"My castle is not rat-infested, I'll have you know. But that is neither here nor there.” Thomasine waved a hand through the air. "You are right, of course. It does not bear thinking of what consequences should emerge if the wrong person were to come in contact with it. I best return, before someone wonders what has become of me. Give me a sign of some sort once you have located it."
Thomasine swept from the room leaving behind a flustered, frustrated Faustine. Disgust filled her. What more could go wrong?
Muted screams reached Faustine's ears. “Well, that did not take long,” she muttered, darting for the door. One should not tempt fate in the manner of such a question, she chastised herself, hastily quitting the chamber.
Chapter 28
Cinderella snatched one arm and Essie the other as they dragged Pricilla into the first unlocked chamber door they could find. Lucky for them, Pricilla’s amusement was so great it lessened her resistance.
"What?" Pricilla choked out, laughing so hard she bent at the waist. "I am just having a bit of fun."
"You terrified that poor chambermaid out of her wits," Essie accused.
"We shall never survive the aftermath," Cinderella muttered. Her heart pounded furiously against her chest. She had to get that stick out of Pricilla's hands, and soon, before she set the entire castle afire or turned everyone into chirping crickets.
"Where are we?" Pricilla asked, swiping tears from her eyes once she'd finally calmed enough to pose the question.
"Some poor unfortunate's sitting room from the looks of it," Essie said.
"Well, poor they are not, I would venture." Cinderella cast a nervous glance round. Heavy brocaded drapes blocked out a good portion of the daylight but for a parted sliver. Heated coals smoldered in the hearth, and an empty brandy glass sat on a nearby table.
Cinderella had trouble believing Pricilla bore not a single stint of remorse for her theft of the magic stick. In retrospect, it had mattered naught for Pricilla to steal the bread from Cinderella’s place. She supposed that could not compare to the powers of a silver baton.
Why, the two carried on as if Pricilla had not just whipped up a flock of butterflies scurrying round the palace, worthy of Essie's batting eyes. Thousands of them. Monarchs, Tiger Swallowtails, Gossamers of every shape, size and color, flitting about, covering every conceivable surface. It sent the servants into a horrific frenzy of activity with the betrothal ball just days away.
Cinderella had to admit, the situation would be considered outrageously comical, had she not been so petrified of the consequences. She harbored enough terror for the three of them. "Do not touch a thing," Cinderella hissed as Essie picked up the empty brandy glass and brought it to her nose.
Unfortunately, Cinderella’s stark command triggered the opposite effect, startling Essie into dropping it. At least, the elaborate rug padded its fall which sent it rolling to a slow stop.
Cinderella stilled, breath stuck in her throat. Her pulse flailed wildly against the open palm she laid across her neck. Pricilla and Essie froze too. Not for long, however.
"Watch this," Pricilla whispered, grinning. She extended the silver bar toward the glass now resting on its side. Cinderella watched, enthralled, in spite of her misgivings. The glass levitated from its position to float mid-air with Pricilla's carefully guided motion.
Its journey near complete to the table was a spectacular sight—until an adjoining door to the chamber burst open. Pricilla and Essie's gasp drowned Cinderella's own. Pricilla snatched her hand behind her back sending the glass crashing against the edge. No graceful set down as it shattered its way in pieces to the floor.
"Good afternoon, ladies. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Prince smirked at them from the door jam with his arms folded across his chest.
Cinderella could not have moved had someone set her feet afire. He moved to the windows and whipped the drapes aside, flooding his features with late afternoon sun. The affect accentuated his chiseled cheek bones. Streaks of dirt covered his shirt. His hair was plastered against his head in an unsightly, quite unprincely manner. He reeked of rich soil and fresh air. She thought him the most beautiful sight she’d ever laid eyes on. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Please tell me you had nothing to do with the mayhem thundering the halls?" Amusement colored his tone.
