Princess of Glass (18 page)

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even more anxiety than the usual sort, something that Ellen was beginning to understand.

According to rumor, Poppy and her sisters had danced their shoes to shreds every night before the oldest two princesses had married. "Imagine what your feet would feel like if you had to dance every night," she thought. Even without glass slippers it would not be pleasant.

When the Corley was done, Ellen looked down to see the exquisite shoes. They were like flowers of pink crystal and fine gold cupping her feet.

And they hurt more than she could possibly imagine.

The pain had been bearable last time but as the hot glass touched her stiff feet, steam rose up and she felt a cold so intense that it burned. The only bonus was that it seemed to loosen the stiffness in her toes.

Mute servants helped her out of the chair, and she swayed for a moment before regaining her balance. They fussed over her, straightening her hair and dusting rouge onto her pale cheeks, while Ellen fought the dizziness that was threatening to overcome her.

"Drink this," the Corley had said, and handed her a goblet of something that smelled sweet and spicy at the same time.

Ellen drank, and blessed coolness ran down her body and into her feet. She could take a step, then another. The pain was still there, but remote now, and she felt her blood singing.

"Now, go and dance with your prince, my dear," her

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godmother had told her with a smile. "Go and dance and dazzle them with your beauty!"

All this Ellen told Poppy, while the princess sat on Lydia's bed in silence. It was a relief to tell someone what was happening, it was a relief to confide her fears that perhaps her godmother was not as kind as she had seemed, and it was a relief that Poppy didn't say anything during the narrative.

But when Ellen finished, Poppy had plenty to say.

"I can't even imagine what you were thinking, agreeing to do the bidding of some creature you had never met before in your life," Poppy said, clucking her tongue.

"But she's my godmother," Ellen protested, bristling.

"How do you know that? Have you seen the christening record? Does it say 'the Corley' under
godmother?
You must have known she wasn't mortal: normal humans don't live in palaces that you enter through piles of ash."

Ellen wanted to argue with this, but she honestly couldn't. She should have been more wary, she should have asked more questions, or at least not been so quick to agree to her godmother's requests.

"But can you really blame me?" She asked the question after a long silence between the two of them, and was embarrassed at how meek and small her voice was. "She was so kind. And everything was so wonderful. The gowns--" She plucked at the coarse wool of her blankets. "The jewels ..." She closed her eyes and leaned back on the thin pillow, waiting for a mocking comment from Poppy.

None was forthcoming, however.

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"Yes, I know why you did it," Poppy said quietly, "But you realize now that you need help, don't you?"

"Yes," Ellen said, her voice still small. "But how? I have to attend the masquerade. I have to marry Prince Christian."

"Oh do you?" Now a snap came to Poppy's voice. "Whether or not
he
wants to marry
you?"

"I have to," Ellen said again. And then, to her embarrassment, she burst into noisy sobs. Her nose started to run, and she clutched the blankets to her face. "I have to."

If she didn't marry Christian, what would she do? She had to get away from Seadown House, away from being a maid. Away from Castleraugh, where everyone knew her family's shame.

"Stop that at once," Poppy said. But she didn't sound angry, more like uncomfortable. "I have eleven sisters, you know. I don't exactly enjoy watching girlish hysterics." The princess got to her feet. "Besides, blubbing isn't going to get you out of this. But I will!" Poppy headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Ellen raised her face from the blankets.

"I'm going to tell Roger and Lord Richard everything you've just told me," she said briskly. She opened the door, and they heard the clock strike two. "Oh, blast! No, first I'm going to help Marianne say good-bye to her guests,
then
I'm going to tell Roger and Lord Richard everything you told me." Poppy swept out, breathtaking in her silver and violet gown.

After she was gone, Ellen reflected that, no matter how abrupt and strange the girl could be,

Poppy would never

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need the Corley's magic to help her snare a prince, or anyone else she wanted. She had the bearing of a princess, through and through, no matter the situation.

