I dressed hurriedly, lit a candle, and took a spare, plenty to last until dawn.
As I traversed the halls, my excitement mounted. If I found a potion recipe or a spell, my every moment would be transformed along with my appearance. Eating would be transformed, because I’d no longer picture my broad cheeks stuffed with food. Walking down a corridor would be transformed, because I’d no longer feel my lumbering gait. Dressing would be transformed, because every ensemble would become me.
After my metamorphosis, I’d tell Ijori what I’d done, and I’d face down everyone else. I’d faced people down over my ugliness all my life. It would be easy to face them down over my beauty.
Except Ivi. I didn’t know what she’d do to me.
But I wouldn’t be frightened out of taking this chance. She could hardly imprison me. I couldn’t sing for her from a dungeon.
In the library the birds were asleep, except for a talkative whippoorwill. I went directly to the shelves that held the spells and pulled out a book called Secret Spells for Secret Uses. I sang, “A good title, but I don’t know if it’s overused.”
I made room for my candle on a shelf at eye level. The book had an entire chapter of beauty potions and spells! I turned to it and discovered why more than one spell or potion was needed—and why everyone in the castle wasn’t beautiful. The first spell had to be chanted when three comets were in the sky at the same time. The second was written in a runic language I couldn’t read. The first potion recipe required an ogre’s bloody knuckle! The second called for the fur of a six-legged cat.
I remembered a book I’d seen before, No Harm Done: Safe and Simple Spells. That seemed the book for me.
I used up half the first candle to find it. When I finally had it, my trembling hands made turning the pages difficult. It had no potions, but the table of contents referred me to three beauty spells, on pages 138, 187, and 363. The first spell could be done, but it involved boiling a long list of ingredients. I didn’t think Frying Pan would like me preparing a spell in her kitchen.
The spell on page 187 needed only to be sung. The words were in a language I didn’t know, but the letters were Ayorthaian. I hoped it wouldn’t matter if I botched the pronunciation here and there. The spell was merely a single stanza, repeated thrice.
The instructions were to start loud and finish soft. They promised the effect would be immediate.
I smoothed out my skirts and patted down my hair, as though making myself presentable to the spell. I wanted to remember the date, May the twenty-third. I was fifteen, but this would be my true beginning.
I sang, loud as I could.
“Hyong weeoon, chia eeung layah
Chia eeung layah; ix ayunong
Layah ix ayun ong moiee
Ayun ong moiee eviang tuah.
Moiee eviang tuah preeing: ang
Tuah preeing ang, ang hyong.”
I stopped reading. The words came as if I’d memorized them. I didn’t sing softer deliberately. The spell was taking over.
“Hyong weeoon, chia eeung layah
Chia eeung layah; ix ayunong
Layah ix ayun ong moiee
Ayun ong moiee eviang tuah.
Moiee eviang tuah preeing: ang
Tuah preeing ang, ang hyong.”
My singing was reduced to a mutter. I could barely move my jaws.
“Hyong weeoon, chia eeung layah
Chia eeung layah; ix ayunong
Layah ix ayun ong moiee
Ayun ong moiee eviang tuah.”
I took a breath, although I almost couldn’t make my chest expand. But I had to finish the spell.
“Moiee eviang tuah preeing: ang
Tuah preeing ang, ang hyong.”
Was I beautiful?
I couldn’t move. I was frozen in place. The spell book was about to fall out of my hands, but I couldn’t clasp it tighter.
I couldn’t swallow. I didn’t know if I was breathing or not. I couldn’t feel air enter or leave my nose. My chest certainly didn’t move, couldn’t move.
The book fell. My right thumb broke off and fell with it. I felt a moment of pure pain and then nothing. I had been turned to stone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I COULD STILL HEAR the whippoorwill. I could still see, but I couldn’t move my eyes or blink. I was staring at a shelf of books. Hocus-pocus and Other Rhyming Incantations; Enemy Spells: Revenge Made Easy; Love Potions for Reluctant Lovers; Hex; The Complete Book of Wart Removal; Mistress Omonero’s Remedies for Everything.