The heat that flamed Cinderella's cheeks must have matched the color mirroring her sisters at those prophetic words. Dear heavens, they were sunk. If Pricilla was able to keep the silver baton hidden, mayhap they could escape any real dire consequences. It took every ounce of restraint Cinderella could muster to not drop to her knees and beg for his mercy. She could not face his disappointment.
She snuck a peek towards Pricilla, and before Cinderella could screech out a resounding 'Non,' Pricilla had pulled the cursed stick from behind and had it slanted toward His Highness.
Her Prince. How could she!
Shock rendered Cinderella immobile. Her life flashed before her eyes in a series of dark stoned dungeons equipped with a stretching rack, or worse. The Wheel. Mayhap, administered by an evil, mustached-man armed with a whip to snap across her bare back. Essie’s cries would bounce off the dank walls she’d be manacled to, rodent critters scattering over their broken bodies. The pictured, so vivid in her imagination, had her gasping for air.
Riveted and unmoving, except for a furious blinking that had the drapes fluttering with the shift in current, showed Essie’s fear in a shared vision.
But Pricilla was not to be deterred. Arm raised, she wore a vague smile on her lips. "My apologies, sire," she said softly, just before she flicked her wrist in his direction.
To Cinderella's abject horror, her Prince—her wonderful, beloved, Prince—slumped to the floor like a lump of coal.
Oh, non.
As shocking as the scene before her unfolded, Cinderella watched, rooted in place. Pricilla did not appear finished…proof in her motioning of the silver baton upward…lifting Prince in the process. Slowly, she guided his leaden body to the settee, arm shaking with her efforts.
“Don't just stand there gaping like fish,” she hissed, startling Essie and Cinderella forward, where he’d dropped in an unceremonious heap. Their panted endeavors were rewarded by a semblance of attempted comfort as Essie struggled to shift his booted legs over the arm rests.
“You’ve done it this time, Cill,” Essie accused, wheezing with exhaustion.
Cinderella shifted her arms beneath Prince’s shoulders. Barely did she register Essie’s words when she found her cheek brushing his. The intimacy of the position shook her to her very core. Heated breath from his parted lips on her skin created a brilliant charge in the air. She felt dizzy from the unexpected contact. Her fingers drifted to the hair felled over his brow.
If she dropped dead at this moment in time she would die a happy woman. She savored the sensations. In the arms of her almost love.
“Do hurry, Cinderella. We have no idea how long these efforts can be contained. This stick is unpredictable, at best.”
Cinderella snapped to, managing to arrange Prince as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. She somehow resisted the urge to brush back a curling lock of hair from his forehead, and distanced herself at once.
“They are sure to hang us from the gallows on the morrow,” Essie avowed, gulping for air.
Cinderella couldn’t have agreed more.
“There is the strangest current in the air,” Pricilla said. “I vow I did not do a thing.”
“Not much you didn’t,” Essie muttered. “Quick, I believe he may be stirring.”
A statement that effectively sent all concerned scrambling for the door.
*****
“I believe I have now seen all,” Arnald jeered.
Prince groaned before venturing to open one eye. Arnald stood over him, hands at his hips. The smirk on his lips aggravated Prince, to no end. “Is your hovering absolutely necessary?”
“Ha!" Arnald held out his hand, warding
off any explanation Prince may have had inclined to offer. Which he did not. "Do not tell me. You swooned?”
Prince hid a surge of panic behind a lifted brow and mocking tone. “You, sir, can be banished to the dungeons to survive on rations of molded bread and tepid water for the rest of your natural life.”
Arnald shot him a quick grin and stepped toward the table near his head. “Non. You know your blessed mamán would ne’er allow anything of the sort for her sister’s only child.”
That much was true, though Prince refused to acknowledge it aloud. Arnald was difficult enough without encouragement from that quarter.
He pondered Arnald’s previous question. “I cannot seem to remember much of anything.” Well, that was not quite true. He remembered startling three attractive young women in his private sitting chamber but that did not bear mentioning. And how had he landed on the settee? Mayhap they used the wind from Ernalda’s freakishly strong lashes.
He pushed himself to a sitting position. His head did not appear to be pounding from a blow of any sort.
