Margaret sat on Eleanor’s other side. A combination of wine and her newfound romance with Raoul made her giddy. She leaned over and whispered in Eleanor’s ear. “You know, darling, I’ve always found Dorian a bit intimidating, but he does look lonely. Do you suppose he’s ever been in love?”
Eleanor gave her a wide-eyed shrug as Gregory stood and called to Anne Iris. He met his cousin on the other side of the table and led her onto the dance floor. Eleanor’s pride and a swelling belly kept her from joining them, but she wouldn’t deny Gregory a good time. She sneezed again and dabbed at her watery eyes with the napkin.
The Duchess of Harveston and her mother had arrived to celebrate the Awakening Fest, and Sylvia would not let a little hay fever ruin the party. Eleanor watched her stepsister maneuver her way through the line of dancers. She was none the worse for wear after the birth of her son last winter. Her waist was just as tiny, her spirits just as lively. She sidled up to Gregory. She laughed and tossed her dark hair and clung to him whenever she got close enough. She touched his face. Through three reels she kept it up, and she was conveniently beside him when the orchestra struck up a waltz. She stumbled and fell against him, and he had to grab her to keep her upright. Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. Sylvia had never missed a dance step in her life.
Eleanor glanced around the ballroom, and found her stepmother shared her interest in Sylvia’s performance. Imogene stood on the edge of the dance floor, beside Ezra Oliver, with a goblet in her hand. They conversed from behind their cups as they watched the dancers. Eleanor observed them for ten minutes, burning with curiosity all the while.
Chou Chou was laid up in her room with a strained wing, so Eleanor had to be her own spy. She got up from the table and made her wobbly way across the ballroom. Much to her annoyance people bowed and curtsied and moved out of her path. Their respect only drew attention to her progress. By the time she reached Imogene, Oliver had disappeared.
I didn’t cross this room with aching feet for nothing. Without any further thought she sidled up to her stepmother.
“Good evening, Missus Brice,” she said with a smile.
Imogene turned, and made a poor attempt to hide her distaste. Her smile seemed made of jelly. “Good evening, Your…Highness,” Imogene said. “I trust you’re well?”
“Healthy as a herd of horses, thank you. How do you find our hospitality?”
“Incomparable, of course. A lovely evening.”
“Isn’t it? Such fine conversation tonight! Mister Oliver is quite entertaining, don’t you agree?”
The wiggly smile left Imogene’s face. She adjusted the huge sapphire necklace resting in her cleavage and tugged at the neckline of her gaudy blue gown. While most ladies always seemed to be adjusting theirs up, Imogene’s usually trended down. “He’s very interesting.”
“You two have struck up quite a friendship, I hear. I’ll admit I was surprised, as I remember you referring to magical folk as conjuring oddballs on my last visit to my father’s house.”
“Would you care to come to the point, Your Highness?” Imogene’s sharp white teeth flashed as she took a sip of wine. She resembled a small, fluffy dog, the kind that look pretty and harmless but will bite an ankle if stepped on.
“Come, now. I’m just musing. Court life does make for unusual alliances.”
Imogene did not reply.
“A shame Mister Oliver had to retire, but I’m sure you’ll find others to willing to trade rumors with you. There are some simply fascinating ones circulating about Mister Roffi.” Eleanor curtsied with as much grace as she could manage. “Well, I do hope you enjoy the rest of the party. Goodnight.”
She returned to the table, sat, and took a few bites of cake before letting her eyes sweep the ballroom again. Imogene was gone. Maybe the party had lost its appeal.
Gregory stumbled when he handed his mount off to the groom. Dorian caught his arm. “All right, Greg?” he asked.
“I’d be better if we had caught something,” Gregory said. “All damn day in the saddle and not one bloody j’rauzelle.”
Dorian, Gregory, Brian, and Roffi had left Eclatant as the sun rose. They rode due east, toward Rabbit’s Rest Lodge, one of the crown’s hunting estates. Their party had included several mounted servants, two members of the Unicorn Guard, and a large picnic basket. They covered many miles and many flasks of whiskey, but had seen no quarry. Dorian suggested they stay at Rabbit’s Rest for the night, but Gregory was in a foul mood and wanted to get back. By the time they passed through the palace gate the dinner hour loomed, and both Gregory and Brian were decidedly drunk.
