“Yeah. It’s fine.”
“Good. I must say, I’m impressed with your project. I’m glad to see you working to your potential, in spite of your critics. They fear you, you know.”
Ella snorted.
“They do,” said the professor. “What you have to say is worth saying, so many people will try to silence you. Don’t let them.”
Ella stood. She swung her bag onto her back and lifted her chin. “I won’t,” she said.
ELLA hadn’t called them for a week. Every other client had, many of them more than once, but Ella had stayed quiet. He tried not to feel disappointed.
He and Jasper did go down to help the Winceys. Kit had been startled — even frightened — at the idea of a fairy godfather, but at the mention of Ella and the sight of the embroidered baby dress, she relaxed. The Winceys’ drafty stone cottage was heartily disorganized; every corner and surface was cluttered with debris. Mr. Wincey was laid out on a stained, threadbare sofa, one leg propped up on yellowed cushions. A baby sat on an unraveling blanket in the corner, proudly banging a chipped spoon against a dented pot; two tangle-haired children of about five and seven fought boisterously, and a skinny boy of ten or so sat in a wobbling chair, squinting at his book. It had been a long time — much too long a time — since Serge had done work in a house like this. It was a home full of love but with few resources to manage all the jobs that must be done. He looked around the place, his fingers tingling readily, and got to work.
Before they left, Serge took Kit aside. He had made her an account at the nearest apothecary, with enough money in it to cover the cost of her pain treatments until her affliction ended. Kit looked embarrassed at the mention of her pustules, but she expressed only gratitude. “It’s our biggest expense by far, that pain cream,” she said. “It’s a huge weight off. I can’t believe you mean it — I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Just like that,” Serge said.
He and Jasper left the humble cottage and headed for the nearest fairywood. Outside, along the weedy, sandy village road, stood another handful of wood-and-stone huts, some even dingier than the Winceys’.
“We could be here for a week,” said Jasper. “A month, even.”
“There is no end of families in need in Tyme,” said Serge. “We could visit a different cottage every day for the rest of our lives and we’d never get to them all.”
“Let’s do it anyway.”
“What — you mean start our own service?”
“Why not? You’re leaving the Slipper,” Jasper said matter-of-factly. He covered his mouth with his hands. “I absolutely did not mean to say that,” he murmured.
“Leaving the Slipper?” Serge was too surprised to be angry. “You’re ridiculous.”
They came to the edge of Eel Grass, where the Practical Elegance workshop stood at the bottom of a steep, rocky hill. Serge paused to survey the place, thinking of all Ella had told them. It felt good to help Ella. It felt good to help her friends. These deeds had mended him; his dust was coming freely again. He wasn’t leaving the Slipper. He didn’t have to now. As long as he had projects of his own on the side, he could do what Jules wanted and keep his magic flowing. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it years ago.
“I’ve been doing research, you know,” Jasper said, alighting on a large boulder. “On certain historical events. A girl on a glass hill. Children who spun straw into gold. And Pierce, the little orphan from the apothecary’s shop. Do you know what I found out about them all?”
Serge flushed.
“They were yours,” said Jasper, tilting up his pale face to study Serge with his crimson eyes. “It was your work I admired all my life.”
“Not just mine,” said Serge quickly. “It was always Jules who had the society relationships. Pierce wouldn’t have been adopted by that wealthy family if it hadn’t been for —”
“You’re the one I was waiting to meet,” said Jasper. “You’re my inspiration, the reason I left home. Your deeds gave me that courage.”
Serge suddenly felt fifty again, and very hot in his wings.
“You don’t need a penthouse to do what you do. You don’t need the Slipper. You’re the most gifted godfather in the history of Tyme.”
Serge was caught too much off guard to answer right away. He waited until he could be sure of the evenness of his voice. “I did a little research too,” he said. “Prince Jasper, Earl of Cliffhang, second in line to the throne. I ought to be calling you Highness.”
