The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  As she headed to the bathing room Chou Chou flew in the window and landed on her shoulder. “I must speak with you,” he whispered. “Go to the window. We can admire the view.”

  She shrugged and humored him. She sat on the windowsill and adjusted her weight around the pain in her back.

  “I don’t know how else to put this.” His black tongue darted back and forth. “So I will just out with it.”

  She nodded.

  “I was in the kitchen this morning. The cooks always save yesterday’s rolls for any birds willing to rise early and claim them. Lemonseed today.”

  “Go on.” She knew he was stalling.

  “As I left, I passed Melfin.”

  “Gregory’s manservant,” Eleanor said. Melfin was an old man, a lifelong servant of the Desmarais family, who ruled Gregory’s personal staff with an iron first.

  “He was with a woman, a…flashy woman…in red silk.”

  Eleanor nodded, her heart sinking. “Red silk, in the early morning.”

  “Yes,” Chou went on. “I flew past, but then I changed my mind and followed them. He led her out the side door, the one that leads to the barns. I hid in the branches of that old oak. Before she got in the carriage, he asked her if the prince was satisfied. He told her if she was lucky she would be called again, and she should be ready and keep her tongue in her head. He said if it got back to the princess she would regret it.”

  “She would regret it,” repeated Eleanor.

  “I’m so sorry,” Chou Chou said, “but I had to tell you. Maybe it’s not what we think.”

  “Chou, you’re a wise bird, and I’ll give myself credit for not being a fool. We both know exactly what it was.” She covered her eyes. “Excuse me. I need a moment.”

  She opened the bathing room door. The need to relieve herself overwhelmed her. She squatted over the pot, cursing her cumbersome skirts. When she finished she stood and tried to collect herself.

  Gregory was taking the favors of another woman, and a hired one at that. She didn’t know if that fact made her feel better or worse.

  Why? Because I’m pregnant? Because he’s still angry with me? Another thought struck her. This might not be new. Perhaps he’d never stopped straying.

  What about Dorian? Am I a hypocrite? She no longer denied her feelings for Dorian, but she had never acted on them, nor did she ever plan on it. She had sworn herself to Gregory.

  How can he do this to me? How? How? The refrain ran through her head like one of the Godsmen’s hypnotic chants.

  She must confront him, and she needed to do it before she drove herself into a lunatic asylum. She wiped her eyes and turned to cover the chamber pot as she always did. Her stomach clenched when she saw bright red, harsh against the white porcelain. The pot was full of blood.

  Eleanor lay in her bed. Her friends crept around her, removing soiled linen and cold cups of tea. If they had suspected her secret they had not pressed her, and they didn’t question her now. Chou Chou curled on the pillow beside her head.

  “How far along were you?” An old witch attended her. She was kind enough, but Eleanor ached for Rosemary’s voice.

  “Eight weeks,” she said.

  “Early,” the witch said. “Some would just consider it a very late flow.”

  “The witches in Maliana found the baby, and I was sick until two weeks ago.”

  “It can be a bad sign when the symptoms end suddenly. I agree the child began, but it’s gone now. You must rest and wait for your body to be done with it.”

  Eleanor swallowed her grief. “Can you tell me why it happened?”

  “No one knows,” said the witch. She gathered her tools. “Did you have a bad fall? Have you been upset?”

  “No, nothing,” Eleanor lied.

  “Then HighGod did not mean for this child to be.” She put her hand on Eleanor’s cheek. “Don’t fret, Your Highness. There’s no reason you should not catch again soon. It’s just sad luck.” She left instructions with Eliza.

  Anne Iris and Margaret sat on Eleanor’s bed. Margaret took her hand. “You must rest, darling,” she said.

  Eleanor shook her head. “Have Pansy call Gregory.”

  “Today? Give it a while,” Anne Iris said.

  “We’ll tell him you’re ill, and don’t want to see anyone,” added Margaret.

  “No, I want to see him now.”

  “Eleanor—”

  “Now, Margaret. Call him now.”

