The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  Eleanor wondered if some of the smiling, simpering women secretly hoped the party would fall as flat as the chest of a six-year-old girl. They did not realize that Sylvia was never without a plan. According to Margaret, she’d come up with this one last winter, over several long, hopelessly boring months in Harveston with her mother, her baby son, and her ancient, doddering husband. She’d planned at least ten parties’ worth of themes, many of which she’d already unveiled this summer. She had saved her greatest vision, however, for the Waxing Ball.

  Throughout the ball Eleanor watched Sylvia with begrudging respect. Her stepsister stood on the outskirts of the party all night, directing the magicians. She swept past Eleanor and Margaret as the servants passed morsels of shrimp and sweet cheeses.

  “Sister, here. Take this.” Sylvia thrust her wine glass at Margaret. She pushed her dark hair off her shoulders. “Where are the damn servants?”

  “Passing the shrimp, Your Grace,” Eleanor said to the top of Sylvia’s head.

  Sylvia’s eyes were the same shade as her hair. She squinted up at Eleanor, but ignored the comment. She seemed to have bigger shrimp to skewer. “That damn apprentice set off a drizzle beside the chocolate fountain. He’ll never conjure at a party in Solsea again.”

  Eleanor watched a young magician frantically waving his arms in an attempt to dissipate what appeared to be a miniature rain cloud. “A bit harsh, perhaps?” asked Eleanor.

  “Hardly. Better to make an example of one magician and keep the attention of the others on their spells and their pay.” Sylvia pranced off in the direction of the hapless apprentice.

  By the end of the meal, the temperature in the ballroom had dropped, and a light breeze picked up. Leaves on the enchanted pear trees dotting the room showed their pale undersides. The willow trees shed a profusion of enchanted pink petals. The petals drifted amongst the dancers, never seeming to feel the need to meet the floor. People pointed at the thick clouds swirling against the ceiling. The unmistakable scent of impending rain filled the air. Eleanor saw Sylvia wave at the magician in charge, and the storm broke.

  The candles dimmed to a faint glow. Everyone gasped as the first fingers of lightning shot through the clouds. Rain pelted from the sky, but it disappeared above the tallest guests’ heads. On cue, the musicians started in with a boisterous reel, and the flashing lightning kept perfect time to the music. The dancers stampeded the floor.

  Gregory appeared at Eleanor’s side. They joined the swirl of faces and colors leaping out from the darkness. He pulled her embarrassingly close, but she supposed it didn’t matter, as no one could see her properly anyway. Sylvia had draped herself across one of the handsome Fleetwood boys, a cousin of her own decrepit husband.

  She deserves a bit of a lark after so much effort, thought Eleanor.

  The energy in the room seemed to flow not only from the lightning, but the dancers themselves. Eleanor would have lost herself with the rest of them had she not been so preoccupied. She looked for Dorian in the jostling, sweaty mob.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Gregory yelled. “Leave it to your stepsister to reinvent the Waxing Fest!”

  She abandoned her search and smiled at him. “Yes, it’s—”

  He interrupted her, but she couldn’t hear his words over the thunder, or read his lips through the flashing lightning.

  “Pardon?”

  He shouted into her ear. “Tonight you return to me. A most wonderful night!”

  Eleanor joined Margaret and Chou Chou in her stiflingly warm carriage. Gregory and Dorian had brought Vigor and Senné, as they often did on summer nights. Eleanor opened the windows and tugged at the bodice of her gown. As she wiped her sweaty neck, she silently blessed Pansy for suggesting an upswept coiffure. She envied her husband and her lover their pants and their cooling breeze. Eleanor and Margaret chatted about the ball.

  “Astounding,” Eleanor said. “A monsoon, in the Duke of Harveston’s ballroom.”

  “Sylvia’s always loved storms,” said Margaret. “When we were very small she’d strip off all her clothes and run naked through the rain. You can imagine it drove Mother mad.”

  Eleanor laughed. “She would have liked to do so tonight.”

  “The male guests would have approved, if not the ladies.”

  Chou Chou joined the conversation. “Sylvia was particularly interested in the opinion of one male guest.”

