But she would be attending Marianne’s birthday ball as Lady Ella. And then there was the masked ball at the palace. By the end of the masquerade she would have a proposal of marriage and she could finally quit her maid’s position for her new life.
With Prince Christian.
As she came down the stairs to the kitchen again, she caught a glimpse of a tall figure with dark hair coming out of the parlor. Her heart pounding, Ellen ducked behind a curtain and peeped out. It was Roger, and she didn’t want him to see her in her maid’s uniform. He would recognize her, she felt certain.
He would recognize her no matter what she wore.
Through her high-necked gown she fingered the little garnet ring on its chain. Roger had given it to her for her twelfth birthday and she had worn it every day since. It was too small for any of her fingers now, so she wore it around her neck on a ribbon along with the locket containing her mother’s portrait. She had had to hide both of these from her father during the final days of his ruin. Neither piece of jewelry was worth very much money, but they had needed every pound and the earl would have pawned them without a thought for the grief it would have caused his daughter.
From her hiding place, Ellen could see that Roger was with Poppy, and she felt a stab of jealousy. They moved close to the stairs just below where Ellen stood, and she strained to listen.
“He’s already spoken to her, and she’s gone,” Poppy said.
“From the house?” Roger sounded alarmed.
“No, just from his study,” Poppy said. “But he won’t tell me what she said.”
“He’s deeply disturbed by all this.”
“I’ve been wondering,” Poppy said, but then stopped.
“Yes?” Roger moved closer to her, and Ellen gritted her teeth.
“I’ve been wondering about Lord Richard’s gambling.”
“But he doesn’t gamble,” Roger pointed out.
“He doesn’t anymore ,” Poppy said. “But he used to, and he always won. And then one day he just quit. Do you think, perhaps, that he made some deal with a magician or someone like that, so that he would always win?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Roger mused. “And it was when you said that Eleanora was always covered in soot that he turned pale. Perhaps he has an idea who Eleanora might have dealt with.”
“If that’s so, then it can’t have been someone very nice,” Poppy said. “I’ve never seen Lord Richard look so frightened.”
“But why isn’t Eleanora frightened, then?”
“Possibly because she’s too foolish to know better,” Poppy said. Ellen’s jaws were clenched so tightly together now that her teeth squeaked. “But possibly because she hasn’t seen the true face of what she’s dealing with yet. Black magic can appear harmless when it wants to.”
“Very true,” Roger said. Then he and Poppy moved toward the front door and she showed him out.
Ellen came out of her hiding place, straightened her cap where the curtain had knocked it askew, and marched down the steps as though she hadn’t just been cowering at the top of them, eavesdropping. As Poppy came back across the entrance hall, she caught Ellen’s eye but didn’t say anything. Ellen bobbed a curtsy at the princess, then went through the little door under the stairs that led to the servants’ quarters.
Perhaps her godmother was a little unfeeling about Ellen’s hurt feet, or her desire to be rid of her maid’s uniform for good. But why would she help Ellen at all if she didn’t want her goddaughter to make a brilliant marriage and live happily with a prince till the end of her days?
It wasn’t as if the Corley stood to benefit!
Magician
Why does magic always smell so awful?” Poppy lifted the lid of the pot and then dropped it back with a clatter. “This is making my eyes water!”
“Then stop lifting the lid!” Roger, in shirtsleeves, frowned at her. Or perhaps he was just frowning at the book propped open before him. He picked up a bundle of herbs, pulled off three leaves, and lifted the lid himself to throw them in.
Holding her nose when the steam wafted toward her, Poppy watched him with watering eyes. They were in the still-room at the Thwaites’ manor, using an ancient text Roger had picked up on his travels to concoct a potion that would release the drinker from the Corley’s spell.
Or so they hoped.
Roger’s grasp of Shijn, the language of the text, was fairly good, but he was by no means fluent. And there was no guarantee that this would work on the Corley’s specific enchantment. It was meant to be a cure for love sickness, which was the nearest thing they could find to the Ella obsession that their friends suffered from. Even now, Dickon was upstairs, writing sonnets to his new love, while back at Seadown House, Marianne was writing “Ella” on scraps of paper and then burning them.