“Don’t. I came to the end of my path there, like you have at the Slipper. I simply wasn’t that person, and as soon as I let myself admit it, I had to move on.”
“I’m not at the end of my path.”
“Fine.” Jasper fluttered to his feet. “Let’s go visit Ella.”
“She hasn’t called us.”
“No, but she wants us.”
“You seem very certain of what other people want.”
Before Jasper could reply, Serge’s pocket watch grew hot.
JACQUARD ESTATE. NOW. JOB TONIGHT.
He clicked the watch shut. “Jules has a job for me,” he said, trying not to let his dread show in his face. He didn’t want to see Lavaliere Jacquard. Not because he didn’t want to help her, but because he knew she wouldn’t let him.
Jasper traveled with him back through the fairywoods and to the shoreline of Quintessential. They stopped on the beach, and Serge flew out over the sand, toward the darker shoreline. He looked back at the city. A full, bright moon hung over the silhouette of the Assembly clock tower. Serge gazed at the picture, longing for a moment to be a Grey fairy, responsible for the night sky and only the night sky. To know what his role was, and his purpose, without ever having to question it and without moral dilemmas to complicate things — that would be freedom.
“You wouldn’t like it in Grey,” said Jasper quietly, sidling up to him. “You’re too much an individual.”
Serge supposed it was true.
And then he realized what had just happened.
He turned on his apprentice, stunned. “How?” he demanded. Jasper’s eyes gleamed by moonlight, and Serge rubbed his own eyes furiously, fear spiking in him. “Did you hypnotize me? Did you — how did you —”
“I can’t do hypnotics at all,” said Jasper simply. “Very rarely — not even once a century —you get a Crimson who can do something else.”
“Read minds?”
“Not exactly minds. More like emotions.”
Serge rubbed his chest over his heart. “But that was a very specific emotion,” he said angrily. “Like a thought.”
“Yes, well.” Jasper spread his hands. “The more intense the individual, the more specific the reading. You’re an open book, Serge.”
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare read me again.”
Jasper folded his wings into two stripes on his back, and he sat down in the sand. “I didn’t ask to be able to tell what people are feeling.” He sifted sand in his fingers. “It’s as much a curse as a gift. My grandmother knew exactly how to use it for her benefit, and for much too long I let her steer me.”
“Why even tell me this?”
“Because I can’t wait any longer,” said Jasper. “Your feelings aren’t my business, so I was trying to stay out of it. But now you’re my friend.” He looked up at him. “And whatever it is that Jules wants you to do tonight — you can’t do it.”
Serge pulled his jacket more tightly closed, as though by doing so he could ward off further probing into his heart. “What do you know?” he asked.
“Lavaliere Jacquard,” said Jasper. “She’s suffering, and you’re helping, and you’re so sick about it that it’s making me sick just to be near you. So you can’t do it. I won’t let you.”
“Let me?”
“You heard me,” said Jasper hotly. “You’re admirable and good and you’re my hero and I won’t let you be warped like this. You’re not going to Lavaliere tonight. You’re free. Throw that pocket watch a
way and don’t look back.”
Serge did not answer.
“I know it’s brutal, but you have to do it soon. Jules is far worse than you realize.”
“You’ve only met her once.”
“Once was enough,” said Jasper. “She and my grandmother have a lot in common. Jules will stay in that penthouse till the day she fades, just like my grandmother on her throne. By the time the Slipper’s yours, you’ll be ruined.”
“I’ll be barely two hundred,” said Serge. “I’ll still have centuries ahead of me.”
“But who will you be?”
“I will not discuss this with you.”
“Serge —”
“You lied to me, Jasper. You invaded my privacy — my heart.”
“I couldn’t tell you until I knew that I could trust you.”
“How fortunate I feel to be so trusted,” said Serge. “Go back to the Academy. I have work to do, and you can’t come with me.”
“I said I wouldn’t let you go.”
