Ash & Bramble (23 page)

“I tried to charm her when I should have been getting to know her better,” the prince explains. He looks down at his hands, and Shoe realizes that the prince isn't that much older than he himself seems to be, maybe twenty or twenty-one. “Trying to force her to stay. She ran away from me.”

“From me too,” Shoe puts in.

The prince gives a wry smile. “Yes, from both of us.” He moves from the mantel and settles into one of the other comfortable chairs. One of the dogs comes over and puts its head on his knee, and he strokes its long ears. “Now, tell me about Story,” he orders.

Shoe tells him what he knows, how the workers in the Godmother's fortress are slaves to Story, and then what Natters and the Missus told him about the relentless turn of the gears
and wheels of Story, how it is impossible to escape, that they are all about to be ground up and reshaped and forced into an ending that none of them—except the Godmother—wants.

The prince nods and rubs his forehead again. “Yes,” he says, as if approving of Shoe's recitation. “It's not anything I could put my finger on, but I have long suspected that something in this city was not right.”

Shoe knows the prince isn't going to like this next bit. “You're caught up in it too,” he explains. “You're meant to be Pin's ending. But Story hasn't given her any choice about it, or you either. It wants to force you together.”

When he stops speaking, the prince gets up and crosses to another table, where he pours something into a cup and brings it to Shoe.

Shoe takes a sip. It's wine, which he doesn't remember ever tasting before. It is rich and heavy on his tongue, and it soothes his raw throat as he swallows it down.

The prince has poured his own cup and settles in his chair again. “You've admitted that Penelope doesn't love you.” His finger rubs the side of the glass. “And you presume that I don't really love her either, that all I feel for her is due to us being caught up in Story.”

Shoe feels a flush prickle on his cheeks. “It probably is,” he says stubbornly.

So far the prince has been surprisingly open. But now the walls go up. “Maybe it is,” he says with some coldness. “And maybe it isn't.”

They immediately fall silent. Shoe drinks more wine and begins to feel sleep creeping over him.

On the other chair, the prince eyes him closely, and pronounces, “You'll take me to Penelope in the morning.”

Shoe considers the possibility of saying no. He doesn't really have much choice. “All right,” he agrees. “I will. But we can't tell her what to do. She must decide for herself.”

T
HE PRINCE'S BALL HAS CHANGED EVERYTHING.

In the morning I wake up in my stepmama's house—my house—in one of the many guest bedrooms on the second floor. I claimed the room last night when I came home all flustered from the ball. I didn't see my stepmother or stepsisters, I simply found the room, took off my ragged ball dress, climbed into the chilly bed, and went to sleep with the thimble under my pillow. I didn't want to think about the clock striking or how handsome Prince Cornelius had looked in the dim light of the terrace or how his kiss hadn't been quite the same as . . .

Well, as the only other kiss I can remember.

I reach under my pillow and pull out the thimble. It is the only thing I
do
remember clearly. It is simple, silver, entwined
with roses and brambles, without a fleck of tarnish. It feels heavier than it should, as if it's more solid than anything in this city. It's a rock of security in the midst of a roaring river. I fold my fingers around it.

Shoe had it.

I'm not sure what to think about him.

As the castle clock struck midnight, he'd told me . . .

. . . things I didn't want to believe.

I turn my wrist, examining the scar there. It is jagged, pale; it looks as if I might have been stabbed by a thorn, as he said.

If I am this Pin—if I
was
this Pin, before—maybe that explains all the holes in my memory. But who was I before that? Who am I now? The questions threaten to sweep me away. Darkness edges my vision; nothingness looms behind me.

“It's all right,” I tell myself in a trembling whisper. “It'll be all right.” My voice sounds tiny and frightened. The Nothing threatens to overwhelm me.

I wrap both hands around the thimble, and hold on.

The thimble is heavy and solid, and the room becomes real around me again. Its walls are painted blue. The coverlet on the bed is edged with lace. There's a fire in the hearth—this is an excellent sign; it means the servants have been told I am here. It means Stepmama knows I'm here and hasn't had me dragged in disgrace up to my attic prison. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I expect they don't know what to do with me.

I push back the covers and climb out of the bed and see an even better sign. While I was sleeping, a maid has brought me something to wear. They've unpacked a box of my clothes from the attic, because there is a clean black silk dress and underclothes and stockings. But there are no shoes. I left my other toe-pinching ones at Lady Faye's house last night, I remember.

Lukewarm water is in a bowl, and there's a fresh towel, so I have a quick wash and put on the dress and stockings and put the thimble into my pocket. The dress doesn't fit me quite properly. I'm thinner than I used to be thanks to the usual punishments. A good breakfast will help with that.