Oh, how I wanted the next book on the shelf—Spell Begone! A Thousand Release Spells.
But who knew what a release spell would really do? It could turn me into a deer or a toad. A breathing, hopping toad might be an improvement.
I wondered if I was a beautiful statue or an ugly one. If I was beautiful and bore no resemblance to myself, no one would know what had become of me.
If I was still ugly, everyone would know.
I wanted to weep. It would be such a relief to weep! Or to sing. I’d never sing again.
Mother and Father would never stop grieving.
I thought of the king. In a way, he was frozen, too.
I thought of Ijori. I couldn’t stop thinking of him. My thoughts became as fixed on him as I was fixed in place. I thought of his ears, which Ivi disliked and I loved. I thought of his attachment to Oochoo and to his uncle. I thought of his high opinion of me. What a fool he’d think me now.
But if I had become beautiful—and not a statue—would he have loved me? Would he miss ugly me?
My candle guttered out. I was in pitch-darkness. Even the whippoorwill quieted. I had nothing except my thoughts.
I heard a chirp, then a coo, and the rustle of feathers. The library became murky rather than inky. Dawn was coming.
My scalp tingled. Then it itched. I couldn’t move to scratch it. The tingle spread to my forehead, followed by the itch, then to my nose. I began to feel the air go in and out. I was able to raise my eyebrows. Oh, how glorious! To move my eyebrows. I’d never appreciated it before.
The spell was wearing off.
I felt fresh pain in my hand. Then my thumb flew up and reattached itself. I could move my arms. I scratched my ribs. I held out my hands. They were still broad, still meaty, still mottled. I was certain my face was still ugly, but never mind—I was glad to be flesh and not stone.
As I hurried through the sleeping castle, I felt something in my right slipper. In my chamber, I took off the slipper and my hose.
My right pinky toe was cold marble, through and through, white marble, the same chalky color as my skin. I tried to massage the toe back to life, but it wouldn’t revert. I poured water on it, hoping it would become malleable again, but it didn’t. I wrapped my fingers around it. It grew warmer but no softer. I stood and took several steps. It clicked on the wood floor beyond the rugs. It didn’t chafe the toe next to it, but that toe was aware of it, the way you’re aware if you tie a string around your finger.
I couldn’t spend the day hunched over my toe. I straightened and dressed.
On my way to the Banquet Hall, I heard the jingle of Frying Pan’s bracelets. Two guards were half dragging her along. She was in shackles. Her face was flushed. Her hair was loose. She roared out a song as she went.
“Cook is a commoner,
Born in her kitchen.
The queen is from Kyrria,
A commoner from Kyrria.
Cook goes to prison,
Queen goes to dinner.
Who will be the cook?
Isn’t it an outrage?
Isn’t it a crime?
“The king is lying sick.
The queen is sitting pretty.
The queen is making havoc
Upon the hungry court.
What’s to eat tonight?
Eggshells, pig hair,
Scum, muck, and slime—
Isn’t that a pity?
Isn’t that a crime?”
I learned later that
Lady Arona had also been imprisoned. Ivi had surmised that the plates of scraps had been no mere prank and that Lady Arona had laughed at her. Vengeance had been swift.
Imprisoning two subjects wasn’t as bad as dissolving the king’s council or refusing to help with the drought, but it felt as bad. It was so personal a use of power. She could have demanded a public apology from each of them. The humiliation would have been punishment enough.
The next morning Sir Enole, the physician, announced that the king’s color had improved. The castle rang with song. Ivi asked me three times if I thought the king would like her gown. Twice she recited her favorite lines from his Wedding Song to her.
“She makes me
laugh and cry....
She wakes me up
and makes me sing.”
