Chapter 39
Ididn’t go to sleep that night, exhausted as I was.
I worked on Thomas’s glassblowing book translation until dawn, ignoring the painful throbbing in my cramped hand.
By the time I set my quill down, I had burned through nearly a third of my precious reserves of candles I had been saving for the winter months, not for deciphering endless streams of mechanical jargon.
Thomas’s book was exactly what I’d feared: dry as dust, and dense with procedures and diagrams about hardening glass.
Still, I pushed through, letter by letter, until the words blurred and I nearly nodded off on the parchment.
Just as I closed the thin book and blew on the ink to dry the final page, the happy chatter of early-morning students bubbled up from outside our front door.
Another round of finishing-school students tumbled into the house, rattling the walls with their laughter and gossip.
I would get no rest here. My eyes burned, but I bundled up the manuscript anyway and left with it clutched to my chest, slipping out before Comfort or Mother could notice how unsteady I was on my feet.
On the way out, I snatched up one of Cynthia’s shoes to give to Thomas.
When I handed Thomas his book and the completed translation, his eyes nearly popped from his head.
“You were quick!” he exclaimed, thumbing through the pages. “I thought it would take a week at least!”
“Well,” I said, unable to suppress a smile, “the sooner I finished, the sooner I could get those shoes. Here’s the sample.”
“You do need a replacement, don’t you?” he said with a laugh, examining the sad state of the slipper.
“I’ll take a few measurements and you can take it back.
” He busied himself with tracing the shoe and gauging how wide and tall to make the replica.
In no time at all, he had finished. He jabbed the pencil back behind his ear and handed Cynthia’s slipper back to me.
“I’ll let you know when they are done. It may take some time. ”
“As long as it’s before the ball coming up.”
He grinned. “I can manage that.”
I was halfway down the street before I spun on my heel and hurried back. “Thomas?”
He glanced up from the counter.
“When you finish the shoes, please keep them a secret. I want them to be a surprise.”
He gave me a dramatic bow. “Your wish is my command.”
Back in the clearing near the Fairy Godmother Tree, I spread fresh papers on the flat stone and forced myself into more work. But my thoughts kept wandering. When familiar footsteps came toward me along the path again, my head snapped up.
It was Cynthia.
She didn’t notice me; her eyes were fixed, as ever, on the tree.
Kneeling, she clasped her hands together as if in prayer, then reached her arm deep into the hollow trunk.
I held my breath. For one foolish moment, I half-expected her to pull something out, but her hand emerged empty once more.
Shoulders bowed, she lingered a moment, then drifted back toward the path.
My throat tightened. How many times had she come here like this? Did she return every day, hoping? I pitied her na?ve faith…but I also admired it. She must be genuinely desperate to cling to hope even when the world gave her nothing.
When I went back to town to collect payment for another translation, I passed a shop window where satin gloves caught my eye in the afternoon sun—elegant, elbow-length, pale as cream. I froze. Cynthia’s words from the kitchen whispered back to me: gloves to hide my chapped hands from a prince.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I ducked inside and purchased the gloves.
They cost more than I dared admit. Comfort would be furious if she knew I’d squandered our earnings on something so frivolous.
For all of her careful budgeting and meticulous counting of coins, here I was, blowing all of my day’s earnings on a pair of gloves when our family could barely make ends meet as it was.
I told myself it wasn’t frivolous; it was necessary to keep Cynthia’s faith alive.
Still, guilt gnawed at me as I carried the gloves home, wrapped carefully in brown paper.
That evening, when Comfort asked how much I had earned that day, I lied.
I told her I had fallen asleep, so fell behind in my work and therefore hadn’t been paid for the jobs yet.
She sighed, her face softening. “Don’t worry.
Mother and I have been taking on extra students.
I’m sure you needed the rest. You work too hard.
” She gave my knee a gentle squeeze, her kindness making my lie sting even more.
The guilt nearly strangled me. But I swallowed it, then drew a deeper breath. “Actually, Comfort…could I talk to you and Mother?”
Cynthia had already gone to bed. Once Mother joined us, I blurted out, “I want to make Cynthia a ball gown.”
Mother’s eyes lit at once. “I’ve been thinking the same. Her dresses are wearing so thin.”
“We can make it in secret,” I rushed on. “At night, while she sleeps, then we’ll make sure she finds it before the ball. She’s been down lately, and I think she needs something magical to lift her spirits…something that feels like she’s remembered.”
Comfort frowned. “Why should we do it in secret? Shouldn’t she know how much effort we put in? Especially when she’s been so snippy with us lately.”
I leaned forward. “Haven’t you ever been short with someone when you were hurting?
Kindness is the thing that softens hearts.
Cynthia works hard for us, harder than you give her credit for.
This could remind her she’s not forgotten.
I think her finding it somewhere would make her feel like it’s her dad watching over her, like he used to always say her mom did for her.
Don’t you think she deserves at least one miracle? ”
Mother beamed at me. “Truly, that is just like you, always thinking of others.”
Comfort rolled her eyes but muttered, “Fine.”
We raided the fabric stash together, pawing through bolts and scraps by lamplight until we settled on a sky-blue cloth that would bring out Cynthia’s eyes. Since measuring her outright would ruin the surprise, I stole one of her worn dresses from the line and used that as a guide.
That night, we stitched in secret. My eyes itched and watered with tiredness, but at least this time, I had company.
Mother selected a pattern then cut fabric with quick, sure movements while Comfort pinned and tucked with practiced fingers.
My own stitches were clumsy, so they gave me hems to lace and petticoats to gather—tasks where crooked seams could be easily hidden. But I didn’t mind. I was part of it.
We worked until our sides ached with stifled giggles, until our eyes burned with fatigue.
Each time the wind rattled the shutters or the floorboards creaked overhead, we froze, listening with hammering hearts, certain Cynthia would appear and prematurely discover the surprise.
When at last we could keep our eyes open no longer, we bundled the partially finished gown into the attic where I kept my translations, tucking it away like treasure.
Tomorrow night, we promised each other, we would work on it again.
For the first time in months, I felt something stirring in me—not just hope, but joy.