Brian was still rolling. “Let’s have a game of strikestick.”
“I can’t,” said Gregory. “I have to visit Missus Desmarais. I’ve been gone all day and she’ll have plenty to say about it. I tell you, pregnant women lose much of their charm.”
Roffi slid down from his bay hunter. “Your Highness, for such a lady you can be tolerating anything.”
Gregory glowered at him. “Spoken like a true bachelor, Chris,” he said, and took his leave.
Brian turned to Dorian and Roffi. “How about it, boys?”
Dorian shook his head. He had a fascinating book waiting for him, an account of Caleb Desmarais’s first High Council during the Great Svelyan Wars. He wanted to return to it. “I’m worn out, Smithy. I think I’ll have an early night.”
“Myself as well,” said Roffi.
Brian tossed his calfskin gloves and his crop to the groom. The boy dropped a glove, and scrambled to pick it up before Brian could reprimand him.
“You two are shockingly boring these days,” Brian said. “I expect it from Dorian, but I thought you had a bit more life in you, Chris. Gregory’s the only one who remembers how to have a good time around here, and he’s tied up by his balls.”
“A woman like the princess would not have to tie me up by my balls,” Roffi said. “I would go willingly.”
Dorian was surprised, and the comment somehow cut through Brian’s drunken fog. “I would watch that kind of talk, Roffi,” Brian said.
Roffi blinked, as if someone had just pinched his arm to see if he was dreaming. He smiled. “Oh, come now, I am only jesting. What man is not envious of His Highness, in everything from his seat in the saddle to the beauty of his wife?”
Brian snorted and the tension drained out of his shoulders. “Well, as long as we’re being honest…I don’t know about that. Eleanor is a beauty for sure, but beauty can’t make up for the mouth on her.”
Dorian bristled. “This conversation needs to end, now.”
Brian pulled a flask from his belt. He went for a drink but it was empty. He yelled at the groom and tossed the flask his way as well. “Listen to you,” he said. “Always perfectly loyal, aren’t you?”
Brian crept closer, until Dorian saw the red lines radiating from the hazel irises of his eyes. His breath was a shot of whiskey. Dorian heard his own pulse getting louder in his ears with each word Brian threw at him.
“Mister Finley, perfect friend…perfect soldier…perfect rug under my cousin’s feet. Anything for a seat at the Council Table.”
Roffi stepped between them and put his hands on Brian’s chest. Dorian’s hands curled into fists. “Say what you need to say, Brian,” he said.
Brian looked down at Dorian’s clenched fists. He spit, and then wiped his mouth. He laughed the false giggle of a young girl flirting with a rich old man. “No worries, boys,” he said. “I’m just poking fun.”
He spun around and his ankle rolled, nearly sending him into a wheelbarrow full of old straw and horse manure. Dorian could still hear him cursing after he disappeared behind the tack house.
Roffi was full of apologies and excuses for Brian. Dorian shrugged him off. He said a quick goodbye and returned to his room. He went the long way, so he wouldn’t have to pass Eleanor’s door.
He tried to read that night, but none of it made sense. He put the book aside and poured a glass of whiskey. Brian’s words
stayed with him. Whether he liked it or not, some of them were true. And nearly as bad, some of them were not.
Eleanor watched Mercy Leigh over her ballooning stomach. The witch had increased the frequency of her baby monitoring to once a week. Eleanor both anticipated and dreaded her visits. Mercy Leigh never said much as she ran her hands over Eleanor’s belly and down her spine. Eleanor waited for the smile that signified all was progressing well.
This morning Mercy Leigh did not grant Eleanor her usual reassuring conclusion. She turned away without any comment. Her delicate brows drew together as she wiped her hands on a towel. Eleanor waited, her heart pounding in her chest, while the witch gathered her tools. Finally she could stand it no more.
“What is it, Mercy? What’s wrong?”
