Princess of Glass (8 page)

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way up the stairs, and had to mop up the spill and refill the pitchers. It was just like all of her other chores: no matter how hard she tried, she was useless.

And Ellen found that she was even more useless for the rest of the day. Thoughts of meeting her godmother in person, of setting foot in a palace where she wouldn't be expected to iron anything, filled her head. She tripped and tore the hem of her gown, spilled tea all over Poppy's coverlet, and dropped Marianne's freshly laundered handkerchiefs into a coal scuttle.

It was with great relief that Ellen found herself banished to the guest rooms to dust knickknacks with an ostrich plume. No one would look for her for hours, and she could always finish dusting after midnight, when she returned from her visit.

Besides, there were few valuable ornaments here and if she broke any, it would be no great loss. In fact, she rather thought that Lady Margaret might thank her for breaking one particular vase: it had a lopsided eagle painted on it, and one of the other maids had told Ellen that it would have been thrown out long ago if it hadn't been a gift from His Lordship's great-aunt.

As she hastily built a fire in the smallest and least-used guest room, Ellen kept her ears pricked for any sound from the corridor. The tinder wouldn't take, and in the end she threw her own handkerchief in to get things going. Building fires was another thing she could never do properly.

But at last she had a merry little blaze, which she promptly poured a glass of water over. Cringing, Ellen stuck her face into the smoke that roiled up and said, as instructed, "Cinders, cinders, smoke and water, take me to visit my dear godmother!"

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The fireplace expanded, stretching like a waking cat until it was a tall doorway. Ellen scrambled to her feet and hiked her skirts high to step over the fender, into the mucky remains of her fire, and then on into the dark corridor beyond.

Her heart was hammering loudly in her throat, but more with excitement than fear. At the end of the corridor was a bright light, and she could hear music.

After eight years of neglect, she had finally found someone who wanted her.

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***

nightmare

Running down endless hallways carved of black stone, Poppy gasped and lifted her long trailing skirts higher. She couldn't remember how she got here, but she knew precisely where she was: the King Under Stone's palace of black rock and despair. Dressed in one of the bruise-colored Under Stone court gowns, she raced down corridor after corridor. None of the doors would open to her frantic tugging, but even if one of them did it wouldn't help her escape. There was only one door out of the Palace Under Stone, and she could not find it.

She turned a corner, and there before her was the silver gilt arch that led into the ballroom. The tall candles within were brightly lit, and she could hear shrill music and sharp laughter. She whirled around, wanting to avoid the attention of Under Stone and his sons, but the corridor behind her had closed off, and now there was nowhere else to go but forward.

She made herself breathe deeply, in and out, and compose her features. Perhaps they wouldn't notice she was here ...

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And then she corrected herself. The Under Stone she remembered was gone, killed by Galen with a silver knitting needle inscribed with the king's long-forgotten name. One of his sons was king now, and Poppy didn't know which one. That meant there were fewer princes to worry about as well. None of them had been as bright as their father, either, so it was very possible that she would escape detection.

She slipped into the ballroom and started to skirt around the edges of the floor. A tall and skeletally thin man grabbed her arms and swung her into the figures of a dance. She stumbled and would have fallen, but the other dancers pushed her back to her feet. They were laughing, their raucous voices slicing through her ears. They tossed her from partner to partner, their too-wide smiles and too-sharp teeth filling her vision.

"Stop!"

All eyes went to the dais.

Atop it a lean figure reclined on a black throne strewn with cushions that his father would have sneered at. The King Under Stone, who had once been Prince Rionin, looked down at Poppy with heavy-lidded eyes. He had been paired with Poppy's sister Jonquil, and was particularly cruel. Poppy's blood curdled at the thought of him possessing his father's power, and she hoped that Galen's chain was still holding the gate shut. But if it was, how had she gotten here?

Far more terrifying, at least from Poppy's point of view, was the young man standing to the left of the throne. It was her onetime suitor Blathen, and he was looking at Poppy as though she were a roast pheasant and he were starving.

