A seaman climbed the mast. The cog master pushed his way between an elderly goodman and his goodwife and elbowed the cows until they let him pass. He disappeared down the stairs to the hold, where the cargo was stored. I would remember his swagger, the way he rolled his shoulders, and how widely he stepped.
The deck tilted into a swell. I felt a chill, although the air was warm for mid-October.
“Go, honey, move. Listen to Dess. Listen, honey, honey.” A small man, thin but for fleshy cheeks and a double chin, the owner of the donkey and the cows, coaxed his animals into a space between the hull and the stairs to the rear upper deck. He carried a covered basket in his right hand, heavy, because his shoulder sagged. “Come, honey.”
His speech reminded me of Father with our animals at home. Good, Vashie, he’d tell our cow, Good girl, what a good girl. Perhaps if I’d repeated myself with the geese, they’d have liked me better.
The elderly goodwife opened her sack and removed a cloak, which she spread on the deck. Holding her husband’s hand, she lowered herself and sat. He sat at her side on the cloak. The other passengers also began to mark out their plots of deck, their tiny homesteads.
I wasn’t sure yet where I wanted my place to be. Near the elderly couple, who might have tales to tell?
Not far from them, a family established their claim. To my surprise, the daughter wore a cap. In Lahnt women wore caps, but not girls, except for warmth in winter. Her kirtle and her mother’s weren’t as full as mine, but their sleeves hung down as far as their knuckles, and their skirt hems half covered their shoes, which had pointed toes, unlike my rounded ones.
The cog dropped into a slough in the sea, and my stomach dropped with it. We rose again, but my belly liked that no better. I leaned against the hull for better balance.
My mouth filled with saliva. I swallowed again and again. Nothing in the world was still, not the racing clouds nor the rippling sail nor the pitching ship.
The son in the family pointed at me and cried, “Her face is green wax!”
My stomach surged into my throat. I turned and heaved my breakfast over the side. Even after the food was gone, my stomach continued to rise and sink.
Next to me, a fellow passenger whimpered and groaned.
I stared down at the foamy water churning by, sicker than I had ever been. Still, the mansioner in me was in glory. Lambs and calves! I would remember how it was to feel so foul. I wondered if I could transform my face to green wax without paint, just by memory.
The cog rose higher than it had so far and fell farther. I vomited bile and then gasped for breath. The hull railing pressed into my sorry stomach.
The person at my side panted out, “Raise your head. Look at the horizon.”
My head seemed in the only reasonable position, but I lifted it. The island of Lahnt had vanished. The horizon was splendidly flat and still. My insides continued bobbing, but less.
“Here.” A hand touched mine on the railing. “Pepper-mint. Suck on it.”
The leaf was fresh, not dried, and the clean taste helped. “Thank you, mistress.” My eyes feared to let go of the horizon, so I couldn’t see my benefactress. Her voice was musical, although not young. She might be the old goodwife.
“I’ve crossed many times and always begun by being sick.” Her voice lilted in amusement. She seemed to have found respite enough from her suffering to speak more than a few words. I’m glad I looked. “I’ve exhausted my goodman’s sympathy.” She sighed. “I still hope to become a good sailor someday. You are young to travel alone.”
Mother and Father didn’t have passage money for more than me. “Not so young, mistress.” Here I was, contradicting my elders again. “I am fourteen.” Contradicting and lying.
“Ah.”
I was tall enough for fourteen, although perhaps not curvy enough. I risked a sideways peek to see if she believed me, but she still faced the horizon and didn’t meet my eyes. I took in her profile: long forehead, knob of a nose, weathered skin, deep lines around her mouth, gray wisps escaping her hood, a few hairs sprouting from her chin—a likeable, honest face.
“Conversation keeps the mind off the belly,” she said, and I saw a gap in her upper teeth.
The ship dropped. I felt myself go greener. My eyes snapped back to the horizon.
“We will be visiting our children and their children in Two Castles. Why do you cross?”
She was as nosy as I was! “I seek an apprenticeship as”—I put force into my hoarse, seasick voice—“a mansioner.”
“Ah,” she said again. “Your parents sent you off to be a mansioner.”
I knew she didn’t believe me now. “To be a weaver,” I admitted. “Lambs and calves!” Oh, I didn’t mean to use the farm expression. “To stay indoors, to repeat a task endlessly, to squint in lamplight … ,” I burst out. “It is against my nature!”
