Princess of Glass (22 page)

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"I should go with you," Lord Richard said.

"We've already discussed it, my lord," Roger said. "You were ensnared by her once before; you shouldn't expose yourself again."

Poppy felt the silver dagger beneath her gown. She could get off one shot with the pistol, drop it, and draw the dagger in less than thirty seconds.

She'd been practicing.

No one said anything as she stepped onto the hearth and over the grate, ducking her head even though the entranceway was high enough that even Roger wouldn't have needed to stoop. Soot sifted down onto her hair and clothes, and Poppy reminded herself to apologize to Eleanora later. It seemed clear now that the other girl hadn't put soot on Poppy's linens deliberately.

"Good luck!" Marianne's voice echoed and Poppy waved her left hand by way of acknowledgment, without turning around.

Once past the fireplace and into the hallways of the Corley's palace, the soot and marble were replaced by tinkling glass ornaments and hard, slick floors. Delicate pillars, also made of glass, lined the passageway, and the light was provided by candles in round golden orbs.

"This is certainly more elegant than Under Stone's palace," Poppy said aloud. "Everything there was black or purple, and always seemed a bit tatty." She ran a hand along the smooth walls. "The silver gilt was peeling from the furniture, I swear."

She continued to drag her left hand along the smooth wall

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with a casual air. She was glad that the long stole around her shoulders hid the pistol from view. That way no one could see how white her knuckles were. A trickle of sweat ran down her back, and she was fighting the urge to turn and run back to the safety of Seadown House.

"But it isn't safe there," she murmured. "Nothing is safe."

She turned down the corridor and entered the great hall. It was filled with people, silent, slick-skinned people, standing in ranks and staring at her. Poppy muttered a startled oath.

"I'm here," she said a moment later, forcing herself to sound bright and innocuous. "Tonight is the masked ball! See, I already have a costume!"

She twirled so they could see the gown she wore. She was dressed as a Spanian dancer in a purple and scarlet gown with a black mask fitted over the upper half of her face. The Corley would have another costume prepared, of course, but Poppy hoped to keep the mask on, to keep up the ruse that she was Eleanora.

Without hurrying, without even making any noise, the silent servants surrounded Poppy. They didn't touch her, much to her relief, she was afraid she would start screaming if they did, but they turned as one and quickstepped out of the great hall and down a long corridor, herding her along in their midst.

Sitting bolt upright on a bench in the enormous bath, Poppy suddenly wished she
had
brought someone with her. She had never faced this type of thing by herself before. The last time

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she had been trapped in an otherworldly palace--the Palace Under Stone--all her sisters had been with her.

Of course, she wasn't exactly alone.

She was, in point of fact, surrounded.

A dozen or so of the Corley's mute handmaidens were in the bathroom with her, lying in wait. As soon as she twitched a finger, they would leap forward to offer her a towel, scented soap, a glass of lemonade. Poppy had refused their offers to bathe her like a baby, and now she was at the far end of the tub, soap in one hand, eyes on the servants, wondering if they would try to scrub her back the moment she began to lather.

Finally she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and washed herself as quickly as she could. She scrubbed her hair and face so fast that she pulled several hairs out and nearly put a finger up her own nose, but at least she was out of the tub quickly. She grudgingly allowed the servants to wrap her in towels and help her onto a padded bench, where they greased her up with various lotions and combed out her wet hair. She kept her face pressed into the bench as much as she could, alert to every sound, in case the Corley should come to check on her beloved goddaughter, but she hadn't so far.

Then the servants led her to a dressing room bursting with fabulous gowns. The sight of them irritated Poppy more than anything: they were just there to taunt Eleanora! Where and when would she ever wear them? The girl had only worn two gowns so far, both of them copies of someone else's finery.

Poppy glared at the gowns all while she was being dressed in

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peacock blue satin. There was a great fan of peacock feathers standing behind her head, and feathers trailed from her sleeves and skirt. When she was finally laced and tucked into the gown, she looked at herself in the multiple mirrors and made a face of disgust.

