by Finley Aaron
“I don’t know.” Bertie shook his head. “But I don’t think we’re ever going to stop this until we find out.”
By that time, both men were dressed and ready to leave, so they set out on their way, dropping the debate in favor of discussing the preparations they still needed to make for their journey.
“I think we need to leave as soon as we can,” Bertie insisted.
“Gustav isn’t fit to travel,” Robert pointed out. “He might not be ready for weeks yet.”
“Then we should leave him behind,” Bertie concluded. “We may be headed into danger, and I’d rather he didn’t get hurt.”
“I don’t want either of you getting hurt,” Ella told them.
“We’ll do our best, of course,” Bertie assured her. “We just can’t make you any promises.”
*
Gustav was not happy about being left behind, but since he was barely strong enough to sit up, he couldn’t make too much fuss.
Ella had made copies of her maps to send with them, and gave them every coin she’d saved. “You will try to stay safe?” Ella asked more than once.
And more than once, they assured her they’d do their best.
Ella watched them ride away—her father and brother in front, on horseback, three more of their Arabian horses, riderless, behind them, and Thomas on horseback at the rear.
They’d left only three horses—Mirage, and the pair who pulled their carriage. The household would have to get by until they returned. If their plan worked, they’d reclaim their carts of goods, and the Arabians would pull the carts home. It wasn’t far, and if everything went smoothly, they might return within a month.
One month passed, and then another. Spring gave way to the heat of summer, and Ella did all the usual work of the estate—planting the garden, harvesting the spring wheat, cutting hay, picking berries, sweeping the chimneys, painting the house, tending to the animals—as well as the work of making Madame and her daughters feel as though they lived in some semblance of luxury. On top of that, she sold whatever she could—extra berries, non-essential furniture, a couple of goats—anything she could spare in hopes that when the tax bill came, she’d be able to pay it regardless of whether her father and brother were able to bring home the carts.
Gustav’s condition improved, and though he was getting on in years, he was able to be of some help around the estate. Ella loved to send him down to the stream to fish. She knew it wasn’t difficult work, and she never had time to spare for it, but the fish he caught were often the best food they ate all week.
There came a particularly sweltering stretch of summer, after the men had been gone ten weeks, when Madame complained of a smell in her room.
“I’m sure something’s died in there and now it’s rotting,” Madame complained. “I need you to find it and get rid of it at once!”
Ella curtsied and complied, delving into the room which had always before been her mothers, though she could hardly recognize it anymore.
Madame was not a neat or tidy person. In addition to always keeping her curtains closed (Ella opened those in the rest of the house, but preferred to avoid Madame’s domain), she often ate in her room, and there were dirty dishes and even bits of food lying about with clothes and shoes and beauty oils and creams.
Any of those could contribute to the smell, which was so strong Ella choked and gagged repeatedly in her attempts to find the source and eliminate it.
Ella carried in several baskets for sorting through the mess. She opened the curtains so she’d have enough light to see. She then stacked dishes on a tray, and held up Madame’s clothes one by one, eyeing them for stains, daring to sniff them only if she wasn’t sure whether the clothes needed washing, or simply needed to be put back inside the wardrobe.
She’d made some progress, but not yet located the source of the smell, when she lifted a blouse from atop a pile of other clothes on a footstool, and recognized what lay under it.
Brown leather.
Stitching.
Chainmail.
Ella’s heart rammed with a beat of betrayal and she picked up the leather helmet that matched her armor.
She’d last seen the helmet in Paris when four men had held her by her arms and legs, and Raedwald had pulled the helmet from her head. He’d flung it down in the street. She could still hear the clatter of chainmail hitting the cobblestones, and could feel her burning shame at being discovered.
Her helmet had lain there on the cobbles, untouched. Henry had broken free, leapt upon Mirage’s back, hauled her atop the horse with him, and ridden away. He hadn’t had any chance to pick up her helmet, nor would it have been a priority to attempt to do so.
Raedwald and his men scrambled to their horses to pursue them. Did one of them take the time to pick up her helmet?
And if so, how did it make its way to Caprese, and into Madame’s bedroom?
No, it couldn’t be the same helmet. Had her mother made her a second one, cut from the scraps of the same leather? But they’d used all the chainmail on the first, and that had come from Persia.
No goods had made it through from Persia since then.
Ella stepped toward the window, inspecting the helmet in the light.
She recognized each scuff, the places rubbed smooth where it wore against her skin, the links of mail in the corner that had been caught by a sword and torn loose.
But no, those links were now fastened tight as before, and two bright brass links joined the other tarnished ones.
So, it was her helmet, but it had been repaired before being returned.
“Have you found the source of the smell?” Madame De Bouchard asked from the doorway.
Ella tried to hide the helmet from her sight, but Augusta spotted it.
“Oh!” Madame’s face twisted with expression, something like a snarl that morphed into a greedy smile, and then a frown. “You found that, did you? Recognize it? It is yours, then? I did wonder…not enough to ask you to come down out of the chimney, but I did wonder.”
