“The prime of life for a witch.”
Rosemary laughed. “I suppose you’re right. Although I do feel a century in these feet.” She took Eleanor’s hand. “And how are you?”
“I’m well.” Suddenly Eleanor didn’t know what she wanted to say to Rosemary. “Just fine. Excited.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I feared something amiss.”
Eleanor shook her head. “No, I just wanted to see you. I…I thought I might visit with the Oracle.” In truth she’d thought no such thing since that very moment, but once it was out it seemed a fine idea.
Rosemary’s mouth turned down at the corners. “You haven’t seen her since just before your father’s death.”
“Perhaps it’s time I saw her again.”
“It’s not that easy, Eleanor. She does not take many visitors. You only met her that once because she asked me to bring you to her.”
“I’ve always wondered about that visit. Why did she want to see me?”
“I’m sorry, darling, but it’s not possible. Not now. You’re far too busy—with the wedding—”
“I’d like to see her before the wedding.”
Rosemary squeezed Eleanor’s hand. “The Oracle of Afar Creek Abbey is not a dealer in tarot cards, child.”
Eleanor fell silent. She blinked at the bookshelves, the volumes crammed together like the condemned awaiting the scaffold on execution day.
“Shall I ask the Abbottess for leave?” asked Rosemary. “I could attend you in your preparations.”
Some of the tension leaked out of Eleanor’s shoulders. She found the idea of Rosemary attending anyone laughable, but she nodded. “If your students can spare you.”
Rosemary smiled. “I think they can. After all, what did my redheaded scholar say? Everyone already knows this story.”
The rest of the week passed in a whirlwind of fittings, tastings and, of course, parties. Try as she might, Eleanor could not regain sense of ease she had experienced for a short time at her Engagement Ball. Dorian Finley’s presence at every event, no matter how large or small, did not help matters. It became clear how close he and Gregory were. While the prince’s other friends rotated in and out, Dorian always stood at his side.
I’m just going to have to get used to him, she thought before bed one evening. I’ll be sitting beside him at least once a week for the rest of my life!
She decided to think of him as Gregory did, as an older brother. She could not help but look for him when she entered a room. He seemed to know just when she had run out of things to say or would soon choke on her own foot. He would appear at her shoulder and lead her to the dance floor or to Gregory’s side.
She spent an entire dinner party two days before the wedding engrossed in conversation with him. As they talked over their salads they somehow found the topic of the conditions in the slums of Meggett Fringe, which led them to the work of the witches in the city, which wound on to the state of Carthean women in general. At some point Dorian left his seat and made his way around the long table. He sat beside her, and they agreed and argued and laughed over the roles of men and women until she noticed the servants clearing the dinner dishes. She stood and looked for Gregory. She smiled when she saw him sitting on the edge of the table, a glass of wine in one hand, waiting for her. Usually she retired hours before he did.
He teased her and Dorian about their debate. “It’s wonderful, you can bore each other instead of me.”
She convinced herself Dorian was just a friendly face in a sea of suspect ones, and he watched out for her as Gregory’s inexperienced fiancée. She ignored the fact that she caught his eye whenever she looked through a crowd or across a table.
The evening before the wedding found Eleanor in her room in her nightgown and housecoat. She took advantage of a few quiet moments to pick up a long neglected volume of poetry. Rosemary and Eliza were also engrossed in reading, Anne Iris was knitting, and Chou Chou was snoozing on the mantle. Eleanor vowed after the wedding they would spend more evenings like this.
The chambermaid entered and announced Gregory. The four women stood and waited to greet him. He came into the room, holding a small wooden box. Eleanor’s casual dress obviously embarrassed him. “Good evening, ladies,” he said, “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
Eleanor smiled. “Not at all, you’re always welcome here. Won’t you join us?”
He ran his hand through his hair. It stood up from his forehead in confused question marks. “No. No, I’ll come back.” He started to leave and changed his mind. “Eleanor, might I see you alone for a few minutes?”
