Princess of Glass (15 page)

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she'd assured him that she only wanted it for medicinal purposes, he'd blinked at her in a way that she guessed passed for a wink, and laughed even harder.

"How much of that are you supposed to put in?" Roger watched her throwing in the herbs with narrowed eyes.

"I really don't think there's a measurement," Poppy said breezily. "We usually just toss some in. It's also good to keep fresh nightshade and basil with you, in your pockets maybe. Although you smell like an herb garden if you do."

"Interesting," Roger said again.

But Poppy could tell that he didn't think it interesting so much as dubious. He was so precise about everything that she knew watching her throw her herbs in willy-nilly was making him twitch. She added the last of the basil and put a lid on the pot.

"How is yours coming?" She nodded at his concoction.

Roger ponderously checked his pocket watch, then took the lid off the pot and stirred it with a long silver spoon. He sniffed the horrid stuff, checked with the text one last time, then took the pot off the burner.

"It should be ready," he said.

"How do we test it?"

Poppy's voice was high and nasal, since she had pinched her nose when he took the lid off the pot. The reek of it was really terrible, like unwashed feet, mushrooms, and cinnamon mixed together. Combined with the basil and mint from her pot, she had to fight to keep from gagging, and thanked the heavens that the nightshade, at least, was odorless.

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"I'll give some to Dickon," Roger said. He wasn't holding his nose, but his face was rather greenish.

"If the ingredients are wrong, it won't kill him, will it?" "It shouldn't; none of the ingredients are harmful." "Other than the smell," she quipped.

"This should simmer overnight," she went on, indicating her pot. "I need some fresh air." "Agreed," Roger said.

They both stumbled out of the stillroom and took great gulps of laundry-scented air in the adjacent drying room. When the potion had cooled, Roger went back into the still-room and poured it into a glass for Dickon.

"Will he drink it?"

"I'll tell him it's Lady Ella's favorite tea," Roger said.

Poppy laughed, and was still laughing when they went into the library. Dickon was awash in crumpled paper, and looked up with a dazed expression as they came in.

"Can you think of a rhyme for 'Ella' other than 'fella'?" he asked.

Poppy put one hand over her eyes. She could think of a number of things, like "yella," that would rhyme, but none of them made for good poetry. She didn't even want to know what was on the crumpled papers littering the table and floor.

"Poetry isn't really my strong suit," Roger said blandly. "Have a drink to refresh yourself, why don't you?"

"Ah, yes! Just the thing!"

Dickon reached for the tumbler eagerly enough, but when

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the odor reached his nostrils he recoiled, nearly spilling it. Roger grabbed the glass back just in time. "I say! It smells like an old boot!"

Roger started to say something about Lady Ella, but Poppy stopped him with a hand on his sleeve.

"Dickon," she said with a smile, "it's a love potion."

"Pardon?" the brothers said together.

"It will make you irresistible to Lady Ella."

"Really?" Dickon licked his lips, then shuddered. "Do you think I need it? I would much rather woo her with my poems."

Poppy felt her nostrils flare and she bit back a giggle. "Well, in case you can't find a rhyme for 'Ella'..." She took the glass from Roger and held it out to Dickon.

"Are you certain it will work?" He stopped with one hand outstretched. "Why does it smell so ghastly?"

"Because it only works on Lady Ella," Poppy improvised. "We strained it through one of her stockings."

"How did you get one of Lady Ella's stockings?"

"We bribed her maid. Now drink!"

Dickon hesitated only a second more, then he snatched the glass, gulped it down, and gagged. He fumbled the glass to the tabletop, holding his throat with his free hand.

"Oh! You've poisoned me!"

"Nonsense," Roger said in a worried voice. "You just have to, um, twist the glass." He made a wringing motion.

"Twist the glass?" Now it was Poppy and Dickon who spoke

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at the same time. Dickon, still retching, obediently turned the glass around on the table.

"That's doing nothing," Poppy reported, twisting her own hands in the skirt of her gown.

"Din yun, din yun
...?" Roger pulled at his lower lip. "Oh!" He shook his head.
"Throw
the glass!"

"With pleasure," Dickon choked, and tossed the tumbler into the hearth.

The glass shattered into tiny diamonds, which smoked and disappeared with a gentle chiming sound. Poppy closed her mouth, and looked to Dickon, who all at once sat up in his chair and looked around as if he'd just awakened.

"What was that for?"

"So you'd stop making a fool of yourself with Lady Ella," Poppy said, carefully watching for his reaction.

"Lady Ella? That strange girl who kept hitting Christian with her fan?" Dickon shook his head and turned back to his papers and pen. "Don't know what you mean. Now kindly leave me in peace while I compose a letter to Marianne. Her birthday is tomorrow, you know."

Roger and Poppy fled to the hallway where they stood, looking stunned, for a moment.

"Goodness," Poppy said at last. "That seemed too easy."

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***

Dreamer

Poppy stood up in the middle of her bed, just to make sure she didn't fall back asleep and continue her wretched, wretched nightmare. Why she had to endlessly visit the Palace Under Stone she didn't know, but she hoped the dreams would stop soon.

She crouched down and reached under her pillow to make sure the little white sachet was still there. It was. She plucked it out and held it to her nose. Still fragrant with herbs after all these years, the muslin bag had been a gift from Walter Vogel. He had given sachets to Poppy and all her sisters some ten years ago, to ward off bad dreams. Hers didn't seem to be working anymore, though it still smelled as fresh as always.

Something else to write to Galen about. Poppy wished she could ask Walter, but his work in Westfalin was done, though Poppy and her sisters still missed the strange old man. She wondered if there was some way to summon him, for surely his knowledge of magic was needed here in Breton now.

