Wednesday was shrouded in her deceptively simple dress of fairy-kissed blue-gray silk and charcoal taffeta. Tiny clear glass beads twinkled along the trailing sleeves and down her skirts, making it seem as if Wednesday had just stepped out of the mist. Standing there behind Sunday, she might have only been her tall, thin image cast by the warm light of the setting sun as it bade its farewell outside the aerie’s window. It was a melancholy day indeed when the sister of solitude was Sunday’s silver lining.
Sunday’s white pigeons perched together on the windowsill. The elder let the younger nestle in the base of its neck; the younger had a small crimson mark like a pinprick upon its breast. They looked to their mistress as if awaiting direction or sustenance, and yet she knew they would be just as content to sit there forever, as long as they were beside her. It made her life seem both lonelier and not as terrible all at the same time, though she felt guilty that the birds were forced to share in her sadness. They did not play or chirp or coo as birds should; she wished so hard for their happiness that at first she thought it was they who had started humming. And then Wednesday added words to her song.
“When sad she brings the thunder
And her tears, they bring the rain
When ill she feeds a poison
To us all to feel her pain
Her smiles they bring the sunshine
And the laughter and the wind
And the birds they go on singing
And the world is whole again.
“Smile, sweet Sunday,” Wednesday whispered in her ear. “The birds need your love so they can lift their wings.” She planted a tiny kiss on the top of Sunday’s head, now liberally sprinkled with white, red, and silver ribbons. Wednesday met her eyes in the mirror. “You look like...” she began dreamily, before wiping an imagined tear from Sunday’s cheek. “You look beautiful.” Wednesday said everything dreamily.
Sunday let her shadow sister lead her belowstairs, drawing her to the sitting room, where, like magic, all the sisters entered at once. Friday covered her gasp with hands that looked none the worse for the tireless work they had done the past three days. Mama stared at her daughters in wonder, eyes moving from one to the next and then back again. Aunt Joys smile set her indigo eyes a-twinkle, making her look more like Wednes-day than ever, only Wednesday never smiled like that.
The beauty that Sunday did not feel she found in her sisters. Friday had worked wonders with Thursday’s bounty; the mix of textures and colors were a credit to Friday’s eye and her skill with her magicked needle. Aunt Joy and Mama had assembled the basic kirtles, but Friday’s artistry with the lace, ribbon, and small bits of glass and metal made the dresses surpass divine. There was enough detail on each gown strategically placed to catch the eye, but not so much as to burden the wearer or dazzle the admirer. Various sections were also replaceable, reversible, and interchangeable—Friday had kept in mind that they would need three unique dresses for three nights’ worth of festivities. She had made her family look rich, a feat that at any other time might have been a felony.
Mama’s gown was the most understated but not the least beautiful. The square-necked mauve brocade fell in straight lines to the floor. Small bits of gold and fur lined the hems and peeked through thin slashes in her sleeves. Her hair was swept back in a net; the iron gray bound in russet and gold weave shone like jewel-trapped ice.
Friday glowed in a scarlet taffeta. The flush of pleasure over her success colored her cheeks a similar shade. Ribbons and remnants of russet and gold edged her skirts and sleeves, setting the fabric aflame. In her dress Friday wore the passion of her heart for all the world to see so that all might share its warmth.
As hard as she tried to maintain her pout, Saturday stood regal in her damask gown. Sunday almost didn’t recognize her tall sister, so stunned was she at the beauty that hid every day beneath a dusty cap and trousers. The deep blues and greens shifted in the light, overlapping within and without the decorative braid, spilling over one another to pool at her feet. With her square shoulders and those bright eyes, she might have been a goddess of the sea. “Normal” indeed. One day Saturday would have her adventure, in spades, just like Thursday.
Sunday wished she could see her father’s face light up at the sight of his beautiful girls. She wished she could feel his love and pride in her. She needed his strength tonight, but she knew she would not have it. Papa had made his disapproval clear.
There was a knock at the door.