The witch rubbed her eyes. “Goodness, Your Highness, forgive me. All is well. I’m distracted.”
Eleanor exhaled and rolled onto her side. She rested a hand on her belly. It lay beside her on the bed like an extra pillow. “Praises,” she said, and then with her usual curiosity, “what is bothering you?”
Mercy Leigh shook a bottle of herbs. “Nothing to concern you, Your Highness.”
“Maybe I can help you. I’ve little else to do these days but wait. Pray, tell me?”
“I don’t want to upset you, but if you insist…” Mercy Leigh sat on the bed. “I’ve a patient. Very young. Poor. She delivered late last night. I…the bleeding is too heavy.”
“Will she die?”
“Yes, if I cannot find a solution…I’ve tried thinning her blood, and nectar of cottonflower…” She ran a hand over Eleanor’s forehead. “You’re pale. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Better to know what I’m facing.”
“You should be fine,” said Mercy Leigh, but she turned away. Eleanor grabbed her hand. The witch rubbed her tired eyes again as she spoke. “The baby is strong. You are strong. You have narrow hips, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I just—I cannot in good conscience guarantee anyone’s safety. Especially the first time.”
“Thank you for your candor,” Eleanor said.
Mercy Leigh kissed her cheeks. Once she’d left Eleanor stood and waited for her creaking hips to settle into an ambulatory position. She crossed the room and opened her mother’s music box.
Did anyone give you such an honest assessment? She wondered. She slid Leticia Brice’s comb into her own hair, so thick and lustrous from the baby’s energy. Did you have an inkling of the end? Or did you careen toward it with visions of old age and a passel of your own grandchildren at your feet?
She stroked Leticia’s grandchild through her own skin. “Be safe, little one,” she whispered. “Little man. Little lady.” She hummed a nervous tune, and her hands searched for something else to occupy them. She fiddled with a necklace, and a few earbobs, before removing the largest item from the box.
She slid the cracked slipper from its dusty green and purple bag. She held the shoe in her hand, and it felt no less substantial than it had at the Second Sunday Ball. She turned it over and over as she walked to the window. Light congregated inside it at the spots her fingers touched, the shifting grays and blues of clouds blown out over the Shallow Sea after a hard rain. The intricate web of cracks wound through the swirling colors like static lightning. Sunlight shot through the shoe when she held it up to the window.
Pansy must have announced Dorian, but Eleanor never heard her. Still, his voice over her shoulder didn’t startle her. It was the most natural sound in HighGod’s creation. “It is amazing how it holds together,” he said.
She nodded. “Damaged, yet lovely.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “And much stronger than anyone thinks.”
She turned to him and lowered the shoe. “Shall I be thus?”
“As you have been,” he said. “As you shall be.”
CHAPTER 25
Dorian’s Birthday
Despite her worry, Eleanor enjoyed being pregnant up until the last month or so. During HighSpring things got uncomfortable. Her belly swelled to the point she could not imagine making it until her assumed delivery at the beginning of LowSummer. When dressed for dinner she resembled a giant chapel bell with a blonde head. She spent the warm afternoons walking in the garden for as long as her aching back would allow. Gregory wanted her to stay in bed, but Mercy Leigh assured him the fresh air would benefit both Eleanor and the baby.
Teardrop had been staying at the Paladine ever since Eleanor stopped riding. Eleanor had missed her, so she asked Gregory to bring the mare to the palace for the afternoon. She grazed on the lawn as Eleanor sat on a picnic blanket eating candied cherries. Gregory sat beside her, reading a proclamation of some sort. She’d brought along copies of the two books Chou had seen under Ezra Oliver’s desk, but after several careful examinations she could find no glaring connection between the two. Each perusal disappointed her more, so she set them aside and flipped through her botany encyclopedia. She couldn’t place a seedpod she’d found during one of her walks in the garden.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “A weathervane seed. A red one, I think.” She tilted the book to get a better look at the painting and read the few lines of information below it. “Interesting. Weathervane pollen is highly flammable, and the smoke takes on the color of the plant.”
“Hmmm,” Gregory said. “What? Oh, yes, interesting.” He sounded anything but interested.