Before going down to the breakfast room, though, I go upstairs to the long portrait gallery. Its windows only face the afternoon sun, and it is morning, so the room is dim, like a cave, and dusty. I pad along in my stockinged feet to the end, to the picture of my mother.

There she is, hiding away in the shadowed forest, smiling her secret smile, the thimble bright against her dark skirt.

“I found the thimble,” I tell her. “Even though it seems I've lost everything else.”

As I stand there in the dim room with sparkling motes of dust floating around me, looking into my mother's painted face, I slip the thimble onto my finger.

A flash of memory slams into me.

My mother—her real self, not a painting—in a hurry, tying her hair back into a long braid. She is dressed all in
black and her face is sharp and pale with worry. Snow whirls around us. My hands are cold—I remember the bite of frost and feel again the searing warmth of the thimble as she places it in my palm and curls my fingers around it.

Never lose this
, she says.

Then she looks over her shoulder and turns away.

I reach after the memory with trembling fingers—
Mother!
—but it is gone. I blink and I am standing on shaking legs in the picture gallery.

My mother's painted face regards me with the same ironic smile.

“I didn't lose it,” I tell her. “I only lost myself. And you.”

My mother. What was it that Lady Faye had said about her?

. . .
we were good friends at one time, your mother and I
.

But then my mother had . . . thwarted her, Lady Faye had said. Who
was
my mother?

I gaze at the thimble in my palm. It's such a strange thing for me to have, really. A strange thing for my mother to give me. A thimble represents all that is ladylike and pure and unspotted with blood, unmarked by the painful pricks of a needle. If I think of a perfect lady, she has her head demurely bent over an embroidery frame, with the thimble on her finger, maybe biting her lip with concentration as she stitches. I am nothing like that; I am no seamstress. Neither, I am certain, was my mother. Yet the thimble she gave me is a thing of power.

I think it means that I must try to be like her. I don't know who I was, or who I am, but I can try to thwart whatever Lady Faye is trying to achieve.

Of course, I haven't any idea how to go about doing that. All I know is that she wants me for something, and I cannot let her have me.

Pondering what I'm going to do next, I head for the breakfast room. On the way, I pass a maid, who bobs a curtsy. Oh yes, things have changed. All because of a pretty dress and three dances with a handsome prince.

I pause outside the door. Time to face the wild animals.

I go in. It is past eight o'clock, so Stepmama, Dulcet, and Precious are already at the table. Clearly they've been staring at the door waiting for me, because as I come in they paste wide and welcoming smiles on their faces.

“Good morning,” I say, and go to the sideboard. I am famished, and there is poached egg and toast with a delicious-smelling herbed butter sauce that a kitchen maid probably had to stir over the stove for an hour, and bacon and more toast. My plate loaded, I go to the table.

“Pass the jam, would you, Dulcie?” I ask through a mouthful of egg.

With a clatter, Dulcet drops her fork and grabs for the jam pot.

“Ta,” I say. In stunned silence, they let me eat for a while. I enjoy every bite of my breakfast.

“Well!” my stepmama exclaims after the sight of me
eating has obviously gotten to be too much for her. “Girls!” She means me, too. “The ball last night. Quite an affair. Dulcet and Precious, you acquitted yourselves well enough.” She turns a gimlet gaze on me. “But you, Penelope. To have earned such favor from Lady Faye. It is no wonder the prince paid you such marked attention.”

“The dress was magnificent,” Precious puts in, envy dripping from her voice.

“Precious!” Stepmama scolds.

“Well, it was,” Precious says with an elegant shrug.

“None of it had anything to do with the dress,” I say, and eat another bite of toast piled with jam. “The prince would have danced with me if I'd been wearing rags and no mask.” I wash down the toast with a drink of tea. “It's almost as if we were meant to be together.”

Stepmama's eyes widen. I can see that she's contemplating having to call me
Your Highness
or
Princess Penelope
.

I take pity on her. “The prince doesn't know my name, and he doesn't know where I live.”

My stepmama blinks. “Doesn't he?”

Suddenly I feel adrift, and grip the edge of the table to steady myself. I long for my connection to the prince to be real, not because he is handsome or because of his deep, molten-chocolate voice, but because I caught a glimpse of him—the
true
him—when I looked into his eyes.

But this might be my one chance to escape from the city. I can't risk it on a mere glimpse. And despite our attraction
to each other, he doesn't know me—not really. “He has no idea who I am,” I tell Stepmama. I don't mention that I don't know who I am, either.

I can see her calculating whether that means she can lock me up in the attic again.

I slide my hand into my pocket and feel the reassuring warmth of my thimble. “I'm leaving,” I say, before Stepmama can decide what to do with me.

“What?”

“I'm packing some things in a knapsack, and I am leaving. Not just the house, but the city. You'll probably never see me again.”

“But Pen—” Dulcet puts in.