"What a ridiculous gown," she remarked, even though she knew none of the servants would--or could--answer. "How precisely am I supposed to dance with anyone?"

"You aren't supposed to dance with
anyone"
the Corley said. "You are supposed to dance with Prince Christian!"

Poppy snatched the feathered mask from the dressing table and held it to her face. The mask that matched the peacock gown covered even more of her face than the one she had brought. Now if she could just keep her eyes down and her Westfalian accent in check.

"You look so beautiful, my dear," the Corley simpered. "Like a princess ... no, a queen!" The old witch put her hands on Poppy's shoulders and smiled at her in the mirror, her mouth stretching wider than a human mouth should have been able to.

Poppy shuddered and kept her attention on the maid applying her cosmetics. There was gold and green powder around her eyes already, making them look more blue than violet. Now rouge was added to her cheeks and lips, and a design of green and gilt that curled up the left side of her face from her jaw to her cheekbone. It looked like a peacock's plume, and Poppy found it pleasingly exotic.

Her hair was fastened high with gold combs that sported

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more plumes, and the blue feathered mask tied in place with a ribbon that was hidden in her hair.

"Come, my darling! It's time for the final touch!"

Poppy tried not to shiver as she walked barefoot down the passageway in the Corley's wake, to a chamber that smelled of magic and strangeness, and sat down in a large chair with an attached footrest. On a table to the side were bubbling pots of thick liquids, and Poppy broke out in a cold sweat. She thought of Eleanora's feet and reminded herself that it would only be for one night, and Christian and the others would help her.

Unclenching her hands from the armrests, she sat up straight and watched the Corley with her face impassive. She was a princess, after all, and refused to give this creature the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. It helped that a mask hid the upper part of her face and shadowed her eyes, however.

The Corley swept aside Poppy's abundant skirts to expose her bare feet. She snapped her fingers, and a servant brought her a shallow pan of molten blue glass.

The Corley looked directly into Poppy's eyes and without saying a word poured the boiling glass over the girl's feet.

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***

Emperor

Wigs itched, Christian was discovering. His emperor's costume was topped with a long black wig, and it felt like a hot compress draped across his head. But even worse than the warmth was the itching along the edges where the mesh foundation of the abominable thing touched his face and neck, and it was held in place with clips that jabbed his scalp.

Were it not for the wig, the costume otherwise would have been very comfortable, since it was rather like a loose dressing gown of silk over billowing trousers. Even the pointed slippers were light and flexible, and the heavy ivory-and-silk fan that hung from his waist was much more manageable than the cumbersome fake swords that many of the other gentlemen wore.

He had already turned down several offers to dance with various young women. King Rupert, unsubtly dressed as his ancestor, Horcha the Magnificent, smiled benignly at this from his position on the dais at the far end of the ballroom.

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He was looking forward to announcing Christian's betrothal after the unmasking at midnight, and no longer felt the need to throw every young lady in Breton at Christian.

For his part, Christian felt like a clock that had been wound too tight. At any moment he feared he might spring to the dais and start screaming at all the smiling, laughing courtiers. Poppy was in danger, they were all under a spell, how could they just drink and dance as though nothing were amiss?

Princess Emmeline twirled by, dressed like a milkmaid (albeit a milkmaid in a satin gown), and Christian fought down a surge of dislike. He remembered her derision about her former maid's clumsiness, which Eleanora now suspected had been caused by the Corley. The poor girl had been orphaned, thrown into the streets, and then slowly drawn into a witch's clutches. All Emmeline ever had to worry about was convincing her parents to let her stay up late to attend a ball, as she was tonight.

And here Christian was, pretending to have no interest in any woman but Lady Ella. Well, it was partially true: he wasn't interested in anyone else. But the majority of his interest came from the fact that Poppy would be Lady Ella tonight.

Would the Corley uncover their deception, and what would happen to Poppy if she did? If she didn't, would Poppy's feet be all right? They still weren't sure if Eleanora could be healed.