“Of course,” she said, taken aback. The others gathered their things, excused themselves and made a hasty exit.
Gregory came to offer her a wedding gift, a Fire-iron necklace and a set of earrings with a simple design of small diamonds. He told her they had been his mother’s favorites and he remembered her wearing them often.
“I know you’ve probably already picked something fancier,” he said, almost shyly, “but it would mean a lot to me if you wore these tomorrow.”
She told him she would be honored. He took her in his arms, whispered her name, and ran his hands over her hair. They sat by the fire until she dozed off on his shoulder. He gently lifted her and laid her on the bed. When he slipped her house shoes from her feet he ran his fingers over the damage done by the cracked slipper. He kissed the healing wound and helped her out of her robe. She asked where he was going.
“I have some last-minute preparations to make, and my father needs to see me,” he said. “You just rest tonight, sweetheart. I know all of this has been a change for you. I’ll tell them not to disturb you.”
She smiled and closed her eyes, warmed by his love, and that last bit of understanding.
Dorian sat beside Gregory in King Casper’s private receiving room. Gregory fidgeted as they waited for the king’s acknowledgement. He leaned forward on his elbows, and then slid back. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He fiddled with his hair, a gesture Dorian could read like a follicular weathervane. As various ministers and advisers came in and out, searching for instructions or signatures, Gregory settled into a stance Dorian assumed his father would dislike. He slouched, and crossed his arms over his chest. He splayed his legs and tapped one black boot impatiently.
Finally Casper looked up. “Son, don’t sit like that. You look like a school boy waiting for a thrashing, not the heir to the throne.” He waved away one of his generals and told Oliver, who crouched over a smaller desk by the door, to hold the visitors. The king rubbed his eyes and put down his quill. “Gregory, this wedding…I just don’t know.”
“What? The wedding is tomorrow, for the love of the Bond. We’ve already discussed it a thousand times.”
“Yes, but son—”
“Have you found some problem with her family?”
“No, this isn’t about her family. It seems both her parents spent time at court, and nothing can be found against them. In fact some remember her mother as quite amiable. Surprisingly, the same has been said of the stepmother.”
“So what is it?” Gregory asked.
“It’s her…manner…something…it’s just not right,” Casper threw up his hands. “Oliver, can you help me here? Or perhaps you, Finley? Talk some sense into him!”
“Certainly, sire,” said the magician, before Dorian could open his mouth. “You father believes she does not have the right…” He tilted his head and pursed his thin lips. “…temperament…to be a Desmarais princess.”
Gregory’s face reddened, and Dorian put a cautionary hand on his arm.
Oliver held up his hands. “It is true that she knows nothing of womanly pursuits. From what she says she has spent the last eight years in the company of a parrot.”
“She wouldn’t know the first thing about entertaining a visiting ambassador, or planning one of the hunts you love so much,” said the king. “She told me she hasn’t even ridden since she was a girl. How would she carry off her duties as t
he hostess of the whole court?”
“Pardon me, sire,” said Dorian. “If I may, Mistress Brice seems quite capable. I’m sure she could learn.”
“She’s far too opinionated,” the king said. “She goes on about her education. How this witch friend of hers schooled her extensively in history, literature, and science. How she’s anxious to use her learning to support you and help the kingdom. I’ve had the same speech from apprentice magicians trying for a place in Oliver’s office.”
Oliver rubbed his chin. “In my view—”
“Dragonshit. It’s hardly your decision to make, Oliver,” Gregory said. He tugged at his hair.
“Son,” Casper said, “you need someone more prepared, and more…subdued…for a bride. Desmarais women are always beautiful and admired, but they know their place. It’s your wife’s duty to amuse and delight your courtiers, and bear your children, not provide counsel. This girl will prove too willful.”
“I admit she will need some training, Father. We can have someone teach her what is expected, and of course I’ll put her in her place.” Each word escalated Gregory’s anger. “Do you think I won’t be in command of my own wife?”
