Soot and Slipper

by Kate Stradling

  “I’m all right. I just needed some time outside. I’ve been in my workroom so much these past two weeks.”

  “That’s my fault, I suppose,” said Marielle, rounding the newel post on her way toward the kitchen. She paused when she spied Eugenie’s tattered slippers by the door. “I never did ask: how did you manage to leave your shoes outside last night?”

  Eugenie glanced to the footwear with a self-conscious swallow. “I went for a walk in the garden after you left and… uh… got too close to the pond, I guess. My shoes were soaked, so I left them outside, but then I forgot to bring them in.”

  Her stepmother tipped her head in voiceless rebuke.

  “I’m sorry.” The apology slipped breathless from Eugenie’s lips.

  Marielle brushed it aside. “It’s no harm to me if you leave your shoes out in the cold and wet. But we should probably get you some new ones anyway. The bottoms of those are almost worn through, and the toes have completely lost their finish.”

  “I don’t really go anywhere,” Eugenie said, as she always did when her stepmother mentioned the state of her footwear.

  Marielle usually responded with an epithet—“You sweet child,” or some such endearment—but this time she only hummed.

  The flat sound spiked Eugenie’s heart rate. “How was the masquerade last night?” she asked to change the subject.

  Marielle started to answer, but the sound of a door upstairs interrupted her. Above, Florelle trudged into view with a wide yawn. Another door opened and shut, and Aurielle appeared behind her sister, almost bouncing with energy.

  “The girls had two of the most beautiful costumes of the night,” said Marielle as her daughters descended.

  Aurielle passed her sister halfway down. “I was the only ruby,” she announced with smug triumph. “Florie had half a dozen roses to compete with.”

  “But mine was the best,” Florelle said, jostling her sister in the back. Aurielle stumbled the last two steps but caught herself on the railing before she hit the tile. She turned venomous eyes upon Florelle, who ignored her in favor of fixating on Eugenie. “Still, you could have come up with something more original for me. And Mother’s raven almost blended into the crowd.”

  Eugenie’s attention snapped to Marielle, who only shrugged aside the assertion, though her eyes sparked with annoyance. “There were a lot of black costumes this time, but I don’t need to stand out. Florelle and Aurielle both had no dearth of admirers.”

  A snigger erupted from Aurielle. Florelle launched at her throat with an indignant squeal. Eugenie edged toward the back hallway as Marielle pulled the sisters apart.

  “Honestly, girls, behave yourselves. Aurielle, stop needling your sister. It may have just as easily been you who spent the night flirting with your cousin. Eugenie.”

  The sound of her own name stopped Eugenie from skirting out of sight. She froze, eyes wide upon the trio.

  “Where are you going?” Marielle asked while her daughters signaled threats at each other behind her back.

  Eugenie vaguely gestured toward the hall. “To… to my workroom?”

  “Have you eaten?”

  She hadn’t. Even the normality of the younger Elles’ fight couldn’t settle her strained nerves. She might retch if she had to eat anything.

  Marielle sighed her disapproval. “Come to the kitchen with us. You have to keep your strength up.” She dragged her daughters behind her the opposite direction.

  Eugenie, with one wistful glance toward her failed escape route, followed. She had promised Pip she would act natural. Any day before this, she would have followed her stepfamily without fear, tickled that they had remembered to invite her.

  Florelle and Aurielle flopped into chairs at the small table. Eugenie, at the door, tensed when Marielle pulled a knife from the drawer.

  Her stepmother withdrew the stale half-loaf of bread that remained, but she paused before cutting. “Did you eat last night?” she asked, studying the loaf.

  “Yes,” said Eugenie.

  Marielle lifted a narrowed gaze. “What did you have?”

  Standing there with her critical stare and a long, serrated knife held upright, she looked like a would-be murderer about to launch into her crime.

  Or perhaps Eugenie’s imagination was running rampant. “I had an egg,” she said.

  Marielle glance toward the basket on the opposite countertop, unable to judge whether its contents had changed from yesterday to today. “That’s all?”