Down out of the chimney? Ella had spent two days some weeks before, making her way slowly up the chimneys, chiseling out the worst of the accumulated soot, and scrubbing the walls somewhat closer to clean so that, come winter, there wouldn’t be enough soot to catch fire, and they wouldn’t have to worry about chimney fires. She’d had to brace herself against the inner walls of the chimney—hard work, and usually very expensive to hire someone to do, since most men were either too large to fit the space, or not strong enough to brace themselves in place while scrubbing.
It was important work, a dirty job, and a lonely one. Once she disappeared inside, she didn’t see or hear from anyone until she came out the top and then down by way of the roof hours later.
Madame stared at the helmet, her lips pinched together as though she pondered something. Then she clucked her tongue and smiled. “Do you know who brought it? I didn’t recognize him at first, he was so out of place, and alone, which was quite unexpected. It was very strange to see him at our gate. The prince! Prince Henry! He didn’t introduce himself, which I thought quite rude, nor did he ask my name. He simply asked to see Cinderella.
“Cinderella! Have you ever heard such a funny name? I certainly never have. I told him we have no one by that name here. Then he asked for Allard. Allard of Caprese.
“What could I tell him? We have no one by that name either. He asked to see the lady of the house, and I assured him I am the lady of the house, and then he looked quite perplexed. He said he was in search of a young woman of sixteen, with flaxen hair perhaps in a long braid, of uncommon strength and agility, with blue eyes and a slim waist.” Madame’s face twisted with distaste. “He said a few other things about your appearance which I disagree with very much, but nonetheless, I realized he meant you. So I asked him, ‘do you mean my servant Ella?’”
“He said, yes, Ella, that must be who he sought, but she was a lady and not a servant. So I told him in that he was mistaken, for Ella is a servant of th
e lowliest status, practically a slave. He questioned me, but I assured him I am the lady of this house, and neither of my daughters have flaxen hair, and Ella is not my daughter. I suggested Ella had certainly lied to him, for she was a dishonest child of many fanciful notions, and he would do best to avoid her forever in the future.”
Madame’s eyes sparkled as she told her story, and she looked at Ella triumphantly.
Ella gripped the helmet tight in her hands. It took all her self-control not to speak back to her step-mother.
“He did not take kindly to this information, as you can well imagine,” Madame simpered. “He gave me that helmet and asked me to pass it along to you, and he rode away. But you know, he was not the first person to ask me about Allard of Caprese. I never understood before who such a person could be, but after talking to the prince, I made the connection. You are Allard of Caprese, aren’t you? That’s why you wore those silly pants when you returned to us. You’re some kind of half-man freak.”
Madame Augusta threw her head back and laughed. “You freakish child. You freakish child! Someone else has been asking for this Allard, someone quite intent on finding him. And so I sent word to him that you are indeed here.”
Ella dared to use her voice at last. “Who?”
But Madame only smiled at her, the same gloating smile she’d worn for most of her story. “You’ll find out soon enough. I believe he’s eager to see you.” She turned and started back down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “I expect that room to be perfect when next I see it.”
Ella stared after the woman, and tried to convince herself the story wasn’t true.
But she held the evidence in her hands. How else would her helmet have made it home—and mended, no less? Henry had promised her he’d sneak away one day, alone (just as Madame had said). Of course he’d have gone back and found her helmet on the street in Paris, and had it repaired, and delivered it to her.
Of course the story was real.
And while Ella had been choking on soot in the chimney, Madame had told Henry the worst of lies.
It was one thing for her to pretend to be a man in order to fight in tournaments, but another thing entirely for a servant to lie about being noble.
Royals were only supposed to associate with royals. Because there were so few royals, royalty could stoop to befriending nobility. Sometimes, on rare occasions, a royal would even marry a noble. They were always criticized for doing so, and everyone would frown on them for it, but it was still possible.
But royals and servants could not associate. They wouldn’t speak at all, unless it was necessary to accomplish the most straightforward task, and then their conversation would end the instant the critical message was conveyed. They belonged to two completely different worlds. It was a crime for a servant to even touch a royal, unless they were specifically asked to do so (for example, in helping them mount a horse—but even then, their assistants were exclusively noble, so it would be a rare thing, indeed).
If Henry believed that she’d tricked him, that he’d kissed a servant girl—and of course he’d believe Madame! He’d have every reason to. Besides her position as lady of the house, and her very convincing skills for lying, Henry would have no reason to doubt her.
He knew Ella had lied to him before about being a man. So it required no stretch of the imagination to think she would have just as easily lied about being noble.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Somehow, Ella finished cleaning the room. She found a maggot-infested half-eaten piece of chicken meat under a hat that would never be the same. Once she got rid of it and opened the windows to clear the air, the smell of the room improved dramatically.
She did the work in a daze, her heart clenching with pain.
Henry would hate her. He’d despise her for enticing him to kiss her. He’d loathe her for lying, and would never, ever trust her again.
The thoughts pounded against her skull with aching throbs, driven home by every agonized beat of her heart. So overwhelming was her anguish, that she was nearly done cleaning the room before it occurred to her to wonder about what Madame had been talking about at the end of her announcement.