“If I may be so bold—”
“Are you ever anything else?” he interrupted.
“—mayhap you imbibed one too many, sire.”
“Imbibed?” Prince was ready to throttle him.
Arnald kneeled down on one knee. “Your brandy snifter—” he said, picking up the base of the glass. He held it out in an open palm. “Broken.”
Dumbfounded, Prince repeated, “Broken?” He contemplated the smashed glass for a moment. His head did not seem to be pounding from the inside out. In fact, the last liquor he remembered feasting on was the small bit just before bed the night before. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and dropped his head in his hands. Something odd was going on. Instinct, whispered that his mother and her mysterious friend, Faustine, were, if not the entire cause, then certainly had some inkling behind the strange goings-on. He was sure of it. But what? “Call someone to clear up this mess. We have information to uncover. And I believe I know just where to begin.”
“Should we not be strategizing your kidnapping? The betrothal ball is but a few days, hence.”
He responded to Arnald’s sarcasm with a touch of his own. “Or mayhap a lynching,” he muttered.
Chapter 29
"We must return it," Cinderella insisted. "Someone is bound to discover its disappearance."
"I do not want to return it yet.”
Cinderella was surprised Pricilla did not stomp her foot like an errant child. The shiny stick had not so much as loosened from her tightly fisted fingers.
The three girls had hurried to Cinderella's chamber with no one the wiser. Cinderella was certain their luck could not hold out much longer.
"Well, I want my turn with it," Essie demanded.
"Oh, no," Cinderella mumbled under her breath, she would never get it back to Fairy Godmother at this rate.
"Someone is coming," Pricilla hissed. She thrust the stick in Cinderella's hand just as the door to the chamber burst forth.
Cinderella dropped her arms to her side and managed to disguise it within the plush folds of her skirts.
"There you are, children.” Stepmamá strode in. She ignored Cinderella to address Pricilla and Essie. "I have begged an audience with Conte de Lecce and his son. We shall meet him within the hour."
"Not Alessandro, Mamá," Pricilla scowled and Essie gasped, simultaneously.
Unnerving, Cinderella thought.
Stepmamá’s narrowed eyes on Essie held a dangerous glint. "What is this, Esmeralda?"
"No…nothing, Mamá," Essie stuttered.
"I did not think so.” Her smile appeared more a sneer with her jowls shaking so. It sent a terror of tingles over Cinderella's skin.
She grazed Cinderella with a look so malicious; Cinderella shrunk back reminding her tenfold her place of less than a fortnight ago. How was she to escape such hatred? This was the woman her loving papá had promised himself for all eternity. What was it Cinderella did that so dismayed her? If she could but fix it, she would. She blinked back sudden tears.
"I suppose we have no choice but to include you.” Stepmamá turned back to Pricilla. "You must look your best.” She threw her arms wide. “I have grand plans for you, my darling."
“Oui, Mamá.” The contrite tone Pricilla offered Stepmamá was in complete contrast to the sparkle of mischief in her eyes.
"Come along, then. You too, Esmeralda. The prince will be in attendance as well. We have much work to do.” She swung on her heel and bounded from the room like a large hound.
Pushing away the dampness, Cinderella's sympathies followed Pricilla and Essie from the chamber as they had no choice but to trot after her like pedigreed puppies, leaving the door ajar in their wake.
She glanced down at her hands and all sympathy flew out the window. She still held the silver baton Pricilla had thrust at her. Mayhap her luck had changed. The little stick pulsated with life.
This was her chance to return it to its owner. Nervous exhilaration pounded through her veins. She may not be what one could refer to as a free spirit, too prim and proper, she thought—not without disgust—but she was one to follow through, however dangerous the undertaking. She moved to the door and risked a peek down the hall.
All clear.
Now, if she only knew where to find the deserted wing Pricilla had mentioned. She contemplated the baton in her hand for a moment. Wrapping both hands tightly round the base, she closed her eyes and held it out. Mayhap, it could guide the way.
