Amaranth Enchantment

by Julie Berry

  I was beginning to wonder if Aunt would appear at all, when I heard a shuffling footstep coming down the stairs. She rounded the doorpost and stopped still, staring at the three of us.

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  She looked terrible. All the color was drained from her face, except the red rimming her eyes, and the red splotches on her nose and cheeks that she always wore when she went looking for liquid comfort.

  "What do you want?" she said, her voice thick and hoarse. "What're you two doing together, and what gives you the nerve to come around here?" I looked to Beryl to speak, and saw that she, herself, was trembling with fear.

  "Haven't you caused me enough trouble?" Aunt went on, pointing a shaky finger at me. "Constables coming in here, not half an hour ago, and the Lord Minister of Justice himself, asking me if I've seen you anywhere." She gestured toward the window. "Tied his big black horse up right outside this door. Asked if I know where the stone you stole last night was. What'd you do, steal it again?" They were still searching for me! The clop of a horseshoe on the street outside made me jump, but it was only a mule and a coal cart.

  "Get that witch out of my shop," Aunt said.

  "This is Beryl," I said to Aunt, my own voice faltering. "She's not a witch. She has something to say to you that you need to hear."

  "Is this about the big jewel?" Aunt said, her consonants slurring. "No," Beryl said softly. "It's about John."

  Aunt faltered and caught herself on the countertop.

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  Beryl hurried forward to assist her. Aunt glared at her, and Beryl shrank back.

  "Who are you?" Aunt said, her voice full of loathing.

  Beryl knelt down on the floor and unwrapped the packages she'd brought. She placed them on the countertop, first the handsome youth, John, and then his sister, little curly-haired Hortensia, who was Aunt herself.

  Aunt clapped a hand over her mouth. Her breathing became so shaky, I feared for her heart. Her eyes rained tears that dripped through her fingers onto her bosom.

  "May I speak to you privately, Mrs. Montescue?" Beryl said." There are things I need to say to you."

  Aunt stood frozen, weeping and staring at the pictures. She nodded, once, and turned on her heel and walked out of the shop and up the stairs leading to the parlor. Beryl looked to me for guidance. I gestured for her to follow Aunt. Beryl went, looking as though she wished I would come. But my presence wouldn't help Aunt any. I stayed behind to make sure Peter didn't steal anything from the shop and to watch for returning constables.

  Peter quickly grew tired of me policing him and sank down to snooze in a chair by the door. I paced the floor, straining my ears for some hint of what was happening upstairs and jumping at every shadow that passed by the windows. The sun sank behind the rooftops, and, I reminded myself, it was no longer my duty nor my privilege to light the lamps.

  At last Beryl slipped through the door to the hall. She walked as if in a daze, but when she saw us she quickened her step.

  "Let's hurry home," she said. "Coxley's still roaming the streets searching, and that gives us just enough time to do what we need to do."

  * * *

  We rode home in silence, Beryl and I deep in thought, and Peter deep in sleep. When we reached the house, Beryl made us wait outside while she searched for evidence of another intruder, but at length she pronounced it safe for us to come inside. We both collapsed on couches in the parlor, where Beryl lit a fire.

  "Take a little nap," Beryl said. "A pinch of rest would do you good." I yawned. "I don't need a little naaaaaaaaaahp... "

  And the next thing I knew, Beryl was waking me up, my head so woolly she could have persuaded me it was Christmas.

  "How long did I sleep?"

  "Half an hour," she said with a mysterious little smile. She handed me two thick slices of buttered bread,

  I devoured a slice. A thought occurred to me as I chewed. "Did you make me sleep?"

  She winked at me. "Your bath is heating by the fireplace in your room, and your clothes are pressed and

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  ready. You need to wake up, too, Peter," she called loudly into his ear. "Your bath is heating in the kitchen. You both have an important engagement tonight."

  Peter? Bath? Clothes? What was going on? I bit into the other slice of bread. I hadn't realized how famished I was.

  "What engagement?" I pressed, still groggy with sleep. "I don't have any engagement."