Catching herself reaching for the lid again, Poppy retreated to the far side of the room and took up her knitting. She was doing her own little spell, knitting unbleached wool into bands that could be worn as bracelets. She wore garters of a similar make, and, itchy as they were, she had slept in them the last few nights to quell her nightmares. It had helped, and she hoped she could protect her friends in the same way.
“Another one done,” she announced, casting off the end of the bracelet and cutting the dangling tail of yarn.
She dropped the strip of knitted wool into a pot of rainwater that contained three others. Measuring the remaining yarn, she saw she had enough left for one more bracelet, but only if she knitted so tightly her needles would squeak.
Roger stopped frowning over the Shijn text and frowned at her pot of bracelets and rainwater instead. It looked like eel stew, Poppy thought, and she didn’t blame him for frowning. However, if he said anything disparaging …
“Now I add basil and nightshade and mint,” she told him. “Which is another ghastly combination of odors certain to put me off dinner.”
“Where did you learn about this?” He gave her a sidelong look. “I assume it was part of your family’s defense against the King Under Stone, but how did you come by the knowledge?”
“Walter Vogel, one of our gardeners, was a white magician,” Poppy said. “He told Galen, who is married to Rose now, about basil being good for protection, and nightshade for warding off enchantments. Galen read about adding mint later. It gives you clarity of mind.”
“Interesting.” Roger prodded the mint leaves on the table next to the pot. “So this Galen has continued studying magic?”
She moved the mint away with the tip of one needle. “Yes,” she said. “Walter disappeared after Galen and Rose got married, but we found a trunk full of spell books in one of the garden sheds.” She set aside her knitting. Trying to make the stitches tight enough that she wouldn’t run out of yarn was tiring, and she wanted to get the other bands done as soon as she could.
Commandeering another of the small spirit burners, she put her pot of rainwater and knitting over it and began adding liberal bunches of mint, basil, and nightshade. It hadn’t been easy finding nightshade in Castleraugh. For one thing, it had taken Poppy an hour and several dictionaries to figure out the Bretoner word for it, since her governess had never taught her to translate the names of deadly poisons. Then she’d had to find an apothecary that would sell it to her.
Many carried it, but only one would hand it over to the princess, who had been on the verge of hiring a thief to get her some by the time she found a shop seedy enough. The one-eyed shopkeeper had laughed during the entire transaction, as though delighted at the idea of her poisoning someone. When she’d assured him that she only wanted it for medicinal purposes, he’d blinked at her in a way that she guessed passed for a wink, and laughed even harder.
“How much of that are you supposed to put in?” Roger watched her throwing in the herbs with narrowed eyes.
“I really don’t think there’s a mearurement,” Poppy said breezily. “We usually just toss some in. It’s also good to keep fresh nightshade and basil with you, in your pocket
s maybe. Although you smell like an herb garden if you do.”
“Interesting,” Roger said again.
But Poppy could tell that he didn’t think it interesting so much as dubious. He was so precise about everything that she knew watching her throw her herbs in willy-nilly was making him twitch. She added the last of the basil and put a lid on the pot.
“How is yours coming?” She nodded at his concoction.
Roger ponderously checked his pocket watch, then took the lid off the pot and stirred it with a long silver spoon. He sniffed the horrid stuff, checked with the text one last time, then took the pot off the burner.
“It should be ready,” he said.
“How do we test it?”
Poppy’s voice was high and nasal, since she had pinched her nose when he took the lid off the pot. The reek of it was really terrible, like unwashed feet, mushrooms, and cinnamon mixed together. Combined with the basil and mint from her pot, she had to fight to keep from gagging, and thanked the heavens that the nightshade, at least, was odorless.
“I’ll give some to Dickon,” Roger said. He wasn’t holding his nose, but his face was rather greenish.