  Eleanor pinched Chou’s beak. “Not her husband, I assume.”

  “No, yours.”

  “That’s nothing new. Sylvia thought herself halfway to the crown last spring during my exile. She needs to keep herself in Gregory’s sights in case I’m accused of treason again, or choke on a chicken bone.”

  Chou landed in Eleanor’s lap. His round yellow eyes fairly bulged from his head. “Don’t you want to know what she said to him?”

  Margaret leaned toward him. “Chou, were you spying on my sister?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, tell us what you heard!” she said.

  Chou’s scaly toes curled and uncurled. “I took a few turns around the ceiling while we waited for the carriage. As soon as you ladies left Sylvia made a line for Gregory. I clung to the tapestry behind them for a listen.” He cleared his throat, and the voice of Sylvia at her most coyly charming slipped from his beak.

  “Are you having a nice time, Your Highness? Can I get you anything?”

  Gregory, with a hint of impatience: “Lovely time, yes. I’m afraid I must be going.”

  Sylvia again: “So soon? Why? If you leave the party might as well end. I’ll just call off the storm and send everyone home.”

  Margaret scowled. “Must she be so obvious?”

  “Shhh,” said Chou in his own warble. Gregory returned. “If it were up to me we would be the last to go, but I’m afraid Eleanor must return to our daughter.”

  Sylvia again: “You could send them on and stay. I’d love the company.”

  “Gregory obviously wanted to follow you. He started to walk away but Sylvia grabbed his hand. “It must be difficult for you, Your Highness, with the princess so dedicated to your daughter.”

  Gregory: “Of course she’s dedicated to our daughter. As any mother should be.”

  Sylvia: “Oh, don’t I know it, as I’m also dedicated to my own dear son. I’ve heard nothing but praise for the princess’s mothering.” At this kind sentiment Margaret coughed into her hand. “But I think some women forget. We must remember the needs of our husbands, lest we never become mothers again.”

  Chou laughed Gregory’s rumbling chuckle and ducked his head under his wing, in what Eleanor assumed was a reference to Gregory’s habit of swiping his hands through his hair. “Indeed, Your Grace, I think you’re correct.”

  Chou paused. “Now this next, I hope I can do it justice. Sylvia sounded…unlike herself. Like…an old friend offering advice. “In all seriousness, Your Highness, Princess Leticia is young. I’m sure Eleanor will learn. Just give it some time.”

  Gregory again. “I appreciate your concern. Now I really must be going. Thank you for another memorable night.” Chou pecked Margaret’s hand, in a birdie goodbye kiss. “Once he left Imogene appeared out of nowhere, like one of those enchanted lightning bolts. She grabbed Sylvia’s arm and whispered a lot of somethings in her ear. I couldn’t catch a word, but it didn’t appear to be a pleasant conversation. Sylvia stormed off, and I had to make a swoop for the carriage.”

  “I must get a parrot,” said Margaret.

  “Thank you, Chou,” said Eleanor. “How comforting to know of Sylvia’s concern for my marital felicity.”

  Margaret put a hand on Eleanor’s knee. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure Gregory has no interest in my sister.”

  Eleanor squeezed her hand and smiled. She rested her chin on the window ledge and inhaled the salty Solsea air. Let Margaret think what she would, but Eleanor’s disquiet had nothing to do with jealousy or concern for Gregory’s fidelity. She’d lost interest in both subjects long
ago. The same could not be said of the topics of her stepmother and Sylvia. Eleanor remained convinced of Imogene’s involvement in Ezra Oliver’s ill-fated plot to bring her down, although she’d never uncovered any proof. Imogene’s discouragement of her daughter’s solicitation of Gregory’s affections could mean only one thing. Imogene had heeded the warning Eleanor had given last spring. I’m the future queen of Cartheigh…I won’t forget.

  She must not want to draw attention to herself, Eleanor thought.

  Apparently Sylvia did not share her mother’s newfound modesty.

