Disenchanted

by Susan Carroll

  “Stop.” I groaned. “I am so tired of everyone pointing out that I am not the girl I once was, how I am not as romantic or as fun or daring as I used to be. Pardon me for growing up, but I have responsibilities now.”

  “Your stepmother and stepsisters! Do you intend to saddle yourself with their care forever?”

  “They are my family and I love them. I cannot do anything that would place them in danger. I do not expect you to understand. You are quite free to be as reckless as you please. You have no one.”

  Mal fell silent. Then he said in a taut voice, “You are right. I have no family left, but I always thought I had you, Ella.”

  “Oh, Mal, you do.” I reached across the table to take his hand. “You are my dearest friend, and I would do anything for you. Anything but this. Is retrieving that orb so very important to you? What does it do?”

  “The orb has the ability to find something that has been lost. I am not even sure I would know how to use it, but it was my grandfather’s. That alone makes it important enough to me. I have very little left to remember him by. The royal government confiscated nearly everything he owned when he died and I for one am mighty sick of our cursed king seizing all that we have.”

  A rare bitterness crept into Mal’s voice and it rendered me uncomfortable. I had heard rumors there might be people wishing to depose the king. Whispers had circulated for years that only Queen Anthea’s son and daughter-in-law had died of the plague. Her grandson had survived. The old queen had feared for the infant’s life when King Cuthbert had invaded to claim the throne and so she had hidden the babe away. The legend claimed that one day a descendant of good Queen Anthea would appear to lead an uprising to save Arcady from the Helavalerian’s tyrannical rule. A foolish tale. If there was a missing heir, surely he would have been discovered decades ago.

  I could not believe that Mal, even as reckless as he was, would ever be part of such an insane plot, which could only end in disaster. It was considered treason to even criticize the king as angrily as Mal had done. King August was protected by his grand ducal wizard, Mercato, and it was said that the powerful magician had his spies everywhere.

  I could not help glancing nervously over my shoulder. Mal and I were quite alone and there was no one to hear, but the witch’s cat lurking on a tree limb outside the window.

  “I wish I could help you retrieve the orb, Mal,” I said. “Truly I do, but I am sorry. I just can’t—”

  “Never mind,” he said, withdrawing his hand from mine. “There is no need to apologize. If you feel you cannot, then you cannot. I’ll find another way to get the orb.”

  “But how?”

  “You needn’t worry about that.”

  I did worry. I knew that if Mal had made up his mind to have that orb, he would go to any dangerous lengths to get it. But I could not allow him to use my fear for his safety to goad me into doing anything rash.

  “I am sorry,” I repeated miserably. “I have never had to refuse any of your birthday favors before.”

  Mal shrugged. “I daresay we have outgrown this childish nonsense of doing each other birthday favors. You should just bake me a little cake or knit me a pair of socks or something.”

  “It will have to be the cake,” I said. “We broke the only knitting needles I ever owned, the time we used to play at jousting, remember?”

  Mal gave a wry smile and nodded. No more was said on the subject of birthday favors or the king’s ball. We spoke of indifferent matters until it was time for me to go. Our parting was cheerful enough on the surface, but I sensed that I had deeply disappointed Mal and I hated it.

  I had hoped my visit to Mal would cheer me up and take my mind off this wretched ball and all my other cares. I left his shop feeling worse than when I had arrived. As I emerged onto the street, I once more had the eerie feeling of being watched.

  I thought it might prove to be the witch’s cat again, but this time it was the witch herself. Delphine lingered upon the stoop of her crooked house, arms folded across her scrawny bosom. Mal often flippantly referred to her as an “old gal,” but if I had to guess her age, I would judge her to be little more than thirty.

  I raised my hand in a halfhearted greeting she ignored. I have no idea what I might have ever done to offend the woman, but for some reason, Delphine did not like me any better than her cat did.

  When I had expressed my concern about this to Mal, he had said that Delphine did not get on well with any other women. The witch much preferred the company of men. If I was ever worried about where I stood with her, I had only to glance at Delphine’s hair, which had the curious property of changing color according to her moods.