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She got up and wrote a note to Galen and Rose, including the strange dream, the questions about her sachet, and the possibility of reaching Walter Vogel. She sealed and addressed it so that it could go out with the first post, but even so it would reach Galen and Rose far too late to help. Marianne's birthday ball was only two days away, and Poppy was sure that "Lady Ella" would be in attendance, causing even more mayhem than before.

Christian and Lady Margaret could talk of little else, and Marianne burst into tears whenever anyone mentioned either Ella or the royal gala. Dickon had needed two more doses of the potion, which seemed to wear off after a day, and Roger was frantically trying to brew more of the malodorous stuff, but was having trouble locating one of the ingredients. And the Thwaite's stillroom maid had turned off the spirit lamp under Poppy's pot of boiling wool, and now she would have to start all over again with the herbs and rainwater.

Roger had come to the house twice specifically to call on Ellen and try to winkle out her plans for the upcoming ball, but both times the girl conveniently vanished.

But when Poppy saw the dress that Lady Margaret had had made for her to wear to Marianne's ball, she resolved that she would confront Ellen in front of all the guests if "Lady Ella" wore a copy of it.

It was of deep violet satin with an overskirt of smoky gray tissue that softened the color underneath and made Poppy look and feel like a fairy princess. There was silver embroidery around

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the neckline, and matching satin shoes. She already had a violet silk choker she wore to enliven a white gown she had inherited from Lily.

"And look at mine," Marianne burbled, her thoughts taken away from Lady Ella for the first time all day. "Just look!"

Poppy looked, and applauded. Marianne would outshine everyone in such a gown, and Poppy felt some of the tension in her shoulders unknot. Marianne's gown was rose-colored satin with a faint tracery of gold embroidery around the sleeves and hem. Lady Margaret was going to let Marianne wear the pearl tiara and necklace--each with a single pink diamond as a centerpiece--that had been her wedding gift from Lord Richard.

Poppy twirled Marianne around. "You'll be gorgeous!"

"Yes, gorgeous, Lady Marianne," echoed a voice from the doorway. Ellen stood there with a tea tray in her hands and a funny little smile on her face.

Poppy took the tray before Ellen contrived to spill the tea on either gown. Although Ellen had been remarkably graceful of late, Poppy was taking no chances.

"Don't even think about it," Poppy warned as Ellen's blue eyes lit on the silver and violet gown.

"I
won't," Ellen retorted, curtsied, and sidled out.

"There's no need to be harsh," Lady Margaret said gently.

Knowing that Lady Margaret still wouldn't believe her, and not wanting to weather the floods of tears from Marianne that a mention of Lady Ella would bring, Poppy apologized.

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Then she turned her attention back to the ball gowns, admiring the fine stitching and dramatic layers of skirts.

But Lady Margaret was still staring at the closed door with an expression of concern on her face. "I just don't know what to do about that girl," she murmured. "She wanted to attend the royal gala so badly; but now she appears perfectly satisfied in not having gone."

"Her maid skills seem to be improving," Marianne said, fingering the pink rosettes on the bodice of her new gown. "Maybe she's finally become resigned to being in service."

"I really don't think that's it," Poppy said, but declined to discuss it any further.

Christian would return to the Danelaw the week after the royal masked ball, and Lady Ella clearly had set her cap for the prince, which meant that something was likely to happen at that masked ball or soon after. But they had no idea what, and if Ellen wouldn't talk to them, there was nothing they could do to prevent it.

Nothing but wait, and watch, and hope the foolish girl came to her senses and confided the secret of her enchantment to them, and soon.

***

"Who does she think she is?" Marianne was livid with rage. The flush made her look even prettier, but Poppy doubted that her friend would appreciate a compliment right now.

Lady Ella had indeed come to Marianne's birthday ball, arriving late and in grand style in a large golden carriage

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pulled by a dozen gleaming white horses and attended by half a dozen handsome but mute servants. She had swept into the ballroom and gone immediately to Christian, who had dropped Marianne's hand like a hot brick and instead squired Lady Ella during the opening dance.

The entire room, the entire manor, was silent with shock through most of that first dance. Then the babbling had broken out: the questions, the speculation, the compliments and insults. The gentlemen were even more enamored of Ellen than before, Poppy noticed, while the ladies were more vicious. But Poppy couldn't blame them: not only was she stealing the limelight from Marianne, but she was dressed, purposely, to outshine her.

Rather than copying Poppy's gown, this time Ella had copied Marianne's.

"I don't care how fond you are of her," Poppy said to Roger as they stood to one side of the dance floor. Marianne whirled past them, partnered by her father now, her face red and eyes shining with unshed tears. "I might have to kill her."

Lady Ella and Christian were leading the figures of the dance, a whirl of black suit and rose-satin gown. As Ella's skirts swirled, tantalizing glimpses of her gleaming shoes were revealed. They were rose and gold, and once more looked like nothing so much as exquisitely blown glass. Her necklace and tiara were more opulent versions of Lady Seadowns, worn by Marianne with such pride.

"This is not like her," Roger said uneasily.

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"No, this is not like your memory of her," Poppy corrected him.

"I still can't believe she would do something so deliberately cruel," Roger said, shaking his head.

"People change," Poppy said under her breath. "Let's go have a look at her carriage. As soon as this dance ends, I want you to ask her to dance. Insist, if you must. And try to get some answers."

Swallowing, Roger nodded and followed Poppy out into the night air to look at the carriage of gold with its silent coachmen and its even more eerily silent horses. As the cold air cooled Poppy's hot cheeks, she tried to tell herself she was only upset on Marianne's behalf, and not because Christian was making such a fool of himself.