  "The carriage will be here in less than an hour. Here, unlace your boots." Peter sat up, his hair sticking out in every direction. "What carriage?" "One I've hired," Beryl said. "What a busy afternoon I've had. But everything is nearly ready. Get up! There's no time."

  I peeled the blankets off me. "Beryl, what engagement are you talking about?" She placed both fists on her hips. "The prince's ball, of course! What else?" The ball!

  To see Gregor one more time, if only from a distance. A far, safe distance... What was I thinking? After he'd asked me not to? For shame!

  I sank back down on the couch. "You're raving. I'm not going."

  "Clothes, you say?" Peter asked. "You got some fancy togs for me?" 213

  "I surely do." Beryl grinned. "You'll look like a young lord."

  "Good enough," Peter said, rising to his feet. "I'm up for a lark." "Sit down!" I yelled. "Peter, tell her why we're not going. Tell her what Gregor said."

  He shrugged. "Some mumbledy-tosh about duty, and the princess. Who cares? There'll be hundreds of people at the ball. Wear a mask if you want. Let's go for the scenery."

  Beryl snapped her fingers at Peter. "A mask. You are a genius." He bowed his head modestly. "It's a known fact."

  I threw up my hands. "You're a pair of fools. Why don't you go to the ball, Beryl, since you're so keen to. You can wear the mask."

  Beryl shook her head. "I have an engagement of my own. You, Miss Lucinda, will be the envy of the ball tonight. Come and see what I have for you." "No." I folded my arms across my chest. "Coxley is sure to be there. No ball is worth dying for."

  "I can guarantee that Coxley won't be at the ball tonight," Beryl said. "How do you know?"

  "I know."

  I scowled at her. I wasn't convinced.

  She relented. "I have issued him an invitation," she said,

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  "which I am sure he will not refuse. Your path to the ball lies clear tonight."

  "An invitation? Beryl, what are you trying to do?"

  Beryl's jaw was set. "That is my business." She relaxed. "Lucinda, he can't hurt me."

  That was true. I felt a little blossom of hope poke up inside me. Then I poked it back down.

  "I can't face Gregor," I told her. "Not after all that's happened. He told me not to come."

  Beryl dropped down onto the couch beside me and took both my hands in hers. "Lucinda, please," she said, her eyes imploring. "Trust me."

  I could think of nothing to say.

  "I would never wish you harm," Beryl said.

  "But you have a way of exposing me to it, all the same," I said. She had the grace to acknowledge this. "Not tonight. Tonight is different. I can feel it. You must go to the ball,"

  Peter, who'd been leaning against the fireplace, said. "You females! You know you're dying to go see Prince Gregor pledge his undying love to Princess Beatrix. You'd eat your heart out to miss that."

  "Turn him into a toad, will you?" I asked Beryl, indicating Peter. "I'm sure you could."

  "If I do, will you go to the ball?"

  "Hey!" Peter yelped.

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  I rose with all the dignity I could muster. "You're wrong about females, Toad. But I suppose Gregor's ball would be the last place Coxley would look for me tonight. So I may as well spend my last night at a ball before I flee the country. I have nothing more to lose."

  Beryl clapped her hands. "Come. Time's wasting. Peter, your bath and your things are in the kitchen. You're on your own. I'll be upstairs getting Lucinda ready."

  * * *

  Half an h
our later I sat at my mother's dressing table, drowsy from my bath, wrapped in a cotton robe. Beryl had toweled my wet hair until my scalp ached, but still it was damp. She fussed and fretted, then finally muttered some words I couldn't understand under her breath. A hot wind blew through the room, lifting my hair into a dark brown cloud. It passed just as suddenly, leaving me completely dry.

  I asked no questions.

  "That's better," Beryl said, patting the stone in her pocket. "It's good to have it back." She set to work combing out the tangles in my hair. She brushed it in long, smooth strokes using Mama's silver brush. She'd polished its tarnished handle since yesterday, I noticed.

  When the brushing was done, she set to work coiling and braiding my hair. Her fingers flew, snatching little sections and knotting them around her knuckles, twisting in

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  lengths of beaded ribbon. I frowned at my reflection in the mirror. "I look ridiculous," I said.

  "Patience," she said through a mouth full of hairpins.

