Page 66 of Disenchanted
“T-thank you.” Netta sniffed. Glancing up at the young guard, she froze. Perhaps it was merely the novelty of finding a man tall enough that she had to tip back her head to look at him or she was struck by the kindness in his eyes. The sentry appeared equally struck, staring at Netta with such a dazed look, I started to wonder if Mal’s potion worked after all.
More likely it was because Netta was one of those rare females who did not come over all blotchy when she had been crying. If anything, she looked even prettier, her eyes luminous, moisture still clinging to the tips of her long lashes.
I have no idea how long the two of them might have remained drinking each other in, but the tender moment was disrupted by Mercato snarling at the sentry.
“Sergeant Wharton! Return to your post at once. Ladies! Be on your way to the palace.”
The sergeant snapped to obey, and we all did likewise, although as we moved down the drive, Netta kept turning her head for another look back.
Imelda took Netta firmly in hand, propelling her forward. I am sure it did not figure in her plans for one of her daughters to become smitten with a handsome castle guard. As we mounted the stairs to the veranda, I could not resist murmuring to my stepmother, “Well, Em, you did promise that this would be a magical evening.”
Imelda grimaced. “Witches and impertinent young sentries were not what I had in mind. I pray there are no more surprises in store for us.”
I heartily agreed with her. As we approached the palace doors, it was a relief to find no more stony-faced guards or ferocious aura beasts blocking our way. Two bewigged footmen bowed and bid us welcome as they swept the doors open.
Even Netta beamed with delight as we entered the ballroom. It was just as Em had promised it would be, the glittering chandeliers, the garland draped marble pillars, and the scrape of violins as the royal musicians tuned their instruments.
The ballroom was so crowded, I did not know how we were going to move, let alone dance. I was doubly glad I had not worn those glass slippers because my toes were stepped upon more than once. My unusual gown did not attract the attention that I feared it would. I noticed many of the aristocratic ladies from the Heights were also wearing the costly river silk in varying hues. Unlike me, they were dripping with jewels, which detracted from the beauty of their gowns. The dresses I had sewn for Netta, Amy and Imelda were just as elegant if not more so because of their simplicity. I could not help noting with pride that my two sisters were among the loveliest girls present.
Here and there among the crowd, I spotted a few familiar faces from Midtown; the Misses Hanson, Fortescue Bafton and his sister. As I craned my neck, scanning the room, there was only one face I was looking for. Where was Commander Crushington?
I wished I could circulate about the chamber, but that was impossible since we had arrived just in time for the grand entrance of the king. A herald blasted a fanfare on his trumpet and the royal majordomo, clad in a plain grey uniform, stepped forward. He was a nondescript man of medium height, a little on the thin side, with a halo of white hair ringing his bald pate. Despite his mild appearance, his voice rang out high and clear as he announced, “His Supreme Highness King August Adolphus of the royal house of Helavalerian, supreme ruler of the great kingdom of Arcady.”
Everyone sank into a deep obeisance as the king appeared. A hush fell over the crowd, the only sound, the tap of the king’s cane as he hobbled forward. Everyone around me stood with lowered eyes, but I could not help staring.
I had seen the king once before when he made his annual speech in the town square, but this was my first opportunity to study up close the tyrant who had made our lives so difficult. His portly frame was attired in a scarlet uniform with enormous epaulettes on his plump shoulders. A golden sash cut across his barrel chest, the satin fabric bejeweled with badges of honor and medals the king had never done anything to earn.
King August was reputed to have been a very handsome man in his youth. I saw little sign of that in a countenance ravaged by years of overindulgence. He smiled graciously as he worked his way down the line of his subjects, but the genial expression looked forced and unnatural. Our king was so fearful of assassination; it surprised me that he was not flanked by guards.
Perhaps he felt safe enough within the palace walls, owing to Mercato’s protective measures. The only one who trailed after the king was the majordomo, the quiet man appearing unobtrusive, but ready to leap forward at the king’s slightest command. Here and there, King August paused to murmur a word of greeting, but these marks of attention were reserved exclusively for aristocrats or the wealthy citizens of the Heights. The king bestowed no such royal favor upon anyone from Midtown. Why would he? I thought cynically. He had already fleeced them out of their hard-earned money for the ball tickets.
As the king drew nearer to where my family stood, I heard Imelda hitch her breath. I glanced at my stepmother and saw her pale. I could only imagine what my poor Em must be feeling, being so near to the man who had condemned her first husband to death and obliged her and her daughters to leave the Heights in disgrace.
Perhaps Em feared that even after all these years, the king would still heap angry reproaches upon her for the late Albert Wendover’s misdeeds. I tensed, ready to spring to Imelda’s defense should the king utter so much as one cross word.
He limped past my stepmother without even a glance at Em. It was clear he did not recognize her. I should not have been surprised. The king had ruined so many innocent people over the years, he could hardly be troubled to remember them all.
I heard Em breathe easier as the king moved past her. I had to lower my gaze lest he see the resentment simmering in my eyes. I froze when His Majesty came to a halt in front of me. I could almost see my reflection as I stared down at his glossy shoes.
“And who is this lovely young woman?” the king demanded.
Was he referring to me? Was I expected to answer him? What could I say?
I am no one, Your Grace. Only the woman who is hoping to plunder your treasure room tonight.
This was not good. Out of all the people from Midtown, what had I done to merit the king’s notice? Me, the one person who least desired such royal attention. Were my larcenous intentions in some way obvious? I ducked my head lower, wishing that those glass slippers had worked, so I could click my toes and disappear.
The majordomo stepped closer, gently prodding me. “Your name, miss? The king would like to know your name.”
I suppressed my guilt and looked up, staring defiantly into the king’s hard blue eyes.
“My name is Upton, Your Grace. Ella Upton.”
The effect of this simple statement upon the king was astonishing. His mouth went slack, and it appeared as though he could not breathe. He stared at my face, devouring me with his eyes.
“Cecily,” he mumbled at last. “You are Cecily Farringdale’s daughter.”
“Yes. You knew my mother?”
