The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  “Don’t say that,” he said, and the intensity in his voice frightened her. “I can’t stand the thought of you in one of those places.”

  She looked down at his hand on her skirt. “I’m here now,” she said. “And so are you. All for the best.”

  He chuckled and handed the book back to her. She touched the spot on her skirt where his hand had been. “I’ll let you return to your reading,” he said. “I’ve a bow to string.”

  They said their goodbyes. As she watched him disappear into the unicorn barn she wondered how she’d managed these past months when he withdrew his friendship. She wished she could tell him about the baby, if he was indeed her friend, but she couldn’t do it. Her pregnancy brought her joy regardless of her confusion. She could not bear the thought it would cause him pain.

  She stopped lying to herself. She could not blame Gregory’s neglect anymore. Her feelings for Dorian were not under her control.

  Near the end of their second week in Solsea, the royal family and their guests were invited to the home of Sir Maxmilon Faust, whose family had made a fortune in shipping several centuries ago. Faust was a contemporary of Sylvia’s husband, the Duke of Harveston. Eleanor’s toes curled when Margaret read a note from her mother expressing Imogene’s happiness at their reunion at Faust’s dinner party.

  “Mother and Sylvia have just arrived. They are staying at the Fleetwood place, of course,” Margaret said.

  “Charmed,” said Eleanor. Eliza pinched her arm.

  “Perhaps we should invite them to Trill,” said Anne Iris. “Dorian can stay with me and they can have his room. Supposedly he has a large…bed.”

  “I doubt they would enjoy sharing a cottage with Brian and Raoul,” said Eleanor. “I hear your brother snores something terrible when he’s drunk.”

  “I bet Margaret would love to find out,” said Eliza.

  “Eliza! How saucy!” Margaret laughed. “Besides, I mean no offense, Anne Iris, but your brother is a bit wild for me. Raoul, on the other hand…”

  Eleanor shook her head and adjusted her necklace. She had started feeling better over the last few days. Her nausea had disappeared and she had more energy. She looked forward to having a glass of wine at Faust’s party, but the thought of an evening with Imogene and Sylvia put a damper on her good mood.

  Oh, to the dogs with them, she thought. If I can finally stomach a glass of wine I will have it.

  Eleanor’s belly acquiesced, but her bladder did not. She squirmed throughout the bumpy carriage ride to the Faust estate, her legs crossed at the thigh and again at the ankle. HighGod forbid she should arrive at the party with wet petticoats. As soon as the carriage stopped she dashed for the nearest water closet, which happened to be on the opposite side of the house from the ballroom.

  Horns and fire, she thought, where do they expect the dinner wine to go?

  A servant tried to accompany her, but she couldn’t bear the idea of some stranger listening outside the door, so she took directions instead. She went left, then right at a tall mirror, but she missed the next left and came to a dead end. She wheeled in frustration, certain she’d have to relieve herself in one of Lady Faust’s famous antique vases. She took the first available turn in the hope of meeting someone who could redirect her, but at the sound of sniffling she slowed. She paused before a cracked door. The smell of leather and old pipe smoke told her it was a study of some sort.

  “I can’t do it anymore,” said a watery voice from beyond the doorway. “I just can’t.”

  “Sylvia, darling, you must.” Imogene’s voice held a rare hint of compassion. “I know it’s not ideal—”

  Sylvia laughed.

  “—but he takes care of you. You’ll never want for a thing.”

  “Nor will you.”

  “It could be worse. He’s not unkind, is he?”

  “No—”

  “Does he hit you? Pinch?”

  “No! He’s just ancient and hideous and he never let’s up!” Eleanor peeked through the crack as Sylvia stood. “And she…she has him…” Sylvia dissolved into noisy sobbing.

  Imogene rose and tried to embrace her daughter, but Sylvia pushed her off. “It’s your fault! She should have ended up in a whorehouse in Pasture’s End, not sitting on a throne. Her eyes…all the bad signs…she killed her own mother!”

  Eleanor sucked in her breath, waiting for Imogene to shudder in disgust and agree with her daughter.