After the second recitation, she said, “Being a powerful queen is tiresome, Aza. Sometimes my head aches. I like much better to make Oscaro laugh and cry.”
But everyone’s joy over the king’s rally turned to sadness when he failed to progress further. Even the songbirds sang in a minor key.
The castle fare deteriorated. Without Frying Pan, meals were late. The bread was stale. The cheese was moldy. Roasts were undercooked or burned. One memorable cake was frosted with chicken fat.
I received another letter from home, from Father this time. Word had reached Amonta that Ivi had dissolved the king’s council and had refused to aid those suffering from the drought.
“Daughter,” he wrote,
the mayor paid a visit to the Featherbed this morning, and I believe every soul in the village has come to your mother or to me. They entreat you to persuade Her Majesty to reverse her policies. When I brought my boots to Erdelle to be mended, he sent his apologies if he’d ever been unpleasant to you. Several guests have said the same.
I paused in my reading. I was surprised anyone felt guilt, and I couldn’t help being pleased. They should have apologized long ago.
In Amonta and here at the inn those who know you best are hopeful, because they’re acquainted with your good heart. But among the others, anger against the queen runs high. Do your best, daughter. Your mother is becoming afraid.
I had no idea how to answer him. Good hearts weighed nothing with the queen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE DAYS PASSED. Ivi kept her guards with her constantly. She seemed to fancy one guard more than the rest and flirted with him almost as much as she did with Ijori. His name was Uju, an older fellow than the others, so stern and silent that I couldn’t tell how he was taking Ivi’s attentions.
On occasion she visited the prison. She never took me, for which I was grateful. Once I heard her complain to the bailiff that Lady Arona and Frying Pan were being too well fed.
Frequently she shut herself in her apartments and ordered everyone to stay away. She didn’t seem to have the temperament for solitude, but hours often passed before she summoned Ijori or me.
When she was busy and Ijori was not, he and I walked in the garden or watched the falconer train his birds or lazed on the bank of the moat. On one afternoon, he took me to the armory, a castle outbuilding not far from the lists. A manservant found us there and asked Ijori to go to Sir Uellu.
We walked back to the castle together. Ijori left me at the entrance, and I visited the tailor’s booth to ask how my wardrobe was progressing. Mistress Audra, friendly as ever, assured me the sewing was going well.
The next day Ijori told me why he’d been called away. We stood on a stone terrace overlooking the Ormallo range. Oochoo sat between us. The slope across from us was dotted with sheep. The day was sweltering, with a hot dry breeze.
“Sir Uellu asked me what I think of you.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I thought you honest, and kindly to a fault.”
I wished I was honest.
“And he said about you—” Ijori looked pleased. “He said yours is the best voice he’s ever heard, even better than Queen Adaria’s.”
She was the king’s first wife, who’d died.
“He called yours an almost impossible voice. He said he thought you could do anything with it.”
I tried not to sound alarmed. “He sent for you to talk about my voice?”
He grinned at me. “Why not? It deserves attention.”
I blushed.
His grin faded. “The kingdom could soon be in revolt. The king’s council continues to meet in secret. That is all I can tell you. Uellu asked where I would stand.”
Revolt! My stomach knotted. I sat on the parapet. “But the king!”
He nodded. “Exactly. I said that as long as my uncle lives, I’ll defend the queen.”
“What did Sir Uellu say?”
“He said he would too.”
“What will you do if your uncle should die?”
He stroked Oochoo’s ear. “Oochoo would be a better queen than Queen Ivi. I’d oppose her.” He bent over the dog. “What will you do, Aza? Queen Ivi is your patroness.”
“I’d oppose her too.” I’d finally be able to stop illusing. I’d be free of her. I wouldn’t have to worry about the Featherbed, either. Mother and Father, too, would oppose the queen.
If the revolt failed, I’d be in prison with more company than Lady Arona and Frying Pan. Or I’d lose my head in the same good company.
He nodded. “I told Uellu you’d say just that.”
