Chapter 38
Comfort’s prediction had been correct. She and Mother were flooded with new students.
Every day from dawn until well past dusk, our house pulsed with the clamor of eager girls desperate to polish their curtsies, refine their posture, and learn which spoon to use for soup at banquets.
Ever since the royal proclamation, every maiden within a day’s ride had decided that etiquette was the one skill that might win her a crown.
The noise was unbearable. Even hiding in the attic, with my palms pressed over my ears, the laughter and chatter seeped into my skull, making work impossible. So I escaped each time the doors opened and students flooded in.
The forest was my sanctuary, where the air smelled of moss and freedom.
I carried my work tucked under my arm—parchment, ink, quills—all the necessary tools.
Beyond the Fairy Godmother Tree, where branches arched like cathedral beams, I discovered a quiet clearing where a low, flat stone slab made a serviceable desk, and it was there that I spread my papers and tried to lose myself in words instead of noise.
Hours passed in ink scratches and translations as I managed to get more work done in one morning than I had in several days. Just as I was wishing I had thought to bring a meal along with my work, I heard soft footfalls crunching the pebbles on the walkway beyond the tree line.
I froze. Looking up, I glimpsed Cynthia moving toward the Fairy Godmother Tree, broom absent for once and shoulders slumped.
How had she known I would be here when I had intentionally not told anyone where I had gone?
I prepared to reveal myself but then hesitated.
She wasn’t coming exactly in my direction and didn’t give any indication that she had seen me.
I watched her kneel in front of the Fairy Godmother Tree.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached inside the hollow trunk, groping as if for something precious that she had lost. She stayed like that, searching, for a long time.
When she pulled her hand back empty, her shoulders caved inward even more.
She rose slowly, almost painfully, and walked away.
My chest tightened.
How desperate and lonely must she be to still be clinging to childhood myths?
Did she really believe that the Fairy Tree might still hold the spirits of her parents, whispering comfort and leaving gifts?
Perhaps she really did believe that the spirits of her parents were still watching over her.
I had been so busy with my work, and Mother and Comfort were so preoccupied with the finishing school, that Cynthia had been neglected lately.
It was such a struggle to keep food on the table that I had forgotten to check in on my stepsister.
She must be feeling abandoned and forgotten, and to top it all off, I knew Cynthia was in dire need of a new dress and pair of shoes.
I cringed as I looked at the retreating, threadbare reminders of how little we’d done for her.
Guilt gnawed at me. She deserved more. At the very least, she deserved to feel wanted.
I tucked away my papers and began the walk into town.
The tailor in town and the cobbler were both refusing any new orders.
Every girl in town, it transpired, had submitted orders for dresses and shoes.
All that afternoon, I delivered completed translations, collected payments, and picked up new projects.
At the glassblower’s, Thomas wiped soot from his brow and handed me a thin book, written in looping Avivian script.
“It details that new glassblowing technique I sent the letter about,” Thomas told me.
“Supposedly, he can make any shape hard as stone. But the entire, blasted book is in Avivian, and I can’t make sense of the pictures without the words. ”
I flipped through the pages. Diagrams sprawled across margins, annotated with dense technical jargon that promised sleepless nights and too much hunting through dictionaries.
The letter had been difficult enough, and this thin book seemed even more challenging.
“Three silver coins,” I quoted, thinking of the hours it would steal from me.
Thomas’s face fell.
“Although,” I continued, suddenly inspired, “if the technique truly works as you say it does, perhaps you could make me a pair of shoes for payment. Small shoes.”
His eyes lit instantly. “Shoes? Of glass? How small?”
I measured with my hands, recalling the length of Cynthia’s worn-out pair. “About this big. I can bring a sample tomorrow.”
Thomas sketched a rough heeled shoe onto scrap paper. “Like this?”
I nodded. “As long as they don’t break when walked in.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “It may take a few tries, and I can’t start until the translation is finished.”
