“Easy there.” Andrew turned from the stack of books through which he’d been riffling. “Describe the mirror in detail.”
Snowdrop obeyed, the words tumbling over themselves in her haste. “She told me she had a friend named Ayven. Then she said she’d introduce us, and she showed me this mirror. It must be magic.”
Andrew pursed his lips in thought. “There are so many tales about mirrors,” he said, stacking several books beside his chair. “One story tells of a mirror that can grant any wish. It belonged to an evil magician who made it in order to find a way to give himself immortality. He sought to trap a portion of his soul within the mirror so that he might live forever. But as in all of those types of tales, his wickedness caused his downfall. The storytellers say that he was poisoned by one of his apprentices. They say that the magician cursed the apprentice before he died, dooming him to live in servitude to the mirror. The apprentice can only die when another pledges servitude to the mirror in his stead.” Andrew shrugged. “A cautionary tale, of course, but an interesting one, nonetheless. We’ll go look at the mirror together, but I wouldn’t put too much stock in it.” His features grew reflective. “The young lady is shy and nervous. Perhaps she is only seeking attention. She certainly would benefit from a companion.” He gave Snowdrop a pointed look. “As would you.”
Snowdrop frowned. “I left quickly. I was frightened. Please come and look with me.”
Andrew sighed and nodded. As tutor and pupil stepped into the hall, a staccato pattering of footsteps sounded behind them. “There you are, Snowdrop.” Snowdrop turned toward Father, who smiled at her. “I hoped to run into you before the banquet. Where’s Rachel?”
Snowdrop smiled. Father hadn’t sought her out in so long. “She’s in her chamber. I had to ask Andrew a question. I needed to show him something.”
King Lawrence shook his head. “Barbara wants to speak with you.”
Snowdrop’s smile faded. “What about?”
“I don’t know, but I expect you to be civil and to use this time to get acquainted. She’s a nice person. Give her a chance.”
Snowdrop nodded, but her stomach clenched in dread. As she turned to leave, Father said, “The tapestry you gave me is beautiful. It’s so lifelike.”
Snowdrop flushed with pride. She had labored over the tapestry for weeks. The picture upon it depicted a hart drinking from a stream. “I saw the hart in the forest. He made me cry, he was so lovely.”
“Your embroidery talent is as wonderful as your mother’s. The hart seems to be moving.”
Snowdrop smiled. “I’m glad you like it, Father.” Tentatively, she held out her hand, and after a moment, Father shook it. Clearing his throat, he said, “I didn’t open it in front of the others because I wanted the chance to do so privately.” He flushed. “You’d best go on now.”
Snowdrop nodded and turned to leave once more. “I missed you,” she whispered.
Chapter Six
I n her chamber, Barbara waited expectantly. Gowns of dazzling hues were spread upon her bed. Ribbons and laces adorned the fabrics, and jeweled combs sat atop her vanity table. Barbara selected two gowns, inspecting them to determine which would look most suitable on the girl. She had purchased these gowns with her own earnings. Although the money had been obtained in ways she preferred not to remember, she loved the garments and accessories she’d bought with it. They were a true testament to how beauty could spring from pain.
A tentative knock sounded on her chamber door. “Enter,” she called.
Snowdrop entered the room. “Father told me you wanted to see me?” Her voice trembled.
Barbara smiled reassuringly and extended her hand. “Yes. We didn’t have a chance to speak earlier. Won’t you sit down?” She gestured to the armchair before the hearth.
Snowdrop approached the chair and sat upon its edge. She fidgeted and gripped the chair’s arms.
“I wanted to thank you for taking Rachel under your wing. It was kind of you to show her the swan pool. She said it was beautiful.”
Snowdrop smiled and unclenched her fists. “It is. I go there often to read and watch the birds. They make me laugh.”
“It’s rare for my daughter to go outside."
“Why?”
Barbara shifted her gaze from Snowdrop’s face. “It’s just better that she doesn’t.” She turned to her vanity and retrieved a cosmetic casket, nervously passing it from one hand to the other.