“No, Gregory, but it might not be as easy to change her stripes as you think. You’ve spent enough time around horses to know the older they get, the harder it is to break bad habits. There are so many beautiful young women. Why must it be this one?”
“Enough. The wedding goes forward tomorrow. Dorian, come. I need a drink.”
Gregory stood and left the room before his father could respond. Dorian followed him into the hallway. He had to jog to catch up with the striding, muttering prince.
“A man-to-man discussion…not a truncated council meeting…”
“Greg, I—”
Gregory spun around. His jaw jutted. “I didn’t ask for Oliver’s judgment, and I don’t need yours, either.”
Dorian held up his hands. “Peace, friend. It’s your choice, of course…but…why do you want to marry Eleanor?”
Gregory paused, as if in search of an explanation himself. “She didn’t even know who I was, Dorian, but when she looked at me…she…approved.”
Rebuttals danced on the edge of Dorian’s tongue, some wise, some practical, all a bit self-serving. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. “Well, if that’s reason enough for you, it’s reason enough for me.”
Eleanor awoke hours later in disorienting darkness, unsure if her eyes were open or if she was caught in a dream of blindness. She strained for a spot of light to focus on. She finally fixed on the faint glowing stripe at the bottom of the door. Once she got her bearings, she reached across the bed. She searched the small nightstand for a candle and match. The candlelight cleared her fuzzy head. From the inky quality of the darkness, she knew she’d slept well past dinner and into the night. She swept the light over the room, pausing at Chou Chou’s empty perch. Perhaps he had stayed with Rosemary.
The fire had gone out. She shivered as she carefully rebuilt the flames, grateful that she was not as helpless as other ladies. As she watched the fire grow, popping and snapping and reaching it arms up the chimney, she went over Gregory’s visit in her mind. She tucked her face into her knees.
There would be no sleeping anytime soon. With a pleasantly jittery stomach she cast about for something to do to tire herself out. She picked up a book, a biography of the first Desmarais queen, but she couldn’t concentrate. She kept thinking of Gregory’s soft mouth, and how carefully he had laid her on the bed. She imagined him standing at the far end of Humility Chapel waiting for her. After she read the same page three times without remembering any of it, she gave up and set the book aside.
Suddenly a wicked idea leapt into her mind. She could visit him. His rooms were directly below hers. She passed his door several times a day, but she had never been inside. It could not be so improper. Tomorrow they would be man and wife.
She took up her candle and tiptoed out the door. She caught the sleepy sentry off-guard, but she quieted him with a quick lie about going to see Rosemary and ran down the stairs before he could argue with her. She rubbed her bare arms and chided herself for leaving without house shoes or a robe.
She poked her head around the corner. Another sentry stood guard under a flickering torch outside Gregory’s door. He was thickset, with a mustache, and looked much more intimidating than her own young soldier.
She stepped into the hallway and his head snapped in her direction. She smiled and walked toward him, as if it was not the middle of the night and she was not half-clothed. His eyes widened.
“Please, sir,” she said. “I need to speak with the prince for a moment. Would you grant me entry?”
He stared straight ahead again, as if hoping she might disappear. “I can’t do that, Mistress,” he said.
She frowned. “Why not? I’ll only be a few minutes, and it will be our secret, I promise.”
“I can’t.”
“Sergeant, I promise you won’t be in any trouble.”
He tugged at his earlobe. “I can’t, Mistress, and I would, just to get you out of this hallway, but Prince Gregory is not here.”
“Not here? What do you mean? It has to be—”
“Two in the morning.”
“Two in the morning,” she said. Something icy formed in her chest, and it wasn’t from the cold tiles beneath her feet. “I see. Well, I’ll be going.” She turned slowly.
“I’m sorry, Mistress.” The gruff voice followed her, but she didn’t want to turn around and see the sympathy on his face. She started up the steps but stopped midway.