Sunday moved toward it instinctively and then froze with her fingers on the handle. Right now there might be anyone on the other side of that door, closed as it was. It could be a Royal Courier announcing the cancellation of the festivities. It could be the prince himself come to apologize for hosting this farce and for all his past misdoings. It could be Papa, knocking on his own door to break the tension with his silliness. It was something Papa would do.
It could be Grumble, come forth as a man to rescue Sunday from the sadness of her life and the frightening events to come. He would fall to his knees and clasp her hands, her birds would fly down to light on his shoulders, and he would profess his love and beg her to come away with him. Sunday wanted that vision so much it stole her breath away and broke her heart all over again. If they had been destined for each other, her kiss in the Wood would have made a difference. It hadn’t. That was just the way of the world.
The knock sounded again.
“Come along, Miss Molasses,” said Saturday. “I want to get this over with.”
Sunday whispered, “Trix.”
Friday’s pretty blush left her cheeks.
Since Trix had kept himself from being underfoot, no one had bothered about him. Only now did they remember that he had spent the day surrounding the house with fresh manure. They would dazzle everyone at the ball with their beauty and paralyze them with their stench.
Saturday closed her hand over Sunday’s. “Let’s give them something to talk about,” she said, bright eyes twinkling, and they pulled the door open together. The room immediately filled with the smell of ... roses, lush roses in the dead of summer, a scent sweet and thick as warm honey.
Aunt Joy turned her palms up and shook her head. “Gods bless the fey.”
“Well, it’s about bloomin’...” The liveried man’s voice trailed off as he glanced up at Saturday ... and up, and up. He blinked and then bowed low. “Forgive me, milady. As you might imagine, were all in a bit of a rush this fine evening.”
Saturday raised an eyebrow at Sunday, having suddenly realized the potential power of her own terrible beauty.
It was indeed a fine evening, warmer than usual for spring. Which was good, as no one would be expecting the Woodcutter women to be wearing cloaks they did not have. Sunday lifted her skirts, took the footman’s hand, and climbed into the waiting carriage. Through the window she saw Aunt Joy silhouetted in the doorway, waving a smiling farewell.
Sunday caught a flash of movement elsewhere in the towerhouse: her father watched from his darkened bedroom, not so very absent after all. He twisted the small gold medallion—Jack’s nameday gift, returned to their family upon his death—on its chain around his neck. Sunday sat back against the thinly cushioned seat and missed her father. She imagined he wished her well, but it was no secret how Papa felt about the royal family. She was betraying her father by even attending this ball. Worse, she was betraying Grumble.
Silly girl, said her brain. She could not betray a man she’d never met, no more than she could take the blame for obeying her mother’s decision. Friday clasped Sundays hand in hers throughout the carriage ride, and Sunday let her sister’s excitement inspire her. She used her magic to keep her palms dry, her curls fresh, her dress wrinkle-free. Every little thing she had control over was another small plate fastened to the armor of her confidence. She was a warrior. She would be strong.
The carriage came to a halt long before it should have. Mama pulled the curtains aside as the footman opened the door. “I’m afraid this is as f
ar as I can take you.”
Between the open door and the far-off gates of the castle was a sea of people, animals, and contrivances of every sort. Carriages with teams of horses scraped past wagons pulled by oxen and haycarts tethered to donkeys. Girls poured out and off of every vehicle, squealing and chattering. Some arrived on foot with shoes in hand, sparing a moment to dip their dirty toes in fountains and horse troughs.
Sunday had never seen such a spectacle. Nor had the rest of the world; every member of the unwashed and uninvited had gathered to witness the event. Every living, breathing girl in the land seemed to have accepted the invitation, and—true to Mama’s word—every eligible man of means had found a way onto the guest list. There would be songs sung about this night, and stories told around fires for generations to come. Sunday would have wished herself into them if she thought she had half a chance of being remembered.