“But, isn’t fresh air important? Mother always—” Snowdrop flushed and turned to survey the beauty of her stepmother’s chamber.
Barbara frowned pensively. “Fresh air is indeed important, but so is a person’s complexion. The sun can damage it. Moreover, a person’s safety—” She shook her head and placed the cosmetic casket on the table. She turned to her bed where the array of gowns lay. “Anyhow, I wanted to offer you a token of my gratitude.”
Barbara proffered a cream-colored gown with crimson ribbons threaded through the fabric. “I noticed that the frock you wear is rather threadbare and thought you might like—” Her voice fell away, but she continued to hold out the dress.
Snowdrop abruptly stood. She placed her hands on her hips. Her cheeks flamed. She glared at the gown Barbara proffered and lowered her gaze from its beribboned beauty. A muscle jumped in her left cheek. Was Barbara imagining this, or did the girl look frightened? “I prefer to wear my own garments, thank you.” Snowdrop pointed to the gown she wore. “If you look at it closely, you’ll see how special it is.”
Barbara blinked and stared at Snowdrop’s gown. The cloth suddenly seemed to shimmer. Intricate threads of peach and gold appeared within the mundane brown.
“Mother made this gown for me. It was a joke between us. I’d wear it for balls and other events, and the courtiers would think I wasn’t dressed appropriately. Mother was so talented with embroidery. We’d laugh, because we knew the gown was really pretty even if others didn’t take the time to look at it.” With these words, Snowdrop strode toward the door.
Barbara’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment. She tentatively approached her stepdaughter, but Snowdrop shrank away from her. “I didn’t intend to offend. I apologize,” Barbara said.
Snowdrop turned toward Barbara and asked, “Is the gown the only reason you summoned me?”
Barbara shook her head. “No. I simply wanted to thank you, and I thought—I’m sorry. Will you please spend more time with Rachel? She’s shy and isn’t good at making friends.”
Snowdrop nodded and turned toward the door. “May I go now?”
Barbara nodded, and Snowdrop withdrew.
When the chamber door closed, Barbara sank into the vacated armchair. Weariness cloaked her in a firm embrace. She truly had meant no offense. If people did something for you, they usually sought payment. That was just a fact of life. Her dresses were the only source of payment she had. Lawrence and his daughter were so very strange. Her new husband wanted nothing from her either, at least nothing material. But people always wanted something. Had Barbara been too hasty in accepting Lawrence’s proposal? No! She’d never regret her decision no matter how awkward the situation became. Security was everything, and she owed it to herself and Rachel to procure it.
After a time, Barbara rose and selected a burgundy dress with roses interwoven through the satin bodice. Removing the gown she’d worn all day, she prepared to don the burgundy one. She surveyed her bare back in the looking glass that sat atop her vanity. Garish scars stood forth. Lawrence had asked about them, and she had explained that they were the results of an accident when she was a child. That was a lie, of course. She dared not confess the truth, although she had a feeling Lawrence already knew. Barbara donned the burgundy gown and turned to select a comb from the ones arrayed before her. She must be as presentable as possible. All her life, appearances had driven her actions. The way you looked could often determine your future. Barbara thought of her childhood: of the days when creditors came to their door. Often, a wink from her mother,
a casual lifting of a garment’s hem or a whispered word would gain the family some leniency. Barbara remembered days of deprivation, days when she would deliberately refuse food so that the slimness of her figure could be maintained. Her mother would often refuse food as well, or she would stuff herself until she retched. Barbara had seen the purges her mother made. She had seen her deliberately force herself to—She fiercely shook her head, banishing these thoughts. It was best not to dwell on the past. Rachel was safe now, and that was all that mattered. Perhaps she could finally relax. She’d hounded Rachel so much, but her actions had been necessary. She couldn’t risk him finding them. She would not allow her daughter to be hurt again.
Another knock reverberated. “Who’s there?”
“It’s only me. May I enter?”
Barbara smiled. “Yes, Lawrence. Come in.”
As Lawrence entered the room, he smiled at his wife. “That’s a lovely gown you’re wearing,” he murmured.