There must be an explanation. She could not face tomorrow not knowing. She would wait and see, and it would all be revealed. Probably just some late-night meeting with his advisers, a problem that must solved before the wedding. She would wait until he returned, and then go back to bed happy.
Exhaustion caught up with her and she sat on the bottom step out of view of the guard. She wrapped her arms around her knees, and in spite of the cold she nodded off. After some time, maybe ten minutes or maybe an hour, she heard voices. She sat up.
They were male voices, and some of them sounded familiar. She rocked forward on her numb toes and peered around the corner again.
She recognized Dorian first, and then Brian, Raoul, and several of Gregory’s other friends. Dorian struggled to hold someone up. Her heart sank as she recognized Gregory’s auburn hair.
He could barely stand. His legs kept buckling underneath him. Each time they crumpled he reached up with both arms. He grabbed Dorian’s neck and nearly dragged them both to the floor. The other men kept up a constant stream of harassment. She lost track of who said what, but their words rang painfully clear.
“What’s that Gregory? Those two Talessee girls where too much for you?”
“We should have quit after the redhead. She took care of him quite nicely.”
“Did you see the tits on that one?”
“Old Greg was probably seeing four of them. He was so smashed he was already falling over.”
“But his flagpole was standing up!” They all roared with laughter.
“A fine tribute to Cartheigh!”
“Tell me, Gregory, how will your sweet little maid compare with those last two?”
Gregory’s head swung up. “See, what you boys don’t realize…is I can have the sweet little maid and still bang as many whores as I see fit. Benefits of the crown.”
Eleanor could barely breathe. She heard Dorian’s voice for the first time. “All right, all right, let’s get you to bed or you’re liable to pass out on the altar.”
Gregory spoke again. “And you know, boys, little Eleanor is not quite as sweet as you may think— I’ve already had my hands on her—”
“Enough, Gregory,” Dorian said. He thrust the stuttering prince off on Brian and Raoul. He took the keys from the guard, who gazed resolutely at the wall.
“Tonight was just practice for tomorrow—”
“
Enough!” Dorian exclaimed.
Eleanor couldn’t take any more. Without any further thought she stepped out into the hallway.
They all froze, a bunch of possums blinded by a woodsmen’s torch. Eleanor couldn’t speak. She simply stood there, staring at Gregory strung between Brian and Raoul like a pair of wet stockings left out to dry. Her hands clenched at her sides in tight fists. Blood roared in her ears, but her eyes were dry.
Dorian finally broke the silence. “Eleanor.”
Gregory cocked his head. “Sweetheart, how good to see you.”
His body jerked and he vomited. It covered his boots, and the sentry’s. The guard never moved. The acidic scent hit Eleanor’s nose and broke her paralysis. She fled up the steps. She heard Dorian calling after her but she didn’t stop. She brushed past her own sentry, threw the door open with both hands, closed it and drew the latch. She leaned against it. She had left her candle in the hallway, but she’d built the fire well and it still burned. She jumped at a gentle tap on the door behind her.
Dorian’s voice through the thick wood loosened the tears that had not come downstairs. “Eleanor,” he said, “please open the door. Let me explain.”
“No, go away.”
“He’s just drunk. It’s just talk among men. He didn’t mean any of it.”
“So where were you all? You weren’t out pitching lawn bolls!”
“I don’t deny it, or defend it. But Gregory loves you. He never meant to hurt you.”
She leaned her head against the door. There was no way she could open it. “I don’t know what to believe,” she said. And then, louder, “Please go away, Dorian. Please.”
“As you wish.”
She sensed him standing on the other side, and then his footsteps moved down the hallway.
Eleanor lay in bed for the rest of the night but she did not sleep. The servants were just creeping into the room when the door banged open. She heard the maids cry out. She sat up, her heart racing, as the bed curtains were ripped aside.
There was Gregory, unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes. He wore the same clothes she seen him in last night, and the sour smell of old booze and vomit clung to him. He looked more like an escapee from one of the witches’ asylums than her handsome prince.
The Cracked Slipper Page 7