Ella Enchanted (3 page)

The smile remained, but now it seemed pasted on. “I forgive you, child. We in the peerage are forgiving. Your poor mother used to be known for her ill breeding too.”

Mother used to be known. The past tense froze my tongue.

“Girls!” Dame Olga bore down on us. “We must be going.” She hugged me, and my nose filled with the stink of spoiled milk.

They left. Father was outside at the iron gate, saying goodbye to the rest of the guests. I went to Mandy in the kitchen.

She was piling up dirty dishes. “Seems like those people didn’t eat for a week.”

I put on an apron and pumped water into the sink. “They never tasted your food before.”

Mandy’s cooking was better than anybody else’s. Mother and I used to try her recipes sometimes. We’d follow the instructions exactly and the dish would be delicious, but never as wonderful as when Mandy cooked it.

Somehow, it reminded me of the rug. “The carpet in the hall with the hunters and the bear, you know the one? Something funny happened to me when I looked at it before.”

“Oh, that silly thing. You shouldn’t pay attention to that old rug.” She turned to stir a pot of soup.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just a fairy joke.”

A fairy rug! “How do you know?”

“It belonged to Lady.” Mandy always called Mother “Lady.”

That wasn’t an answer. “Did my fairy godmother give it to her?”

“A long time ago.”

“Did Mother ever tell you who my fairy godmother is?”

“No, she didn’t. Where’s your father?”

“He’s outside, saying goodbye. Do you know anyway? Even though she never told you?”

“Know what?”

“Who my fairy godmother is.”

“If she’d wanted you to know, your mother would have told you.”

“She was going to. She promised. Please tell, Mandy.”

“I am.”

“You are
not
telling. Who is it?”

“Me. Your fairy godmother is me. Here, taste the carrot soup. It’s for dinner, How is it?”

MY MOUTH opened automatically. The spoon descended and a hot — but not burning — swallow poured in. Mandy had gotten the carrots at their sweetest, carrotiest best. Weaving in and out of the carrots were other flavors: lemon, turtle broth, and a spice I couldn’t name. The best carrot soup in the world, magical soup that nobody but Mandy could make.

The rug. The soup. This was fairy soup. Mandy was a fairy!

But if Mandy was a fairy, why was Mother dead?

“You’re not a fairy.”

“Why not?”

“If you were, you would have saved her.”

“Oh, sweetie, I would have if I could. If she’d left the hair in my curing soup, she’d be well today.”

“You knew? Why did you let her?”

“I didn’t know till she was too sick. We can’t stop dying.”

I collapsed on the stool next to the stove, sobbing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. Then Mandy’s arms were around me, and I was crying into the ruffles along the neck of her apron, where I had cried so many times before for smaller reasons.

A drop landed on my finger. Mandy was crying too. Her face was red and blotchy.

“I was her fairy godmother too,” Mandy said. “And your grandmother’s.” She blew her nose.

I pushed out of Mandy’s arms for a new look at her. She couldn’t be a fairy. Fairies were thin and young and beautiful. Mandy was as tall as a fairy was supposed to be, but who ever heard of a fairy with frizzy gray hair and two chins?

“Show me,” I demanded.

“Show you what?”

“That you’re a fairy. Disappear or something.”

“I don’t have to show you anything. And — with the exception of Lucinda — fairies never disappear when other creatures are present.”

“Can you?”

“We can, but we don’t. Lucinda is the only one who’s rude enough and stupid enough.”

“Why is it stupid?”

“Because it lets people know you’re a fairy.” She started to wash the dishes. “Help me.”

“Do Nathan and Bertha know?” I carried plates to the sink.

“Know what?”

“You’re a fairy.”

“Oh, that again. No one knows but you. And you’d better keep it a secret.” Mandy looked her fiercest.

“Why?”

She just scowled.

“I will. I promise. But why?”

“I’ll tell you. People only like the idea of fairies. When they bump up against a particular, real-as-corn fairy, there’s always trouble.” She rinsed a platter. “You dry.”

“Why?”

“Because the dishes are wet, that’s why.” She saw my surprised face. “Oh, why is there trouble? Two reasons, mostly. People know we can do magic, so they want us to solve their problems for them. When we don’t, they get mad. The other reason is we’re immortal. That gets them mad too. Lady wouldn’t speak to me for a week when her father died.”