  When at last the coiffure was finished, I eyed myself skeptically. Yes, it was well done, but it didn't feel like me at all.

  "This way," she said, leading me to the dressing room. She thrust the candlestick toward me. "Take off everything, and put these on"--she handed me silk underthings and a petticoat--"and these"--a pair of fine ivory stockings--"and this." She pointed to a cream bodice draped over a fabric bust. "I'll help you with the rest. Don't muss your hair, whatever you do." She stepped out and pulled the door shut behind her.

  There was nothing to do but comply. I dropped my robe and picked up the flimsy underthings. They were so slippery-soft and tickly against my skin that I nearly giggled. I pulled on the stockings, unrolling them up my legs, and fastened the garters. I'd never worn anything half so fine, not even the day I'd gone to the Winter Festival.

  I pulled the cream bodice over me, but I couldn't reach the buttons in the back.

  "Beryl?"

  She opened the door, fastened my buttons, and assaulted me with a glass perfume wand, stroking scent against my neck and arms. Then she held at my feet what looked like

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  a tube of crumpled red satin. "Step in," she commanded. I did so, and she pulled up a crimson gown and helped me stuff my arms into the sleeves. She pulled the corset tight in the back until I gasped.

  "I'm afraid your mother was a smaller woman than you," Beryl observed. The thought puzzled me. She was always bigger than me in memory. Had I really grown larger? How could I ever be larger than Mama?

  "Now these," she said, holding a pair of beaded pearl-colored slippers. I slipped my feet into them, and miraculously, they fit.

  "Mama must have had big feet, anyway," I said. "Mmm," Beryl said enigmatically.

  "Did you magic the slippers?" I demanded.

  "Ask me no questions," she said, "and I'll tell you no lies." She spun me around by the shoulders and draped a necklace over me, fastening it in the back. She spun me once more and clipped a pair of earrings onto my earlobes. They pinched.

  Then she paraded me back to the dressing table and sat me down before it. "There now," she said.

  I broke out in goose pimples. Looking back at me from Mama's mirror was someone else. Like a ghost of Mama, but different.

  Like a princess.

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  The gown circled low over my shoulders, leaving my neck bare. Through the magic of dressmaking, or perhaps some extra magic, I suddenly had a figure. The gold and onyx necklace she'd put on me gleamed dark against my pale skin. Lace trim from the underbodice peeked out underneath my red gown, which fit snugly until it tapered to a point at my waist. From there it billowed into voluminous skirts that swished with each movement.

  I stood up, tripping on the heel of my slipper and clutching at the necklace. "I can't do it, Beryl, that's not me. I'll make a fool of myself. I can't carry it off." I tugged at the necklace, but it wouldn't yield. "Please don't make me. I'm bound to fail."

  Beryl placed both hands on my shoulders. I felt calm flow into me through her. She gave me a long look through the mirror.

  "Don't be frightened by your beauty, Lucinda," she said. "You haven't, until now, known you had it, and so you're uncorrupted by it. You can never take any credit for it, or make it your aim." She smiled. "But it would be as much an act of deceit to deny your beauty or tell yourself that what you see is not you. Beauty hovers around you wherever you go, which is why these two poor young men chase after you when you're covered in dirt and dressed in rags. Not beauty of the face or form. Something eternal. This beauty that comes from dresses and jewels"--she paused to tuck a curl of my hair back into place--"is 219

  somewhat of an illusion. But even illusion has its place. And that's what parties and dancing are for."

  She bent and kissed my forehead. "Go be beautiful tonight, my dear," she said. "Your mother and father would burst with pride if they could see you right now."

  My eyes filled with tears.

  "Heavens, don't do that," Beryl said, thrusting a handkerchief at me. "Nothing like crying to break the illusion." I wiped my eyes and laughed. One word she'd used stuck with me. Now, tonight, with Mama almost looking back at me through the mirror, I dared to ask the question it raised. "Beryl," I said, "you're... eternal yourself. The priests in this world teach that life, even for mortals, goes on after death, in some other place. Is that true? Do you know? Is your world our heaven?"