What was it she’d said? Someone else had asked her about Allard of Caprese?
A man, wasn’t it? She’d specifically referred to him as “he”. She’d said he was quite intent on finding Allard.
Who could that be?
All the men on the tournament circuit knew her as Allard, but why would any of them be intent on finding her? Jerome had enjoyed chatting with her when she’d visited his charter shop, but he certainly hadn’t seemed to care strongly about her visit. It was doubtful he’d later become intent on finding her.
Who else was there? Sure, Allard had friends—Dominic, Rolf, even Sigi. They might go out of their way to talk to her, but they wouldn’t seek her out intently.
Had Madame been exaggerating? But why would she do that? Why would she mention this searcher at all? Madame Augusta never had anything to do with Ella unless she needed something from her, except maybe to tell her bad news and watch her squirm.
Was that it, then? Ella carried the dirty laundry away to wash, and pondered Madame’s motives. Granted, Ella had been too stunned by what she’d just heard to pay close attention to Madame’s words or expression, but she’d seemed pleased, in her sadistic way, to have the chance to contact this mysterious individual, to tell him she’d found Allard.
Which meant the man who sought Allard must be planning to do him some harm.
Ella dropped the basket of laundry and forgot to breathe for several long seconds.
No, no, Madame couldn’t have meant Raedwald. Sure, he’d been intent on hurting her during their last encounter in Paris, but he was a very busy man, and off at tournament in the east, besides.
Surely he wouldn’t care enough about getting revenge on her, to bother seeking her out.
Would he?
No, he wouldn’t.
But, if he did, if he really was that angry, that dead-set on revenge…what would he do to her once he found her?
*
Ella spent the next three weeks fighting her increasing fears.
Her father and brother had yet to return, and their delay was not a promising sign. They should have been back long before.
Henry must hate her. He’d probably hated her for weeks, while she’d been clinging to the happy memory of his kiss. She felt so very foolish.
And who was it Madame had sent word to, telling him she’d identified Allard? Whoever it was, they hadn’t arrived, and Ella could think of no other likely candidate than Raedwald.
She became jumpy, always watching over her shoulder, listening for the sound of approaching hooves, counting her coins and wondering how she’d ever come up with enough to pay their taxes.
She consulted me sometimes, at night when she couldn’t sleep.
“What if I used one of my wishes on tax money?” she asked me.
“The magic would end at midnight,” I reminded her. “Whatever money you wished for would be gone.”
“Yes, but if I wished for it just before I handed it over, and they counted it and made note that we’d paid, then once it disappeared, it wouldn’t be our fault, not that they could ever prove.”
“That would keep Caprese in the family for one more year,” I admitted. “But what would you do the next year? You’d only have two wishes left.”
Ella sighed and stared up at the dark ceiling, which was really just the underside of the roof. “What else can I use my wishes on? Can I wish my father and brother home again with their carts of goods?”
“You could try it,” I told her, careful not to offer any false hope in my tone or expression. “But the magic has its limits, and that’s a bold wish indeed. It might take more than one wish to make it happen. Even if it worked, and you got all you asked for, at midnight when everything went back to the way it was before, how would you keep them here? You’d only be buying time, and not much of it
, at that.”
“What good are wishes if they can’t accomplish anything I want?” Ella asked. “I can understand now why my mother asked for glass slippers. If you can’t have anything worth having, why not have something pointless instead?”
“What good are wishes?” I asked, feeling undone and useless myself. “Rapscallion rigmarole! What good are they? Don’t they give you hope? Aren’t they the unspoken promise that something could be better, if only you took the time to ask?”
“Hope?” Ella questioned, her voice trembling. She took a deep breath. “Fine, then. I wish for everything to turn out all right, that I might live happily ever after.”
“You don’t mean that. That’s not a real wish.”
“Oh, but it is,” she insisted, her voice on the verge of breaking. “It’s all I want. Is that so much to ask?”
“Bamboozling bumbershoots! It isn’t anything. It’s not a thing. And anyway, it will end at midnight, and then you’ll be down to two wishes for all of the rest of your life.”
“But I wish it. I wish for everything to turn out all right, that I might live happily ever after. There. Now you have to do it.”
“All right then, fine.” Since I had no say in the matter, I gathered myself up and spun toward the ceiling, raining down glittering fairy dust all around until I fell, exhausted, to the floor.
“Is it done?” Ella whispered.
“It’s done, then,” I told her, having fulfilled my role in the wish.
“What’s changed?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
From below us, on the first floor of the house, the chimes of the great hall clock echoed up to the rafters, striking twelve times.
Midnight.
It was over.
Ella cried herself to sleep.
*
The next morning Ella awoke before the dawn. Her steps were lighter, and I sensed a renewed hope in her, though it pained me to see it, because I did not expect anything to have changed.
And indeed, the chickens had laid very few eggs (the weather being so hot and dry of late), the calf was missing, and Madame and her daughters were in particularly sour moods.