  When her wild mane waxed golden orange, it indicated Delphine was feeling happy. Bright red, she was excited or passionate, green, she was envious or perhaps coming down with something. Deep blue, the witch was sad, and purple…Mal had never been able to figure out what purple hair meant. If I ever saw Delphine’s tangled tresses turn black, Mal had warned me I had better keep my distance and be right quick about it.

  As Delphine studied me from the shadows of her doorway, her hair darkened from green to a hue as black as pitch, the look in her eyes pure malevolence. I shivered and hurried on my way.

  Chapter 5

  The next two weeks passed by with grinding slowness. “Grinding” being a very apt word because I had begun to feel like a millstone being worn down by a steady deluge of water, the water in this case being my stepsisters’ tears. Any hope I had that Amy and Netta would grow more resigned to my decision about the ball was put to rout. As the days passed, their beseeching only waxed more desperate. Add my stepmother’s pleas into the mix and I felt driven to distraction.

  Everywhere I turned in my own home, I encountered pleading looks, melancholy sighs and morose silences. Netta plucked out sad tunes on her harp that could have reduced to tears even the laughing loons that flew over the Conger River. Amy’s latest campaign consisted of drawing sketches of languishing maidens with visibly broken hearts and leaving them for me to find pressed between the pages of my book, at the bottom of my marketing basket or tucked inside my favorite shoes.

  As I entered the kitchen that morning to bake bread, I found Amy’s latest effort pinned to the flour bag. It was a watercolor of two dark-haired young women contorted into paroxysms of grief as they stood, locked outside the gates of the castle. I had to suppress a chuckle. Amy was not good at drawing people. Her sorrowing maidens resembled a pair of stiff-necked, miserable trolls.

  My stepsister did have a genius for depicting buildings. She had accurately captured the royal castle with its gleaming white walls and proud towers. The softness of her sky, the wisps of clouds infused the palace with a fairy-like beauty, a place of dreams and the promise of romance.

  Although I smiled at Amy’s drawing, I sighed as well. Mal had insisted the girls would recover from their disappointment. I knew that they would, but it still pained me to see them so deeply unhappy. If I was ever tempted to grow impatient with their histrionics, I reminded myself it was not their fault.

  I had been raised on stories of Queen Anthea the Magnificently Wise. Amy and Netta had grown up with stories of princesses being rescued by bold heroes and carried away on white chargers to a beautiful palace where they all lived happily ever after.

  My stepmother would often tell us such tales at bedtime. Imelda was a gifted storyteller and even I got caught up in the sagas she wove, although I rewrote them a bit in my mind, so sometimes I was the one rescuing my prince or at least fighting beside him.

  But at the age of seventeen, I had been just like Amy and Netta in one respect, longing to find my hero and fall in love. My heart was open and eager when I first clapped eyes on my handsome bard. I was smitten at first sight, although I convinced myself I was not like the other silly girls, captivated by Harper’s golden hair, sky blue eyes and charming voice.

  I was not merely infatuated, as my father had insisted. I was genuinely and sensibly in love with
Harper, valuing his intelligence, his talent, his sense of humor and above all else, his honesty and sincerity. When my bard proved false, he did far more than break my heart. He completely shattered my confidence in my own judgment.

  I caught myself about to sigh again and sternly suppressed it. I do not know why I had been thinking so much about Harper of late and once again feeling all the old pain and longing. Perhaps because the entire female population of Midtown was so giddy over the prospect of this ball. Nothing else was spoken of except romance and finding true love, hopefully in the arms of a handsome prince. I wondered how many of those starry-eyed young women would someday end up as disenchanted as I was.

