Ella Enchanted

  Mum Olga sputtered. “Did you …”

  “Stand, Ella,” Hattie commanded.

  I fought for a moment, then rose.

  Hattie put her arm around my shoulders. “Ella will be obedient, Mama. Tell Mama how obedient you’ll be.”

  “Very obedient,” I mumbled while grinding my heel into her toe.

  She yelped in pain.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Mum Olga asked.

  “The meaning, Mama, is that Ella does whatever she is told. I don’t know why, but she does.”

  “Really?”

  Hattie nodded.

  “You mean she would have listened to me too?” Olive said.

  “Clap your hands three times, Ella,” Mum Olga commanded.

  I clutched my skirts and stiffened my hands at my sides.

  “It will take a moment,” Hattie said. “She tries not to. See how red her face is.”

  I clapped.

  “What a clever daughter I have.” Mum Olga beamed at Hattie.

  “As clever as she is beautiful,” I said.

  They both began to answer me and stopped, confused.

  “Hattie isn’t pretty,” Olive said.

  Mum Olga rang her bell. In a few minutes, two housemaids entered the room, followed by Mandy and the rest of the servants.

  “From now on, Ella will be one of you,” Mum Olga said. “Teach her to be a good servant.”

  “I’ll take her for my helper,” the laundress said.

  I stifled a cry. On my first day in Mum Olga’s manor, I’d seen the laundress blacken the eye of a housemaid.

  Mandy spoke up. “I need a scullery maid. I know the lass. She’s stubborn, but trainable. May I have her, your ladyship?”

  Since the wedding, Mum Olga had been eating Mandy’s cooking, in ever-increasing helpings. By now, she would probably have given Mandy fifty scullery maids to keep her happy.

  “Are you certain you want her, if she’s so obstinate?”

  “I’ll take her,” Mandy answered. “The chit means nothing to me, but I loved her mother. I’ll teach her to cook, and your ladyship can train her for other service, but I’ll allow no harm to come to her, if your ladyship takes my meaning.”

  Mum Olga puffed up to her full height and girth. “Are you threatening me, Mandy?”

  “No, mistress. Bless me, no. I want to keep my situation. But all the fine cooks in Kyrria are my friends, and if anything happened to the wench, I don’t know who would cook for you.”

  “I won’t have her spoiled.”

  “Spoiled! I’ll work her harder than she ever worked in her life, and give you a fine cook into the bargain.”

  The bargain was irresistible.

  Midmorning of my second day of servitude, Olive joined us in the kitchen.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, although breakfast had been only an hour earlier. “Make me a white cake.”

  Mandy began to assemble the ingredients.

  “No, I want Ella to do it.” She stood at my side while I measured and mixed. “Talk to me.”

  “What should I say?”

  “I don’t know. Anything.”

  I told her a fairy tale about a prince with a long nose who loved a princess with a short nose. The tale had humor and grief, and I enjoyed telling it. Over her cooking, Mandy chuckled and sighed at the proper moments. But Olive only listened silently, her eyes riveted on my face.

  “Tell me another,” she said when I announced the end, suspecting she wouldn’t recognize it otherwise.

  I recited “Beauty and the Beast.” My mouth was getting dry. I pumped water into a cup.

  “Give me some too,” she demanded.

  I refilled the cup. Was I going to pass the rest of my life catering to this … this … this appetite?

  “Another story,” she said when she finished drinking. She said the same after “Rapunzel” and “Hansel and Gretel.” Before she could order one more after the tale of King Midas, I asked her hoarsely if she’d liked the story.

  She nodded, and I persuaded her to tell it back to me. “A king turns everything into gold and lives happily ever after. I want more.”

  Not a command. “I’ve told every story I know.”

  “I want money.” Perhaps she was thinking about Midas. “Give me your money.”

  I had gotten only a few KJs from Father before he went away, which I hoped to keep in case of need.

  “Don’t you want Ella to finish making your cake?” Mandy asked. “I thought you were hungry.”

  “No! I want her money.” Olive’s voice rose.