  Eleanor had chosen Letitia’s nursery herself. The spare bedroom, connected to Eleanor’s own chamber in the south tower of Willowswatch cottage by a narrow passageway, had a lovely picture window overlooking the gardens surrounding Speck Cottage. She thought someday Ticia would enjoy looking out at the wood-planked cottage with its pink shutters and cozy front porch. Speck had always reminded Eleanor of a doll’s house.

  Darkness hid the soft yellow rugs and the carved silver suns the servants had hung from the ceiling. She couldn’t see the heirloom Fire-iron cradle with its rabbit fur dragon robe, or the embroidered purple rabbit stationed beside Ticia’s silk pillow. She dared not light a candle, as experience had taught her the flickering lights would rouse the baby from her milk-induced sleep. Eleanor would have a time getting her back into the cradle, however, after Sylvia’s outlandish Waxing Ball that did not seem such an awful prospect. The more time she spent in the nursery, the more likely her husband would give up and returned to his own chamber.

  She’d lifted Leticia from her cradle, sat in the rocker, and put the baby to her breast. Leticia responded with sleepy obedience and set about nursing in her sleep. Eleanor tickled her chin and her feet to keep her going, but after half an hour the poor child was so full and tired her head flopped to one side and her lips locked. Eleanor held her upright for a few minutes to give the air a chance to escape her belly, and laid her in her cradle.

  She pulled the straps of her nightdress back over her shoulders. She waited in the dark for a while, listening to Ticia’s soft breathing and the distant crash of waves through the propped windows. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She might have stood there all night had she not heard a voice calling her from beyond the closed door.

  “Eleanor? Are you not finished?”

  She found her husband sitting on her writing desk, a glass of wine in one hand and a wooden jewelry case in the other. She assumed Gregory must have dismissed Chou. Last summer he’d usually stayed with Teardrop on such nights, but tonight she wondered if he’d gone to Dorian.

  A voice in her head screamed at her to go to Gregory, but she couldn’t. She sat on the dainty pink coverlet. He crossed the room and slid the strap of her nightdress over her shoulder.

  “I had the witch’s report. I’m glad you’re well again. I brought you something from Point-of-Rocks.”

  She opened the box. A necklace, one the likes of which Eleanor had never seen, lay on a velvet pillow. The chain itself, Fire-iron links interspersed with tiny diamonds, was a wonder, but the large center stone captivated her.

  It was about the size and shape of a chicken’s egg. Tiny lights shifted and flickered inside it, like handfuls of sand lit ablaze and come to life. As Eleanor watched the stone turned from midnight blue to canary yellow to a deep blood red. The red remained for a while, before giving way to rose petal pink, then a bright lizardy green. The green must have been satisfactory, because the color held as she lifted the necklace.

  “Fascinating,” she said. “What is it?”

  “It’s called spectite. I picked it up in the Point-of-Rocks bazaar. Some traveling Mendaens found the stone in abundance on the southernmost islands. Where men and women go naked day in and day out, even magicians and witches, and they know nothing of learning or true magic.”

  “I’ve heard of those places,” Eleanor said, as the green became a snowy white. She forced herself to look at Gregory. It was hard to believe that less than two years ago his very presence had been enough to fix a smile on her face. “Thank you.”

  Gregory sat beside her on the bed, and she lifted her hair. “I thought of you when I saw it.” He hooked the clasp. “It’s been so long. I’ve ached for this day.”

  “As have I.” The fewer words out of her mouth the less likelihood of her bursting into tears.

  He pushed her back on the bed and lifted her nightdress. She grabbed at his hand. “Gregory, the witch said we must be careful. Go slowly, because the birth was so difficult. She said it might take several—”

  “Yes, sweetheart, I understand. She said something about it.”

  “Gregory, I’m—”

  His mouth cut her off. He unbuttoned his leggings. She turned her head when he pushed against her. It started out slowly enough, but then his pace quickened. She gasped.

  “Gregory!”

  He must have misread her meaning. He bore down hard, once, twice, three times, and groaned. There was no mistaking the meaning in her cry this time. She rolled away from him before he had a chance to do so first, as he always did. She curled on her side and tucked her hands between her legs.

  “Eleanor?” He shook her shoulder.