  I could have endured all of this royal ball madness much better if I at least had Mal to turn to, but I had seen nothing of him for the past two weeks. When I tried to visit him, the Hawk’s Nest was closed. No one answered my knock, although sometimes I suspected Mal was in there. I might have been desperate enough to inquire after Mal at the witch’s house next door, but there was never any sign of Delphine or her horrid cat either. I finally gave up going to Misty Bottoms, but I keenly missed my friend’s sharp wit and sense of humor, which would have helped me keep all of this royal ball nonsense in perspective. Although I knew my refusal of his birthday favor had disappointed Mal, it hurt that he could shut me out this way.

  I also worried that the reason for his absence was that he was neck deep in some insane plot he did not want me to know about. My nights were tormented with hideous dreams of Mal being caught trying to steal that orb and being strangled with the Lord High Garroter’s noose.

  Between lack of sleep and the daily barrage of misery from my family, I was being worn down. Two more weeks, I tried to comfort myself as I set Amy’s drawing aside. Two more weeks and this wretched ball would be over. Perhaps it would take another week or two for my stepmother, Amy and Netta to realize the world had not ended and return to a semblance of their usual cheerful selves. In the meantime, there was bread that needed baking.

  I was just tying my apron strings when the kitchen door burst open. Glancing around, I was startled to see my stepmother. Imelda was not an early riser. She was seldom out of bed at this hour of day, let alone anywhere out of the house. But there she stood in her best pelisse and velvet hat, the one trimmed with the most dashing ostrich feather.

  Although she was approaching fifty, my stepmother looked years younger than her age. She was a beautiful woman, her hair still a lustrous shade of black with not a hint of grey, her face remarkably smooth and unlined. Perhaps this was because, despite the tragic loss of her first husband and her subsequent unhappy union with my father, Imelda had managed to retain her optimism and a youthful outlook on life. I envied her for that. I shuddered to think how haggard I would look when I reached her age.

  That morning, Imelda looked every one of her forty-eight years. Her features were pale and drawn and instead of her normal graceful carriage, her shoulders were slumped. Even her ostrich feather drooped.

  Alarmed, I hurried over to her. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

  She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, Ella, I have done s-something very foolish.”

  “What?” I cried. “What did you do?”

  She began to weep so hard, I could barely understand her, but two words stood out disastrously clear…borrow money.

  “You didn’t!” I began, but my stepmother was in no fit state to be scolded. She was trembling so much, I feared her knees might give way beneath her.

  I guided her over to the kitchen table and eased her down onto one of the chairs. “There, there,” I soothed as I removed her hat and her pelisse as though she were a distraught child. “I am sure you have done nothing that cannot be set right.”

  Imelda hiccupped on another sob. I dug inside her reticule and located her handkerchief. While Imelda dabbed at her eyes, I gave her a brisk hug and settled into the chair opposite her. I waited until her weeping had subsided before saying gently, “You know whatever money you received, you will have to take back. We have discussed this before. We cannot afford to borrow what we can never repay.”

  Imelda sniffed and blew her nose. “N-nothing to worry about. No money. I was r-refused.”

  “Oh.” I heaved a great breath of relief although it was obvious that being denied the loan had left my stepmother devastated. “Who did you approach with your request?”

  “Madam Dearling.”

  “That woman? Oh, Em, whatever possessed you to go that spiteful shrew for money?”

  I already knew the answer to that. The ball. The frapping ball.

  “I k-know you don’t like her but Matilda is my closest friend!” Imelda said but another tear rolled down her cheek. “My only friend, or so I thought. She is certainly rich enough to have lent me such a sum and I was feeling that desperate. You have not been able to find a way for us to buy the tickets. Not that I blame you in the least, Ella dear.”

  My stepmother reached out to pat my hand. “I know that you would if you could. And after all, I am the mama. I am the one who should be looking out for the interests of you girls. When I explained to Matilda why I needed the money, I felt sure she would sympathize. It is not as if she has daughters of her own to worry about, so she could not consider you and your sisters as rivals. I assured Matilda, I would be able to repay the debt very quickly, because I know one of you can secure the affections of a wealthy nobleman if we can just attend that ball.