Had Sir Uellu thought I’d support the queen?
“But,” I said, “I hope King Oscaro gets well.”
“Yes. Uncle …” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes I wonder if he’d blame me for all that’s happened.”
“How could he blame you?”
“That I let her do what she would. That I let it come so close to rebellion.”
I stood, indignant. “You tried to stop her! I tried. If you’re at fault, so am I.”
“Such spirit in my defense! Between you and Oochoo, I’m safe from any attack.”
I laughed. “I will take up fencing.”
He sobered. “Uncle’s recovery would also save his wife.”
I sobered too. A rebellion!
I woke up the next morning thinking about rebellion . . . and gowns. Today was to be my fitting. I was going to see my new ensembles and try them on. The alterations would be finished before the Sing. I would no longer be a laughingstock.
Today’s Dame Ethele’s monstrosity had a hooped underskirt and a bustle that jutted out far behind me. In these skirts I could be a centaur and no one would ever know. Ah well, I thought, only one more day of shame.
I wished I could go straight to the tailor, but I had to help the queen dress. She was almost as excited as I was about the fitting. When she was ready, we set off for the tailor’s stall together.
But trouble waylaid us when a blotch of whitish mush landed on her nose and dribbled onto to her chin and her lacy collar.
“What?” She began to reach up.
“Wait!” I said. “I’ll get it.” I dabbed at her face and collar with my handkerchief.
“It was a bird, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Majesty.”
She burst out, “I hate Ayortha!”
A courtier and a corridor troubadour were within earshot.
She took my handkerchief and rubbed at the stain. “Where else do they bring hordes of birds into a royal castle? My subjects are singing savages. Now I must decide on a different gown, although I so wanted to wear this one.”
I turned back with her, but she put her hand on my arm. “You go ahead. I won’t delay your moment.”
She was always at her best when it came to apparel. If instead of a drought there had been a scarcity of fabric in the south, she would have been happy to open the king’s coffers.
When I reached the tailor’s stall, he turned away from his customer. The seamstresses looked up from their sewing. The courtiers stopped examining fabrics and patterns.
Mistress Audra’s smile was overfr
iendly. “We are looking forward to seeing you in your new ensembles.” She scurried behind the screen and emerged, staggering under the weight of a pile of garments.
The colors were garish.
She placed the garments on the fabrics table. The cloth was nothing I or the queen had selected. The uppermost gown was rich enough, but it was a stiff organdy in a violent shade of scarlet. Stitched into it were orange and green satin ruffles, rows of them. Stitched into the ruffles were bright-blue ribbons.
The other gowns were as bad. Textures and colors stabbed at me.
“We hope Milady likes her new wardrobe,” the tailor said, smirking.
“The queen won’t pay for these.” I wouldn’t let them see me cry.
The tailor bowed. “Consider them a gift. They will adorn you as you deserve.”
I left everything. As soon as I turned away, my eyes filled. I wanted to be alone in my chamber. People stood aside as I rushed toward the staircase at the back of the hall.
I heard someone behind me.
“Aza!”
Ijori. I didn’t want to see him now. I ran. I reached the staircase and started up.
He came after me. “Aza! What’s amiss?”
I climbed as rapidly as I could, but Dame Ethele’s skirts slowed me. He put his hand on my elbow. At least I was high enough to be out of sight of the Great Hall. I sank on a step and began to sob.
“What? What happened?”
But I was crying too hard to speak.
He sat on the step below me. He reached up to pat my shoulder and my back. He murmured, “Don’t cry. What is it? Nothing’s so bad. Don’t cry, sweet. Oh, dear heart, don’t cry.”
Sweet? Dear heart? I turned to him. What was he saying?
He rose and came closer and kissed my blood-red mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HIS LIPS FELT so soft.
I’d thought I’d grow old and die without ever a kiss. A melody bloomed in my mind, high and clear and joyous. He was kissing me.
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