  “Ridiculous,” Imogene said. “Half the city would be murderers. Women die in childbirth every day. Your own grandmother among them. She no more killed her mother than I killed mine.”

  Air left Eleanor’s lungs in tiny puffs, as Imogene unintentionally gave her the reassurance she’d never been able to ask of her father, or Rosemary.

  “Everyone knows such children are cursed,” said Sylvia. “The Godsmen say it!”

  Imogene crept close to her daughter’s face. “The Godsmen are superstitious fools. Leticia Brice died of childbed fever when Eleanor was five days old. Sickness and bad luck kill new mothers, not babies.”

  “I wish you’d thrown her out on the streets.”

  “You think I don’t know it? I see what my pity has wrought. I dwell on it day and night.” Imogene took Sylvia by the shoulders. “But I won’t take the blame for your being married to an old man over a prince. Besides, you’re young. You think love matters, but it doesn’t. In the end, you have only your family.”

  Sylvia laughed again. “That’s rich…coming from someone who has dwelled on that unimportant emotion for years.”

  Eleanor pressed her face to the door and it gave a disloyal squeak. She jumped back, afraid of both revealing and wetting herself, and escaped down the hallway.

  Eleanor finally found the water closet. She entered Maxmilon Faust’s ballroom feeling much lighter, in more ways that one. Her mind wandered as she found her seat. Who would have thought Imogene would be the source of some relief from eighteen years of guilt over her mother’s death? But what could Sylvia have meant? Eleanor couldn’t think of one person less concerned with love, her own or anyone else’s, than Imogene Easton Brice.

  The party was an intimate affair by court standards, with only about twenty-five guests. A musician serenaded the long table with soft flute music. There was no magical entertainment. Several magicians were in attendance, including Ezra Oliver, but they were a more serious, powerful lot.

  King Casper sat at the head of the table, with Faust on his left and Gregory on his right. Eleanor sat beside Gregory and across from Dorian. Ezra Oliver sat on Eleanor’s right. She made a few attempts at conversation, but he answered her in mutters around his roast duck. His eyes flitted between the king and Faust like two well-played tennis balls. While Sylvia’s outburst lingered in a faint redness around her eyes, a seat beside Dorian reinvigorated her. She flirted with him shamelessly. Eleanor’s mood was dour until it became apparent Dorian was paying her no attention. Sylvia turned on the hapless Raoul. Eleanor glanced down the table at Margaret, who seemed to lose her own appetite as she watched her sister. Imogene was at the far end, surrounded by Faust’s daft wife, Hector Fleetwood, Brian, Eliza, Anne Iris, and several other prominent citizens Eleanor couldn’t place. Eleanor could not decide which end of the table was heavier with poor company.

  At least the discussion provided some intellectual stimulation on this end. Once she knew Dorian was not ensnared in Sylvia’s net, she relaxed, finished her wine, and focused on the conversation. Common knowledge said a glass of wine strengthened the baby, but until now she had felt too queasy for alcohol. The drink went to her head.

  “I think you’re right, Oliver,” Faust said. He was a fat, pompous old man. Eleanor struggled to like him. “The witches take up far too many resources for what they give back.”

  Eleanor’s head whipped in Oliver’s direction. Gregory took her hand and squeezed it.

  King Casper broke in. “I spoke with the new Svelyan ambassador just yesterday. He told me witches are much
less influential in his country. Interesting.”

  “It’s true,” said Oliver. “In Svelya witches only practice healing, which is after all more womanly. They leave the learning to those more capable, and the sorcery to those more powerful. The magicians.”

  Eleanor leaned in Oliver’s direction, until her head hovered over her water glass, but he peered around her. She felt her face redden and Gregory squeezed harder. Dorian tried to catch her eye from across the table but for once she ignored him.

  “What do you think, young sire?” Faust asked Gregory.

  “I haven’t thought about it much, honestly,” Gregory said. “I do see the redundancy in both witches and magicians pursuing scholarly…I mean, the Abbeys and the Coveys don’t both require huge libraries and dedicated scholars. Maybe the witches should concentrate on healing the sick and catching babies.”