“To have your hands seize up before you’re old,” the goodwife said with feeling, “your shoulders blaze with pain, your feet spread. Be not a weaver nor a spinner!”
Contrarily, I found myself defending Father’s wishes for me. “Weaving is honest, steady work, mistress.” I laughed at myself. “But I won’t be a weaver.”
The boat dipped sideways. My stomach emptied itself of nothing.
She gave me another mint leaf. “Why a mansioner?”
“I love spectacles and stories.” Mansioning had been my ambition since I was seven and a caravan of mansions came to our country market.
Then, when I was nine, Albin left his mansioning troupe and came to live with us and help Father farm. He passed his spare time telling me mansioners’ tales and showing me how to act them out. He said I had promise.
“I love theater, too,” the goodwife said, “but I never dreamed of being a mansioner.”
“I like to be other people, mistress.” Lowering my pitch and adding a quiver, I said, “I can mimic a little.” I went back to my true voice. “That’s not right.” I hadn’t caught her tone.
She chuckled. “If you were trying to be me, you were on the right path. How long an apprenticeship will you serve?”
Masters were paid five silver coins to teach an apprentice for five years, three silvers for seven years. The apprentice labored for no pay during that term and learned a trade.
“Ten years, mistress.” Ten-year apprenticeships cost nothing. Our family was too poor to buy me a place.
The cog dipped lower than ever. I sucked hard on the mint.
“My dear.” She touched my arm. “I’m sorry.”
“No need for sorrow. I’ll know my craft well by the time I’m twenty-two … I mean, twenty-four.”
“Not that. In June the guilds abolished ten-year apprenticeships. Now everyone must pay to learn a trade.”
I turned to her. Her face was serious. It was true.
The boat pitched, but my stomach steadied while a rock formed there.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GAIL CARSON LEVINE grew up in New York City and has been writing all her life. Her first novel, ELLA ENCHANTED, was a Newbery Honor Book. Levine’s other books include FAIREST, a New York Times bestseller, Publishers Weekly Best Book, and School Library Journal Best Book; DAVE AT NIGHT, an ALA Notable Book and an ALA Best Book for Young Adults; THE WISH; THE TWO PRINCESSES OF BAMARRE; A TALE OF TWO CASTLES; and the six Princess Tales books. She is also the author of the nonfiction book WRITING MAGIC: Creating Stories That Fly, the poetry collection FORGIVE ME, I MEANT TO DO IT: False Apology Poems, and the picture books BETSY WHO CRIED WOLF and BETSY RED HOODIE, illustrated by Scott Nash. Gail and her husband, David, live in a two-centuries-old farm-house in New York’s Hudson Valley. You can visit her online at www.gailcarsonlevinebooks.com and at www.gailcarsonlevine.blogspot.com.
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OTHER WORKS
Also by Gail Carson Levine
Dave at Night
Fairest
Ev
er
A Tale of Two Castles
The Two Princesses of Bamarre
The Wish
THE PRINCESS TALES
The Fairy’s Mistake
The Princess Test
Princess Sonora and the Long Sleep
Cinderellis and the Glass Hill
For Biddle’s Sake
The Fairy’s Return
Betsy Red Hoodie
Betsy Who Cried Wolf
Writing Magic: Creating Stories that Fly
Fairy Dust and the Quest for the Egg
Fairy Haven and the Quest for the Wand
CREDITS
Cover art © 2011 by Greg Call
COPYRIGHT
Ella Enchanted
Copyright © 1997 by Gail Carson Levine
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Levine, Gail Carson
Ella enchanted / Gail Carson Levine.
p. cm.
Summary: In this novel based on the story of Cinderella, Ella struggles against the childhood curse that forces her to obey any order given to her.
ISBN 0-06-027510-3 — ISBN 0-06-027511-1 (lib. bdg.)
ISBN 0-06-055886-5 (pbk.)
EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2012 ISBN: 9780062253484
[1. Fantasy.] I. Title.
PZ7.L578345El 1997
[Fic]—dc20
96-30734
CIP
AC
* * *
First Avon edition, 2003
AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN
OTHER COUNTRIES,
MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.
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Gail Carson Levine, Ella Enchanted
(Series: Ella Enchanted # 1)
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