Page 25 of Disenchanted
“Ah, well,” she said. “It is no good dwelling on the past. We must be sensible and look to the future. All this practicality is very fatiguing. It has quite given me a headache.”
“You should go upstairs and have a lie down.”
Imelda rose to her feet, rubbing her brow. She cast a guilty look at the bowls, spoons and pans I had set out for baking.
“I really ought to help you.”
“No, no,” I said hastily, guiding her toward the door. “You just go take care of yourself.”
It took a little more persuading, but I shooed her out of the kitchen, much to my relief. Mal had often complained that my stepmother and sisters were lazy creatures, leaving all the work to me.
This was more my fault than theirs. When I realized we could no longer afford to keep a maid, Imelda and the girls had been fully prepared to roll up their sleeves and pitch in. Netta was a tad clumsy and tended to break things. Amy whisked through chores leaving half the dust behind or just swept the dirt under the rug. Imelda was so easily distracted; she spent more time chattering to me than working so that neither of us accomplished anything.
I discovered early on if I wanted a task completed to my satisfaction, it was far easier and quicker if I did it myself. But after my conversation with Imelda, I was not as focused as usual. My stepmother was the third person to remark on how sadly I had changed. As much as these comments distressed me, I had to admit the truth of them.
After that summer when Harper abandoned me and I lost my father, I bade farewell to my girlhood as I assumed the burden of taking charge of my family. My heart broken and laden with guilt over that final quarrel with my father, it was easier to block my feelings and concentrate on maintaining our household.
I was so focused on surviving day to day; I gave little thought to the future. My discussion with Imelda had jolted me into realizing that I had to think of it, if not for myself, then at least for Netta and Amy.
Whether I liked to contemplate the prospect or not; my little birds had grown up and were ready to take wing to homes of their own. Yet it pained me to think of them marrying men like the tailor’s son and the frap merchant, merely for the sake of security.
We could not continue as we had done indefinitely, not with our financial resources dwindling. One of us at least was going to have to marry well and being the practical one, I supposed it should be me. Would it really be such a sacrifice to wed a man like Commander Crushington?
He was an honorable man who would certainly do his duty by me and my family. But all I could picture was an endless succession of monosyllabic suppers, of him staring at me blankly every time I made a joke. Long evenings of helping him to polish his boots and manacles, trying not to think of the latest unfortunate person he had clapped up in jail for some trivial offense. And what would I ever do if the day came whenCrushington arrested Mal? Bash my own husband over the head and steal his keys?
No, there had to be someone else out there for me. He would not need to be rich, but astute when it came to managing money, well able to support a family. Someone who would share my sense of humor and pleasure in books, someone who would understand my affection for my stepmother and sisters and come to love them as much as I did. Someone kind and wise, steady, and true, someone I could hold in high esteem, perhaps even come to love one day. But considering that most of my ventures out of the house involved trips to the greengrocers or the fish market, where was I apt to meet such a man? Over a tank of eels as I selected one for our supper? Highly unlikely.
If only we could go to the ball… Imelda’s wistful voice echoed through my mind. I tried to shut it out, refusing to allow myself to be swept up in this royal ball insanity, the belief that it could somehow prove the magical solution to everything.
But once I allowed the idea to take root in my head, I could not stop thinking about it, so much so that I kept losing track of the amount of flour I had sifted into the bowl. After I had measured it out six times, I finally gave up and left off to tackle other chores.
I could not seem to settle to anything else either, wandering listlessly about the house until I ended up in my room, standing in front of my old dollhouse. I lifted the attic lid and stared down at my treasure box.
I hesitated for a long time, chewing my bottom lip almost raw, before delving into the chest and digging out my mother’s earrings. I cradled the sparkling emeralds in the palm of my hand. I suppose I had always known the day would come when I would have to sell them. They would likely fetch a tidy sum. There were so many practical things I needed to spend thatmoney on. Could I really sacrifice such a treasured possession in pursuit of a dream, a wild gamble on one night?
Every young girl should have one night like that, to feel beautiful and admired, her entire future shining before her with so many magic possibilities.
I blocked out the memory of Imelda’s voice, trying to think of what my own mother would have recommended that I do. I could no longer recall how ill and wasted she had looked on her deathbed, perhaps because I did not choose to remember her that way. But my mother’s last words came to me now with startling clarity.
Look after your papa, my little Ella. He will need your love more than ever. And promise me you will never lose your belief in magic.
I promise, Mama, I had intoned solemnly.
I had not kept the first part of my pledge, but perhaps there was still time to redeem the second. I clutched the emeralds tight in my hand, fretting over the decision for moments longer. Then I bundled them up in a handkerchief and hurried to fetch my shawl before I had a chance to change my mind.
six
Mal had often warned me to stay out of Misty Bottoms on days when the fog rolled in. But I was in such haste to reach Master Fugitate’s shop before I lost my resolve that I paid little heed to the fingers of mist curling about me. Not until those fingers thickened into a suffocating embrace.
I halted in midstep, groping my way. I tried to peer through the haze to regain my bearings. The fog had grown so heavy that if I stretched my arm too far in front of me, I could barely see my own hand. I thought of turning back, but I had as good a chance of becoming lost in the twisted lanes behind me as I did if I continued onward toward the river. Besides, it had taken a great deal of determination to get me this far. If I slunk back home, I feared I would change my mind and lock my mother’s earrings back in the chest.
I pressed onward, trying to rely on my other senses. The fog muted everything, trapping me in a silent dreamlike world, the only thing solid and real being the ground beneath my feet. Although it was only midafternoon, I met no one. Other people could have been passing within yards of me and I would never have known it.
Eventually I blundered into a rickety fence. I could just make out the bulk of a cottage beyond, but the wretched hovels of Misty Bottoms looked so much alike, even if I could have seen it more clearly, it would not have helped me figure out where I was. I considered knocking at the cottage and asking for directions. But if anyone bothered to answer the door, Bottoms dwellers are not known for their cordiality to Midtown folk. At best, the owner would snarl at me to be gone. At worst, I might end up with frap flung at me.
Instead, I kept close to the fence, using it as a blind man might have clutched his cane for guidance. When I came to the end of it, I realized I was at a crossroads. A sudden burst of noise startled me. Coarse laughter mingled with the screech of a fiddle and rough voices raised in some raucous drunken song.
The fog distorted my hearing, but the sounds seemed alarmingly nearby. My heart skipped a beat. I had blundered too near the Winking Goblin, that den of villainy and debauchery Mal had told me to avoid at all costs. I stumbled in what I hoped was the opposite direction, the lane that would lead me down toward the river.