“I'll need a warm coat,” I interrupt. “I think there's one in the attic. Can you find it for me, Precious?”

My stepsister nods dumbly.

“And some boots.” I slide my stockinged foot from under the table and waggle it at them. “Somehow I've lost all my shoes.”

“But—” Stepmama puts in. Her face is starting to turn an alarming red. She wants to protest.

“
Mama
,” Dulcet hisses. Then she gives me a false smile.

Precious is more blunt. “Mama, if she is gone the prince will still be available.”

The red recedes. My stepmama draws herself up. “Well then!” She looks around for a servant to give orders to. “You, boy,” she snaps at a footman who has just come into the room.

His eyes are wide. “He's here,” he blurts out. “The prince, ma'am. He's asked to see all the ladies of the house. He's in the blue drawing room.”

Stepmama surges to her feet. “You say he doesn't know your name or where you live?” she asks me.

I nod and eat a bite of bacon. I slide my other hand into my pocket and grip my thimble—for strength. I can feel an urgency, the larger force trying to bring me and Prince Cornelius together. The wheels must be turning. Instead of responding to the pull, I distract myself by thinking about bacon. Mmm. Nice and crispy, just the way I like it.

“Dulcet, Precious,” Stepmama says. “That means he's here for one of you. Come along, girls.” Daintily Dulcet wipes butter off her fingers and gets to her feet as Precious stands and primps the lace at her collar. “If you are leaving, Penelope,” Stepmama says grandly, “then you had better go.”

“Good-bye,” I say, giving her a wicked grin.

With a sniff, Stepmama sails out the door. Dulcet and Precious pause in the doorway. “You're really going away, Pen?” Dulcet asks.

“Yes, I am,” I say. If I'm caught up in something, the only thing to do is escape it, and that means leaving the city. My thimble will help me avoid Lady Faye's footmen, I hope.

“Well, good-bye,” Precious says.

“Good-bye,” Dulcet echoes.

We regard one another for a moment, awkwardly silent.

“We wish . . . ,” Dulcet begins.

“We wish we could have been better sisters to you,” Precious finishes.

I pause, then give them a wry smile. “I wish everyone could hear you sing, Dulcie,” I say, “and that you could dress every woman in the city, Precious. But I don't think you've had much of a choice.”

“Girls!” comes Stepmama's shrill voice.

Dulcet gives me a quick smile in return, and Precious shakes her head, and they hurry out.

I stay and finish my breakfast quickly. The prince doesn't know I'm here, so I don't need to run off without any shoes on. Maybe Dulcet has a pair of boots I can borrow. They might fit if I wore two pairs of socks.

The footman appears at the door again. “I'm sorry, Lady Pen,” he says with a bow. “The prince asks for you especially. You're to come to the blue drawing room at once.”

My bite of toast and jam turns to ashes in my mouth. Caught up again. I ponder the possibility of making a run for it. But no. Lady Faye will have planned for that. Slowly I stand and brush the toast crumbs from the front of my dress, check my pocket for my thimble, and follow the footman upstairs. Four big men in red uniforms are waiting outside the drawing room door. The prince's bodyguards, I guess.

I give them a nod and walk into the room.

The first person I notice is Shoe—turning up again where he shouldn't be. I catch him casting me one quick glance, and then staring down at the floor with his hands shoved in
his pockets. Maybe he thinks I won't pay him any attention if he keeps quiet.

Stepmama, looking blotchy, is sitting on a spindly chair almost hidden by the spread of her wide skirts. Dulcet stands at her shoulder, Precious next to her.

The prince is standing in the middle of the room holding a box. His long-eared, sad-eyed dogs are lying on the floor by his feet. His curly black hair is neatly combed and he is wearing practical riding clothes, a sheathed knife at his belt, and a long leather coat lined with fleece that makes his shoulders look very broad.

Beside him, Shoe, still in the dark clothes he was wearing the night before, with the same pack on his back, looks rumpled and a little tired.

I narrow my eyes. “You again,” I say to Shoe.

For some reason it makes me happy to see him flush. “Me again,” he mumbles.

Then I realize what must have happened. “You told the prince where to find me,” I accuse.

Shoe's face goes even redder, with shame, I assume. Even his ears, from what I can see of them through his shaggy hair, are red. He stares stubbornly down at the carpet.

“He had to do it,” the prince interrupts. He gives me his most charming smile. “Good morning, Lady Penelope.” From their spots on the floor by his feet, his dogs wag their tails.

“Yes, good morning,” I snap back. He should know better than to try that smile on me.

“I believe you lost something last night.” The prince opens the box and pulls out a shoe studded with jewels, the one that twisted from my foot as I was fleeing the castle.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I lie. I'm not going to make this easy for him.

“I think you do. Will you try it on?” He gives a little bow and gestures toward a chair that faces him.