Sunday and her sisters navigated the road—sidestepping ribbons and wraps and stray jewels scattered in the dirt and filth and livestock droppings—up the steps to where gaggles of other women waited to be announced at the Grand Entrance. The line wound through the lush hallways and out of doors, circling around itself on the cobblestones, colorful as a poisonous snake. The fashion ranged from gowns on par with Friday’s subtle genius to outfits barely fit for the bean field. Brazen girls chose flash and frippery over decorum; innocents had come to chase a dream.
The rich decorations of the hall brought back Sunday’s nightmares, memories of being cold, lost, and scared. She felt more the pretender with every step she took. Finally, the Woodcutter women passed over the threshold of the Grand Entrance and stood on the landing overlooking the ballroom floor. Below was a river of constant movement, a rainbow flowing in time to the beat of soft music. Above them twinkled a million lights reflected from a million faceted crystals that ringed the domed ceiling, like every star in the sky ever wished upon. Mama told Saturday to stop slouching.
Sunday and her sisters had attended spring fairs and fall harvest gatherings, so they were no strangers to celebration. They had joined in the revelry and often led it, singing along with the bawdiest of melodies and dancing until dawn. But this ... this was another world beyond Sunday’s wildest imaginings. She wondered if it surpassed even Wednesday’s dreams.
“Missus Seven Woodcutter,” the Grand Marshal announced, “and her daughters: Miss Wednesday, Miss Friday, Miss Saturday, and Miss Sunday.”
Sunday closed her eyes, waiting for everyone to laugh at their ridiculous names. Thank the gods only the five of them had attended. When she opened them again, the Grand Marshal winked at her. It was such an odd, out-of-place gesture that she couldn’t help but smile.
She steeled herself for the next challenge: to make it down those stairs and into that stifling sea of bodies. Her breath caught in her throat. Her face flushed. Her heart raced. She froze, unable to take another step forward. Friday’s cool hand slipped inside her clammy one, giving her the courage to inch forward to the top of the red-carpeted stairs. Sunday immediately envisioned herself plummeting down them. Friday squeezed her fingers.
Concentrate. Curls in her hair. Ribbons in her curls. Smooth skirts. Every stitch reinforced in perfect place. Every light in the room shining for her, every color painting her memory. Another small plate in her armor was hammered into place with the beat of the music that echoed the mantra repeating in her head: Why me ... why me ... why me...
She was Sunday Woodcutter. She was a Creator, a tale-spinner, and she would be strong. She picked up her skirts in one hand and held fast to Friday with the other, leading her sister slowly down the steps.
The face that met them at the bottom was familiar to Sunday in the way she might have recognized herself in a windswept pond—if she’d been twice her age and ten times her beauty. Pale golden curls fell perfectly against a soft white velvet bodice and ended at a tiny cinched waist. Delicate hands were decorated with rings that matched the pearl-studded embroidery of her overskirt. Eyebrows arched like angels’ wings framed almond-shaped eyes of deep dark blue, set in flawless skin as creamy as alabaster. A peach rose-petal mouth turned up ever so slightly at the corners. Upon her brow sat a thin circlet of more white gold, inlaid with more pearls.
Mama tilted her head and dropped into a perfect curtsey. “Your Highness.”
The princess did not say a word, but her eyes were pleading.
Friday was less courteous; she strode over to the white princess and embraced her heartily. “Oh, Monday, how we’ve missed you.”
Wednesday’s gray shadow fell against Monday’s voluminous skirts. She kissed her perfect cheek and held out a long, thin silk bag with a slip of paper tied to it. “From Thursday.”
Monday’s smile grew wider and her eyes sadder, the pearls on her brow like glistening tears outlining her ethereal beauty. “Thank you,” she whispered, and pulled open the ribbon. From the bag slipped a stunning fan. Tiny jewels lined each ebony slat; fine black lace and downy dark feathers rimmed the edge. Small red symbols dotted the fabric between the folds of black and silver. Again, Thursday had chosen well. It was a beautiful thing worthy of such a woman.
