The Cracked Slipper Page 2

  The goats were unimpressed. “Corn? Where’sa corn? Sore feet. Oh, woes-me. Corn?”

  Chou’s head feathers went spiky with irritation. Eleanor left him to his squabbling and entered the wood-planked barn. She climbed into the hayloft. The ladder creaked under her weight, and the woman beside Eleanor’s tiny bed turned at the sound. Eleanor smiled into Rosemary’s well-loved face. The dark eyes and hooked nose, the straight white hair falling bluntly to her chin. Not a soft face, but one that brought Eleanor comfort.

  “Dear girl,” said Rosemary. Something lumpy squashed between them when they embraced. The battered burlap sack blended with Rosemary’s simple gray witch’s dress.

  “Mother Imogene didn’t find it in eight years,” said Eleanor, as she took the bag from her teacher. “Yet here it is in your hands.”

  The witch shrugged her thin shoulders. “There is much of both of us inside.”

  Eleanor emptied a jumble of books and papers and charcoal pencils onto the bed. Titles and subjects jumped out at her. Algebra. Carthean Poets of the Last Age. Theology. Fire-iron Tariffs of the Second Century. The Great Bond: Unicorns and the Desmarais Kings.

  She held up the last, the thickest of the lot, and then picked up another volume in her other hand. The gold lettering on the smaller book read The Most Special Friendship. A green dragon and a white unicorn cavorted under a happy yellow sun on the cover. “You didn’t miss a lesson, from picture books to great theses.”

  Rosemary flipped through a pile of yellowing essays written in varying stages of a childish hand. She held one before her. “Every citizen of Cartheigh should remember the importance of the Great Bond, for without it the Svelyans would be at our doors again. You were quite the young patriot.”

  Eleanor took Rosemary’s hand. Her voice caught in her throat. “How can I begin to thank you? If not for you—”

  “Hush, now,” said Rosemary, as she always did whenever Eleanor tried to show her appreciation for Rosemary’s years of dedication. “Your stepmother did not see fit to educate her own daughters. Your own father, HighGod bless him, would have dismissed me before your thirteenth birthday.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’ve taught wellborn girls for eighty years, Eleanor. I did as you mother would have wanted.” Rosemary touched Eleanor’s cheek.

  Eleanor stepped away and shuffled around the room. She pulled a tattered red horse blanket from her bed. She draped it over her shoulder, but not before pressing her nose into the rough wool. The smell of her father’s gelding was long gone, but the habit stayed with her.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rosemary. “How forgetful of me.”

  “No pardon needed,” said Eleanor, as she tucked her mother’s music box under her other arm. Even in the long gone days before her father’s death, Eleanor rarely spoke of Leticia Brice. Such ruminations only served to remind everyone that Eleanor herself had been the instrument of her mother’s demise. She peeked inside the music box at Leticia’s antique Fire-iron hair comb. The comb always seemed too precious to touch, like the martyr’s relics in the chapel.

  She glanced at Rosemary, who rung her hands at the un-paned window. Rosemary had always encouraged Eleanor to speak her mind. Eleanor’s mouth set in a stubborn line. Rosemary would hear her gratitude, whether she wanted to or not.

  “I would thank you for sending me to the ball,” said Eleanor. “If you hadn’t appeared in the garden—”

  Rosemary spun around, a wide smile on her face. “I’m sure it was lovely, darling.”

  Eleanor’s brow wrinkled as Rosemary disappeared down the ladder.

  The Hundred Heralds Street wove through most of Maliana on its way to Eclatant Palace. The grandest homes were furthest from the noise and smells of Smithwick Square. The Brice family was unimportant in the complicated hierarchy of the privileged, and their wealth from the self-made smarts of recent memory, so the Brice House was closer to the heart of town. Once through the gates, the white carriage rattled along for only half a mile before the elegant stone manors and their spacious grounds were replaced by wooden-walled, thatched roofed shops of all kinds; milliners, cobblers, bakeries, and butchers. Townsfolk lined the streets. Their gawking and jostling along the edge of the roadway slowed the royal procession to a limping crawl.

  Chou did not join Eleanor and Rosemary in the coach until they reached Smithwick Square. He tapped on the window and Eleanor opened it a crack. He squeezed his way inside, collapsed on the seat, and rolled onto his back. His scaly feet pointed at the ceiling.

