

In the dream she was dancing with a handsome prince on a cloud that smelled of primroses. The prince had dark hair and was so tall that the top of her head only came to the middle of his chest. Ellen frowned a little, and made the prince shorter and golden-haired, like Prince Christian. The maid rubbed her forehead to get rid of the frown lines, and once more the prince turned dark and imposingly tall. He reminded her of someone ...

Ellens eyes snapped open, and another maid was hovering over her head. This one was combing out the girl's long dark hair with a golden comb, while the other was now busy smearing something that tingled over Ellen's feet. The maid moved on to a different lotion for Ellen's calves, but the girl's feet still tingled.

"I don't believe I like that foot lotion," Ellen said, closing her eyes again.

The maid didn't answer. But then, none of her godmother's servants ever spoke. It was odd, and a bit distressing, but they appeared to all be mute. However, even the eerie, silent servants could hardly detract from the glorious golden walls, the shining sapphire floors, the blown glass columns, and the rest of the ornaments of the Corley's palace.

When a voice finally did answer her, Ellen jumped.

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"That lotion is a special treatment for your feet," said her godmother. "So you can dance all night!"

Her godmother laughed, and Ellen joined in.

Draped in a shimmering silk dressing robe as light as gauze, Ellen followed her godmother into a room filled with gorgeous gowns. She had been there before; these rooms were hers whenever she visited her godmother. She had tried on many of the dresses, putting on one after another and admiring herself in the long mirrors. Silent seamstresses took her measurements and made sure that each bodice fitted as if had been pasted on, each skirt was just the right length, no sleeve was too binding or too loose.

Ellen knew exactly which gown she wanted to wear this evening. It was exactly the sort of thing she had dreamed of these past horrible years since her parents' deaths. Sea colored, it seemed to float whenever she took it down to admire it.

"No, no," her godmother said as Eleanora reached for the gown now. "Not that old thing. You must have something very special for tonight. But first..."

She clapped her plump hands, which made a surprisingly sharp noise, and servants came running in. They took Ellen's dressing gown and put her in underclothes so white and fine that it was almost a shame to cover them. Then a corset, laced so tight she could hardly breathe, and after that layer after layer of petticoats, embroidered with tiny scarlet roses.

And then the gown. The magnificent gown.

It was so heavy that it took two women to carry it. Luxurious

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white silk nearly as thick as velvet, lined with scarlet, embroidered heavily with scarlet roses and encrusted with rubies and pearls at the neckline. There were no laces or hooks: when they had it over Eleanora's head a seamstress sewed up the back seam of the gown.

It fit like her own skin, and yet was so heavy and dramatic that she knew she could never not be aware of it. She looked in the mirrors and tears began to drip down her cheeks.

"It is so beautiful!"

"And you deserve it, my lovely," her godmother said. The woman was looking her up and down with satisfaction, almost greed. "You deserve it."

Her godmother clapped her hands again, and more servants entered. They sat Ellen carefully on a low stool, with her skirts spread out around her, and expertly applied cosmetics to her face. Then her long hair was brushed through with a shining pomade and twisted up into an elaborate coiffure.

After that, to Ellen's rapturous delight, jewels were brought in. A choker of rubies, ruby and diamond pins for her hair, a ring and bracelet. The servants placed them reverently upon her, and she was ready for the ball, with the exception of her feet.

"Oh, what about slippers?" As she had stood to admire herself in the mirrors again, Ellen felt the slick floor beneath her bare soles and realized that she wasn't even wearing stockings or garters beneath her gown, let alone shoes.

"This way, my darling girl," her godmother said, and took her arm with one soft hand.

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"I have such special slippers for you that you will not need stockings," the smiling old woman continued as they went down a long corridor lined with flowers made of glass. "They would only spoil the effect."

The cold glass floor chilled Ellen's feet. She couldn't fathom going out in public without stockings--she would be half-naked! What if she lifted her skirts too high and exposed her bare legs to the royal court?

Her godmother read the girl's alarm easily and chuckled. "Now, now! Have I not provided for everything else? These are very special shoes, as I've said. They will help you to dance like a dream! No one will notice that you aren't wearing stockings, even if they do catch a glimpse of your ankles. Don't you trust me?"

Not wanting to seem ungrateful to the kind lady who had given her so much, Ellen pushed aside her fears and smiled back. She went with her godmother into a circular room she had never seen before, and let a servant help her into a large chair with a footstool. Both chair and footstool, like so much of this glorious palace, were made of delicate glass that was as hard as steel. She sat rigidly, not wanting to crease her gown or muss her hair on the tall back of the chair, and her godmother bustled over to a long table where there were strange instruments and bubbling pots set over weird green flames in golden pans.

Goose bumps broke out all over Ellen, and she felt sweat starting on her temples. She gritted her teeth, not wanting the powder on her face to run. But here was magic, magic beyond walking through a fireplace into a palace.