  Eugenie shrugged. “I had a handful of grapes, too.”

  Again Marielle couldn’t verify whether that comestible had reduced in quantity. Her jaw tightened. She returned her attention to sawing through the loaf. “This bread is stale. We’ll have to toast it. Eugenie, you know best what you’re doing.”

  The remark spurred her from her place next to the door. She hopped across the room, hyper-aware of the knife in her stepmother’s hand even as she pretended not to notice it. Florelle and Aurielle lolled on the table, happy to let others prepare their food. Marielle joined them when Eugenie took over.

  Buttered toast and three-minute eggs soon graced the table, along with the last of their grapes, the vines withered and the fruit puckering where it attached at the stems.

  Florelle sucked on one dusky globule and spat the seeds on the floor. “I want to go as a sunset next week,” she said.

  Aurielle, in the midst of spoon-cracking her egg, jolted upright. “Then I want to be a sunrise.”

  Her sister bristled, but before she could launch into an argument, Marielle interjected. “I think, perhaps, we should skip this week and let Eugenie rest. Can’t you see how tired she is?”

  As three pairs of eyes shifted to Eugenie, she instinctively cut stiff. “I’m not—”

  “You fell asleep amid the ashes last night,” said Marielle, “like a commoner living in a hut. I’ve told you not to sleep so near the fire, but I recognize it’s our fault. We’ve run you ragged these past two weeks. You deserve a break.”

  She punctuated this statement with a kindly smile, but it had the opposite of its intended effect. Eugenie, dread churning her insides, lowered her gaze to her plate. Did her stepmother suspect…? Was this a ploy to keep Eugenie under tighter control? “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  Florelle and Aurielle seethed for the rest of the silent meal.

  As the first to finish, Eugenie gathered up her dishes and pushed back from the table.

  “What are your plans for this afternoon?” Marielle abruptly asked.

  “I—” She glanced from her stepmother to her stepsisters. “I thought I would start more costumes. Even if you skip this week, it doesn’t hurt for me to sketch ideas now rather than later.”

  Florelle immediately perked. “A sunset!” she cried. “And don’t make Aurielle a sunrise, or anything else that could be better than mine!”

  Her sister shrieked. “Why should you get a better costume than me?”

  “Because yours has been better two weeks in a row, you self-important parsnip! It’s my turn to shine!”

  “Girls!” Marielle thundered, her voice harsh enough to stop a tavern brawl. Her daughters froze, eyes huge upon her. She, however, looked to Eugenie. Tightly she said, “I really would rather you rest. I insist, in fact.”

  Eugenie vaguely nodded.

  “As for you two, we need bread and some other groceries, unless you’d rather starve this week. Whose turn is it to run to the village?”

  “Aurie’s,” said Florelle at the same time that Aurielle said, “Florie’s.”

  They looked to one another like conspirators betrayed. “I went last week,” Aurielle said in utmost rage.

  “You did not. I did.”

  “You liar!”

  “You lazy dog!”

  Aurielle’s outraged gasp could have punctured an eardrum.

  Eugenie, belatedly recalling that she was supposed to act as she normally would, said, “I can go.”

  Again the room froze. Florelle
swatted Aurielle as though to prod her out the door.

  “You need to rest,” said Marielle in tones that brooked no argument. “Florelle, Aurielle, if you can’t agree on who went last week, then perhaps you should both go together.”

  They swallowed their disputes and quickly left the kitchen. Eugenie, taut with the terror of being alone with her stepmother, followed in their wake. She detoured to her workroom only to collect her sketchbook—something she deemed her unenlightened self would have done—and then retreated to her bedroom on the opposite side of the house from where the Elles lived.

  She passed a tense afternoon drafting costume ideas—sunsets, myrtle trees, dragonflies—all while keeping one eye on her bedroom door, wary of what might lurk on the other side.