  She pressed her face into the coverlet. Every fiber of her being wanted to hit him. Scratch his eyes out. Rip every auburn hair from his head.

  Ticia, Dorian, Ticia, Dorian. The names formed a protective circle around her temper and her sanity. She faced him. The tears on her cheeks showed him her opinion of their reunion. She had assumed him drunk, but his eyes were surprisingly clear.

  “Maybe a few attempts would have been a good idea,” he said with an awkward laugh. He stood, and tucked himself back into his leggings. He stood at the end of the bed with his back to her.

  “I’m sure next time will be better.” He walked to her side of the bed and kissed her forehead. “I’ll leave you to get some sleep. I’m sure Ticia will have you up with the sun. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  When he was gone she took up two pillows and dragged the pink coverlet from her bed. She crept into her daughter’s room and spread the blanket on the floor. She rested her head on one pillow and put the other one over her head, but try as she might she could not sleep. She finally gave up and sat in the rocker until the sun crept over Neckbreak and Walnut Cottages on the eastern side of Trill Castle, and the bitterbits began screaming their morning wake-up songs.

  Chou Chou returned with the dawn. He flew into Leticia’s open window. “Darling,” he whispered as he lit on the back of the rocker. “What are you doing in here? And awake?”

  “Where were you?”

  “I stayed with Dorian.”

  “I see.”

  “I told him of the return to…the former state of affairs,” Chou said, his voice even lower. “He was quite disturbed.”

  Eleanor felt as if she were listening to her own voice from outside her head. “Disturbed. Yes, aren’t we all.”

  CHAPTER 3

  What It’s Like For A Man

  “Damn.”

  “What is it?” asked Gregory.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” Dorian threw a few extra damns in for good measure. “My bow. It’s cracked.”

  Gregory took the bow from Dorian and ran his fingers along the polished wood. He flexed it and it bent at a decidedly sharp angle. “Damn is right, man. It’s done in.” Gregory turned on the two stable boys they had brought from Trill, and his own manservant, Melfin. More servants came and went across the dirt and grass courtyard, if it could be so called, of the Egg Camp. They loaded pack animals with food and drink to sustain Gregory and his friends during their long day’s hunt. The Egg itself cringed behind them, a three-story oblong stone house embarrassed by its own architectural awkwardness. “Which one of you fools cracked Mister Finley’s bow?” Gregory asked. “Fess up, now!”

  Dorian dropped the bow and fixed a look of supreme irritation on his face. The stable boys, each of whom clenched the bridle of a skittish hunter, exch
anged panicked glances. Dorian thought the younger of the two might hide behind the horse if only he could convince the animal to stand still.

  Dorian took hold of the feistier horse and swatted the animal’s neck. “Stand, you bloody fool.”

  The horse threw up his head and chewed his bit. “Sorry, sir,” the horse said.

  “Now boys,” Dorian said. “Did either of you damage that bow and fail to inform me?”

  The younger boy looked at him with damp brown eyes and let his older friend answer. “No, sir. We didn’t, I swear—”

  “I forgive you. It must have been a sad accident.” Dorian hardly wanted to torture these poor children, since he had in fact broken the bow himself before they left Trill. A pity to sacrifice such a fine weapon. The older boy started to thank him but he turned back to Gregory. “Looks like I made the ride out here for nothing.”

  “I’d say use one of mine, but they’re all too short for you. So are Raoul’s. Too bad Brian’s not here.”

  “Ah, Smithy. He got more than he bargained for when your father made him Duke of the Northcountry.”

  Gregory laughed. “He has a castle and a fortune and a title to make the Smithwick family proud—”

  “But he won’t be enjoying life on the edge of the Dragon Mines like he enjoyed Solsea summers. More rain, fewer beautiful women.”

  “He’ll be back next year, once he’s settled into his responsibilities. He’ll need to find a wife. But we could certainly use his long arms right now.”

  Both men fell silent, and Dorian could see solutions rolling through Gregory’s mind and being dismissed. “I’ll ride back to Trill for a spare,” said Dorian. “I should have brought one in the first place.”