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And it was going to be practiced on her.

She looked down at her gown, at the rubies on her wrist and finger, and straightened her spine. It would be worth it, to dance in this gown, these jewels. To win a prince's love and leave drudgery far behind.

And besides, her godmother would never hurt her.

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***

Honored Guest

Welcome, all, to the first night of our royal gala!"

King Rupert stood atop a dais that had been erected in the Tuckington Palace gardens. The dais was cleverly positioned at the edge of a large pond, and the water helped carry his voice to the assembled crowd, who cheered.

"We hope you will all enjoy yourselves while you get to know our most honored guest, Prince Christian of the Danelaw!"

Another huge cheer and Christian sheepishly took his place beside the king. He gave the crowd a small wave, feeling self-conscious, and looked for a friendly face. Thank heavens tonight wasn't the masked ball: he was still preparing himself for that. In his experience, masked balls were rife with opportunities for people to do and say things they wouldn't normally, and for good reason.

A gown of white and red at the front of the crowd caught his eye. White and red, worn by a young woman with black hair and milky white skin. It was Poppy, naturally. No other

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young lady would be so daringly dressed. Beside her was Marianne, looking demure but lovely in green. He couldn't quite tell, but it seemed that Poppy was either smirking, or at the least smiling, at his discomfort. He decided to use his "guest of honor" prerogative to steal a dance with her.

"Let the gala begin!" King Rupert raised his hands grandly, and fireworks erupted from each side of the dais.

There was more cheering, and then Christian could make his escape. Or so he thought. The king at once handed him off to the queen, and Christian found himself leading Her Majesty into the palace ballroom to open the dancing. As he moved in stately circles around the room, Queen Edith twittered in his ear about this lady and that lady, making sure that he knew exactly whom his hosts expected him to dance with. He wondered if he would even have time to eat something, let alone persuade Poppy to dance just this once.

And he wanted to squire Marianne as well. She was not only a delightful dancer, but he enjoyed teasing her. He knew that there were some rumors about his fondness for the Seadowns' daughter, but he thought of her as one of his own sisters, and was hoping to be invited to her wedding before the year was out.

At last his dance with the queen ended, and as he bowed he caught a glimpse of scarlet and white in the doorway of the ballroom. He gave another flourish, and turned toward the flash of color, saying, "My next partner, I think."

But when he faced the young lady who had just entered, it was not Poppy at all.

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He had thought that only one person would possibly wear such a dramatic gown, or have that gleaming black hair, but it seemed there were two. This young lady was beautiful and her coloring was similar to Poppy's, but her hair wasn't as black and her eyes were more blue than violet. Close up, he never would have mistaken the two girls.

But now here he was, facing this lady who looked slightly familiar and was smiling at him in an expectant way. The entire room had paused, staring, and he gallantly held out his hand.

"Would you care to have this dance?"

"Thank you, Your Highness." Her voice was light and caressing, and again very familiar. It taunted him, and he racked his brain for her identity. He had met so many young ladies during his stay in Breton, but surely he would remember one this beautiful, and with such striking coloring. She wasn't a Casterton, and definitely not a Richmond. A Blythe?

There really had been far too many prospective brides paraded before him. They couldn't possibly expect him to know all their names. He swallowed his pride as the figures of the dance moved them closer together.

"I'm quite sorry, but I seem to have forgotten your name."

"That's because we were never formally introduced." She gave a light tinkle of laughter. "My name is Lady El--Lady Ella."

"Lady Ella...?" He waited, but no family name was forthcoming.

"We've only seen each other in passing, it would hardly have been memorable."

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"Ah."

Their conversation continued in this stilted fashion for the rest of the dance. Christian tried a few sallies: where had they met? Did he know her parents? But she replied only with mysterious smiles and increasingly forced laughter, even though none of his attempts were all that funny.

It was with great relief that he bowed to her at the end of the dance. She reached for his hand again, rather boldly, to encourage another dance, but another gentleman came up just then.

It was Roger Thwaite, and he was staring at Lady Ella with an expression of shock. "Eleanora?"

Lady Ella bubbled with laughter, but it sounded even more strained than her previous giggles. "Oh my! It seems that no one can remember my name this evening!" She tapped Roger's arm with her folded fan, and then Christian's for good measure.

Christian barely stopped himself from rubbing the spot where her ivory-and-silk fan had struck him, and hoped that she'd been a little gentler with Roger. Really, the girl was quite strange, stranger than Poppy even.

"I don't know who this Eleanora is," she babbled. "I'm Lady Ella."

"Sorry." Roger drew himself up, embarrassed. "For a moment I mistook you for an old friend." He gallantly held out his hand. "Please say you will honor me with this next dance, so I may make up for my mistake?"

Lady Ella looked at Christian, who was tongue-tied. Roger