The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  “Don’t mumble, Your Highness. It’s not becoming.”

  Eleanor looked up at her stepmother. She spit the quill into her hand. “Good morning.”

  Imogene bit the inside of her both cheeks, whether from disgust or an attempt to hide a snigger Eleanor could not be sure. With her full lips pursed so she had the look of a coquettish trout.

  “Pray,” said Imogene. “Can you tell me if Mister Oliver is inside?”

  Eleanor nodded. “I’m waiting for an audience with him myself.” It was quite possibly the most pleasant exchange she’d ever had with her stepmother. No harm in encouraging congeniality. She cleared her throat. “Do you seek his advice?”

  “We wish to expand the Duke of Harveston’s presence at Eclatant. We require more rooms, and Mister Oliver handles such delegations.”

  “Does His Grace not already occupy the entire second floor of the East Wing?” Eleanor asked. She’d meant no offense, but Imogene’s lips went fishy again.

  “What about you? What could the princess possibly need from Mister Oliver?”

  “I’ve come to share a book with him.”

  Imogene touched the book’s spine. “Women, Magic and the History of Afar Creek Abbey,” she read. “You’re bringing that to Mister Oliver?”

  “Ah…yes,” said Eleanor. “Why do you speak so?”

  “Oh, no reason. Do carry on.” Imogene sat in an upholstered chair across the alcove from the door. She took a doily from her pocket. The pouty smirk on her face made Eleanor want to jab her with one of her own embroidery needles. So much for congeniality, she thought, as an apprentice magician opened the receiving room door. Imogene leapt to her feet. She and Eleanor curtsied as the king swept past.

  Eleanor straightened and poked her head around the doorway. Oliver was pressing a seal into purple wax on a folded document.

  “Mister Oliver?”

  He jumped at her voice. “Horns and fire,” he said, shaking his thumb.

  “Pardon,” said Eleanor. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Did you burn yourself?”

  “It’s nothing, Your Highness.” He inserted a few more documents into a velvet bag. “Do you have need of me?”

  “I just wanted to share something with you.” She smiled her enthusiasm. “Do you remember, last fall…we spoke of the witches’ dedication to desperate cases? I thought you’d enjoy this book. The Oracle gave it to me years ago. It gives insight into Afar Creek’s philosophy on the impoverished—”

  “Please forgive me, Your Highness, but I’m terribly busy.”

  “But there’s a quote—it reminded me of how Rosemary helped me—”

  “Did you get the silk I sent you?” he asked. “From Point-of-Rocks.”

  She nodded in confusion at Oliver’s apparent preference for talk of fashion over philosophy. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good. I’m sure you’ll make good use of it.” He smiled his crooked smile. “Such fine craftsmanship. As soon as I laid eyes upon it, I knew no other lady could do it justice. Now, please, excuse me.” He bowed, and left Eleanor to her ledger and her seemingly uninspired reading habits.

  Summers in Maliana were miserable. The rains were sparse, and the Clarity River dwindled to a warm brown puddle, exposing smelly clay and sending hordes of mosquitoes into the city’s streets. As LowSummer wore on and the buzzing became intolerable the entire court packed up and left for the resort town of Solsea, eighty miles south of Maliana on the coast of the Shallow Sea. Even the king would join them for a while, leaving Eclatant in the care of several armed legions and the Unicorn Guard. Eleanor had visited Solsea for a few days during her honeymoon the previous winter, and she wanted to see the town in its summer glory.

  As Eleanor oversaw her packing in the week before they were to leave she tired easily. Three evenings in a row she retched into her chamber pot. Her new lady’s maid, Pansy Ricketts, suggested she needed a witch’s attention.

  “I think there might be somethin’ brewin’ in there, highness,” said Pansy. She was a short, square woman with limp blondish hair. Eleanor had chosen her for her take-charge attitude and bluntness. Better a smart, honest servant than a pretty one.

  “It’s just a flu,” Eleanor said, but she sent for Rosemary anyway.