And would Poppy really dance all night with him?

Christian kept turning to look at the door of the ballroom but didn't expect Poppy to arrive any time soon. After all, Lady

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Ella always appeared late and made a grand entrance, and the masked ball had only been underway for half an hour. Most of the guests had arrived with unusual punctuality, and were also craning their necks around. He suspected that they, too, were waiting for the mysterious Lady Ella, since she had captivated not only Christian, but all the noblemen of Castleraugh, even as she alienated the women.

He wondered if the spell would be broken tonight. Would all the nobles of Castleraugh be talking about Lady Ella to their grandchildren? Or would the magic fade once the Corley had what she wanted?

Or better, once they stopped her.

Christian was drawn from his thoughts by the hush that fell over the ballroom. It was Lady Ella; the guests wouldn't be so quiet for any other reason. He turned to face the double doors and saw a magnificent figure framed there. All in peacock blue silk with plumes of that very bird rising around her head and trailing from her skirts, Poppy looked magnificent.

And there was no doubt in Christian's mind that it was Poppy. No one, he thought, could mistake that proud bearing or sheer vibrancy of spirit. No mask or glamour could hide the fluid grace that said she was a born dancer, for all her professed hatred of dancing. And he couldn't help noticing that her hair was darker and glossier than Ellen's, and her figure? Well, Poppy had a very nice figure.

It wasn't hard to push the other gentlemen out of his way to reach her side first. It wasn't hard to bow and kiss her fingers,

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and it was without any compulsion at all that Christian asked her to dance.

A small mischievous smile curled Poppy's lips.

"I would be honored, Your Highness," she said, and slapped his arm with her peacock feather fan.

Christian laughed and took her arm, steering clear of the fan.
"Can
you dance?" He teased as they took their places on the polished floor among a host of dashing pirates and romantic beggar maids. "Or are you merely fond of the occasional entrechat?"

"I have some meager skill," she said airily.

The orchestra began to play a gigue, one of Analousia's more intricate dances, which did make use of the entrechat. Two steps to the left, and Poppy twirled up and down in Christian's arms flawlessly. A woman nearby stumbled, either from clumsiness or because of her elaborate costume, and Poppy skipped lightly out of the way.

Christian marveled that Poppy claimed she hadn't danced in nearly three years. She was the most skilled partner he had ever had, as light in his arms as a butterfly, while carrying on a conversation as easily as though they were seated in the Seadowns' parlor.

Laughing at his expression of amazement, Poppy said, "You must understand: for ten years I danced nearly every night till dawn. You should have seen my feet: blisters, bruises, horrifying. But eventually they healed." Then she made a face. "They're feeling rather delicate now, though."

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When they came to the end of the dance, she swept aside her skirts a little, to show him why.

Her gleaming blue shoes were a thing of great beauty. There were swirls of green, and an overlay of gold filigree, all of it made of glass. She wore no stockings, and the blue and gold and green stood out starkly against her pale skin.

"They hurt like nothing you have ever felt," Poppy said fervently, dropping her skirts. "I think I'd rather be run through with a rusty cavalry saber."

Wincing with sympathy, he took her hands and led her into the next dance. They would have to dance every dance, lest the Corley suspect that something was amiss.

"So what do we do now?" Christian wanted to relax and enjoy dancing with Poppy, but he couldn't help but worry about what was coming next. "Do we just wait for the end of the evening? Am I supposed to propose to you?" This last idea did not seem all that repellent, actually.

He noticed that he was not experiencing any of the fogginess, the twisting of his thoughts, that he had had with Eleanora as Ella. Was it the potion and the charms at work? Or was it because it was Poppy wearing the glass slippers?

"I suppose," Poppy said shortly. She had a funny look on her face, but it might have been the mask. "I have to leave before midnight, so we'll do it sometime before then. Roger and all three of the Seadowns are armed with charms and what have you, waiting for the Corley's next move."

Her voice was breezy, confident, but Christian thought he