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"My dear brother pines for his lost bride," King Rionin said, putting a hand on Blathen's sleeve.

Poppy pulled the long hairpins out of her coiffure, and clutched one in each hand. "I'll kill you all first--I'll kill myself first!"

The figures on the dais just laughed at her.

"So dramatic," Blathen said, his voice caressing.

Turning her face away lest she be sick, Poppy saw the doorway that led out of the ballroom and to the entrance of the palace. She tried to get to it, but the courtiers blocked her way. She tripped and fell flat on the hard floor. The hairpins skittered out of her hands, and her hair tumbled over her face.

She clawed it away, frantic ...

... and found herself sitting up in her bed in the Sea-downs' manor.

Her heart was racing and her nightgown was plastered to her back with sweat, but she couldn't relax until she was certain that it had only been a dream. A nightmare, more like. She shoved aside the bedclothes and stumbled to the window, fumbling with the curtains to peer out the window.

There was the moon. She wasn't underground in that dark realm. She sagged against the windowsill, and her breath came out in sobs.

Poppy had nightmares quite frequently, but she had never shared them with anyone. She knew her family would find it alarming that tough, devil-may-care Poppy would still be haunted by the Midnight Balls. Only two of her sisters had

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confessed to having nightmares about it: Pansy, who had been the most traumatized by their curse, and Orchid, who had been prone to night terrors anyway.

But this had not been like any other nightmare. Everything was so real: the feel of the gown, the floor under her feet, the music. Was it only because she was in a strange house, far from her family? Or was there something ... wrong?

Putting on her dressing gown, Poppy went downstairs to make a cup of tea. She had just put her foot on the top stair when she heard a noise from farther down the corridor.

"Hello?" She was embarrassed to hear that her voice shook. "Who's there?"

There was a scuffling noise, and the sweat that still dampened the back of Poppy's nightgown froze. Stepping away from the stairs, she held her long nightgown away from her feet with one hand and carefully made a fist with the other, as Galen and Heinrich had taught her. She didn't want to break any fingers when she punched the intruder.

"I said, 'Hello?'" She was pleased that her voice was firmer now.

There was a faint cough, and then someone stepped into the light of one of the candles.

It was Ellen, and she was covered in black soot. Poppy stared at her in astonishment. Had she tried to sweep out one of the chimneys herself?

"What in heaven's name have you been doing?" Poppy only remembered to whisper at the last moment. They were just a few yards from the Seadowns' bedchamber.

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"Nothing," Ellen said, but a mysterious smile crept onto her black-smeared face.

Poppy had had enough. First the nightmare, now Ellen wandering around in the night, shedding cinders on the carpets and acting as though she had some wonderful secret. The princess dragged Ellen down the hall into her room.

"Whatever do you think you're doing?" Poppy found it hard to berate the girl in a whisper, but she made do. "The Seadowns take you in, give you a job when no one else would, offer you gowns to attend the royal balls, and you--you--" She threw her hands in the air and then tried again. "You still break everything you touch, scorch the ironing--and why was there
sand
in my pillowcase last night? Is it
really
that hard to be a maid?" She stared at Ellen by the light of the candles she had lit in her room to chase away the shadows of the nightmare.

Ellen gazed down at the filthy toes of her shoes, peeping out from her sooty hem. When she at last looked at Poppy, instead of being ashamed or even sulky, her face was blazing with rage. Poppy took a step back in shock.

"Yes!" Ellen spat the word at Poppy. "Yes, it
is
that hard to be a maid, as you would know if you had ever lifted your little finger to do one simple thing for yourself,
Your Highness!'
She sneered as she said the other girl's title. "Do you know how to make up a featherbed? To iron lace? To serve milady's tea just so?" Ellen was panting with the force of her emotions.

"N-no," Poppy stammered, still taken aback. "Well, I do know how to serve tea without breaking the--," she began, but Ellen interrupted her.