  “Water, please,” he said.

  Eleanor poked him. “Sit up, you’re shedding feathers all over the royal seat cushions.”

  “Where have you been, Chou?” asked Rosemary.

  “Spying, of course,” said Eleanor. She offered him a drink from her water flask.

  “For your benefit,” Chou said between gulps.

  “Darling Chou, you’re my eyes and ears.”

  Chou shook himself and paced the cushion. “I clung to the front door and peered through the letter slot, you know. A difficult grip, but a fine vantage point.”

  Eleanor and Rosemary murmured admiration.

  “So, at first it was just la-di-da. Imogene telling Sylvia she must show respect. Sylvia cursing. Dragonshit!” Chou did not just repeat Sylvia’s favorite profanity. His voice became hers, with all its prissy spite. “Then it got interesting. Perhaps I should just repeat it?”

  “Yes, please do,” said Eleanor.

  Chou opened his mouth and Eleanor felt as if she herself were standing outside the door with her ear pressed to the letter slot.

  Sylvia: “To think I just bowed down to that bitch in her borrowed fancies! I think I’m going to be sick!”

  Imogene, harried: “Will the king let him do it? He’s only twenty-one, after all. Childhood, for a man. And everyone of worth in the city in an uproar about it.”

  Sylvia: “It’s absurd! He can’t marry her. He just can’t! She’s so—so skinny and so damnably tall. Like an alley cat on stilts.”

  Margaret’s tentative voice entered the conversation. “She has lovely hair, Syl…and her face…if you’d just look—”

  “She has devil eyes, Margaret. Everyone’s always said so! And she can’t dance—”

  Imogene again. “She out-danced you on Second Sunday, and you’ve had years of lessons!”

  “That’s not fair, Mother. She was mysterious…he only wanted her because no one knew who she was. I can’t believe we didn’t see through that silly spell of Rosemary’s!”

  “If you’d used the skills I’ve taught you, no spell would have mattered.” Chou increased Imogene’s anger and volume with each word. “A colossal waste of years of planning.”

  “I’ll go to the palace myself. I’ll tell everyone the truth about her. She’s no lady—”

  Chou interrupted himself. “Imogene slapped Sylvia across the face.”

  “No!” said Eleanor.

  Chou nodded and went on.

  Imogene again: “Don’t you understand the position we’re in? If things continue as they are, Eleanor Brice will be princess, and someday queen, and we’ve made her life rather unpleasant over the last eight years, if you don’t recall. One word from her and we could lose everything. This house, our income. We could be banished!”

  Margaret: “Mother, I don’t think Eleanor would be so vengeful. Perhaps we could put all our past animosity behind us.”

  Imogene: “Ha! Margaret, you’re a bigger fool than you look. Better that HighGod had sent me Eleanor for a daughter and condemned you to the hayloft. As for you, Sylvia, it is of the utmost importance you marry as soon as possible, while her position is not yet cold Fire-iron.”

  Sylvia: “Marry? I just came out.”

  Imogene: “No matter, there’s no time for being choosy or flittering away at parties with silly boys. We must find you a powerful match, and soon. In fact, I already have someone in mind.”

  “I’m sorry to say that’s the end,”
said Chou in his own warble. “They retired to the sitting room. No mention of the lucky gentleman who’s caught Imogene’s fancy.”

  “We’ll find out eventually, I suppose,” said Eleanor.

  “One fact is clear,” said Chou. “While Sylvia may have an eye for a fancy gown, Margaret is a better judge of a lovely face.”

  Eleanor kissed his silky brow and leaned her forehead against the window. Margaret’s conciliatory sentiments held some appeal, but apparently Imogene had no such notions. Eleanor watched the colorful people of her city going about their daily business. The bubble of confidence that had filled her chest at her father’s house was suddenly made of granite. “Thank you, Chou. Enlightening, as always.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Easy Conversation

  Hundred Heralds wound past the church where the Desmarais family and their closest allies worshipped, Humility Chapel. After passing a Fire-iron statue of the last Malian king, the road gradually steepened. First Maliana Covey, where the most powerful magicians in the kingdom studied and conjured, was the last structure before the palace itself. As the Covey gate came into view Eleanor’s gown suddenly seemed constricting and to her horror she started sweating. She opened the window and hoped the afternoon air would calm her nerves. The coach passed under the massive arched gate in the stone wall surrounding the palace.

