The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  So, about a week after Faust’s dinner party, Eleanor waited in green silk to ceremoniously plant a purple orchid. The summering noblewomen clustered behind her, like too many pale flowers crammed into a small vase. The Godsmen were surrounded by a dozen nervous-looking women in plain gingham dresses whose children milled around their legs in a happy pack.

  Eleanor gave a perfunctory speech about the beauty of the gardens and the honor of helping preserve them. She had just knelt to place the bulb into the freshly turned dirt when a whirring sound overpowered the gentle crash of the waves on the beach below. She looked over her shoulder for the source.

  Something shiny flashed past her on silvery wings. Another clipped the back of her head. She reached up to rub the spot and found herself face to face with what seemed at first to be a giant, hovering damselfly.

  She had seen stuffed fairies, and paintings of fairies, but they were much nastier when animated. This creature was just smaller than Chou Chou, with four arms, a round potbelly, spindly legs and a long, sharp tail. Mischievous intelligence twinkled in its bright green eyes. Its wings were a vibrating blur. Like a cunning flying monkey, it grinned and scratched her cheek.

  She spun around. There were hundreds of them. Some swarmed her head, pelting her with dirt. The others went to work on the garden. They flew in and out of the rows. They picked flowers and yanked plants out by the roots, and overturned birdbaths and benches. They buzzed around the refreshment table, scattering food and dumping out the punch bowls. The other women screamed and the children clutched at their mothers while the Godsmen tried to drive them off, but Eleanor could tell through the haze of battering wings that they focused their attack on her. They didn’t touch anyone else.

  It only took a few minutes to destroy the master gardener’s work. As suddenly as the fairies appeared they were gone. Anne Iris and Eliza pushed through the crowd of gasping, pointing noblewomen, followed by Margaret. Eleanor saw Imogene grab her daughter’s arm, but Margaret shrugged her off.

  “Oh, HighGod above, you’re bleeding,” Eliza said.

  One of the villagers came forward and knelt before Eleanor. She held out several clean handkerchiefs. Eliza put one to Eleanor’s swelling mouth. The sound of children crying cut through her fog.

  She shook the dirt from her skirt as she wandered to the dining tables. The punch was gone, and the grapes smashed, but one of the cakes had survived the mêlée. She turned when she heard the women squeal again. She raised her arms to cover her face.

  Teardrop trotted through the garden. “I knew something was wrong,” the mare said. “I am sorry I arrived too late.”

  “No, you arrived just in time,” Eleanor said. She spoke to her friends. “Make sure the children have some cake.”

  They nodded. She reached for her unicorn’s mane and swung up onto her bare back. The villagers dropped to the ground in front of Teardrop. Eleanor knew she should say something to the crowd, apologize or laugh it off, but she couldn’t. She had to escape.

  Later, back at Willowswatch, she sat with Dorian in one of the parlors. He handed her a cloth soaked in herbs to bring down the puffiness of her lip. “Fairies,” he said. “Little assassins.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Someone paid them. Fairies care nothing for right or wrong. They’ll do anything for a good price. Someone hired them to sabotage you.”

  Eleanor had bathed and donned a clean dress, but her arms were covered with scratches and she had a pounding headache, as if the fairies had returned in high-heeled boots and were dancing in her hair. “Imogene and Sylvia,” she said.

  “You can’t prove it. We’ll never see those creatures again. It takes magic to call them.”

  “Magic?” Eleanor wondered if Ezra Oliver would possibly stoop so low.

  “I’ve seen many a family feud at Eclatant, Eleanor, but yours is one for the magicians.”

  Eleanor couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of magical scholars, bent over historical tomes, charting the course of her stepmother’s hatred for all posterity. “She’s cruel to everyone. Me, Margaret…even Sylvia at times. My father…” She scowled, trying to find a story that would best illustrate her stepmother’s temperament. A candle lit an old memory, and she leaned toward Dorian. “You should have seen how she mistreated the little amount of hired help we could afford. Even her own groom. She brought the poor man to the Brice House, but she abused him so soundly he left within a month.”

  “How so?”