  Pansy announced Gregory and the room cleared. Eleanor sat up and pulled the pink coverlet toward her chin. She couldn’t stand his eyes on her body.

  “Husband,” she said. She pointed to a chair beside the bed and he sat down. He wore his hunting clothes, all browns and greens, a walking hedgerow.

  “You’re unwell?” he asked. Eleanor heard something creeping in his voice, as if his camouflage would hide him from an unwanted answer.

  “I lost the baby.”

  He took her hand, but she didn’t return his squeeze. She drew her knees closer to her chest and eased through another cramp. He asked what had happened, and she told him about the witch’s visit.

  “Did you do something to bring it on?” His words struck her like a fist.

  “The witch said it’s not unusual. She asked if I had been upset.”

  Gregory didn’t respond.

  “I told her no, but indeed I was upset this morning.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I was upset by a story I heard. A story about a woman in red silk.” It was a strong counterblow, and Eleanor knew the baby had probably gone with her nausea before Faust’s party. But she said it anyway.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Gregory replied.

  She turned her own face to the wall. Pink again. Too much pink, too much red. Pink walls and red dresses. Pink and red streaks in the chamber pot. “Red silk. How trashy.”

  “You’re talking nonsense. I’ll leave you.”

  “Yes.”

  He stood to go, and for a moment she thought he might take her in his arms and apologize, or promise it would all be all right and they could try again. Instead he took a more objective route. “Did she say there is something wrong with you? Something that will prevent you from carrying a child?”

  “There is nothing.”

  “Then rest, we have work to do.”

  Eleanor refused to see anyone but Pansy and Chou Chou. After a few days the bleeding stopped, but she could not get out of bed. A terrible melancholy gripped her.

  Her friends came and were dismissed. Dorian knocked on the door several times a day, but she could not face him. On the fifth day Gregory returned. Perhaps he would have set things right, but she never gave him the chance. Although she permitted Chou to perch on the headboard behind her, she didn’t respond to his gentle prodding. She couldn’t talk about the lost baby. In her mind the miscarriage became the thing, the thing-that-had-happened. She didn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to make her say the words, as she had to Gregory, in all their terrible finality. She couldn’t stand the thought of the questions, or anyone’s accusations, or worst of all, their pity.

  Perhaps Sylvia is right. Maybe I am cursed.

  Sleep was the only respite from the questions running through her head. On the seventh day she sought that relief by lunchtime, although she’d only been awake for a few hours. Regardless of the humidity, she closed the curtains to block the sunlight that bored into her forehead. She threw back the covers and curled on her side, and within minutes she drifted off.

  A cool breeze wafted over her body. She stirred, annoyed with Chou Chou for opening the curtains. She opened her eyes and sat up in surprise. Rosemary sat in the chair beside her bed. “How did you get here?” she asked.

  Rosemary smiled. “I’m not here, darling. Look around you, you’re dreaming.”

  Eleanor peered over the edge of the bed at the grass beneath the bed frame. The sky was bright blue, the air sweet with lavender and a recent rain. She recognized th
e meadow at the entrance to the Oracle’s cavern, back at Afar Creek. “It feels so real,” Eleanor said.

  “It is more than a normal dream,” Rosemary said. “Your letters of late have born a trace of false happiness, and I have heard nothing these past few days. I had a sorceress teach me this spell so we could speak. I’ve been worried about you.”

  Eleanor needed no further encouragement. Choking back sobs, she told Rosemary everything. Her fight with Gregory, his infidelity, her misjudgment of Ezra Oliver, her humiliation and insecurity at court, the loss of the baby, even her feelings for Dorian. Rosemary listened without speaking, letting Eleanor go on until she ran out of words.

  “You have been holding all this inside?” Rosemary asked. “It’s no wonder you stay in bed.” Rosemary spoke in the calm voice Eleanor remembered from her childhood. “First, let me say I love you dearly.” She touched Eleanor’s cheek. “But this mooning about will get you nowhere. You must come out of it. It may sound harsh, but you have real problems, and hiding away in your room will not solve them.”