  She wondered if she’d ever be able to stop gawking at the largest building constructed of pure Fire-iron in the world. Eclatant glowed in the HighAutumn sunlight, its sweeping arches and buttresses melting one into the other. The national flag, a purple banner emblazoned with a white unicorn and a green dragon, hung from every window. The carriage stopped on the marble driveway across from a life-sized statue of King Caleb Desmarais astride the originator of the Great Bond and namesake of the palace, the legendary unicorn stallion Eclatant.

  Four soldiers dressed in Fire-iron war regalia sat sentry, each mounted on a living unicorn, at the bottom of a steep staircase. Eleanor had spent her whole life reading about unicorns, but like most Cartheans, she had rarely seen one in the flesh. They were huge; a draft horse would appear a pony in either one’s shadow. The stallion closest to the coach had a coat so white it was almost blue, the color of a sheet of long frozen ice. Each muscle was clearly defined under his skin and his mane hung past his arched neck in loose curls. His forelock hung down his long, surprisingly delicate face, and split around the silver horn erupting out of his forehead like a sword. His thick hide made armor unnecessary and he wore only a carved leather saddle and a rein looped over his muzzle. He stood still, except to swish his long, tasseled tail.

  Eleanor’s heart banged against her ribcage as she took the footman’s hand. She lit on the white marble and looked up at the two-story doors. She imagined Sylvia standing behind her, whispering about alley cats and devil eyes.

  Wheels ground into motion and Eleanor waved as the coach set off in the direction of Afar Creek Abbey. She fought the urge to grasp the door handle and beg Rosemary to stay. She touched Chou’s scaly foot on her shoulder as she started toward the stairs.

  A white wall stopped her. “Afraid.”

  The unicorn’s long face eclipsed her view of the rest of the world. She could have counted the curved eyelashes framing his dark eyes. His rider yanked at his rein, trying to move him back in line with his fellows.

  “What?” she said, as Chou scurried down her back. He trembled between her shoulder blades.

  It was clearer this time. “Do not be afraid.” The unicorn’s breath was like a warm glove caressing her neck. “We are here for your protection.”

  Eleanor didn’t know how to respond, so she tried good manners. “Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

  The unicorn nodded his great head and returned to his duties.

  Two lavishly dressed young women greeted Eleanor at the top of the stairs. The first girl, curly-haired and roly-poly, squealed and showered Eleanor with kisses. The other girl, thin with dark blond hair and the brown eyes of a hungry doe in winter, gently pulled her friend away.

  The curly one, Anne Iris Smithwick, started chattering at once. She was Gregory’s cousin (On his mother’s side. Smithwick as in the square, dearest.), and she had heard all about Eleanor from her brother, Brian. He had been flattering (Just the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, and that’s saying a lot!). The other girl was Eliza Horn Harper, (Yes, only seventeen and already married!) and they had been ladies-in-waiting to Gregory’s sister, the late Princess Matilda (Poor dear darling Matilda! Died in childbirth, you know, but we don’t talk about it.). Now it would be their job to show Eleanor to her new chamber (You’ll just love it, Matilda had exquisite taste.) and help her settle in (My peal earbobs would look just lovely on Eleanor, don’t you think, Liza dear?)

  Anne Iris didn’t give Eleanor the opportunity to say much as they led her through the palace to Matilda’s chamber. She could scarcely digest the fact that frizzy, plump Anne Iris was sibling to the dashing Brian Smithwick, whom Eleanor had met briefly at Second Sunday and had mistaken for the prince himself. Eliza finally suggested Eleanor might appreciate a bit of privacy.

  Once they left Eleanor stood in the middle of the room. Her index finger drifted to her mouth. “I thought last night’s guest room luxurious…but…shall we live here, Chou?” she asked the bird on her shoulder. She did not think Chou Chou had ever gone so long in silence while awake. “Were we not recently residing in a hayloft?”

  “I don’t know what to say, darling. Perhaps HighGod is playing a joke on us.” He quickly recovered his wits. “If that is the case, I hope the punch line is years away.”