“If you really have the gift you claim, then you know how important the Slipper is to me — and you know better than to get in my way.” He made himself invisible. “Don’t follow me,” he said. “Stay away from me, Jasper.”
He flew away north to the Jacquard Estate, where Lavaliere was waiting.
HE sat hunched over his desk in his chamber, concentrating. He dipped his pen in ink and started the note for the third time.
Ella ~
I need to talk to you. Meet me halfway through sports hour, in the yard behind the equipment shed.
He crossed it out, crumpled up the parchment, and flung it into the fire. What was he going to do behind the shed? Kiss her? And then what? Lavaliere would still be waiting for him half an hour later. Was Ella supposed to put up with that? No, he was not his father; he would not court two girls at once. And Ella might not even want him.
That was ludicrous. He was Prince Charming. Everybody wanted him.
But Ella was not everybody.
He pushed back his chair, paced to the window, and looked out at the sea. He longed for his mother. He could have confided all this to her — his feelings for Ella, his fears about the Jacquards, his ambitions for the country — and she would have known how to listen. How to help him. She was the only one in his life who had never been charmed by the Curse. Who had always seen him for what he really was — a real person.
Like Ella did.
He went back to his desk, grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment, and started again.
Ella ~
I wish we could see each other in private. Just to talk. It would be a relief to me to talk openly with you; I feel I can trust you with anything. I can, can’t I?
For us to speak privately would require sneaking around, and I don’t want to get you into more trouble than you’ve already been in lately, so I’ll understand if you would rather not try it. But if you are willing, then I’ll find a way to avoid my guards, and we can meet.
I promise not to be offended if the answer is no.
Yours in friendship,
Dash
MONTHLY visits are too far apart.”
Serge stood with Lariat Jacquard in her office, his mouth shut tight.
“Her pain is too intense. She needs to see you weekly, Serge. Jules told me it would be no problem at all, and of course I’ve made a sizable donation to the Slipper, to make sure that everything is fair.” Lariat smiled at him. “You’re so good to help us,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll understand that I do not want to be called to her room when you are working. It’s a sight too terrible for any mother to bear — truly it breaks my heart to see her suffering. I therefore give you absolute authority to replace the illusion on her face, no matter what.”
Serge left the office. Slowly, he climbed the stairs.
Lavaliere awaited him, sitting in the center of her chamber with her chair angled away from all mirrors and glass so that she could not catch sight of herself. He peeled the magic from her face, and it was everything he could do not to gag. Open sores had grown together across her face and neck; she glistened with them. The smell was rank. She was weak, too, and feverish — the infection must be spreading. To ignore her condition and disguise it with magic now was nothing short of abuse.
“It doesn’t matter if your mother doesn’t want to see this. She needs to know —”
“She doesn’t care,” Lavaliere said.
Serge fell silent. The girl was right.
“Just cover it up. My head hurts.” Lavaliere kept her eyes pressed shut as Twill worked the pain cream over her mangled face. “I’m so tired. I don’t think I can go to school tomorrow …”
He could quit. Right now. He could refuse, walk out, and be finished.
And never inherit the Slipper.
Serge squeezed his hands shut and dug into himself, forcing the dust to come to him, wrenching it from the deepest reserves of his power. But when it broke through the skin of his palms, it burned like he’d grabbed hot pokers in his fists. He looked down, alarmed, to find that his dust was wet and clumped.
“You couldn’t visit Dash, could you?” Lavaliere murmured. “Make him normal again? He’s so awkward.”
“No,” he said, hardly paying attention. He stared at the strange, wet dust. Was he bleeding? Sweating? What was this?
“I wish that witch were still alive,” she said. “He used to be lovely. Now he’s dull. And bald. Couldn’t you at least make his hair grow back?” She paused. “Why aren’t you doing my face?”