Sunday’s nose twitched. She thought of all the work her family did every day just to survive: mornings feeding livestock, afternoons in the fields, evenings shelling beans by the fire, rainy days spent spinning and dusting. So much for so little, and such nonsense over a stupid cow that wasn’t worth half of the useless accessory her sister currently held so casually in her hand.
The sisters finally moved aside and left the youngest to the eldest’s notice. The music beat inside Sunday’s head: why me .. . why me ... why me... Not knowing what else to do, she followed Mama’s lead and dropped into a small curtsey. A perfectly manicured finger—one that never scrubbed floors or tossed pig slop or carded wool or had been pricked by a mending needle—slid under her chin and lifted it.
“She looks just like Tuesday,” the princess said. Her voice was deep, sweet, and a little breathless, as Sunday imagined angels might sound. Or falling stars.
“She does, a little,” Mama said after a pause.
It was the nicest thing her mother had ever said about her. It was the only nice thing her mother had ever said about her. “I’m not graceful,” Sunday blurted, and then tried to make up for it by adding, “milady.”
Mondays eyes brightened at the comment and instantly grew sad again. “Please,” said the angel’s voice, “don’t...”
The music stopped. The room went quiet. Sunday was still too shocked at Monday’s appearance, Mama’s compliment, and her own rude outburst to notice anything. Monday was staring at a point just to the left of her. Behind her. Monday lowered her eyes and bent her head reverently.
“Miss Woodcutter,” he said.
Sunday turned slowly and sank into a low curtsey. Biting her unruly tongue, she uttered the first words that sprang to mind that were not profane.
“Your Highness.”
10. Monarchy and Magic Spells
THE INVISIBLE SOLDIER in the vacant suit of armor by the door filled out his breastplate better than Rumbold filled out his ceremonial garb. Even decked in layers of royal finery, the prince still managed to feel scrawny. Rollins straightened the maroon sash that ran from bony shoulder to bony hip and pinned a gold medal upon his breast. Rumbold’s heart beat so fast he was surprised the medal didn’t tremble. He would see her tonight. He would look upon his true love with the eyes of a man. One smile, one touch, and the world would make sense again. He would speak to her with the voice of a man who would say...
“How do I look?”
Erik and Velius, semi-engrossed in a game of chess, shrugged at his appearance. Rumbold envied the ease with which Velius wore his clothes, the black silk draped over his strong shoulders as if it had always desired to be there and had finally achieved its dream. The prince was sure he had been that way once, so at home in his wardrobe that it never occurred to him to feel out of place. Right now, his skin was still only
slightly less foreign than the shirt, sash, hose, and cloak that suffocated his new body. Would his true love’s skin feel like that silk when he took her hand?
Velius leaned back in his chair. “What do you think?” he asked Erik. “Runny pudding?”
Erik studied the prince. “Weak beer.”
“Hmm.”
“No, wait. Boiled cabbages.”
Velius nodded sagely. “That’s the one.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have let him play with the boys this morning.”
“Is that a bruise under his left eye?”
“Leave it,” said Erik. “Gives him a bit of color.”
“We could always bruise the other side,” said Velius.
“Wouldn’t take much.”
“And that hair.” Velius sucked his teeth.
“There is no help for the hair,” Rollins chimed in.
Rumbold let out a breath, making even more room between his breastbone and the sash that lay across it. “Am I really as bad as all that?”
Velius rose and placed his hands on his cousin’s shoulders. “Let’s just say, rumors of your untimely demise were not that greatly exaggerated.”
Rumbold understood what they were doing. Ribbing. Jest. Truth disguised with humor. Criticisms between friends. He smiled, a grin that split his face and shone from it all the gratitude, excitement, and affection he had no words for.
Velius raised an arm and covered his eyes. “Whoa! Be careful with that, Cousin. There are enough women ready and willing to say yes to you without that bringing them to their knees.”
“He’s the crown prince,” Erik pointed out. “They can’t say no.”
Rumbold sobered. “He’s right. What if—”
“None of that!” said Velius. “If she didn’t already love you, you wouldn’t be here.”
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