by Brigid Lowry
‘Oh,’ said Glory, yawning. ‘Couldn’t the herbalist save Cherry?’ The words spilt out before Glory had thought properly, and she hoped she had not said a wrong thing, but Elda answered her directly.
‘If only she could have, but Miss Oleander was away picking herbs this morning. It all happened very fast, you see. Cherry had a few sores and felt poorly, but she were walking around, until she weren’t.’
‘Oh.’ Glory yawned again. Her eyelids wouldn’t stay open.
‘Come on. Bring your bag, and I’ll show you where we sleep.’
‘This is the servants’ quarters,’ explained Elda, once they had crossed the courtyard and entered a tall brick building on the far side. It had three levels, and as the two girls climbed the winding wooden staircase they passed many doors painted in bright colours.
‘The groomsmen and junior male servants’ rooms are on the first floor. The senior staff live on the second floor. We’re not allowed to go in any rooms that ain’t ours,’ explained Elda. ‘Me and you are in the attic, right at the top. Right here, in fact. Cherry slept here, but her belongings have been given back to her kinfolk.’
An uncomfortable silence followed.
‘Don’t worry, she didn’t die here. She died in the laundry room,’ Elda explained.
Not sure what else to do, Glory offered a quiet smile, and Elda returned it. Their attic was a narrow room with a window, a faded green rug, two shelves, and just enough space for two cots and a washstand. From the window, Glory saw peacocks strutting on the velvety lawn, and ducks floating in the moat. Muslin curtains fluttered in the evening breeze.
‘This is your bed, and this is your shelf. We share the chamber-pot what’s under here.’ Elda blushed with embarrassment.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not a fussykins. I’m used to such things. It’s a fine room and, as far as I know, I’m not a snorer. We’ll do all right together, us two.’
‘We don’t have no duties tonight, but we start sharp at six so we might as well get some sleep.’ Elda took off her faded leather shoes, and Glory began to unpack her few belongings.
In the tavern late that night, Mr Hobbs, the carrier, wiped his chin.
‘An excellent supper. Most excellent indeed.’
Dirk, the beekeeper, nodded in agreement. The two men, hitherto strangers, were friendly fellows now, having shared several tankards of dark ale and a hearty meal of boiled fowl, turnip, cabbage, and pease pudding.
‘I left the girl at the palace, as I were supposed to. I’ll load my cart with hay, oil and wines, and make my way back to Myddle Styx when dawn breaks on the morrow.’
‘You know about her mother and the curse, no doubt?’ Dirk scratched his beard in a troubled manner, for there were many fleas in the straw at The Fat Pig Inn.
‘Women’s mumbo jumbo,’ declared Mr Hobbs. ‘I’ve no time for such nonsense.’
Dirk said no more. There are those who believe in magic, and those who do not. The beekeeper knew more than he wished to about such things, but there was no point wasting his words on an unbeliever. Nor did he mention the sudden unusual shadow that passed across the waning moon. Mr Hobbs was quite oblivious, being much engrossed in the sight of the ample, creamy bosom of the serving girl delivering the tankards.
THE WRITER
It’s easy to let a whole day slip by. The writer’s kitchen cupboard is overflowing with plastic containers, mainly from supermarket hummus. Wanting to help save the planet, the writer goes to buy an avocado, instead, to spread on her toast. Hours later, she’s bought a new pair of shoes and a black pen, hung out in the library looking for books about magic, and visited several op shops. ‘It’s almost time for afternoon tea. I’ll make a cuppa and set to work,’ says the writer, and then the phone rings. ‘What a fine thing an avocado is; a perfect creamy spread in its own organic, biodegradable container,’ she tells her friend on the phone. Her friend says the writer needs to get out more. Staying home alone does not seem to be good for her mental health. ‘Actually, I’ve been out all day! Better do some work! Okay, see ya,’ says the writer. She’d better crack on. Glory hasn’t even met Mirabella yet.