  Eleanor dropped his hand. “Mister Oliver,” she said, “I must interject. The witches have always focused on literature and natural philosophy, while the magicians deal in history and mathematics. It is a good division, and has given all who have the opportunity to take advantage of it the finest wealth of knowledge in the world.”

  Oliver sipped his wine. “Yes, but here is the point. Magicians could easily do all that and more—”

  “I say there is room in the world for all learning. I would think you, of all people would agree with me.”

  “—if given the proper resources.”

  “The crown supports you. The witches must rely on the common people.”

  “This isn’t about money. It’s about our national security,” Oliver said.

  Eleanor laughed. “National security? Please, you don’t like the competition for the people’s coin.”

  Oliver’s nostrils flared. His voice held none of the vague camaraderie or absent kindness she’d sensed in her earlier interactions with him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Cartheigh needs magicians for protection, and we can’t reach our full potential with witches dabbling about looking for a magical cure for the common cold or a spell to pull out a peasant baby stuck in its mother’s belly.”

  “Oliver,” Dorian said. “There are ladies present.”

  The table went quiet, and even Sylvia set down her glass to listen. Oliver’s distaste for Women, Magic, and the History of Afar Creek Abbey suddenly made sense to Eleanor. “No, Dorian, it’s fine,” she said. “You act like there is a finite amount of magic in the world, sir.”

  Oliver spoke slowly, as if addressing a distracted schoolgirl. “Any student of sorcery knows the atmosphere can only support so much magic at a given time. The more enchantments spinning around, the weaker they all become. There are forces out there that would destroy our kingdom. Magicians must be given free rein in defense of our country!”

  Several men at the other end of the table applauded. The king started speaking but Eleanor cut him off. The gasps of the other guests rolled down the table like falling dominoes.

  “Let me tell you something, you—you self-righteous—” She somehow stopped herself before the words horse’s ass could slip between her teeth. “If you went out on the streets of Maliana and asked the people who does them more good every day you know what their answer would be. I believe they put a lot more stock in the witches’ dabbling than your greedy need to defend Cartheigh from imaginary enemies!”

  Gregory grabbed her arm, and now there was no support behind his grip. “That’s enough, Eleanor.”

  Oliver’s round eyes bulged from his face and wisps of gray smoke leaked from his ears. “I won’t be insulted by some peasant in—”

  “Enough!” King Casper roared. “Oliver, you overstep your boundaries. You’re speaking to my son’s wife, your future queen.”

  Oliver’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Eleanor said. “I just can’t believe—”

  “Silence, madam,” the king said. “Oliver has forgotten himself, and so have you.” He spoke slowly to his son. “Control your wife. Take her home.”

  Gregory’s face went crimson. He stood with Eleanor’s arm still in his grip and she had to follow him. Dorian rose as well. “I can take her home, Your Highness, so you can continue your evening,” he said.

  Gregory glared at him. Eleanor wished her husband would yell, or pound his fist on the table as he usually did. His silence terrified her. He dragged her from the dining table, into the hall, and out the front door to the waiting carriage. She did not even have time to collect Chou Chou. Gregory never loosened his hold on her.

  Gregory’s stony silence continued until they reached Eleanor’s bedroom at Trill Castle. She hoped they would part ways at his own door, and spend the night cooling off, but he made a straight line for her room. As he flung open the door a drowsing Pansy leapt to her feet and stumbled a curtsy. Gregory dismissed the servant, kicked the door closed, and unloaded on Eleanor.

  She had never seen him so angry. She knew she had crossed a line at dinner, but all of her explanations floated away under the pelting rain of his rage. Over the next few days she winced when bits of the long and horrible argument popped into her head.

  “What did you expect of me? Should I sit there while Oliver spews bigotry and suspicion?” she had screamed at him.

  “Yes! Yes! That’s exactly what I expect of you! Unless I give you permission to do otherwise! That’s what my mother would have done!”

  “I am not your mother!”

  “That is painfully obvious,” he sneered. “Oliver is right for once. What you are is a result of the influence of that woman who filled your head with the useless idea that your opinion matters!”