“If the ingredients are wrong, it won’t kill him, will it?”
“It shouldn’t; none of the ingredients are harmful.”
“Other than the smell,” she quipped.
“This should simmer overnight,” she went on, indicating her pot. “I need some fresh air.”
“Agreed,” Roger said.
They both stumbled out of the stillroom and took great gulps of laundry-scented air in the adjacent drying room. When the potion had cooled, Roger went back into the still-room and poured it into a glass for Dickon.
“Will he drink it?”
“I’ll tell him it’s Lady Ella’s favorite tea,” Roger said.
Poppy laughed, and was still laughing when they went into the library. Dickon was awash in crumpled paper, and looked up with a dazed expression as they came in.
“Can you think of a rhyme for ‘Ella’ other than ‘fella’?” he asked.
Poppy put one hand over her eyes. She could think of a number of things, like “yella,” that would rhyme, but none of them made for good poetry. She didn’t even want to know what was on the crumpled papers littering the table and floor.
“Poetry isn’t really my strong suit,” Roger said blandly. “Have a drink to refresh yourself, why don’t you?”
“Ah, yes! Just the thing!”
Dickon reached for the tumbler eagerly enough, but when the odor reached his nostrils he recoiled, nearly spilling it. Roger grabbed the glass back just in time.
“I say! It smells like an old boot!”
Roger started to say something about Lady Ella, but Poppy stopped him with a hand on his sleeve.
“Dickon,” she said with a smile, “it’s a love potion.”
“Pardon?” the brothers said together.
“It will make you irresistible to Lady Ella.”
“Really?” Dickon licked his lips, then shuddered. “Do you think I need it? I would much rather woo her with my poems.”
Poppy felt her nostrils flare and she bit back a giggle. “Well, in case you can’t find a rhyme for ‘Ella’…” She took the glass from Roger and held it out to Dickon.
“Are you certain it will work?” He stopped with one hand outstretched. “Why does it smell so ghastly?”
“Because it only works on Lady Ella,” Poppy improvised. “We strained it through one of her stockings.”
“How did you get one of Lady Ella’s stockings?”
“We bribed her maid. Now drink!”
Dickon hesitated only a second more, then he snatched the glass, gulped it down, and gagged. He fumbled the glass to the tabletop, holding his throat with his free hand.
“Oh! You’ve poisoned me!”
“Nonsense,” Roger said in a worried voice. “You just have to, um, twist the glass.” He made a wringing motion.
“Twist the glass?” Now it was Poppy and Dickon who spoke at the same time. Dickon, still retching, obediently turned the glass around on the table.
“That’s doing nothing,” Poppy reported, twisting her own hands in the skirt of her gown.
“Din yun, din yun … ?” Roger pulled at his lower lip. “Oh!” He shook his head. “Throw the glass!”
“With pleasure,” Dickon choked, and tossed the tumbler into the hearth.
The glass shattered into tiny diamonds, which smoked and disappeared with a gentle chiming sound. Poppy closed her mouth, and looked to Dickon, who all at once sat up in his chair and looked around as if he’d just awakened.
“What was that for?”
“So you’d stop making a fool of yourself with Lady Ella,” Poppy said, carefully watching for his reaction.
“Lady Ella? That strange girl who kept hitting Christian with her fan?” Dickon shook his head and turned back to his papers and pen. “Don’t know what you mean. Now kindly leave me in peace while I compose a letter to Marianne. Her birthday is tomorrow, you know.”
Roger and Poppy fled to the hallway where they stood, looking stunned, for a moment.
“Goodness,” Poppy said at last. “That seemed too easy.”
Dreamer
Poppy stood up in the middle of her bed, just to make sure she didn’t fall back asleep and continue her wretched, wretched nightmare. Why she had to endlessly visit the Palace Under Stone she didn’t know, but she hoped the dreams would stop soon.