  Rosemary arrived with another witch, a healer and babycatcher called Mercy Leigh. Mercy Leigh’s red hair made Gregory’s look brown in comparison. She did not appear much older than Eleanor, but with witches it was difficult to tell such things.

  Mercy Leigh examined Eleanor and declared her pregnant. “I can read it in your energy, but your body is not yet showing signs. It’s very early. I would keep it to yourself, Your Highness.”

  “Of course,” Eleanor said. The more she thought about it, the more thrilled she became. She beamed at Rosemary, Pansy and Mercy Leigh. “It will be our secret. Though I will tell Gregory, of course. I can’t wait to see his face!”

  “Maybe you should wait a few weeks before telling him,” said Rosemary.

  “Why?” Eleanor asked. A dash of fear pushed her already buoyant stomach further into her throat. “Is something wrong?”

  “Everything seems fine,” said Mercy Leigh, “but this is your first pregnancy. We don’t know how it will progress. Sometimes…Sometimes these things aren’t meant to be.”

  “What they means, Highness,” Pansy broke in, “is you don’t want Prince Gregory all puffed up for nothin’.”

  “He’s my husband, and I will tell him.”

  Rosemary kissed her. “As you wish, my dear. Besides, I’m sure everything will be just fine. You’re young and healthy. And stubborn as a mule.”

  Eleanor laughed, her worry forgotten, and sent Pansy to find Gregory. Mercy Leigh left some tonics for the nausea and the health of the baby, and Eleanor promised to write Rosemary daily with updates on her health. After they left she sat back and waited for her husband.

  As she expected, he was ecstatic. He lifted her up and covered her face with kisses, then set her down just as quickly. He was afraid he had shaken her too much. She laughed and begged him not to leave her unkissed for the next eight months. He sat beside her on the couch and rested his head on her lap, as if already waiting for a kick. She ran her hands over his thick hair.

  “Let’s have dinner here tonight,” he said.

  “Really? I’d like that.”

  “What is our child in the mood for?”

  “I’d say anything but broccoli,” she said. “A berry tart would be nice.”

  He turned his face up to hers. “No broccoli and a berry tart. You shall have it.”

  He called for Pansy and gave her the instructions. Over a quiet meal they discussed baby names and laughed over when the child had been conceived. She tired early, but for once it didn’t bother him. He helped her out of her dress and into a simple satin nightgown. He took off his own tunic and slid under the covers next to her. For the first time since they had been married he slept beside her without any expectations. She curled comfortably in the crook of his arm and snuggled close to him. She laughed to herself when he fell asleep first, as he always did, even though there had been no eruption to tire him out. As she lay under the light covers with Gregory’s arm around her, she realized she had not thought about Dorian all evening. As soon as she let him in he didn’t want to leave. She finally drove him from her mind and fell asleep. It was one night she should share only with her husband.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Prize for Extravagant Living

  Solsea meandered along the cliffs overlooking the Shallow Sea. The town itself consisted of a few winding streets of shops and a chapel squeezed into the rock. The villagers, who lived in small hamlets behind the cliffs, made their living as domestics during warm months. They survived the winter by fishing and caretaking the great houses dotting the cliffside. Magnificent estates could be found throughout Cartheigh, but Solsea took the prize for extravagant living. To Eleanor each home was larger and had more pillars than the next.

  Several
steep wooden staircases provided access to the white beach below the village. They needed replacing at the beginning of each summer season because the high winter tides washed them away. The mansions had private staircases made of Fire-iron and anchored deep into the cliff walls. The tides did not affect them, and they hung over the sides of the cliffs like frozen silver waterfalls. Eleanor’s first descent down to the beach left her clenching the railings and muttering prayers. On the way back up she abandoned counting the stairs at four hundred. Once she got used to the height she tried to walk the stairs at least once a day. The climb would add strength to her saddle seat.