  “Amy and Netta are such darling girls and you, Ella. If you could just learn not to speak your mind so freely around the gentlemen, you are so dazzlingly beautiful, I am sure you could be the one to win the heart of Prince Florian.”

  “The fairies forbid,” I muttered. Although I could well guess what had happened next, I asked, “How did Madam Dearling respond to your request?”

  Imelda’s lip quivered. “She laughed at me. Matilda actually laughed at me and said I needed to get my head out of the clouds, that you girls could consider yourselves fortunate if you were able to wed some honest tradesmen. And really, it was too bad of me to place her in such an awkward position by coming to her and groveling for money.”

  Imelda’s cheeks flushed pink. “I didn’t grovel, Ella. I swear I didn’t.”

  Mentally I called the Dearling woman a name that would have shocked my stepmother. Aloud I said, “I am sure you did not. You are far too proud and elegant for that.”

  My assurance comforted Imelda a little. She continued, “All the same I apologized to Matilda for distressing her with my request.”

  “Apologized? You should have just spit in her teacup and stalked out.”

  “My behaving in such vulgar fashion would not have improved the situation, Ella dear. Indeed, Matilda was quite gracious about accepting my apology.”

  I barely suppressed a snort.

  “She said we need not ever mention my humiliating request ever again.” Imelda sighed. “But she kept talking about the ball and how every truly eligible young lady in Midtown was going. It was almost as if Matilda wanted to rub salt in my wounds, as if she was taking great pleasure in the fact I could not afford to send my girls to the ball.” Imelda’s eyes clouded with distress and confusion. “But I don’t understand why she would.”

  Because Matilda Dearling was a sour woman with a cramped soul and shriveled-up heart whose only source of enjoyment was the misery of others. Imelda would never be able to understand that.

  I was not blind to my stepmother’s faults. Imelda could be vain, shallow and even foolish at times. But she did not possess a single mean fiber in her very sentimental heart. Consequently, this left her quite vulnerable to the spite and cruelty of others. That was why from a young age, I felt protective of my stepmother, although I was unkind enough myself when she first married my father.

  I wasted little time informing her she was never going to replace my mother. I would never call her “Mama” and I thought Imelda was a stupid name. If I spoke to her at all, I would c
all her “madam” just as my father did; only I infused the word with all of a seven-year-old girl’s scorn. I was astonished when Imelda started to cry. I had never realized before that a child could reduce an adult woman to tears.

  It made me squirm with discomfort, but I still refused to retract my words or apologize. Perhaps because I did feel guilty for being so mean to my stepmother, I resented it when anyone else did so. As I have stated before, when Imelda’s first husband brought her into disgrace, she was shunned by all of her former friends from the Heights. One in particular, the Countess of Pangbourne, took a particular delight in Imelda’s downfall and sought out every available opportunity to snub my stepmother in the most public and humiliating manner possible.

  I had not wanted Imelda as a stepmother, but like it or not, she was part of my family now and I seethed over these insults that sent Imelda weeping into her pillow every time she returned from town. I knew my father could not be counted upon to redress this wrong so I resolved to seek retribution upon the countess myself.

  Mal had never liked my stepmother from the first, but he still entered into my scheme for vengeance with great enthusiasm. One afternoon, we hid behind some hedgerows and lay in wait for the countess’s carriage to pass by. This was long before she ever came up with her absurd design for the cucumber carriage. Her coach in those days was an ordinary box-shaped vehicle with rather large windows enabling Her Ladyship to gaze haughtily down upon the peasantry as she rattled by.

  Thus it was an easy matter for two enterprising children with good aim to launch a pair of large and excessively repulsive toads through the coach windows. The shrieks that came from the interior of the carriage were spectacularly loud and gratifying. It was a fortunate thing that the coach was not traveling at any great speed when the door was flung open and the countess leapt out to tumble in the road.

  Miraculously, the countess was not hurt. The only harm was to her dignity as she fell facedown into a mud-filled rut, but years later, my conscience continued to plague me about this incident. I still feel bad about what Mal and I did to those poor toads.