“I’m glad it pleases you.” She approached him, gliding along in the provocative manner she’d perfected over the years. She had no intention of enticing him. The movements were merely ingrained within her. Lawrence was kind, and he had saved her. She so desperately wanted to please him. “Did you need something?” she asked.
Lawrence shook his head. “I just wanted to ask if everything was to your liking. I can ensure that the servants provide anything else you might want.”
Barbara smiled. “There’s nothing at all lacking, sire. I can’t thank you enough.”
Lawrence frowned. “There’s no need for such formality. You are my wife. I’ll do all I can to make you happy.” He extended his hand. “May I escort you to the banquet?”
Barbara nodded and allowed him to lead her from the room.
Chapter Seven
T he percussive tattoo of tambourines and the spun sugar lilt of flutes filled the banquet hall. Couples whirled about the dance floor. They laughed and chatted, the sound a perfect accompaniment to the music
One person stood alone. She stared at the celebration around her, her stomach clenching. Mother was dancing with Stepfather, and Rachel observed them with wide-eyed fascination. They hadn’t sat down once since the dancing began. Surely they were tired, but they seemed more energetic than ever.
Rachel scanned the room yet again, wondering where Snowdrop could be. How much longer was she expected to stay here? Banquets were so tedious! The best part of a banquet was the food. Afterward, if no one asked you to dance, the night dragged along like an unraveling skein of yarn.
“Are you all right?”
Rachel turned toward the unfamiliar voice. A short-statured man with a shock of black hair stood before her. Judging by his looks, he was probably sixteen. His eyes were a piercing hazel. They gazed upon her with a penetrating stare. No one had ever looked at her in that way before. His look was not like the ones she normally received, the pitying stares or the condescending glares. This look was kind.
“I noticed you standing by yourself. Would you care to dance?”
Rachel gaped. No one ever asked her to dance. It must be Ayven’s doing. Perhaps some of the beauty potion actually had lingered this time. But, no. She’d seen the beauty fade as it always did. Was the man offering her a dance out of pity? Well, even if he was, dancing with him would pass some time. Shyly, she nodded and allowed the man to take her hand. “I’m Rachel. What’s your name, sir?” she asked.
The man smiled. “I’m Esmond. I’m a newcomer to Swanvale.” He led Rachel to the dance floor, twirling her in a delicate spin. As the music increased in speed, her partner spun her even faster. Her skirt swirled around her, and she almost felt that if she wanted to, she could fly. Rachel laughed. Euphoria enveloped her.
When the dance ended, Esmond said, “Would you like some refreshment?”
Rachel shook her head. She had already eaten the one sweetmeat permitted her, and she couldn’t very well eat another with Mother watching. “No thank you.”
“Well, I’m getting myself some cider at least.” He led her to the refreshment table, ladling golden liquid into two cups. He held one out to her. Rachel took it and sipped appreciatively. “So, what do you think of Swanvale so far?” she asked.
Esmond smiled. “It’s lovely. The gardens and other landscapes take my breath away. I especially love the swan pool on these grounds. The bird’s antics are so fun to watch.” He bowed his head, and Rachel frowned when she saw him blink rapidly. Then his smile returned, and his voice became brusque. “It’s an ideal place for inspiration. Feo and I are ecstatic!”
Rachel nodded. “I know what you mean. I lived in a city, and this place is so different. Who is Feo?” Conversing with this man seemed so natural. Her usual shyness had vanished.
Esmond laughed. “Have you never heard of the Painter of Sight and Sound, the finest artist ever to apply brush to canvas?”
Rachel shook her head.
Esmond beamed. “He’s here with me. Would you like to meet him?”
Rachel nodded. She allowed Esmond to lead her through the crush of people until they reached a short-statured man standing alone. “Feo, this is Rachel.”
The man turned, and Rachel blinked in surprise. His eyes were bloodshot, and they rolled about, never stopping their movement. The man was blind. She saw that his hands were rough with calluses, and he was homely. Yet his face wore a kind smile. “Hello, Rachel. It’s nice to meet you,” he said.