More tears leaked out of Ellens eyes, and she lay back and sniffled. Then she fumbled a handkerchief out from under her pillow and tried to wipe off her face. Poppy had said that Roger was going to help, and she didn't want him to see her looking all red and puffy.

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***

Rejected

Christian felt like he was just waking from a long sleep. Something strange was afoot, but no one would tell him what. Lady Margaret still snapped at everyone, but Marianne was in better spirits and thoroughly enjoyed the rest of her ball. Christian was quite pleased about this, and danced with her twice after Lady Ella left.

But Poppy and Roger were missing, and Marianne would only hint that they were "setting things to rights." Christian just hoped that they weren't planning on doing something to humiliate poor Lady Ella for copying Poppy's and Marianne's gowns. It was rude of her to do it, but she was a nice girl and he didn't want to see her completely undone by her folly.

Especially if he was going to marry her.

The thought stopped him cold.

He was standing near the punch bowl, having a drink with Marianne and a few other friends, and he froze with his glass

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halfway to his lips. Now where had that sudden conviction come from? He didn't want to get married!

But his head was suddenly filled with visions of Lady Ella meeting his parents, walking down the aisle of the family chapel in a white gown ... He could picture it all: what he was wearing, what she was wearing, the music that was playing, his little sisters as bridesmaids. What a queer thing!

"Are you all right?" Dickon Thwaite nudged his arm, and Christian slopped punch over his wrist. "Oops, sorry!" Dickon passed him his handkerchief.

"I just had a sudden ... vision? Daydream?" Christian shook his head. He'd thought the muzziness was leaving him, but here it was back again!

"About whom?" Dickon waggled his eyebrows. "Lady Ella? Of course it was, you sly dog!" He lowered his voice. "And don't think we aren't all having the same daydreams!"

Marianne was standing right next to Christian, talking to another young woman. But she turned at Dickon's words, and Christian braced himself for her to start screaming at the younger Thwaite brother. She, and all the other ladies except Poppy, had been quite volatile about any mention of Lady Ella.

To his horror, however, Marianne's eyes simply filled with tears. "I despise you," she whispered, and ran off.

Christian looked at Dickon with wide eyes, but the other young man merely shrugged. "Can't stand a bit of competition," he said breezily, and poured himself more punch.

"Dickon!" Christian put his own glass down. "You and Marianne ... I thought... everyone thinks ..." He found

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himself struggling to speak past his astonishment. "You were all but betrothed!"

"I? To Marianne? Of course not!" Dickon snorted. Then his genial brown eyes hardened. "Of course, if you would step aside and let a fellow have a chance with Lady Ella ..."

"Hear, hear!" Another young man stepped up, looking angrily at Christian. "Just because you're a prince doesn't mean you get to steal the prettiest lady in Breton!"

"Exactly." Dickon had put down his glass now, and his fists were clenched.

Christian opened his mouth to ask what on earth had come over the normally light-minded Dickon. Or even perhaps to say diplomatically that there were many pretty Bretoner ladies, which was certainly the truth. But instead he said, "Lady Ella is going to be my wife, and the future queen of the Danelaw!"

He wasn't sure who was more shocked by this statement: himself or his listeners. Dickon's fist connecting with his jaw was almost less of a surprise than his own words.

Christian reeled back, his own fists rising instinctively, and it looked as if the other youth were about to join the fray as well. But there was a rustling of silk and a female voice rose in some foreign oath.

"Stop this at once!" Poppy stepped between Christian and the other two young men. "Or I'll have you dunked into a horse trough to cool off--all three of you!"

Christian put his hand to his jaw, feeling it gingerly. He would have a bruise there, he knew, but didn't think it would

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be too swollen. He gave Dickon a rueful look, hoping to at least share their humiliation, but Dickon was still looking at him with hate-filled eyes.

"Dickon Thwaite," Poppy said in a low, dangerous voice. "You will go to Marianne this instant and tell her that she looked stunning, and wish her a happy birthday, and then you will take your leave. If you don't, I will do something so horrible to you that I don't even know the word for it in the Bretoner language."

