Page 62 of Disenchanted
twelve
Our coach lumbered through the night, creaking, and lurching whenever we hit a rut. The old carriage was not as well-sprung as newer vehicles, the blue velvet cushions a little faded. But the interior was spacious, allowing Imelda and I to sit comfortably side by side without crushing voluminous gowns billowing over hoops. Amy and Netta were seated opposite us, both girls unusually silent, a fact that surprised me. I had expected to be inundated by breathless chatter during the entire ride to the palace. Even Imelda said little beyond admonishing Netta to sit up straight and ordering Amy not to dare nibble at her nails.
Moonlight filtered through the coach windows and revealed my sisters’ faces flushed with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Imelda looked subdued as she stared out the window at the changing landscape as we left Midtown far behind.
Our modest lanes disappeared, widening into the broad boulevards of the Heights. The district was lit by glowing streetlamps, as ornately carved as the wrought iron gates and fences that enclosed the great estates. Beyond stately elms and oak trees, we caught glimpses of imposing manors the size of small palaces.
My sisters gaped and uttered awed exclamations. Even I was impressed. But there was a wistfulness clouding Imelda’s eyes. Although she spoke little of her life before she married my father, I realized how familiar all of this must be to my stepmother.
The Heights had been her world before her first husband’s fall from grace. Imelda would have passed her girlhood here among this grandeur, fallen in love, married, given birth to her two daughters, and been widowed. I wondered which one of these great houses might have been hers, before her property had been seized by the king. Could one of these gates we passed have been where Imelda had been turned out to fend for herself, with her two small daughters and a few modest belongings?
Amy and Netta would have been far too young to remember much of this, but Imelda must be flooded with painful and poignant memories. When I noticed her eyes well with tears, I reached across the seat and quietly pressed her hand.
She dragged her gaze from the window and squeezed my fingers, her mouth crooked in a sad smile. She released me abruptly, sitting upright. Her gaze homed in upon her daughters.
“Amy, what was that?”
Amy stiffened. “What was what, Mama?” she replied in that airy voice she used when she was trying too hard to appear innocent.
“That thing I just saw you pass to Netta.”
“I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Mama.”
“Yes, you do, Amethyst! It looked like some sort of flask. Garnet, hand it over at once.”
Amy gave her sister a warning nudge. I am sure she would have tried to brazen it out. Stricken with guilt, Netta meekly handed a small blue bottle to her mother.
I sucked in my breath sharply because I recognized what it was at once.
Blast you, Malcolm Hawkridge, I thought.
Imelda looked puzzled as she inspected the bottle and then she scowled. “You girls have sought to steady your nerves by imbibing spirits? Never did I think to see the day when a daughter of mine would—”
“It is not spirits, Mama,” Netta interrupted. “It is a magic potion.”
“A what?”
“I believe it is called the Elixir of Love,” I said with a disgruntled sigh.
Imelda gave me an astonished look. “You knew about this?”
“I certainly did not, or I would have put a stop to it. Mal has been peddling this elixir all over Midtown, but I never dreamed he would sell a bottle to my own sisters.”
“No! He gave it to us,” Netta said.
“Because he is our fairy godfather and he promised us if we drank this, we would be the belles of the ball,” Amy added.
“What utter nonsense,” Imelda said sternly. “I am not at all pleased that Mr. Hawkridge should practice such deception upon you girls.”
“It is not nonsense, Mama,” Amy said. “Mal’s grandfather was a brilliant mage. At one time he was even the chief wizard to the king and Mal has inherited all his grandpapa’s magical abilities.”
Imelda turned uncertainly toward me. “Is that true?”
“Er… well,” I stalled as I struggled with my answer. I did not wish to lie to my stepmother, but on the other hand, I hated exposing Mal’s failures. I recollected what he had told me about his potion. He admitted himself that it was a harmless concoction, designed merely to enhance a woman’s belief in her own charms. My nervous young sisters clearly needed a largedose of confidence. Mal had probably thought he was doing Amy and Netta a favor, but I still wished he had consulted me before giving them the potion.
I finally temporized, “Yes, it is true that Mal’s grandfather Hiram was indeed a great wizard.”
The carriage hit a rut, jarring all of us. When the vehicle resumed its steady motion, Imelda uncorked the bottle and took a cautious sniff. “What exactly does Mr. Hawkridge’s potion do?”