Nothing happened for a moment—then her slippered feet moved on a path of their own volition. It was a strange sensation, indeed, when one's mind was not in sync with one's feet. She satisfied herself with breathing deeply and maintaining a vigil watch.
The little baton guided her through the winding turns of cold dark passageways lit only by the glow emanating from the magical little stick. Short, oblong windows as perfectly spaced apart as the candled sconces in her own hallway had no coverings to protect the dank walls from the weather. A cool breeze passing through generated an eerie whistle effect that sent chills up her spine. Cobwebs dangled in the dimness like eerie ghostlike figures that stirred in the wind.
Cinderella’s feet showed no signs of slowing as they guided her on her unknown path. Dust kicked up from her swishing skirts filled her nostrils threatening a sneeze. Relief vaulted through her several long moments later when she finally happened upon the dancing shadows of a flickering taper.
But the sound of deep voices froze her in her tracks.
*****
“I must protest this avenue of your investigation,” Arnald complained.
“If you are frightened, by all means, I will meet up with you later.” Prince was vastly amused by Arnald’s discomfort, and he took great delight in letting him see so.
“I am not afraid,” he growled.
But it was quite clear Arnald hesitated at the door of the chamber where Prince heard his mother conspiring with the mysterious Faustine. He sauntered in, using the taper he held to light two of the four sconces on the wall. "Much better," he said glancing around.
The chamber was not large by any means. A chair with worn fabric stood in the corner and beside it a heavy square table. There were no candles or other objects to identify its recent occupants but for the unsettled grime. Only the damning evidence of his dear mamán’s voice in his head from the prior day.
Waves crashing below could be heard though a window that was much too high to peer from.
“What are you looking for, sire?” The barely concealed sarcasm was back, Prince noted.
“Have you recovered from your weak constitution, my dear cousin?” Prince asked, dryly.
“Weak constitution!” Arnald’s indignation had Prince unable to hold back a burst of laughter. Arnald’s eyes focused on something behind Prince, standing the hair at his nape on end. “Bonjour, Madam,” Arnald smiled.
Prince spun quickly shocked to see his mother.
“O
h, dear,” she muttered softly.
“Mamán?”
She cleared her throat with a delicate cough. “It appears as if your mamán failed to mention a twin I see.”
“Twin?” he choked out. “But—” Of course, she was a twin. At first glance, they looked exactly the same but for the elaborate fashioned hair built high on her stately head. They had the same dark eyes and upturned noses and slight builds. He would hazard the only discernible difference, upon closer examination, was a tiny mole on his aunt's left cheek. Though his mother would not have been caught dead a frock of such frilly, pink nonsense. He leaned closer. “Are those diamonds, threaded throughout your gown, madam?”
“Ahem…” She inclined her head, identically to his mother. “Yes, ma chére. I must say,” she said. “You are the spitting image of your papá. I am quite proud of you.”
“Proud?”
“Are you unwell, dear?” She furrowed her brows. "You keep repeating me. It could be a sickness of the mind, you know."
Prince could hardly comprehend the thread of conversation at the sight of an aunt long thought dead. It was no secret Arnald was his cousin, but how could Mamán keep a twin sister a secret. And why? Oh, were they past time for a chat.
“Mamán, I believe you have left my cousin thoroughly speechless. A remarkable feat, actually.” Arnald’s humor had bounded back in full force.
Prince recovered himself with an effort and narrowed his eyes on the tiny woman before him. “Does my mamán know you are about, tante?”
“Oui,” she responded with a wave of her hand. “We are quite close, you know.”
Close? He strived for a measured breath. It was obvious he needed to keep his wits about him. This, of course, had to be the mysterious Faustine. His mother’s sister. His aunt.
"So you and my darling mamán have been devising the recent events of my life," he stated. The more he considered the events, the more perfect sense it made, and the more incensed he became. He struggled for composure, however. As Prince Charming what else could he do? ’Twas expected. "I wonder what conclusions you have come to, tante. I would be most curious to hear."
The Wronged Princess - Book I Page 15