  The royal residence, Trill Castle, was really a compound of six houses and a stone barn. It dated to the days of Caleb the Second, and while luxurious, was not as opulent as some of the newer estates. She would stay with Gregory and his father in the largest of the six, Willowswatch, and their closest friends would spread out in the other buildings. Each cottage, as they were called, was unique. Some were stone, some brick, and the smallest, Speck Cottage, was made of ancient interconnected logs. Stone paths woven through riotous gardens connected them. Flocks of bitterbits swarming the flowers gave Trill its name. The tiny birds made up for their size with their piercing voices, and they woke Eleanor before the sun some mornings.

  Willowswatch (Eleanor could not help but laugh at its designation as a cottage) was the only building at Trill with any Fire-iron construction. The alternating granite and iron gave it the look of a giant, cube-shaped chessboard. Six crooked willow trees shaded the front walk, and Eleanor had to duck dangling fronds to reach the door. There were three round turrets, one on each end and a larger one at the front and center. Eleanor sometimes caught King Casper peeking out the windows of his bedroom in the center tower.

  Gregory offered Eleanor the south tower, with its stunning views of the Shallow Sea from the rounded wall of windows. She demurred, because she knew he always stayed there, but he insisted.

  “The north tower has fewer stairs, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll be less likely to crash to my drunken death after some party. Besides, I want you to have the best of Solsea this summer.”

  She was touched by his thoughtfulness, and even more touched at his attempts to make her feel at home. Before they arrived he had the whole south tower redecorated. It was hilariously feminine, all lace and pink bedding and furniture so dainty she feared it would collapse if anyone actually sat on it. She would hardly have chosen any of it, but no matter. She thanked him sincerely, and kissed him when he pointed out the pieces he had selected himself.

  To Eleanor’s delight, there was little formal entertaining at Trill Castle. The grounds were lush and rolling, perfect for games and picnics. The interiors, however, were full of small, cozy rooms cramped with furniture. Willowswatch had one dining room, but it got little use beyond Eleanor, Gregory and the king at breakfast. The royal family would be the guests of honor at the more spacious mansions of their subjects, and invitations were waiting as their carriages pulled into the drive.

  People were still airing out their houses, but they didn’t waste any time. A traveling tennis competition sprung up among the young men. It moved from home to home over the first week, long warm days of shouting fans and spiked punch. Gregory performed well and with high spirits in all his matches. Eleanor noticed he never played against Dorian, and after she watched Dorian play a few rounds she knew why. He crushed each opponent handily, never raising his voice, while the unfortunate fellow on the other side cursed and fumed. She knew of the widespread admiration for his skill at all male pursuits, but he had been subdued during the Awakening Fest and avoided sport. With an improved mood he dominated not only at tennis, but jousting, archery, fencing, and even lawn bolls. His graciousness in victory only irked his opponents. Eleanor thanked HighGod he and Gregory avoided each other. She didn’t think her husband’s pride could take it.

  Gregory had never been so attentive. He brought her drinks and sat on a blanket with her during lunches. He even held a parasol over her head as she walked between the cottages. Why, then, did Dorian still invade her thoughts? Why did she find herself shading her eyes with her hand so she could watch him without being obvious?

  Early one Tuesday morning she positioned herself on the edge of the fountain between Willowswatch and the unicorn barn. Gregory had not yet recovered from the previous nights’ bought with a particularly potent cask of northern rock gin, but she’d noticed Dorian never suffered such ill effects. He joined her after he saw to Senne’s morning feed.

  “What are you reading?” he asked. He wove a piece of straw through his long fingers. She held up her book. “The Fallen Woman, by Sara-Susan of Afar Creek Abbey,” he read. “How incredibly inappropriate.”

  She laughed. “I had Rosemary send it from the Abbey. You don’t find such material lying around the Willowswatch library.”

  “Why prostitutes, princess?”

  The endearment warmed her. She watched his moving hands until the corners of her mouth stopped twitching. “I suppose all woman have some morbid curiosity about those…ladies.”