The Reader
› That’s weird. Mum brought home a slice of gorgeous lemony poppy seed cake for me — and while I was eating it, it got invented in my book. Spooky. She’s gone to bed with a headache, leaving me instructions to fold the laundry and sort out the recycling, but I can’t be bothered. I’m over global warming. It seems to me that the planet was pretty much rooted before I got here. Now I’m supposed to fix it. I want a t-shirt that says: Decline of Planet Not My Fault.
ANOTHER
CHAPTER
AT DAWN, WHEN THE roosters began to crow, elda shook glory awake. They washed their faces in the white china bowl and hastened to Athe kitchen. glory was taken by surprise when she saw the size of Mrs Blossom. The name was so pretty she hadn’t expected the cook to be a mammoth sow of a woman with arms as hefty as hams, and a hairy chin. Mrs Blossom looked glory up and down, turned her around, and sighed fit to knock down a haystack.
‘i could have done with you, Lass, in my kitchen. But you are to become Princess Mirabella’s maid.’
Alice gave a big happy shout.
‘Thank goodness it were not me. i have been so afeared of it.’
‘Nor me,’ added elda.
‘why not?’ glory asked. ‘surely to be the maid of a princess is a good thing?’
‘You ain’t met the princess,’ said Alice.
‘She have a very bad temper on her,’ added Elda.
‘Quiet, you two,’ Mrs Blossom bellowed. ‘That’s enough! Rolf, take her to the princess’s chambers and come straight back. No skedadling into the garden or linky-lanking in the corridors. I need you to wash the leeks.’
Glory liked the look of Rolf. He was tall and skinny, with kind eyes and a gentleness about him. She returned his welcoming smile with a question.
‘I saw you yesterday, as I arrived, chasing your wee dog. Did you manage to catch it?’
‘Eventually. But she’s not mine. That was Arabella, the queen’s beloved pet. She’s a bundle of mischief, a veritable minx, and often runs away.’
‘I’ve never had a pet, unless you count the hedgehog that lived beneath our cottage. It must be grand fun.’
The young man led the way along long corridors lined with family portraits in heavy gilded frames. Rolf stopped beneath one of the paintings.
‘This is Prince Oscar. He’s my favourite. He studied all the courtly arts: languages, music, poetry, botany. He was an adventurer, too, but he died young.’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Glory. The young man in the portrait did seem a most agreeable fellow, with his smiling eyes and dashing grin.
‘He died in strange circumstances.’
‘Like what?’
‘No one knows, or at least I don’t. His mother, Agatha the Duchess of Amberly, went completely mad after his death, they say. There are quite a few secrets in this palace, if you want my opinion.’
Glory wanted to know about secrets, but even more urgently she wanted to know something else.
‘Is Princess Mirabella really so horrible?’
‘May I give you some advice?’ Rolf replied. ‘If it were me, I would treat her like a bad-tempered horse. I wouldn’t take too much nonsense, and I would only give her a sugar lump when she behaved herself, if you understand me.’
‘I do,’ laughed Glory. ‘Thank you, Rolf.’
‘Come on, I’d better deliver you there, and get back to the kitchen before Mrs Blossom worries herself into a puddle.’
The pair scurried along the corridors until they came to a vast mahogany door carved with the royal crest. Rolf rang the bell.
‘Enter,’ came a muffled command.
‘Good luck. Remember there’s always company to be found in the kitchen.’ Rolf winked, then turned and ran.
At first it was hard to see anyone, for the room was so grand and so full of fancy things. Green
birds decorated the pale blue wallpaper, lacquered screens danced with dragonflies, yellow roses and orange peonies spilt from vases, and the carved bed was hung with damask curtains and turquoise tassels. Glory’s first thought, when she saw Princess Mirabella, was that she was as beautiful as an angel. Glory’s second observation was that it was a grumpy angel, because the royal face wore a fierce scowl. Glory’s next feeling was one of puzzlement, because the princess was wearing only a white lace petticoat, pulled up above her knees, and her feet were stuck in a large, blue, floral china tureen.
‘I suppose you’re Gloria, my new maid. Well, it took you long enough to get here. Don’t stare. Haven’t you ever seen anyone enjoying a footbath? Hurry up and dry my feet. My page brought this water ages ago. It’s completely cold.’
‘My name’s Glory, actually.’