  There it was, as always, the truth from Rosemary. Eleanor sighed, and the wind seemed to sigh with her. “You’re right. I’ve been remiss.”

  “We all need a sympathetic ear, darling, but we don’t have much time. We must focus on solutions and I will start with this: I’m disappointed you have let Imogene and Sylvia run away with your confidence. What happened to the girl at the ball? The one who proved she was worthy?”

  “I don’t know, Rosemary. I feel like I’ve lost her.”

  “Well, you must find her, and quickly. You say everyone loves Sylvia. Being a coquettish entertainer works for her. Now, what works for you?”

  “I’m a scholar.”

  “Beyond that. How did you win Gregory over at the beginning?”

  “By answering the questions he asked me. By being honest.”

  “So what does that say about you?”

  “I tell things as they are.”

  “Yes,” Rosemary said. “You have used that bent, and a rare one it is, in the past. React to people in the way that comes naturally to you. It will always be most effective.”

  “I try, but it always comes back to haunt me.”

  “I admit, you are not very diplomatic, but you can learn. You’ll never please everyone, but you’ll please yourself, and they will respect you for it.” Rosemary sat beside Eleanor on the bed. Her dark eyes held Eleanor’s, not with magic, but with the intensity of her concern. “Now I must give you some advice you may not want to hear. You must forget about Dorian Finley.”

  Eleanor bit her lip, but she could not look away.

  “Eleanor, as a witch I’m no expert on these matters, but this cannot end well. Gregory is your husband, and he is the future king. I fear for your safety if this continues. You know there is only one end to marriage.”

  Eleanor nodded. In Cartheigh nothing but death could divide a couple joined in a chapel before HighGod. History was dotted with wives who mysteriously disappeared when their husbands found no other option to be rid of them.

  “Gregory is no angel, but I don’t think he’s capable of that,” she said.

  “You have no idea what he’s capable of. This is a man who has had everything delivered to him with the ring of a bell his entire life. We’re speaking of someone who is more a brother to him than a friend.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “I agree, but there have always been different standards for men and women. We must be realistic.”

  Eleanor could not hide her bitterness. “Better to be a witch, and not have these troubles.”

  “It may appear so, but we have our own trials. This goes beyond threats, beyond arguments. Gregory could kill you. And Dorian.”

  Rosemary’s words struck home. “I will try harder to get along with him,” Eleanor said.

  “I will never advise you to be straw under his feet. I know you couldn’t live that way, and I wouldn’t want you to. You are married. No amount of wishing will change it. But you have the tools to manage not only Gregory, but everyone at court.”

  “I understand.”

  Rosemary tugged gently at a lock of Eleanor’s hair. “Remember Hazelbeth’s faith in you. How did she put it? Oh yes…do some good in this land. If you focus on that perhaps it will take your mind off Mister Finley.”

  “I will, Rosemary,” Eleanor said, abashed. “I haven’t forgotten.” She squirmed, and something poked her thigh. She looked down at her mother’s Fire-iron hair comb.

  “Wear it,” said Rosemary.

  “Would she want me to?”

  “Think of how you’ve felt the past few weeks and ask that question again.”

  Eleanor ran her fingers over the raised design of flowers and butterflies. Solid, even in the dream.

  Rosemary put her arms around Eleanor and whispered in her ear. “Summer will be over soon and you will come home. In the meantime, if you need me, this spell will linger for a while. Call me in your dreams and I will hear you. Now someone is coming. You must wake up. Wake up, Eleanor! Wake up!”

  Chou Chou’s scaly feet scratched her bare shoulder. He nibbled at her ear, and then on the end of her nose. His breath smelled of almonds.

  “Wake up!” he said.

  “I hear you, Chou.”

  “Good! It’s a lovely afternoon and the girls are picnicking by the big magnolia. I said I would try and entice you.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “I do, you old feather duster. Call Pansy to help me dress before I change my mind.”

  He fluttered off, calling for the maid. Eleanor swung her weak legs over the side of the bed and steadied herself. It was nothing a little exercise wouldn’t cure. The strength of Rosemary’s confidence ran through her veins, and she was determined to turn things around. She wasn’t so sure, however, about keeping her promise to forget Dorian. She already hoped he would be at the picnic.