  “You should have heard her. She’d scream at him, call him names. Idiot, Shit-Shoveler, Fringe Filth—his Meggett Fringe accent was so thick I couldn’t understand him. She’d make him repeat himself over and over and mock him the entire time. He slept in the hayloft—”

  “With you?”

  Eleanor blushed. “No…this was before my father died. But she’d always go out there, before the sun even rose, and drag him from his bed…Robert…that was his name. Margaret and Sylvia called him Robin. He’d been in the Easton family’s hire for some time.”

  Eleanor closed her eyes, and the groom swan out of her memory. Darkish skin, dark eyes. Thick, curling black hair. A prominent nose, but it fit him. Surprisingly white teeth that lit up his face on the rare occasion he had reason to smile. A soft voice around his slum accent.

  “He must have hated her so. One afternoon I found him in her bedroom. He had a knife…some kind of long carving knife. He was slashing away at one of her lace nightgowns. Just ripping it to shreds with that huge knife. He looked so angry…his face was bright red and he was sweating, even though it was sometime in winter…a freezing cold day, I remember, because the fire had gone out and I could see his breath. He looked rather like a dragon. Terrified me. He saw me in the doorway. I ran away and told my father.”

  “Did your father dismiss him?”

  “No. He just told me to stay away from him. I think father was afraid, too.”

  “Of Robin?”

  “No, of Imogene. For who would she have screamed at without Robin? But Robin left anyway, not long after. Just disappeared one night. I suppose he decided the wages weren’t worth the abuse.

  Gregory came in without knocking. “I heard,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  Eleanor twisted in her chair. “I’m fine.”

  “What a horrible thing.” He came closer, and stood between Eleanor and Dorian.

  “Yes, it was,” she said. She saw Dorian’s jaw working. She knew the ceasefire she had wanted would come, but when Dorian stood tears stung her eyes.

  “Excuse me,” he said, and left the room.

  Gregory sat on the low table in front of her. He took her hands, as he always did when he couldn’t say what needed to be said. “Don’t cry. Is there anything you need?”

  She shook her head. Whatever she needed, she doubted Gregory would ever be able to give it to her.

  Sylvia and Imogene would not allow the fairy incident die the slow death of normal gossip. Admittedly, it was more interesting than your everyday so-and-so got drunk and pissed in the bushes story. The topic was discussed ad nauseam over the next few days. Everyone had a different theory on the identity of the saboteur. Imogene and Sylvia fed the fire, whispering names left and right. Eleanor had no proof her stepmother and stepsister were behind the attack, but in her eyes Imogene gave herself away with her zealous concern.

  At least she and Gregory were on speaking terms again. Eleanor had not forgiven his cruelty or his threats, and she didn’t think she could ever forget them, but she stood at his side day and night and she welcomed the civility. The awkwardness lingered, but they were both trying. He started small, by standing up for her at Sylvia’s next party.

  It was a dance on a Saturday evening, attended by over one hundred guests. Sylvia made an announcement during the musicians’ intermission. “My lords and ladies, please welcome Maliana’s favorite puppeteers, Tellis and Twig!”

  Two thin men, dressed all in black, wheeled an elaborate puppet st
age to the front of the room. They both turned cartwheels before it as the guests formed a semicircle. Tellis and Twig and their bawdy shows were a fixture at Eclatant. The crowd cheered as they threw in a few pelvic thrusts and ass wiggles before disappearing behind the stage.

  The show was clearly a roasting. The puppets were fashioned after various characters at court, and Tellis and Twig poked fun at everyone’s idiosyncrasies. Many courtiers hoped to be lampooned. It showed one was important or interesting. Nearly everyone was fair game, even Dorian had been parodied this summer. His puppet leapt around with a giant penis for a tennis racket.

  The royal family, however, was granted honorary clemency, so it took the guests by surprise when a blond puppet wearing a crown appeared on stage. She carried handfuls of flowers and sang old drinking songs. It went downhill from there. The fairies attacked, the flowers flew, the Godsmen fainted and the children cried. At the end a new, dirty, crownless princess appeared onstage only to be dragged off again by a unicorn.