A scowl crossed her face as she read on. “It says here the red variety is common. Not like the blue ones. The only known Blue Weathervane in existence has been in the possession of Ezra Oliver, Chief Magician at Eclatant Palace, for over fifty years. Blah!”
“What’s the matter?”
“It amazes me how often I come across Ezra Oliver in my studies. By the Bond, I cannot escape him.”
“He’s over one hundred years old, Eleanor, and he’s been one of the most important men in Cartheigh for most of them. Why not just ignore him? You don’t have to dance with him, or invite him to tea.”
She sighed. “I know. Something about him bothers me. Gregory, I—”
“Don’t worry yourself about him,” said Gregory, without looking up. “He won’t be an annoyance forever.”
She let the conversation end with that happy thought. A few silent minutes ticked by.
“These are so good.” Eleanor picked out another sweet. “Have one.”
“Hmmm,” he said again. “Pardon? Ah…No thank you.”
“The bakers have been outdoing themselves lately. I’ll be the size of a milk cow by the time this baby comes.”
Gregory put down the parchment. “The bakers, that reminds me. Dorian’s birthday is coming up in ten days. I think we should have a party for him. Something grand. He never puts on airs. We should put them on for him.”
“An interesting idea.” She knew Dorian would hate it. She ate another cherry. “Or, do you know what he might really enjoy? Why don’t we invite Anne Clara and her a family for a visit? Dorian hasn’t seen them since last fall. Not glamorous, but just as enjoyable.”
“Maybe you’re right. Sometimes I think Dorian prefers intimate affairs,” he said.
“Do you think so?”
“It’s done. Can you handle the planning? I don’t want you to exert yourself.”
“Of course I can. It will make the time pass. Right now each day seems an eternity.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s tiring me out.”
She patted his hand in sympathy.
Eleanor sent a message off to Anne Clara by private courier. She received a reply two days later.
Dearest Princess Eleanor,
What a wonderful idea to celebrate Dorian’s birthday as Eclatant! We would be honored to come, and thank you in advance for your generosity.
I must ask you for a small service. Please inform Dorian that our brother Abram and his family will also be joining us. I have tried to discourage him, because Abram is sadly lacking in courtly graces, but he has not vi
sited the palace in several years and feels it is time to pay his respects. I pray you will prepare Dorian for his visit and beseech him to remain cordial for the sake of family unity.
We look forward to seeing you in a few days.
Your devoted servant,
Anne Clara F. Tavish
When Eleanor brought Dorian news of his sister’s visit he was thrilled, but elation became gloom as he realized Abram would accompany her. Eleanor hoped Abram’s presence would not ruin the celebration.
The Finleys and the Tavishes arrived two days before Dorian’s birthday. Eleanor planned several pre-birthday celebrations. Anne Clara’s adorable children filled each picnic and tea party with good-natured energy.
“Is this what I’m getting myself into?” Eleanor laughed as Anne Clara’s son chased Dorian and Gregory with a wooden sword and her twin daughters toddled across the picnic blanket with muddy bare feet. The girls babbled nonsense to each other in their own language.
Anne Clara bounced her youngest, a chubby boy, on her knee. “It is, every messy moment.”
Eleanor rubbed her belly and eased her own squirming baby out from under her ribcage. She grabbed a little foot, or maybe it was an elbow, and eased the child into a more comfortable position. “This one hears them and wants to join in!”
Anne Clara took her hand. “You look lovely, Your Highness. Are you happy?”
Eleanor rested her hands on her swollen middle. The stubborn baby slid right back where he or she had been and jabbed Eleanor’s ribs again.
“I am,” she said. “It’s a wonderful thing, no matter…”
Anne Clara shushed her. “Don’t speak, I understand.”
The day of Dorian’s birthday Eleanor sought him out so he could approve the final dinner menu. She asked Anne Clara, who said she thought he was down in the topiary garden, shooting with Abram. Eleanor heard them before she saw them. She shuffled down the gravel paths, puffing like a hot teakettle, searching for them amidst the maze of hedges.
The Cracked Slipper Page 27