  Two days later Eleanor gave Pansy the afternoon off and waited in her room for Chou. She’d claimed that mysterious ailment, female troubles, and lay across her bed on her stomach enjoying a few snippets of solitude. She flipped through one of her favorite books, A Botanical Encyclopedia of Cartheigh, and compared leaves and flowers she had collected from Trill’s gardens to the drawings.

  Chou finally soared through the window and landed on the poofy skirts covering her rear end.

  “Hello, Chou.” Eleanor closed the book. She rolled onto her back. He fluttered for a few seconds to keep from being squashed and landed again on her belly. “You asked to see me in private. What news?”

  He arched his neck. “News? Perhaps I just long for the old days of our chummy twosome.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps you’ve seen something interesting.”

  “All right,” he said. “You’ve plucked it out of me. Imogene was here at Trill morning, and she visited Oliver’s office in Looksee Cottage.”

  Eleanor sat up and Chou hopped onto the bed. “Indeed. Do you know why?”

  “She left with a basket of tonics, but she stayed for nearly two hours. Longer than one needs to gather a few medicines.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  Chou’s eyes rolled his frustration. “Oliver closed the windows. You would think they were engaged in a passionate liaison, but Oliver cares nothing for such dalliances with men or women or a flock of sheep. Anyway, I lit on the chimney—”

  “Clever,” said Eleanor.

  His chest feathers puffed at the compliment. “Wasn’t it? Unfortunately, only a few words drifted up. Visit Margaret. Fool. Enlighten. You may have fabulous powers but you may be an idiot. I only caught the last because Imogene got a bit testy.”

  Eleanor scowled. “Hmmm. Anything else?”

  “Three hundred years. Follow. Soot in my feathers for an unheard conversation.”

  “Why are they conversing at all? Our argument proved that Oliver has no fondness for the fair sex, witch or not. He obviously detests
forceful women, and I’ll give Imogene her due. She’s no damp daisy. Why waste two hours holed up with her?”

  Chou took a moment. Eleanor could almost see threads of logic twisting around his birdie brain. “Everyone knows Oliver doesn’t see eye to eye with Gregory. Gregory doesn’t hide his feelings, for sure.”

  For some reason Gregory’s accurate assessment of Oliver irked Eleanor. Her husband might have more years in the chief magician’s acquaintance, but she still considered herself a more astute judge of character. “Oliver serves the king, not Gregory.”

  “True, but some day the king and the prince will be one in the same. Oliver will want allies when that day arrives, and Imogene wields some influence over the Fleetwoods.”

  Unfortunately, Eleanor found Oliver and Imogene’s shared dislike of herself to be a more compelling reason for their sudden camaraderie. “Maybe,” said Eleanor, “but I still wonder…an odd twosome.” Her voice trailed off and she bit her lip. “A little more poking around won’t hurt, will it?”

  “I live to poke,” said Chou.

  “Then please, carry on.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Dance With Me

  Eleanor’s first foray back into society was a party held at an estate owned by one of the many Smithwick uncles in honor of Brian Smithwick’s birthday. It could hardly be called a dinner, since there were nearly two hundred guests, but the hosts made an attempt at intimacy by seating the guests at long tables at the head of the ballroom. People shouted across and down the tables to their friends and relations, and Eleanor avoided taking a seat as long as she could. She feared she would lose her voice before the soup arrived.

  She stood sipping a goblet of wine beside Margaret. Her free hand repeatedly wandered to her mother’s hair comb pushed snugly behind her ear. The Fire-iron teeth digging into her scalp felt reassuring, not painful. People stopped to pay their respects and ask after her health, since word had gone out she had suffered a bad cold. Eleanor was grateful to her friends and Gregory for concealing the truth. True to her new resolution, she was firm and friendly with everyone, even the women whose eyes raked her in an obvious attempt to find a more significant ailment. The well-wishers finally dispersed.