  Eleanor watched in silence, her face burning. Dorian sidled up beside her and took her hand. Reckless, but she didn’t care. She gripped his as if she were dangling from the side of a boat and couldn’t swim. This silly reenactment was worse than the original humiliation.

  When the show ended the guests shifted uncomfortably. The ladies fanned their necks and the gentlemen cleared their throats and excused themselves to smoke. No one knew the correct response.

  Dorian let go of Eleanor’s hand, and she rubbed her palms together at the loss of warmth. She turned to him, and the look on his face was one she had never seen before. He was even paler than usual, and she could almost hear his teeth grinding over the noise of the party. His eyes shimmered in their sockets, the pupils reduced to tiny specks. He resembled a rabid wolf, minus the foam.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I must speak with our hostess.”

  Gregory stood on her other side, and for once he was the calmer of the two men. “Wait, Dor,” he said. “I’ll speak with her.”

  “No, I’m sure more important matters need your attention.”

  Gregory grabbed Dorian’s arm. “I appreciate your defense of my honor, and that of my wife, but I’ll handle it.”

  “As you wish.”

  Eleanor divided her attention between placating Dorian and watching Gregory approach Sylvia and Imogene. They were laughing and sipping wine as if they had not just broken the universal convention of respect. Gregory got his point across quickly, and although Eleanor could not hear his words she saw those around him watching as well. It seemed Imogene tried to explain herself, but Gregory silenced her and returned to Eleanor. “She claims she thought you would appreciate the unfortunate incident being treated with humor.”

  “She was wrong,” Eleanor said.

  “She’s a nasty bitch, and so is her daughter,” spat Dorian.

  “Dorian, stop. I wish we could just forget the whole thing.”

  Gregory put his arm around Dorian’s shoulder. “He’s a man of the crown, Eleanor. He’ll always defend what’s mine.”

  Imogene and Sylvia backed off the fairy attack but continued undermining Eleanor in a hundred other ways, the most obvious being Sylvia’s undisputed reign as the social butterfly of the summer. She was beautiful. She was fun. She flirted and danced and complimented everyone. In short, she was the effortless, perfect hostess Eleanor needed to be.

  Why can’t I be that way? Eleanor asked herself. Why does it drain me?

  She posed the question to Chou Chou one cloudless, breezeless morning as she sat in a rocker on the porch of Willowswatch.

  “Why compare yourself with her?” he asked. “People like her because she tells them what they want to hear.”

  “I’ve never been very good at that,” Eleanor said.

  “No, you haven’t, and those who know you love you the way you are.”

  Except my husband, she thought.

  Chou went on. “Just because you don’t excel at party planning does not mean there is anything wrong with you.”

  “Oh, I know, Chou, but life would be smoother if these things came easily to me. I never know where I stand with anyone.”

  Eleanor had been thinking. She saw no reason Sylvia should have all the devious fun. As she told Chou Chou her plan she ignored the voice in her head that railed against being as shallow and vindictive as Imogene. Childish or not, she was sick of taking whatever dish they served.

  The Fleetwoods were to host a hunt on their property. It would start in the early hours, so the royal family and their friends arrived the night before. As soon as they unpacked Eleanor sent Chou Chou to the kennels on a mission of canine bribery.

  “Remember, promise the dogs that meat,” she instructed. Eleanor had smuggled ten hams into her dressing trunk under her riding habit and dresses. If the servants wondered about the smell of salt pork among her belongings, they kept it to themselves.

  The morning of the hunt dawned clear, and a breeze rolled off the water. Eleanor waited with Anne Iris for the grooms to bring High Noon from the guest stables. Margaret was not a strong rider and Eliza was uncomfortably pregnant so they would stay behind. Eleanor still kept her own pregnancy a secret. She felt perfectly fine and there were no outward changes in her body, but she planned on avoiding the fences. High Noon’s age provided a good excuse.

  Teardrop asked if she could follow along. Eleanor knew the mare wanted to keep a close eye on her. “It’s a beautiful morning,” Teardrop said.

  “Of course you can come, but please be careful. If you bruise a hoof Welkie will lock us in the Paladine when we return to Eclatant. You know you shouldn’t run hunts.”

  Teardrop snorted. “Run? I doubt I’ll break a trot. Poor horses. Such plodding creatures.”