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"And do you know what's it like to feel a tray of heirloom china leap from your hands and crash to the floor? To feel the iron suddenly go red hot even though it's not on the stove, and smell linen scorching? To find towels that you just folded in disarray even though no one has touched them? There is something horribly wrong with me. I wasn't meant to be a maid. And I just. Can't. Do it."

"You're not burning things on purpose?" This surprised Poppy as much as anything else Ellen had said. She and Marianne had assumed that Ellen was protesting her "fallen state" by wrecking the clothing and making the beds uncomfortable.

"Of course not!"

Tears started to spill from Ellen's eyes, and Poppy suppressed a groan. She never could stand to see anyone crying.

"Sometimes it's like something has taken over my body," Ellen sniffled. "I know what my hands should be doing, but I can't make them work right. Or I'll do something correctly, and then it undoes itself as soon as I turn my back." She shuddered. "It's a horrible feeling. I think my father's ill-luck cursed me."

Poppy knew that Ellen was probably speaking in the metaphorical sense, or at least being histrionic, but the words chilled her.
Cursed.
Poppy knew all about being cursed, at finding your body doing things you didn't want it to do. Like dance all night, even though your feet were bleeding inside your worn-out slippers.

She narrowed her eyes and studied the other girl. Perhaps Ellen was cursed, but why and by whom? Her life was already

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in tatters, what good would it do to ruin her career as a maidservant?

There were, of course, no outward signs that Ellen was cursed. What there was instead was a great deal of ash and soot drifting down on Poppy's carpet.

"But why are you so filthy? Did Mrs. Hanks tell you to clean out all the chimneys in the middle of the night?"

Ellen's tears dried as if by magic, and a sly, closed look came over her face. "Just trying to do my duty," she said stiffly. "If Your Highness will excuse me." It wasn't a question, and Ellen certainly didn't wait for an answer. She turned her back on Poppy and went out of the room.

Poppy flopped onto her bed. "Another mystery I'm not sure I want to solve," she muttered to herself.

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***

Fencer

Dear Mother and Father,

Please help! I am being auctioned off to the highest bidder by King Rupert. Since I made it clear that I have no matrimonial interest in either Princess Hermione or Princess Emmeline, the king has determined that I will find a wife from among the Bretoner nobility. I am beginning to panic, and the holidays with their welcome return home are not for another month. What shall I do?

Your devoted son,

Christian

PS. I have become good friends with the Westfalian princess, Poppy. She is tremendous fun, not at all the dangerous enchantress rumored. She does not dance (anymore) but is ruthless at cards. You would like her, Mother.

Christian sealed the letter and summoned a footman to post it. He thought about going himself, but he was hiding in

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his room. King Rupert had been quite frank about his reasons for throwing the balls and the fact that Christian was appalled had gone right over the Bretoner king's head. Princess Emmeline was in a snit that he hadn't chosen her, despite the obvious unsuitability of her young age, but seemed to agree with her father that Christian should at least marry a Bretoner lady, and right away.

He had tried to mollify them, to say that perhaps in a few years, when Emmeline was older, he might return and they would see if they suited. Although privately vowing to never set foot in Breton again just to avoid having to marry Emmeline, he had thought that this might help matters. But no, the king was insistent: he would see Christian betrothed by the holidays and there would be no argument.

Hoping that his parents truly weren't involved in Rupert's plan, Christian left the letter in the tray in the hallway for the butler to post. A bit behind schedule, he had to scramble to get dressed for the evening.

The Thwaites were having a dinner party to celebrate their oldest son's return from traveling the Far East. There was to be music and cards afterward, and Poppy was sure to be there with the Seadowns. Christian loved to watch Poppy win at cards.

***

Dickon Thwaite lunged and Christian easily stepped aside. A parry. A thrust. Another parry and Christian tapped Dickon's chest with the capped tip of his rapier.