Rachel shook the man’s hand. She inhaled the sharp but not unpleasant aroma of turpentine that wafted from his clothes. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Esmond tells me you paint?” She spoke loudly, realizing as she did so how condescending she was sounding. But, how could he be a painter? “He called you the Painter of Sight and Sound.”
Feo laughed. “My brother’s always been modest. Artistry can involve collaboration, you know. He paints what he sees. I merely provide details that aren’t visible to the naked eye. By working together, we can paint marvelous things.”
“I don’t understand. How can you see?”
“Well, it’s simple. Would you permit me to hold your hand once again?”
Rachel hesitated but then placed her hand into his. The man’s touch was strange, and it was odd that she hadn’t noticed this before. A warm, tingling sensation vibrated through her palm. The feeling was oddly soothing but frightening, too. She took her hand from his. As she did so, she saw that his face had lost its smile. Yet when he spoke, his voice was strong. “You’re beautiful, but a shadow hovers inside you.”
Rachel laughed. “Beautiful? Your brother would say otherwise.”
Esmond smiled at her, compassion shining in his eyes. “No, Rachel. Feo and I see beyond outward deceptions. Egaphia has made you, and because of that, you’re beautiful. Yet something is seeking to strangle your beauty.”
Rachel felt scalding tears prick her eyes. What was she doing conversing with these men? They knew nothing. She turned away. “I must go,” she said. “It was nice meeting both of you.”
“You think that I mock you, but I do not,” Esmond said. “You are lovely. Do not forget that.”
Rachel turned away, whispering some incoherent excuse. She walked through the crowd. She was weary of this banquet.
As she neared the door, someone burst into the room. A piercing scream rent the air, and Rachel caught a glimpse of Snowdrop’s face. The girl’s cheeks were ashen, and she swayed upon her feet. Rachel put out her hand, clasping Snowdrop’s own. “What is it? What’s the matter?” she asked.
A crowd was beginning to form around them. Lawrence’s voice cut through Snowdrop’s screams. “Daughter, what’s wrong?” He gestured to a servant. “She’s in shock. Summon the physician.”
“I can help, Lawrence. Tea with lots of sugar. That’s the best remedy for shock.” Barbara’s voice was authoritative. Rachel was surprised, for she’d never heard Mother take command of a situation so quickly. She was even now bringing a cup of tea to the hysterical girl, gently instruct
ing her to drink it.
Snowdrop sank into a chair that someone had brought. “I-It’s Andrew,” she gasped. “H-He’s dead.”
The banquet hall erupted with pandemonium. “What are you saying, Snowdrop?” Stepfather said sharply. “Where is he?”
Shaking, Snowdrop rose and gestured to Rachel. “I shouldn’t have taken him there, but—”
“Taken him where?” Lawrence asked.
“To her room. I just wanted to show it to him.”
Rachel fell into step behind Snowdrop, and the people from the banquet hall followed. As they hurried toward the wing where the royal family slept, Rachel felt apprehension grip her heart. It wasn’t until Snowdrop stopped outside Rachel’s own chamber that the apprehension exploded into full-fledged panic.
Chapter Eight
R achel followed her stepsister into her bedchamber, barely conscious of the crowd behind her. She saw the figure sprawled on the floor. She recognized the elderly servant who had served them tea. His face was twisted, his mouth open in a soundless scream. Blood spattered the floor, and a gaping wound was visible on his chest. Stepfather bent over the body, his face pale. “What was he doing here, Snowdrop? What’s going on?”
Rachel heard her stepsister’s garbled words, but they did not penetrate her mind. She saw another form where the servant lay, the lifeless body of her own father. She turned to her vanity table and gasped. The mirror was gone.
Rachel blinked, trying to remember if she’d placed Ayven in her valise. Then she heard Stepfather’s sharp voice. “What’s that he clutches?”
“It’s what I brought him to see,” Snowdrop whispered.
Rachel suddenly saw that the dead man held Ayven in his right hand. His fingers clutched the applewood handle. Rachel stepped forward. “That’s mine,” she said.
The Princess and the Invisible Apple Tree Page 3