  Eleanor laughed and exhaled. She cautiously explored the large bedroom. She admired its tasteful furnishings; the four-poster bed hung with pale blue silk curtains, the graceful mahogany wardrobe and dressing table. There were intricacies in each piece, beadwork, embroidery, carvings; all so delicate nothing felt overdone. The sitting area, with its comfortable furniture and a brightly painted writing desk, faced a picture window overlooking the main garden. Chou paced Matilda’s bookshelves. “What titles, Chou?” she asked.

  “M’lady?”

  Eleanor jumped at the soft voice. “Damn!” She spun around, her hand pressed to her chest. As her breathing slowed blood crept into her cheeks. A chambermaid stood beside the bed. Her mouth hung open and a pitcher dangled precariously from her hands.

  “Pardon…you startled me,” said Eleanor.

  “No, Mistress, pardon me,” whispered the maid. She crept closer and held up the pitcher. “We filled your bath.”

  Eleanor smiled at her. “Thank you. And I do apologize. My nerves are in a state.”

  The maid curtsied and brushed past Eleanor. Eleanor followed her to the bathing room. “Might I help you?”

  The maid shook her head, her eyes on the tiles. As she poured some pink creamy concoction into the water Eleanor opened one of the glass doors on the apothecary cabinet. She examined some of the tiny bottles and lumps of soap. Lavender, cherry blossom, vanilla, sageflower.

  The maid emptied her pitcher and stood with her hands folded before her. Her position was eerily reminiscent of Sylvia’s tense deference, save her curly blonde hair and crooked teeth.

  “You may go,” Eleanor finally said.

  “Your gown, m’lady.”

  “Oh—oh yes. Of course.” Without assistance she would be trapped in this dress, a cheese in a tough rind. Eleanor held her arms out to her sides, and the maid flitted around unhooking clasps and buttons like a drab bird pecking at scarecrow. Eleanor had done her fair share of unbuttoning gowns, and the irony of such attention did not escape her. She focused on the maid’s face. The woman’s breath smelled of cornmeal. “Do you live here?” Eleanor blurted out.

  The maid nodded.

  “It’s very grand,” said Eleanor. “Will you be here every day?”

  The woman shook her head. Her brown eyes flitted from Eleanor’s forehead to her ears to her chin. She cleared her throat. “No, Mist
ress. You’ll be choosin’ a proper lady’s maid.”

  “Oh.” What makes a proper maid? She bit her lip.

  “I’ll be here today, though. Tomorrow I return to town to visit with my family.”

  “Do you have children?”

  The woman nodded. “Two boys, Mistress.”

  Eleanor reached in the pocket of her gown. The chief magician had given her a small bag of coins before she left for her father’s house, but the soldiers had never let her get within twenty paces of the populace. The idea of one who had never held a penny in her hand doling out alms had seemed ludicrous, but now she saw an opportunity. She handed the bag to the maid. “For your boys.”

  The maid looked at the bag of coins as if it might blow raspberries at her. “I can’t.”

  “Please,” said Eleanor. “Take it.”

  The maid slid the bag into her own pocket, her eyes on Eleanor’s chest. “Bless you, Mistress.”

  The maid took her leave, her face hidden behind an armful of lace and silk, and Eleanor stepped into the steaming water. A blush leaked from her hairline to her toenails, so her fair skin rather blended with pinkish water.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of moonberries. The maid’s avoidance of her gaze shouldn’t have bothered her. Freak. Devil. People had always whispered about her eyes. They were large and well spaced, framed with thick lashes and delicate brows, and colored the soft blue of a late summer sky. Then a sudden aberration put the whole flawless picture off. A reddish-brown, rather crescent-shaped smudge obscured most of the iris of her left eye, as if the artist had decided halfway through to change the painting and then abandoned the project. A bad sign. Evil spirits.

  Eleanor had vague memories of Rosemary’s hope that the flaw in her eye might be a magical sign. A tiny Eleanor often sat on the witch’s lap and flipped through picture books. By the time she reached age four she could recite the tale of the Great Bond. King Caleb Desmarais, the Dragon Mines of the North County; giant green lizards and unicorns and invading Svelyan armies. Eleanor held them all in her head like her own treasured memories. Sometimes Rosemary asked Eleanor to turn the pages without touching them, but when Eleanor tried nothing happened. She could answer all of Rosemary’s questions, but she could not perform the simplest magic.