“Why doesn’t Lucinda care if people know she’s a fairy?”

“She likes them to know, the fool. She wants them to thank her when she gives them one of her awful gifts.”

“Are they always awful?”

“Always. They are always awful, but some people are delighted to have a present from a fairy, even if it makes them miserable.”

“Why did Mother know you’re a fairy? Why do I know?”

“All the Eleanor line are Friends of the Fairies. You have fairy blood in you.”

Fairy blood! “Can I do magic? Shall I live forever? Would Mother have if she hadn’t gotten sick? Are there many Friends of the Fairies?”

“Very few. You’re the only one left in Kyrria. And no, love, you can’t do magic or live forever. It’s just a drop of fairy blood. But there’s one way it has already started to show. Your feet haven’t grown for a few years, I’ll warrant.”

“None of me has grown for a few years.”

“The rest of you will soon enough, but you’ll have fairy feet, like your mother did.” Mandy lifted the hems of her skirt and five petticoats to reveal feet that were no longer than mine. “We’re too tall for our feet. It’s the only thing we can’t change by magic. Our men stuff their shoes so no one can tell, and we ladies hide them under our skirts.”

I stuck a foot out of my gown. Tiny feet were fashionable, but would they make me even clumsier as I grew taller? Would I be able to keep my balance?

“Could you make my feet grow if you wanted to? Or…” I searched for another miracle. Rain pelted the window. “Or could you stop the rain?”

Mandy nodded.

“Do it. Please do it.”

“Why would I want to?”

“For me. I want to see magic. Big magic.”

“We don’t do big magic. Lucinda’s the only one. It’s too dangerous.”

“What’s dangerous about ending a storm?”

“Maybe nothing, maybe something. Use your imagination.”

“Clear skies would be good. People could go outside.”

“Use your imagination,” Mandy repeated.

I thought. “The grass needs rain. The crops need rain.”

“More,” Mandy said.

“Maybe a bandit was going to rob someone, and he isn’t doing it because of the weather.”

“That’s right. Or maybe I’d start a drought, and then I’d have to fix that because I started it. And then maybe the rain I sent would knock down a branch and smash in the roof of a house, and I’d have to fix that too.”

“That wouldn’t be your fault. The owners should have built a stronger roof.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Or maybe I’d cause a flood and people would be killed. That’s the problem with big magic. I only do little magic. Good cooking, my curing soup, my Tonic.”

“When Lucinda cast the spell on me, was that big magic?”

“Of course it was. The numskull!” Mandy scoured a pot so hard that it clattered and banged against the copper sink.

“Tell me how to break the spell. Please, Mandy.”

“I don’t know how. I only know it can be done.”

“If I told Lucinda how terrible it is, would she lift the spell, do you think?”

“I doubt it, but maybe. Then again, she might take away one spell and give you another even worse. The trouble with Lucinda is, ideas pop into her head and come out as spells.”

“What does she look like?”

“Not like the rest of us. But you’d better hope you never lay eyes on her.”

“Where does she live?” I asked. If I could find her, maybe I could persuade her to lift my curse. After all, Mandy could be wrong.

“We’re not on speaking terms. I don’t keep track of the whereabouts of Lucinda the Idiot. Watch that bowl!”

The order came too late. I got the broom. “Are all Friends clumsy?”

“No, sweet. Fairy blood does not make you clumsy. That’s human. You don’t see me dropping plates, do you?”

I started to sweep, but it wasn’t necessary. The pieces of pottery gathered themselves together and flew into the trash bin. I couldn’t believe it.

“That’s about all I do, honey. Small magic that can’t hurt anybody. Handy sometimes, though. No sharp bits left on the floor.”

I stared into the bin. The shards lay there. “Why didn’t you turn it back into a bowl?”

“The magic’s too big. Doesn’t seem like it, but it is. Could hurt someone. You never know.”

“You mean fairies can’t see the future? If you could, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“We can’t see the future any more than you can. Only gnomes can, a few of them anyway.”

A bell tinkled somewhere in the house. Father calling one of the servants. Mother never used the bell.

“Were you my great-grandmother’s fairy godmother too?” A thousand questions flooded in. “How long have you been our fairy godmother?” How old was Mandy, really?