  “Here they come,” Eleanor said, at the sound of clopping hooves. She stretched up to tug Teardrop’s forelock. “Don’t rub it in.”

  She greeted High Noon. As she mounted the old horse chewed his bit in excitement. “The fox, the fox, where is the fox?” he asked.

  Dorian was already up and mounted. He trotted over, followed by Christopher Roffi, the new Svelyan ambassador. They exchanged good mornings all around. Roffi, a strapping man with the closely cropped, shockingly white blond hair common among his countrymen, asked after Gregory’s whereabouts.

  “I’m not sure,” Eleanor said lightly. Although they were beginning a tentative understanding, Gregory had not visited her chamber at night, and she had not encouraged him.

  “There,” said Dorian. Gregory, Raoul, and Brian came out of the mansion. Eleanor could tell they’d had a hard night. Gregory hunched and squinted, and none of the three had shaved.

  “Well, at least they made it,” she said. She changed the subject to the weather, all the while looking for Sylvia. The barking that had been background noise all morning grew louder as the hound master led the pack into the courtyard. The dogs rushed around, yelping, sniffing, and snapping at each other.

  Just when Eleanor had decided Sylvia would miss her own hunt their hostess appeared, dressed in a low-cut white riding habit and matching feathered hat.

  Perfect, thought Eleanor.

  One by one the dogs lifted their heads and sniffed the air, as if they already had a line on the fox. They turned, a hairy brown stream, and rushed Sylvia, whose back was to the pack. Imogene screamed a warning. “Sylvia! The dogs!”

  Sylvia spun around, her eyes widening. The first dog reached her. He planted his muddy paws on her shoulders. The others were right behind him, and it was clear to all watching the duchess would soon be on her ass covered in slurping, yapping hound dogs.

  Sylvia didn’t dally. She scrambled onto the picnic table behind her. In an act no one saw coming she leapt into the arms of the unsuspecting and hung-over Brian Smithwick, already mounted on his tall gray hunter. The dogs milled around the horse’s legs. It reared, sending Brian’s arms around Sylvia’s waist as he prevented both of them from tumbling backwards. The effect was heroic.
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br />   The hound master ran after his charges, yelling and beating them off with a stick. They retreated and sat thumping their tails in shame. “Sorry, sorry, so sorry, verrry verrry, sorry,” they chanted.

  Brian slid to the ground with Sylvia in his arms. “Are you hurt, Your Grace?” he asked.

  Sylvia held her hand to her heart and steadied herself on his arm. Imogene burst through the crowd and embraced her. “Darling,” she said, “Are you sure you can lead us?” She put a palm to Sylvia’s forehead.

  “I think so,” Sylvia said. “I just thank HighGod you were here to rescue me, Mister Smithwick.”

  Brian swelled. “It was nothing. Quite clever of you to climb onto the table, and quite nimble.” He led her to her mount and gave her a leg up.

  She adjusted herself prettily in the saddle. “A thrilling beginning to our morning, my friends. Let’s hope the dogs are as excited on the field, and the fox not so quick!”

  The other riders laughed, the dogs yipped, and Eleanor scowled. Instead of making Sylvia the fool of the day, Eleanor had made her the star.

  CHAPTER 14

  Real Problems

  Eleanor woke the next day with a throbbing ache in her lower back. It didn’t subside when she got up, or as she got dressed. She was not in the mood to face Gregory and his father so she called Anne Iris, Eliza, and Margaret to her room for breakfast. She picked at her grapefruit and toast. “Eliza, I wonder how many babies you have in there? You’re eating more than Anne Iris,” she said.

  “I have too keep these bosoms inflated, you know,” Anne Iris said with a shimmy. The girls always teased Anne Iris about her healthy appetite, but fortunately she was her own favorite joke.

  Margaret changed the subject. “I do think someone set those dogs on my sister.”

  Eleanor excused herself to use the chamber pot. She was still annoyed by the unexpected turn of her plan to embarrass Sylvia. A sharp pain jabbed through her belly when she stood. She caught her breath, and worry set in. She would send for a local witch as soon as possible. She wished Rosemary were near.