She crouched down and reached under her pillow to make sure the little white sachet was still there. It was. She plucked it out and held it to her nose. Still fragrant with herbs after all these years, the muslin bag had been a gift from Walter Vogel. He had given sachets to Poppy and all her sisters some ten years ago, to ward off bad dreams. Hers didn’t seem to be working anymore, though it still smelled as fresh as always.
Something else to write to Galen about. Poppy wished she could ask Walter, but his work in Westfalin was done, though Poppy and her sisters still missed the strange old man. She wondered if there was some way to summon him, for surely his knowledge of magic was needed here in Breton now.
She got up and wrote a note to Galen and Rose, including the strange dream, the questions about her sachet, and the possibility of reaching Walter Vogel. She sealed and addressed it so that it could go out with the first post, but even so it would reach Galen and Rose far too late to help. Marianne’s birthday ball was only two days away, and Poppy was sure that “Lady Ella” would be in attendance, causing even more mayhem than before.
Christian and Lady Margaret could talk of little else, and Marianne burst into tears whenever anyone mentioned either Ella or the royal gala. Dickon had needed two more doses of the potion, which seemed to wear off after a day, and Roger was frantically trying to brew more of the malodorous stuff, but was having trouble locating one of the ingredients. And the Thwaite’s stillroom maid had turned off the spirit lamp under Poppy’s pot of boiling wool, and now she would have to start all over again with the herbs and rainwater.
Roger had come to the house twice specifically to call on Ellen and try to winkle out her plans for the upcoming ball, but both times the girl conveniently vanished.
But when Poppy saw the dress that Lady Margaret had had made for her to wear to Marianne’s ball, she resolved that she would confront Ellen in front of all the guests if “Lady Ella” wore a copy of it.
It was of deep violet satin with an overskirt of smoky gray tissue that softened the color underneath and made Poppy look and feel like a fairy princess. There was silver embroidery around the neckline, and matching satin shoes. She already had a violet silk choker she wore to enliven a white gown she had inherited from Lily.
“And look at mine,” Marianne burbled, her thoughts taken away from Lady Ella for the first time all day. “Just look!”
Poppy looked, and applauded. Marianne would outshine everyone in such a gown, and Poppy felt some of the tension in her shoulders unk
not. Marianne’s gown was rose-colored satin with a faint tracery of gold embroidery around the sleeves and hem. Lady Margaret was going to let Marianne wear the pearl tiara and necklace—each with a single pink diamond as a centerpiece—that had been her wedding gift from Lord Richard.
Poppy twirled Marianne around. “You’ll be gorgeous!”
“Yes, gorgeous, Lady Marianne,” echoed a voice from the doorway. Ellen stood there with a tea tray in her hands and a funny little smile on her face.
Poppy took the tray before Ellen contrived to spill the tea on either gown. Although Ellen had been remarkably graceful of late, Poppy was taking no chances.
“Don’t even think about it,” Poppy warned as Ellen’s blue eyes lit on the silver and violet gown.
“I won’t,” Ellen retorted, curtsied, and sidled out.
“There’s no need to be harsh,” Lady Margaret said gently.
Knowing that Lady Margaret still wouldn’t believe her, and not wanting to weather the floods of tears from Marianne that a mention of Lady Ella would bring, Poppy apologized. Then she turned her attention back to the ball gowns, admiring the fine stitching and dramatic layers of skirts.
But Lady Margaret was still staring at the closed door with an expression of concern on her face. “I just don’t know what to do about that girl,” she murmured. “She wanted to attend the royal gala so badly; but now she appears perfectly satisfied in not having gone.”
“Her maid skills seem to be improving,” Marianne said, fingering the pink rosettes on the bodice of her new gown. “Maybe she’s finally become resigned to being in service.”
“I really don’t think that’s it,” Poppy said, but declined to discuss it any further.
Christian would return to the Danelaw the week after the royal masked ball, and Lady Ella clearly had set her cap for the prince, which meant that something was likely to happen at that masked ball or soon after. But they had no idea what, and if Ellen wouldn’t talk to them, there was nothing they could do to prevent it.