  He paced the room, and his boots left dark smudges of dirt on the prissy pink rugs he had bought for her. “I admit, I’ve found it funny when you’ve sassed Father. I’ve given you too much freedom, but you’re fucking crazy if you think I will allow you to throw a hissy fit, and insult the king on top of it!”

  She narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t about what Oliver said, or about me, it’s about the fact that you can’t stand up to your father! You think I should be a proper lady. I will be when you can be a real man.”

  “If you weren’t pregnant I would beat you for that.” He crept in close to her face. “Remember who fucking brought you here. Maybe I could send you back down again.”

  Eleanor’s breath came so hard she could feel her nostrils flaring. “I have nothing more to say.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way for a long while, shall we?” He swept his hand across her dressing table, sending bottles of perfume and creams flying across the floor. They shattered and sent a nauseating mix of scents into the air.

  “Why don’t you clean that up,” he said. “I’ve heard you used to be good at that sort of thing.”

  He slammed the door on his way out, and it ended at that. They were stiffly polite when they had to be together. Eleanor refused to talk about the argument with her friends or her bird. The walls at Trill were thin and she was sure everyone already knew the sad details.

  CHAPTER 13

  Little Assasins

  Any uneasiness Eleanor had felt in her position up to this point paled in comparison to the strain of the next few weeks. Chou’s report the morning after Faust’s party left her with a deep sense of foreboding. He had watched Imogene approach a brooding Ezra Oliver on the balcony after the infamous altercation. Chou had been alarmed by their sudden and untimely intimacy. He did his best to spy, but he could not find an advantageous perch. The crashing waves below the estate drowned out their whispering, even to his sharp ears.

  “They were tight as kernels on a cob,” he said. “I can’t imagine the conversation revolved around your finer attributes.”

  Oliver’s further betrayal hit Eleanor hard. She asked Chou to watch for additional fraternization between the magician and Imogene, but Oliver appeared to be burying his humiliation in his office. She envied his seclusion. News of her chastening at Faust’s dinner party traveled along
the cliffside, bouncing from manor to manor like a carriage wheel rolling down a bumpy road. Of course no one said a word, but she read the tide of opinion in the forced gaiety. She stuck close to Anne Iris, Eliza and Margaret when she could. Brian and Raoul maintained a polite distance, but she could hardly blame them. Only Dorian, as usual, seemed beyond the prince’s reproach. He stood casually at her side, smiling and laughing his low laugh. He almost dared anyone to insult her in front of him.

  Sylvia took it upon herself to reinvigorate the summer party circuit while Eleanor stood humiliated on the outskirts. The Fleetwood estate, called The Falls, was one of the most beautiful on the cliffs. Sylvia took advantage of the setting to host an impossible number of dinners, dances, picnics, hunts and tournaments. Eleanor wondered how the Fleetwood servants managed to keep up.

  For his part, Gregory drank more and laughed less, but he attended every event and Eleanor had to go with him. Sylvia fluttered around them, radiant in a pastel rainbow of gowns, chattering gaily and gushing over everything Gregory said. She concocted the perfect way to make sure no one forgot Eleanor’s disgrace, and repeated her compassionate message to anyone who would listen. How the witches had corrupted her poor, dear stepsister, and how it really wasn’t her fault she was so rude and tactless. She truly pitied the unfortunate girl, but really, it was hopeless and Prince Gregory deserved better. What could be expected from someone whose own eyes did not even match? A bad sign, tut tut.

  Eleanor wanted a distraction, and she found it in the famous Rockwall Chapel Gardens. The royal family refurbished the gardens at the beginning of each summer season. Eleanor oversaw the planning and the dedication ceremony, and she spent several days selecting plants with the Godsmen and a master gardener. As she worked the villagers came and went from their prayers and an idea took shape. She knew the seasonal life of the town strained the locals, so she asked the Godsmen to invite the parishioners with children to attend the dedication. She thought the children would enjoy a romp through the flowers and a treat of cake and sweet lemon juice. The Godsmen were surprised at her offer, but warmed to it quickly.