  Mandy tried again. “What does a rich young lady such as yourself want with the wee savings of a scullery maid?”

  “To make me richer. Mother and Hattie have much more than I do.” She started to wail. “It’s not fair.”

  My head hurt from not obeying, as well as from Olive’s noise. I pushed the mixing bowl away. “Come with me.”

  My money was in my room, at the bottom of my carpetbag. I hunted through it without letting Olive see my Agulen wolf or my glass slippers. She probably wouldn’t have recognized their value, but she might have talked about them to her mother or to Hattie.

  I had only three silver KJs, enough to buy a few meals or a night at an inn. Olive counted them twice.

  “I have to put them away.” She closed her fists over them and marched off.

  I was penniless, stripped of the power that even a few coins bestow.

  For a quarter hour I sat on my bed, enjoying the quiet and trying fruitlessly to think of new ways to break the curse. Then I returned to the kitchen to help Mandy with lunch. When I entered, Olive was there.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  In the evening, there was to be a formal dinner to console Mum Olga for Father’s departure. I had to wash the floor in the hall in preparation while Mum Olga came by frequently to supervise.

  “You must scrub on your knees, and add lye to the water. It scours best.”

  As soon as I submerged my hands, they smarted and burned. I drew them out of the bucket.

  “Don’t stop before you’ve started. The dinner is tonight, not next week.”

  The task took three hours, but my knuckles were bleeding in a quarter of the time. Occasionally other servants passed by. Some gawked, some seemed sympathetic. Nancy, the serving maid, came during one of Mum Olga’s inspections. She crept behind Mum Olga and pantomimed dumping a pail of water over her head.

  “Something amuses you?” Mum Olga asked.

  I shook my head and stopped smiling.

  At last I finished. In addition to bloody hands, my knees were bruised, and my arms ached. I wished I were a real servant, the sort who could quit one situation and seek another.

  I returned to help Mandy in the kitchen. Fortunately, she was alone. As soon as she saw me, she rushed to her store of herbs and unguents and to the jug of Tonic.

  “Sit down, sweet. I’ll have you good as new in a minute.”

  Her remedies worked miracles, but better yet, during dinner I had revenge. Mandy had just sprinkled parsley over thirty servings of trout, and Nancy was ready to convey them to the guests.

  “Wait!” I dashed to the herb cabinet. “Here.” I scattered ground passiflora over one of the plates. “Give this one to my stepmother.”

  “What …” Nancy looked startled.

  “Don’t do it,” Mandy said. “I won’t have her ladyship blaming me when she starts snoring in front of her guests.”

  “Oh, is that all? Serve her right.” Nancy took the plate and was off.

  “A good lass, Nancy,” Mandy said, grinning at me when she had gone.

  Two servants had to carry Mum Olga to bed before the meal ended. But the festivities continued, culminating in dancing. I witnessed the dance because Hattie called me to tend the fire, and everyone saw me in my greasy, sooty state.

  Afterward, while I undressed in my room, I thought about escape. Mandy would only use small magic, which was smaller help than I nee
ded. And Char was hundreds of miles away and mustn’t know of my troubles anyway.

  Father. I hated to ask him for anything, but he was the only one who could help. I would write to him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In my letter I played on Father’s pride and described the part of my servitude that would most enrage him: tending the fire in front of the courtiers.

  How dare they treat me so. And against your express wishes too! They order me about, and the more menial the task, the better.

  I beg you to come home. Many merchants trade right here in Frell; why can’t you join their number? Please come. My need is great. You know I would not ask otherwise. Come quickly. I am counting the days.

  Your daughter,

  Ella

  I gave the letter to Mandy to post. Perhaps it would overtake Father on the road. The mail coach driver knew him. It might reach him before my earlier letter got to Char. Father could even be back in a few days.

  Until I saw him or heard from him, I would endure. I stayed out of my stepfamily’s way as much as possible, and the longer I worked as a scullery maid, and the filthier I got, the less Hattie and Mum Olga tormented me. I think they gloried in my squalor as proof of my baseness.