Bertha came in. “Sir Peter wants you in the study, miss.”

“What does he want?” I asked.

“He didn’t say.” She twisted one of her braids anxiously.

Bertha was scared of everything. What was there to be afraid of? My father wanted to talk to me. It was only to be expected.

I finished drying a plate, dried another, then a third.

“Best not tarry, little mistress,” Bertha said.

I reached for a fourth dish.

“You’d better go,” Mandy said. “And he won’t want to see that apron.”

Mandy was frightened too! I took off the apron and left.

I stopped just within the doorway of the study. Father sat in Mother’s chair, examining something in his lap.

“Ah, there you are.” He looked up. “Come closer, Ella.”

I glared at him, resenting the order. Then I took one step forward. It was the game I played with Mandy, obedience and defiance.

“I asked you to come closer, Eleanor.”

“I came closer.”

“Not near enough. I won’t bite you. I only want to get to know you a bit.” He walked to me and led me to a chair facing him.

“Have you ever seen anything as splendid as this?” He passed me the object he’d had in his lap. “You can hold it. It’s heavy for its size. Here.”

I decided to drop it since he liked it so much. But I glanced at it first, and then I couldn’t.

I held a porcelain castle no bigger than my two fists, with six wee towers, each ending in a miniature candle holder. And oh! Strung between a window in each of two towers was a gossamer thread of china from which hung — laundry! A man’s hose, a robe, a baby’s pinafore, all thin as a spider’s web. And, painted in a window downstairs, a smiling maiden waved a silken scarf. It seemed to be silk, anyway.

Father took it from me. “Close your eyes.”

I heard him pull the heavy drapes shut I watched through slitted eyes. I didn’t trust him.

He placed the castle on the mantel, put in candles, and lit them.

“Open your eyes.”

I ran to look closer. The castle was a sparkling wonderland. The flames drew pearly tints out of the white walls, and the windows glowed yellow-gold, suggesting cheerful fires within.

“Ohhh!” I said.

Father opened the drapes and blew out the candles. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Where did you get it?”

“From the elves. An elf made it. They’re marvelous potters. One of Agulen’s students made this. I’ve always wanted an Agulen, but I haven’t got any yet.”

“Where will you put it?”

“Where do you want me to put it, Ella?”

“In a window.”

“Not in your room?”

“In any room, but in a window.” So it could wink out at everyone, inside and on the street.

Father stared at me for a long moment. “I shall tell its buyer to place it in a window.”

“You’re going to sell it!”

“I’m a merchant, Ella. I sell things.” For a minute he spoke to himself. “And perhaps I can pass this one off as a genuine Agulen. Who could tell?” He came back to me. “Now you know who I am: Sir Peter, the merchant. But who are you?”

“A daughter who used to have a mother.”

He waved that aside. “But who is Ella?”

“A lass who doesn’t wish to be interrogated.”

He was pleased. “You have courage, to speak to me so.” He looked me over. “That’s my chin.” He touched it, and I drew back. “Strong. Determined. That’s my nose. I hope you don’t mind that the ndstrils flare. My eyes, except yours are green. Most of your face belongs to me. I wonder how it will be on a woman when you grow up.”

Why did he think it was fine to talk about me as though I were a portrait instead of a maiden?

“What shall I do with you?” he asked himself.

“Why must you do something with me?”

“I can’t leave you to grow up a cook’s helper. You must be educated.” He changed the subject. “What did you think of Dame Olga’s daughters?”

“They were not comforting,” I said.

Father laughed, really laughed, head back, shoulders heaving.

What was so funny? I disliked being laughed at. It made me want to say something nice about the loathsome Hattie and Olive. “They meant well, I suppose.”

Father wiped tears from his eyes. “They didn’t mean well. The older one is an unpleasant conniver like her mother and the younger one is a simpleton. It never entered their heads to mean well.” His voice became thoughtful. “Dame Olga is titled and rich.”

What did that have to do with anything?

“Perhaps I should send you to finishing school with her daughters. You might learn how to walk like the slip of a thing you are and not like a small elephant.”

Finishing school! I’d have to leave Mandy. And they’d tell me what to do all the time and I’d have to do it, whatever it was. They’d try to rid me of my clumsiness, but they wouldn’t be able to. So they’d punish me, and I’d punish them back, and they’d punish me more.