‘I don’t care if your name is Petal Nectarine Rainbow. Dry my feet, and hurry up about it.’
Glory did as she was told. She was amazed that the two royal feet needed so much attention. They were dutifully dried, massaged with a balm of rose petals and lavender, then carefully tucked into pink silk socks and green satin slippers.
‘How was your first day?’ Elda asked, when the two girls were tucked up in bed that night.
‘The princess has a very nasty manner. She treated me most rudely.’
‘Yes, they say she was born sour. Came into this world with a frown on her tiny, wrinkled face, and has made a habit of discontentment ever since. Some of the stories Cherry told us would make squirrels die of fright. The only thing Cherry liked about being Princess Mirabella’s chambermaid was that it meant she got to see Arlo. He’s a nice looker, that one. Lord, my feet are tired. We stewed pears today, a huge vat of them. I don’t care if I never see another pear ever again.’ Elda snuggled down, and her breathing soon softened into sleep.
Glory lay silent. How she wished to be at home, in the quiet cottage, with her beloved mother and brothers. A huge wave of longing overcame her as she recalled the dappled firelight and the comfort of her mother’s voice, so very far from this unfamiliar world and narrow, lonely bed. A funny little tear drop ran down her nose by mistake. Never mind, she consoled herself. Perhaps tomorrow all would be beautiful.
The next morning, a funeral was held for Cherry in the chapel. Her mother, plump as a pudding, could not contain her grief, and sobbed all through the ceremony. Her father stood steady until the slender coffin, draped with honeysuckle, was carried out by four lumbering local lads, and then he wept in great gasping sighs, his chest heaving like a boat in a rough ocean. Afterwards, the servants gathered in the courtyard for ale and sweetmeats, standing in quiet groups, clumsy with sorrow. The queen and the princess withdrew to the royal chambers and drank port wine from tiny glass goblets. Mirabella was subdued. She felt as if she’d been punched. How shallow things seemed, in the face of death.
‘I wish your father were here. His support in times of need is sadly lacking.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘But I think we have managed the funeral well enough. Do you not agree?’
‘Indeed, Mama.’
‘But the king will be home before long, and then there is the ball to look forward to.’
Mirabella turned her head away, knowing this would be a poor time to speak of her feelings about her future.
Each new day, Glory hoped for smoother times, but it was not to be. The princess was petulant when her fruit was not perfectly ripe, sulked when her egg wasn’t boiled correctly, snarled if her hair wasn’t brushed gently enough, and became grumpy when her riding boots weren’t polished to her satisfaction. It was ‘Do this’, ‘Do that’, from dawn until dusk, with never a ‘Please’ nor a ‘Thank you’. On the fourth day, after the princess had eaten her breakfast of porridge, pears and clotted cream, she instructed Glory to fetch her finest gowns so she might choose an outfit for the ball.
‘Lay them on the bed.’
Glory took the first gown from its silk wrapping and placed it gently on the bed.
‘Not like that. Do it properly. You’ll rip them if you aren’t more careful. Were you born in a barn, you clumsy creature?’
‘No, I was born in a cottage, where people had manners.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that? Apologise at once!’
‘I shan’t. I’ve had enough of your tantrums. If you want me to be your maid, you must treat me respectfully.’ ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Get out of my sight!’ The princess stamped her foot so hard it made her wince with pain, but Glory felt no sympathy. She turned and left.
Rolf was sitting on a wooden stool in the sun, outside the kitchen, shelling almonds.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter? You look very pale.’
‘I am pale,’ said Glory, sitting down beside him. ‘Pale with rage and fury. You know that advice you gave me regarding the princess? Well, it didn’t work. She never acted nicely enough for me to give her a sugar lump. In fact she treated me so rudely that I was insolent to her. She has kicked me out.’
‘I told you she was a bad-tempered horse. Kicking the chambermaid, that’s awful. A horse should know better.’
‘It isn’t the least bit funny, Rolf. I’ll be sent home in disgrace, without any wages. I wanted to do well here, to make my mother proud of me.’
Before Rolf could answer, Arlo appeared. His satin breeches were perfectly fitted; his black leather shoes had big brass buckles, and shone like treacle.