  From Olive, though, there was no respite, and to escape from her, I hid. My most secure hideaway was the library. Although I never dared stay long, I was able to steal half hours reading Mum Olga’s dusty tomes. No one ever thought to look for me there, or to visit for pleasure.

  I don’t know whether I was more anxious to hear from Father or from Char. I kept thinking about Char and wishing to talk to him. If I thought of a joke, I wanted to try it on him. If I had a serious idea, I wanted his opinion.

  Although weeks passed without an answer from Father, my first letter from Char arrived only ten days after I’d sent mine to him. Then letter followed letter for the first six months of his absence, while I heard nothing from Father, and saw nothing of him either.

  As I had directed, Char sent his letters to Mandy, who pretended to have an admirer. Hattie and Mum Olga were vastly amused at Mandy’s romance, but I failed to see why it was any more absurd than Mum Olga and Father.

  Char’s hand was large and round, the letters evenly spaced, each fully formed—completely unlike my crabbed, spiky writing. His showed a balanced, honest nature, while Areida used to say mine proved me imaginative, impulsive, and always in a hurry.

  Dear Ella,

  My name has been changed. Here they call me Echarmonte, which sounds more like a sneeze than a name. They can’t pronounce Char, and I can’t persuade them to call me Echare. They are so formal. They say “by your leave” more often than they say anything else.

  The Ayorthaians think before they speak, and often conclude, after lengthy meditation, that nothing need be said. The loudest beings in an Ayorthaian council are the flies. The occasional bee that finds its way in is deafening.

  I long for conversation. The ordinary Ayorthaians are talkative, but the nobles are not. They are kind. They smile easily. But speech for them is a single word, occasionally a phrase. Once a week they utter a complete sentence. On their birthdays they grant the world an entire paragraph.

  At first I chattered to fill the silence. In response, I received smiles, bows, thoughtful expressions, shrugs, and an occasional “Perhaps, by your leave.” So now I keep my speeches to myself.

  In the garden this morning I overtook the duke of Andona. I touched his shoulder in greeting. He nodded companionably. In my mind I said, “The flowers are marvelous. That one grows in Kyrria, but that other I’ve never seen before. What do you call it?”

  In my imagination he answered me, naming the flower, saying it was the queen’s favorite and that he’d be happy to give me seeds.

  But if I had really asked about a flower, he’d probably have continued strolling. He’d have thought, “Why does this prince clutter up a lovely day with talk? If I don’t answer him, he may breathe in the sweet air, feel the gentle sun, hear the rustling leaves. Perhaps by now he regrets his question. But perhaps he thinks me rude for not answering him. However, if I speak now, I may startle him. Which would be worse? It would be worse to have him think me rude. I must speak.” But, exhausted by his cogitation, he’d have energy left for only one word, the name of the flower.

  I’m writing nonsense. In my first letter I had hoped to impress you with my brilliant prose, but that will have to wait for my second.

  Not many of my imagined conversations are with the duke. Most of them are with you.

  I know what I would say if I were in Frell. I’d tell you at least three times how glad I was to see you. I’d speak more about Ayortha (and with fewer complaints), and I’d describe my trip here, especially our adventure when one of the packhorses shied at a rabbit and tore off. But then I might turn Ayorthaian and trail off into silence, lost in smiling at you.

  The trouble is, I can’t guess at your response. You surprise me so often. I like to be surprised, but if I could supply your answers with confidence, I might miss you less. The remedy is obvious. You must write to me again and quickly. And again, and more quickly.

  Your very good friend,

  Char

  In my reply, I gave him conversation.

  Greetings. How do you fare today? Lovely weather we’ve been having. The farmers predict rain, however. They say the crows are chattering. Ah well, wet weather will do us good, I daresay. We can’t have sunny days always. Life isn’t like that, is it? Wish it were. Wouldn’t that be fine? Never a disappointment, never a harsh word. Don’t you agree, sir? A fine fellow such as yourself, you have sense enough to see it’s never that way.