  10

  Tinderbox

  Afternoon shadows stretched across Eugenie’s room when the front door of the manor house slammed. A bloodcurdling yell echoed through the halls. Heart in her throat, she scrambled from her bed and tore from her room. The yell devolved into wails punctuated with stamping feet. Eugenie emerged onto the second-floor landing as her stepmother appeared from downstairs.

  Florelle, in the midst of a shrieking tantrum in the entryway, acknowledged neither of them.

  “What on earth has happened?” Marielle asked, a rebuke in her severe voice.

  But Florelle only sank to the floor on a frenzied sob.

  Aurielle lingered by the front door with the grocery basket perched on one hip and a malicious smile on her lips. “A royal crier came through the village while we were there with a proclamation from the queen,” she said. “The prince has fallen in love.”

  “He has not,” Florelle screeched. “He only saw that overdressed strumpet from afar! He’s not in love with her!” She beat her fists against the tile, only stopping when her mother seized her wrists.

  “Calm yourself this instant,” said Marielle in deathly tones. Florelle blanched and shut her mouth. In the stifling hush that followed, the baroness shifted her focus to her other daughter. “Explain.”

  No impish smile dared manifest on Aurielle’s face now. She shifted the basket into both hands, almost as a shield between her and her mother. “It’s as I said. The crier came through. The prince has fallen in love with that masquerader, the Queen of the Night—or Milady Flame, as she last appeared.”

  At the top of the stairs, Eugenie gripped the handrail.

  Aurielle continued. “She lost one of her slippers when she left, and the queen has commanded for her to come to court tomorrow, to claim her shoe and Prince Fernand’s heart.”

  Florelle mewled an impotent protest.

  “I don’t know why you’re so upset, Florie,” said Aurielle in callous observation. “He never would’ve chosen someone with a face like yours.”

  Her mother’s grasp on her prevented Florelle from scratching her sister’s eyes out.

  “Has he seen the face of this masquerader, then?” Marielle asked.

  “No,” said Florelle in a snarl. “He never went anywhere near her. She only danced with that wretched domino again and then disappeared before half the guests had arrived. But you remember how all those men fawned upon her? And now she’s snared the prince as well!”

  Her mother remained unmoved to her theatrical anguish. “If he hasn’t seen her face, how will he know her when she comes to claim her shoe?”

  “She has to try it on and show everyone that it fits,” said Aurielle.

  “And do you really think there’s only one foot that fits into that shoe?”

  Silence possessed the younger Elles. Their mother released her hold on Florelle’s wrists and straightened, primly brushing the wrinkles from her skirt. “Really, girls, I expected more from you. If the prince hasn’t seen the masquerader’s face, then the shoe and his heart are anyone’s to claim.”

  Florelle sniffed and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. “But,” she said, her voice thick, “everyone knows it’s not us. We all took off our masks at the end of the night, and everyone knows what costumes we wore.”

  “But do they know whether you wore the same costume all night long?” asked Marielle, her voice light. “There were too many people to keep track of everyone there. Masquerades invite this kind of mischief, switching looks to cause confusion. Who’s to say that this mystery girl didn’t disappear early and return wearing something else? Who can say that she wasn’t a rose or a ruby?”

  “But if she comes to claim the shoe herself…” said Florelle, faintly aghast at what her mother was proposing.

  Marielle waved aside the concern. “That seems unlikely. If she wanted to engage the prince’s affection, she’d have flirted with him outright. It’s far more probable that she and this domino of hers are already attached—perhaps they’re already married, even. In that case, she would have no cause to claim a prince or a shoe she so carelessly left behind. Or perhaps some misfortune befell her, and she can’t return to stake her claim. Regardless, even if she does show up, if someone else fits the shoe before her, why shouldn’t they claim the prize that comes with it?”

  Guarded hope burned within Florelle’s eyes. “You mean—?”

  “If you want your prince so badly,” said her mother, “we’ll go to court ourselves and you can shove your foot into that shoe however you please.”

  Aurielle took a stilted step forward, bristling. “What about me?”