  “Morbid, yes. Rich or poor, women like to feel there is someone else worse off. I suppose men do, too, but we prefer to beat each other into subjugation.” He threw the straw into the fountain. “You’re not one for idle curiosity.”

  “I suppose…” She shook her head. “No, you’ll think me morally deficient.”

  “How fascinating. Now you must tell me.”

  “I understand how they come to it. The whores, I mean. There are so few opportunities between marriage and Pasture’s End for non-magical women in Cartheigh. Look at me. I have an education to make any witch or magician or nobleman proud, and I could think of nothing to do with it.”

  “So you stayed in your father’s house.”

  “I always knew I couldn’t hide away forever but…” She hugged the book to her chest. “In the first months after my father died I did the work my stepmother set for me, because I didn’t eat if I refused, but I fought back. I sassed her and stormed around the house. Sometimes I broke her trinkets or purposely let her underthings go sour after washing.”

  “Am I to be surprised?”

  “The scale finally tipped when I stomped on her foot and refused to polish my father’s pocket clockworks collection before she sold it. She beat me…and then locked me in the closet. I could hear Chou screaming curses at her through the door for hours…and then she stuffed me into a hired carriage. We ended up in some seedy square….watching the street children begging for alms from the Godsmen…”

  Eleanor trailed off at the memory. Bits of the scene jumped out, like pieces of a wooden puzzle dangled before her. Round, staring eyes. Heads either shaved or topped with mats of never-brushed hair. Gaunt faces, raw with running sores. Knees and elbows and collarbones so sharp they might have caused the holes in the children’s ratty clothes. Their voices had streamed into the carriage, begging, pleading, each trying to outdo the other’s tales of woe. They screamed threats and insults at one another, and Eleanor had not believed such foul language could come from such small people. The Godsman dolled out lumps of bread and cheese, reaching for the tiniest hands, but the older children slapped the little ones away. They grabbed what they could and beat a quick retreat into the crevices between the shops and stalls.

  “She told me I would join them if not for her generosity. And then she pointed down an alleyway off the square. At the older girls, not much older than me but painted and cinched and gussied up in a way that made me blush.”

  “Even then, you knew.”

  She nodded. “Imogene asked me if Rosemary had taught me about Pasture’s End. She said it’s a bad place, full of bad girls and bad men who make them do horrible, dirty things. They get sick and they die and no one cares. No one loves them. No one will ever love any of them.”

  Dorian rested his hand on the marble ledge. His fingers just brushed the edge of her skirt.

  “I had nightmares for weeks. Dr
eams she’d left me there with those girls. I don’t remember the details of my father’s face, Dorian, but I can’t forget the eyes of a few anonymous whores.”

  “What of your mother?” Dorian asked. “Do you remember her? You never speak of her.”

  She considered telling him, but in the end the old discomfort got the better of her. She set the book on the ledge. “She died so long ago…not like your father.”

  “It has been almost nine years. My mother died two years before my father, of a sudden apoplexy. You know, there are other similarities in our situations. Not just our parents’ early deaths. My choices were also limited. After Abram pushed me out of the house—”

  “Why would he do so? To his own brother?”

  Dorian took a moment. “Mother once told me she thought HighGod had played a trick on her by sending Abram first in out family. He’s not terribly bright, and he’s a poor marksman. He’s not a strong rider…and he’s…rather…how can I say it? He’s homely.”

  “So he’s just the opposite of you.”

  “Here’s where I once again prove my conceit.”

  “It’s not conceit if it’s the truth.”

  “Debatable. Anyway, Abram has all the responsibility and no means to cope with it. It’s not really his fault. I try to help him…when he lets me.” He absently rubbed the bit of silk under his fingers. “I wanted to stay on for an advanced course at Academy, but he threatened to disown me. It was the army or nothing.”

  “You became a soldier to avoid your brother’s wrath. I remained a maid to avoid becoming a whore.”