  In one dose, I hope I have cured you of your desire for conversation.

  My pen stopped. What could I tell him? I couldn’t explain my servitude without telling about the curse. Then I recollected that Mum Olga had recently held a cotillion. I described it, omitting the detail that my participation had been limited to removing the dirty plates from the refreshments table.

  Char’s reply was that the Ayorthaians didn’t have balls.

  They have “sings,” which are held monthly. Three or four Ayorthaians at a time occupy the stage in turn and sing long, sad ballads or happy tunes or funny ones, joined by the whole throng in the choruses. The entire populace knows thousands of songs, and there is hardly a mediocre voice among them.

  Sound gushes forth from somewhere deep, their toes or their souls. For the last song, a paean to the rising sun (because they have performed through the night), they gather their families about them. Husbands and wives and children clasp hands, tilt their heads heavenward, and release their music.

  And I, seated with the few other visitors, add my weak voice to theirs, humming when I can’t guess the words and wishing my hands were held too.

  Perhaps we can come here together someday.

  By the way, you are a month older than the last time I saw you. Are you still too young to marry?

  I chuckled at the joke. Then I thought of the bride I’d make, in a threadbare, sooty gown that stank of cooking fat and yesterday’s dinner.

  Char repeated the query in every letter, probably because my answers were so silly that they pleased him. If not too young, I was too tired to marry or too wet or too cross or too hungry. Once I wrote, “If my years are measured by inches, then I am certainly too young. The eleven-year-old daughter of an acquaintance dwarfs me.”

  The acquaintance was Nancy, the serving maid.

  Another time I wrote, “Today I am too old to marry, a hundred at least. I have spent the last eighty years and more listening to a lady detail the pedigree of every dinner guest tonight.”

  The lady had been Hattie, and I had not attended the meal.

  I continued in a more serious vein. “I have not found anyone in my stepfamily’s circle in whom I can confide. And there are few subjects about which my stepsisters and I share an opinion. It is great good luck that I have a pen and paper and a friend.”

>   Char’s answer: “My tongue may wither from disuse here, but at least I shan’t lose words entirely while I still can write to you.”

  Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I told Char that I was just the right age to marry. With each of his letters I fell more in love with him. But I couldn’t tell him. If I said I was old enough to marry and his question had only been the continuation of a good joke, he would be horribly embarrassed and our easy friendship would be ruined. He might stop writing, which I couldn’t endure. If he wasn’t jesting, it was for him to say so. Until then or never, I treasured our correspondence.

  In his next letter he wrote,

  I don’t know when I learned I would be king. It seems I’ve always known it. But two stories are told, and I’ve heard them so often they seem to be memories. One has me as hero; the other is not so flattering.

  A lute was given to me when I was six and my sister, Cecilia, was four. She coveted it and plucked at it whenever she could. Finally, I presented it to her, an act that signified to the servants that I would be a generous king. They never considered how indifferent a musician I was. My protestations that it was a small sacrifice to part with something I had little use for were taken as modesty, another fine kingly quality.

  However, I’m not sure how modesty figures in my retelling the tale to you. I do so because I want you to know I have qualities that others admire. What you will conclude from the next anecdote I cannot guess.

  I was in the streets of Frell with my father when a man pelted him with an overripe tomato. While wiping at his clothes, my father spoke kindly to the man and ended by resolving his grievance. Afterward, I asked why the man hadn’t been punished. When Father told me I’d understand by the time I became king, I said I didn’t want to be king if people threw tomatoes at me. I said it seemed a thankless task.

  Father roars with laughter when he tells this tale. Now I know why: It is a thankless task, but tomatoes are the least of it.

  The conclusion I drew from this story was that Char wasn’t above laughing at himself. Of course, he wasn’t perfect. Eager to share his knowledge on any subject, he neglected to ascertain the interest of his listener or, in my case, reader. He wrote more about Ayortha than I ever wished to know: how the guilds were structured; the number of gallons of milk produced in a year by one Ayorthaian cow; the construction of their manors. And yet more.