  She pulled a stem from a vase of flowers on the dressing table and trimmed its end, her face thoughtful. It was her favorite flower, the love-lies-bleeding. The name she'd given herself, meaning deathless--amaranth.

  "My world is not your heaven," she said, stroking the blossoms. "That I know. But sometimes I find, in the writings of your poets, words that make me feel as though they've been to my home. Which is why I don't read poetry much anymore. It hurts too much." She tucked the stem behind my ear. "This, I think--for all the frailties and cruelties and stupidities of your kind, you're still too much like

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  us not to be eternal, at least in some way. You're all too valuable to be disposable."

  I frowned, skeptical. "Even Coxley?"

  She turned, a look of surprise on her face. "Oh, my dear, haven't you figured it out? I thought you must have." She rubbed a hand across her forehead. "Coxley isn't from your world. He's from mine."

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  Chapter 25

  "Carriage!" Peter bellowed up the stairs.

  I turned to face her. "If he can't ever die, then he'll never stop chasing me." I felt my breath catch in my throat. "I'll never be rid of him. And I won't be able to stay here with you. I'll have to flee."

  Beryl cocked her head to one side. "With me?"

  I looked at her. "Yes, with you. Don't you want to stay?" She brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. "Do you want me to?"

  "Of course I do!" I leaned forward and embraced her. "That is, I would if I could. What good is a big house without some company?"

  Beryl took her time disentangling herself from my hug. She draped a fur-lined stole over my shoulders. "It will be cold in the carriage."

  I held her face with both hands. "I don't want to lose you, Beryl." 222

  She gently removed my hands from her face and pressed them between her own. "Nor I you," she said. "Remember that. Don't be afraid, and don't lose hope. I may be able to do something about Coxley. Hush now." She dabbed at me once more with a kerchief.

  "Carriage!" Peter called once more.

  "Coming," Beryl replied. She opened a drawer on Mama's dressing table and pulled something out. "For your hands," she said, offering me gloves, and then, "for your face." She held up a black feathered mask attached to a slim wand.

  I tested its appearance in the mirror. It gave the stranger in the red gown an exotic, mysterious look.

  "Was this Mama's?" I asked, incredulous.

  "It certainly isn't mine," Beryl said.

  "I'm going without you," Peter called, his voice now coming
from the hallway. "Now," Beryl whispered, "go give that prince of yours something to think about."

  My jaw dropped. Beryl winked, and beckoned me out the door.

  I followed her into the candlelit hallway. There stood Peter, his hands on his waist, posing for us in his finery.

  And not without cause. I wouldn't have recognized him. His once-mangy hair was washed and shining, tied in back with a black ribbon. He wore a resplendent amber coat with broad cuffs and lapels, all magnificently embroidered with 223

  black and purple twist, and a snow white lace cravat at his throat, over black hose and gleaming shoes with silver buckles.

  I was trying to think up a suitable compliment that wouldn't inflate his vanity too much when I noticed his expression.

  He was gaping at me. Specifically, at my dress. His eyes bulged like a fresh-caught fish's.

  I pulled my wrap tight around me and brushed past him down the stairs. "Weren't you the one in a great hurry, Peter?" I called over my shoulder. I reached the door and looked back. Peter descended in a daze, nudged along by Beryl.

  "If you dawdle any more you'll miss the reception line," she said, nearly pushing Peter headlong down the stairs. "Then you won't be presented to the king and queen."

  "Reason enough for me," I said, heading back up the stairs. "I'm not sure this dress fits, let's go find another one...."

  Beryl blocked my path with a smile on her face that didn't hide her resolve. "The dress fits," Beryl said. "Doesn't it, Peter?"

  "Um-hmm," Peter said, his face flushing.

  I glared at him.

  "W-well enough, I mean to say," he stammered.

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  I groaned. Reception line? Presented to the king and queen? "Beryl, must I go?"

  She nodded. "You must. If only to show the palace how you look tonight." "That's a ridiculous reason and you know it," I said. "Must I go with him? He's sure to steal my earrings." I bit my lip to hide a grin.

  Beryl fixed Peter with a stern look. "Peter, do you promise to steal nothing this night?"