“That’s fine,” I said quickly. “I get my shoes and you get practice with a new technique. Fair trade.”
A secret smile tugged at my lips as I walked away. They might not be the most comfortable, but Cynthia would have new shoes for the ball. If they glittered even half as much as the display in Thomas’s shop window, they would be shoes fit for a princess.
By sunset, our manor was in the same state of change it had been in ever since the ball’s announcement. Girls who couldn’t attend during the day now crowded in for night classes while the daytime girls streamed back out.
Inside, I stashed the glassblower’s book in my room before heading down to the kitchen.
Cynthia was there, forearms dusted in flour, kneading dough with sharp, angry jabs. Meat sizzled in the pan, filling the air with a rich, smoky scent.
“Hi,” I called, tying on an apron. “Thought you could use some help.”
Her hands didn’t pause. “I usually can. I rarely get any.”
I swallowed. “I’ll turn the meat.”
She let me, but without any word of thanks. The silence thickened. I tried to pierce it. “I still need those cooking lessons,” I said lightly, hoping for a smile.
Cynthia grunted.
I pressed on. “Quite the racket in there.”
“It’s been like that all day.”
I focused on the pan, turning each piece carefully. When they were browned, I slid them aside and busied myself with cleaning dishes. “So…a ball, huh? Are you going to go?”
Her laugh was harsh. “And what would I wear to a royal ball?”
“I’m sure Comfort and Mother could make you something,” I said, though the words sounded weak even to me. “They’re making dresses for a few other girls.”
Cynthia’s jaw clenched. “They’re making dresses for paying customers.”
Silence fell. My gaze drifted to her shoes, which were ragged and splitting at the toes.
I thought of Thomas’s promise. Would glass shoes hurt her feet?
Perhaps. But would she care, if it meant stepping into a royal ballroom?
A few blisters the next day would be worth a night at a royal ball for someone who hadn’t ever attended one.
I didn’t want to tell Cynthia about the shoes in case the technique didn’t work or the shoes weren’t ready in time.
I tried again. “If you had a dress…would you go?”
She slammed the dough onto a tray. “If I had a gown and shoes that weren’t falling apart, and gloves to hide my chapped hands from a prince, then yes, I’d go. But none of that will happen. Unless a pumpkin’s about to roll into the kitchen and sprout wheels.”
“I was only trying to make conversation,” I muttered, scrubbing at the pans.
Cynthia’s voice softened, though only slightly. “What about you? Will you go?”
Had she not heard me at dinner? Of course I wouldn’t be going.
Why would I? All the other girls in Mother’s finishing school were constantly clamoring about becoming Prince Hubert’s bride.
I certainly had no interest in that. Curtis was engaged to Aria, and I had rejected him.
I didn’t miss dancing and social gatherings like Comfort and Mother did, so I had no reason to attend.
“No.” The word was flat and final.
For a while, the only sounds were dishes and the crackling of the fire, as we worked while the dough rose.
“Tell me about the prince again,” she demanded suddenly.
I blinked. “Hubert? Or Curtis?” Had I ever even talked about Curtis to Cynthia?
“Hubert, obviously. It’s his ball.” Her eyes flicked to me. “You said you knew him.”
“Yes, I did.” I set down the rag. “Let’s see…He’s usually very serious and is always dedicated to his duties. He’d rather have quiet than engage in small talk. I think he would like you,” I added as an afterthought. “You’re the sort of girl he’d notice.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Really?”
“Really. He likes history, just like you do. He dances well, but he’s hopeless at pantomiming games.” I grinned, hoping she’d catch the jest. “You’re pretty; he would like that.”
She smiled then caught herself. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t be able to go anyway.” This time, Cynthia said it without as much certainty, as if she was debating possibilities on how to get there.
I dried my hands, hung up the dish cloth, and said softly, “Well, tell me if you change your mind. If you want to go, we can find a way to get you there.”