‘The queen wants to see Glory. At once. In the blue drawing room.’
‘I told you so.’ Glory stood up, a bit shakily.
‘Stay steady. I’ll be waiting.’ Rolf said, but even he looked doubtful.
The Reader
› I wonder why Glory was sent to the palace. It’s related to the magic book under her mother’s bed, no doubt. I wonder how the writer thinks all that stuff up? It must be quite hard having to come up with original ideas. I don’t think I’d like to be a writer. I’m thinking of becoming an architect, a web designer or a florist. I would also like to travel the world, helping people and having adventures in interesting places.
THE WRITER
The writer has come to a big decision. There are to be no fairies in her book, and this is why: she doesn’t believe in fairies. She doesn’t not believe in them, either, but she’s never seen one or felt one near. She likes the idea of them, and has nothing against small children wearing gauzy floaty costumes. But no actual fairy has ever come to the writer’s house, nor done a fairy thing to her. She does believe in invisible forces, though.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN AND
THRUPPENCE
THE QUEEN WAS wearing a purple gown with an ermine collar, and purple satin slippers with ermine trim. arabella lay sleeping on her lap. glory stood nervously before Her Highness, waiting for the worst to happen, but the royal greeting was surprisingly pleasant.
‘sit, Child. would you care for some tea?’
‘No thank you, Ma’am.’ glory knew her hand would tremble if she held a teacup. she wished she had a dear little dog, gentle upon her lap. stroking such a soft creature would surely soothe and calm her. The queen took a sip of tea and fiddled with the dainty cake before her.
‘Princess Mirabella has told me what happened between you. I’m disappointed to hear it, though not entirely surprised. My daughter has never been an easy person, and her maid’s sudden death has unsettled her. However, I do not approve of rudeness; not from the princess, nor from my servants. Do you understand me?’
Glory nodded.
‘Good. There will be no more discourtesy, and you will perform your work calmly and cheerfully. I shall give you other duties for a week. On Monday morning you’ll resume your station as royal chambermaid, when I expect the two of you to make a fresh start.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Glory wasn’t sure if she was happy to hear the news, or sad, but on balance this plan seemed preferable
to being sent home in disgrace after only four days.
‘Arlo will show you to the library, where you will dust all the books and all the shelves. When that’s done, Mrs Blossom is expecting you in the kitchen. Alice, the garden girl, was called home yesterday. Her father is purported to need her, but it is more likely a reaction to the news of Cherry’s illness. I am not happy about it, but . . .’
The queen’s voice trailed off, and she rang her bell to summon the page, then turned her attention to Arabella, who’d woken up and seemed to be choking on a cake crumb.
‘So?’ Arlo asked eagerly, once they were out of earshot of the queen.
‘I’m on other duties until Monday, when I shall resume my post as Mirabella’s maid. I have been instructed to be politeness itself, which I shall attempt.’
‘Interesting,’ said Arlo. ‘Here’s the library, which you’ll find very peaceful after Mirabella’s hoity-toity ways. The duster is in the cupboard.’ He smiled winningly, then strutted away. What a peacock, thought Glory. He’s very handsome, but the effect is ruined by his own good opinion of himself.
It was a magnificent library. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and light bathed the room through leadlight windows, creating diamond patterns on the polished floor. Glory took up the feather duster and set to work, yet she made slow progress, for each book was a doorway to a world of mystery and amazement. What a lovely punishment, thought Glory. A library is a type of paradise for me. She recalled the pleasure of being taught to read by her father, and the happy times she’d spent reading folktales to her brothers. Glory waved her duster like a magic wand, then continued her work. She took each book down, dusted it carefully, then opened it to look inside. She was deeply absorbed in the travels of a Spanish explorer when gradually she came to have a feeling she was being watched. Maybe there were ghosts in here. Come now, don’t be a dandelion head, she told herself, but the feeling grew stronger rather than weakening. Slowly, Glory turned around and saw a woman standing in the doorway, watching her intently; a woman of faded beauty, with olive skin and deep blue eyes. Her silver-flecked dark hair was tied in a knot, and she wore a grey gown embroidered with stars. Neither spoke for a long moment.