He flung the strange dust at her, and it exploded, concealing her illness. Afterward, he tried to leave but found that he couldn’t snap his way out of her room. He didn’t have the strength. He couldn’t fly from her balcony either; his wings would not support him.
With his last few grains of strange, damp dust, he made himself invisible and walked out of Jacquard manor, just as a heavy rain began to fall.
THE next morning, Lavaliere was too ill to come to school. Dash went to Fundamentals of Business feeling almost like a free man, except that his father’s guards still tailed him from door to door.
He got to class before Ella, and when she sat down beside him, he made a lightning-quick reach under the table for her hand. He touched her fingers and pushed the folded letter into her palm.
She unfolded it at once. Dash burned with anticipation as he watched her read it. Her eyes flicked quickly over the lines. He didn’t miss that her fingers were trembling.
“Yes,” she whispered when she was done. “I’d risk it. Where —?”
“I’ll find somewhere.”
Ella nodded. She buried the note at the bottom of her bag and picked up her chalk. It took her a moment to start writing.
I asked my stepmum if we could visit Shantung last night, and we did. Since their workshop practices are so different, I wanted to see if the silk was different too.
One bronze curl had come loose from Ella’s twist. It bobbed beside her cheek as she kept writing.
It was amazing. Their people are artists, and their silk is heaps nicer. I don’t understand why nobody talks about that.
Dash made himself concentrate on what she had written. “Isn’t it all just silk?” he asked.
Ella pulled two stockings out of her satchel and handed them to him. “Shantung and Jacquard,” she whispered.
“Which is which?”
“Feel them.”
He did so and was surprised to find that it was easy to sense the difference in quality. One stocking was slightly rough to the touch. The other was as smooth as … well, silk, he supposed. “Shantung?” he guessed, lifting the smoother stocking slightly.
She nodded. So here’s what I don’t get. People in this city love to flaunt their nauts and buy top quality, right? They don’t care how much things cost. Why do they buy Jacquard when it’s inferior?
To this, Dash had an answer.
It’s not about quality, he wrote. It’s about fashion. Look around. Have you seen
how many heads are shaved lately? People just copy each other.
“They copy you, you mean,” she said.
Dash sat back and considered. It was true that people had followed him all his life, doing whatever he did.
They’ll buy what you buy, Ella wrote. Look at your mum. She wore Cinder Stoppers to a ball, and now Practical Elegance makes millions. Couldn’t you do the same thing for Shantung?
Perhaps he could. But if he started telling everyone how much better he liked Shantung silk, he doubted Lady Jacquard would take it very well. And so he was back in the same old trap.
But was his whole life really going to be dictated to him by Lariat Jacquard? Was he going to keep on courting Lavaliere and pretending things were settled between them, while Lariat tied little children to chairs in her workshops? He couldn’t. He couldn’t. But he also couldn’t see his way out.
When class was done, he stayed in his seat, rifling through their half-finished draft. Ella kept her seat as well, busying herself with something in her satchel. The other students drifted out of the chamber, but Dash waited. With Lavaliere away, he could steal a minute with Ella right now. Just one.
Dimity was the final lingerer. She stopped beside him, arms folded.
“We’ll be late,” she said.
“Go on,” Dash muttered, bending over the outline and writing in a few figures. Eventually, Dimity had no choice but to leave them, and the heavy chamber door fell shut. They were alone.
They looked at each other.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came. He reached out instead and brushed her loose curl back toward her ear, dragging a fingertip across her cheek.
She flinched. “Why are you with her?”
He froze.
“Is it just because she’s approved?” said Ella, whose hands were clenched tightly in her lap. “Because she’s such a — I mean, you don’t even seem to —” She faltered to a stop.
He withdrew his hand.
“You’re offended.” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything. But yesterday, I thought — I mean, it felt like you might —” She stopped, looking as strangled as he felt. “Our project,” she finally said. “It matters. I hope we’re still friends, because I can’t see this through without you.”
Disenchanted: The Trials of Cinderella Page 21