  “What about you?” Marielle replied. “No one’s stopping you from trying it on as well. You’re neither of you going to win anything on your looks, so you need to take advantage of whatever opportunity presents itself.”

  At the top of the stairs, Eugenie fought the urge to protest. Her stepmother’s assessment—that the true owner of the shoe likely had no inclination to claim it—was true, but to hoodwink the queen or the prince? She could not stomach the thought. If the ruse succeeded, the Elles would cheat their way into the highest echelons of society.

  Just like they had cheated Eugenie out of her inheritance.

  Florelle eagerly scrambled off the floor. “I’ll wear my lavender gown, with my pearl necklace and flowers in my hair.”

  “You’d better hope that shoe is the size of a boat if you want to fit your paddles in there,” said Aurielle.

  “Like yours are any smaller,” Florelle shot back. “I’ll fit my foot in one way or another. It’ll be fine unless that girl has freakishly dainty feet like Mama or Eugenie.”

  As though mere mention of her name awakened them to her presence, the Elles turned to view her at the top of the stairs. Eugenie, yet frozen in place, forced an anemic smile. “Is everything all right?” she asked, her voice small.

  “After tomorrow, everything will be perfect,” Florelle announced, and she paraded up the stairs en route to her bedroom.

  Aurielle, yet in possession of their basket of groceries, plumped her lower lip in a pout.

  Marielle simply shook her head and confiscated the goods. “Upstairs to your wardrobe,” she said. “Whether you or your sister is the next queen, plan on looking your best.” She followed the line of her daughters’ retreat, but her attention shifted to Eugenie. A faint smile tipped up one corner of her mouth. “Fortune sometimes presents interesting opportunities. If all goes in our favor, you won’t be burdened with our presence for much longer.”

  “I’m not—” Eugenie started, but the rest of the sentence caught in her throat. Beneath her stepmother’s intuitive stare, she swallowed and tried again. “You’re not a burden on me.”

  “What a sweet child you are,” said Marielle.

  A shiver pulsed up Eugenie’s spine. Why had she never discerned that note of contempt in her stepmother’s voice?

  11

  Smoke and Shadow

  Florelle and Aurielle bickered like a pair of posturing hens for the next hour. Eugenie, counting down the time to her appointed meeting with Pip, lingered near the stairs to keep tabs on their whereabouts and her stepmother’s. Marielle had not come upstairs. She ha
d not, as far as Eugenie knew, left the kitchen after putting away the groceries.

  Was that strange behavior? After two solid weeks spent in her workroom, she couldn’t recall her stepmother’s daily habits. Her nerves drew tight as the shadows stretched longer and longer across the entryway below. The squabble across the hall was almost a relief.

  “I already said I was wearing lavender. You can’t wear any shade of purple.”

  “You don’t own the whole color.”

  “Oh, wear your old gold dress. It suits you better than that puce monstrosity anyway.”

  “You just want me to look scuffed so you can shine.”

  Did they really believe they could fool anyone? It was one thing to go to court to see whether a mystery girl showed up, but to claim her identity as their own… How would Prince Fernand react if Florelle managed to stuff her foot into the rigid quartz shoe? And if she failed? Would the queen see it as attempted fraud against the crown?

  But the Elles might not be the only ones who entertained such a scheme. If the true owner never appeared, nothing would stop someone from claiming her spot. The shoe might fit any number of ladies across the kingdom.

  What responsibility did Eugenie bear in this terrible mix-up? Surely Pip would guide her in what to do.

  If he kept their meeting.

  When the last light of day slipped away into twilight, she stole from her hiding place and down the stairs, her heart in her throat. A self-conscious glance at the hall leading toward the kitchen showed it deserted. She tossed her cloak around her shoulders and donned her shoes.

  Even as she grasped the knob, it turned in her hand. She wrenched back as the front door swung inward. “Oh!”

  Marielle paused on the threshold, her eyes huge. She wore her dark cloak, her hair wind-ruffled beneath the hood. “Are you going somewhere?” she asked, eyeing her stepdaughter up and down.