Dickon blanched and headed for the entrance hall. Poppy swept the room with her indignant gaze. The ball was over, the musicians packing up their instruments, and many of the guests had already left anyway. Under Poppy's baleful eye, everyone cheerfully wished Marianne many happy returns, complimented her gown, and then left with as much haste as their dignity allowed.

Everyone except Christian.

"I think something ... unnatural is going on," he confided to Poppy as the last of the guests kissed Marianne's hand and bowed to Lady Seadown.

"Of course it is," Poppy said absently. She was already turning toward Lord Richard's study. "But we'll get it sorted out.

"It has to do with Lady Ella, doesn't it?"

She had taken several steps away, and so he raised his voice to ask. Marianne heard and just shook her head, still looking a bit tearful. Lady Margaret scowled and turned away.

"Yes," Poppy said over her shoulder. "But really, it's no good

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even telling you until it's all over. Just make sure you keep the bracelet I gave you on all the time. It will protect you." Her voice sounded oddly muffled.

"But do you have one for Lady Ella? I don't want my future bride to be hurt!" Again, it was as though his mouth moved without his permission. A voice in the back of his head was screaming that this wasn't right, but he couldn't force himself to refute the statement.

Marianne gasped, and Poppy's back stiffened. She moved her head so that she no longer looked over her shoulder at him, but straight ahead to the closed door of Lord Richard's study.

"Lady Ella will be taken care of," Poppy said calmly.

"Exactly as she deserves to be," Marianne began with great vehemence. "The horrid little--"

But Poppy put out one hand and took hold of her friend's arm. "Come along, Marianne. Good night, Christian."

"But Poppy!" Christian took a step toward her. "If something's going on, I want to help!"

"I don't think you can," Poppy said, so softly that he almost didn't catch the words. "Good night."

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***

Strategist

The bracelet and the potion are helping Christian, but not enough," Poppy said, her voice tense, when she entered Lord Richard's study "I'm sorry It looks like Roger will need to brew more. A great deal more. It's worn off of Dickon again as well." She wished she had her knitting. She'd located more unbleached wool earlier, and she wanted to make Christian another charm.

Lord Richard opened his arms and Marianne went to give her father a hug. "I'm sorry your ball was rather spoiled by all this, my dear."

"It's all right," Marianne said, but she swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. "As long as this ends soon."

Roger Thwaite cleared his throat. "Along those lines, Poppy, were you able to speak with Eleanora?"

Sinking down into one of the large leather chairs first, Poppy heaved a sigh. "Oh yes. She told me everything." She stretched her legs out, wiggling her feet in their satin dancing

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shoes. "But only because she's rather the worse for wear at this point. Those shoes didn't just look like glass, they
were
glass. Melted onto her feet. If she wore them past midnight they would harden and probably stay on forever. And that's just to begin with." Poppy shook her head, not even sure how to go on.

"But where did she get the shoes?" Roger wanted to know.

"Someone--or possibly
something
--called the Corley contacted her," Poppy said. "The Corley claims to be Ellen's godmother. That's who her mysterious patron is. In return, all Ellen has to do is dance with no one but Christian, so that he will fall in love with her and marry her."

Seeing their stares, Poppy allowed herself a small smile. She settled back, waited until Marianne had perched herself on the arm of her father's chair, and then told them the rest. The visits to the palace beyond the ashes, the mute servants, the curfew, everything that Ellen had passed on to her.

"What she doesn't understand, and neither do I," Poppy finished, "is why this Corley is so keen to have her marry Christian." She raised one eyebrow at Lord Richard.

"Yes, Poppy, I will tell you everything I know," he said. "But Eleanora needs to hear it as well, so if she cannot leave her bed, we'll have to join her upstairs."

Out of the corner of her eye, Poppy saw Roger's cheeks turn red at the idea of seeing Ellen in her bedchamber. He was really and truly in love with her, Poppy thought. She hoped that Ellen returned his feelings and was only chasing after Christian because of the Corley's influence. Roger was kind and good, and deserved to have his affection returned.