Page 44 of Disenchanted
“I am sure you will be kept busy enough fashioning gowns for your stepsisters. Leave your attire to me. I will supply everything, the gown, the gloves, the dancing slippers.”
“No, thank you. You know how particular I am about my shoes. I will choose my own dancing slippers.”
Mal squeezed my hands. “Ella, you need to trust me on this. The dancing shoes I have in mind for you will be something special.” His eyes twinkled. “You are going to be completely enchanted by them.”
nine
No general could have worked harder to martial the troops than my stepmother did during the ensuing days. She insisted that we be drilled in deportment, dancing, and court etiquette, practicing curtsies until our knees ached. She laced poor Netta into a back brace to force her to stand up straight and placed Amy on a strict diet. Although Imelda pronounced my figure perfect, she said I needed to work on developing a more pleasing attitude and practice my smile. When I retorted that I had been smiling since I was an infant, Imelda had sighed and said, “Yes, dear, but a smirk is not quite the same thing.”
Between the dancing and etiquette lessons, we all sewed frantically on ball gowns until our fingers were sore. I could not afford to engage a seamstress to help us. The cost of the silk fabric for three dresses had been exorbitant, taking a huge gulp out of my precious store of coins. I had not known how I would be able to hire a coach and horses. The livery stables, like the Silk Emporium and all the other greedy merchants in Midtown, had greatly inflated their prices. But Mal had insisted that he would arrange for our conveyance. With the help of his friend Long Louie, Mal assured me we would travel to the ball in grand style. I had decided not to tell my stepmother any of this. Em wasalready distressed enough over the fact that Mal was providing me with a gown.
Although I was left exhausted by all these ball preparations, part of me was glad to be so occupied. It left me little time to dwell on the rash offer I had made to steal that orb. Unfortunately, my busy days also afforded me little time to pursue the mystery of my father’s past. It did little good to ask Imelda any questions. To her, my father was the hero who had rescued her and her daughters from disgrace and poverty. Her image of Julius Upton was too colored in the rainbow hues of romance to be of any help to me.
I tried to think of someone else who might be able to provide me with information, but as far as I knew, we had no extended family, aunts, uncles, or cousins. Nor did I recall either of my parents having any close friends beyond our acquaintance with Mal’s grandparents. I had never thought much about it before, but it startled me to realize what a secluded life the three of us had led, my father, my mother and I, inhabiting our own charmed little world until my mother had died.
There appeared to be only one person who could give me answers, the one who had started me questioning in the first place— Withypole Fugitate. But when I would find the time or the courage to approach the fairy again, I did not know.
I did finally manage to steal into the library. Closing the door firmly behind me, I stood still for long moments as I breathed in the wonderful musty scent of old books and ran my fingers over the worn fabric of my father’s chair. As if by doing so, I could somehow recapture his presence, the aura of a man I had never really known.
All I felt was the melancholy weight of incomplete memories and lost opportunities to ever speak to my father again and understand him. My father had left no personal papers or letters behind. The only words he had bequeathed me were between thepages of his beloved books. I roved along the shelves, seeking one,The Quaint Customs and Ways of the Fey Folk.
I had not read the book since I was a child, so I had difficulty finding it. Toward the end of his life, my father had collected so many books, he had had to shelve them two deep. I finally found the one I wanted tucked behindA Brief History of the Kingdom of Arcady.
As I opened the book of fairy lore, I was assailed by a recollection of my father’s long, fingers turning the pages and the deep timbre of his voice as he read aloud to me. The memory was so vivid, it was as though his spirit had risen beside me, but like a ghost, the memory quickly slipped away.
I had to blink the moisture from my eyes before I could study the book’s illustrations that had fascinated me as a child. The little girl in me was still enchanted by the sketches of sweet, lovely creatures with delicate wings. After my glimpse of Withypole with his wings unfurled, I realized how inaccurate the fairy drawings were. Breathtakingly beautiful? Of a certainty that described Withypole Fugitate. But there had been nothing sweet or gentle in his features. His beauty was of an austere kind, full of pride and pain.
I wondered what other inaccuraciesThe Quaint Customs and Ways of the Fey Folkcontained, but it did not matter. There was nothing in the book that could help me solve the riddle of my father’s past.
I started to close the book when I realized there was something inscribed on the flyleaf. I had never noticed it before, because I had been so impatient for my father to flip to the drawings and the text of the book itself. The writing was faded and done in such a spidery hand; I could barely read it. I carried it over to the library window. Even with the sun spilling over the page, I had to squint to decipher the words.
Julius,
I thought this little tome might amuse you, especially considering our friend. But you ought to be warned that fairies are not… You will never know how much I regret that…
Try as I might, I could not make out the sections that had been blurred. I could discern nothing of the writer’s signature beyond the capitalized letter S.
Who was the friend referred to in the inscription? Withypole? What had the warning about fairies been? What had the giver of the book regretted? Who wasS?
I vented a frustrated sigh. No answers, just more questions.
“Ella?” After a brief rap at the door, Amy thrust her head inside the room. “Oh, there you are.”
Her face flushed with excitement, she squealed, “You must make haste. It is almost time. He’s coming! The prince is coming!”
“What? Again?” I groaned.
Netta crowded forward to join Amy in the doorway. “Hurry, Ella. Or we will miss him.”
“What a tragedy that would be,” I muttered.
But I knew my sisters would give me no peace unless I joined them. My brief time to myself was over. I shelved the book with its puzzling inscription and reluctantly followed my sisters from the library.
I was clearly not moving fast enough to suit them. They seized my hands and dragged me out of the house, down the pathway and out the gate. The roadside was thronged with other people, mostly women.
Aside from Mrs. Biddlesworth, I never took much heed of my neighbors. I was surprised to note how many young females of marriageable age lived on our lane. Just like my sisters, they were all fussing with their hair and fidgeting with eagerness, all eyes turned toward the cavalcade approaching down the hill from the Heights.
We seldom caught a glimpse of royalty in Midtown, but for the past several days, Prince Florian had made a point of taking his morning ride directly through the heart of town, thrilling the female populace.
