Chapter 42
The day of the ball had finally arrived.
Mother and Comfort had wanted to watch Cynthia’s face when she discovered her surprise, but the flood of last-minute students kept them trapped in the parlor, giving condensed coaching to girls and helping them prepare for the ball that evening.
Girls swarmed our house like bees to honey, desperate for one last lesson on grace, posture, or the art of a perfect curtsey.
So it fell to me alone to make the delivery.
The Fairy Tree’s hollow was mercifully large.
I had bundled the gown in a protective swath of fabric to guard it against the dirt and insects, then tucked it inside with trembling hands.
Alongside it, I placed a small leather purse of coins.
It was my own meager stash of coins, not even large enough to earn the title of savings, but it would be sufficient.
A note, written in disguised handwriting, instructed her to use the coins to hire a coachman to deliver her to the ball.
It wasn’t much. But to her, it would mean everything.
Cynthia had never confided in us about her gloves or her shoes.
Perhaps she feared they might vanish if she spoke of them aloud.
Perhaps she thought no one would believe her.
Either way, she had never breathed a word of her findings to me or, as far as I knew, to anyone else.
And so, for the last time, I waited for her behind the line of trees, hidden in shadows, my heart beating a tattoo against the inside of my ribs.
She walked quickly this time, almost running, and her steps were sharper and more purposeful than before. She must know that this was her final chance to receive anything that would aid her in getting to the ball that evening.
She didn’t even have to hunt around for the bundle; it was impossible to miss, jutting from the hollow.
Cynthia gasped aloud then clapped her hands over her mouth.
She ran the last few steps then eased the gown free and carried it reverently off the path, unwrapping the fabric as if she were unveiling a sacred relic.
When she saw the dress, she went utterly still.
Comfort and Mother had outdone themselves. The gown shimmered in the sunlight, the ribbons glowing with a faint blush of pink, the trailing sleeves whispering elegance. Cynthia pressed it to her body, testing the fit, her expression filling with wonder.
For a dreadful heartbeat, fear gripped me—what if it didn’t fit?
There wasn’t enough time to alter the dress.
What if all our work unraveled into disappointment?
But Cynthia’s face told me all I needed to know.
An overwhelming, buoyant hope had taken root in her and seeing it made me own heart swell with pleasure.
She carefully rewrapped the dress, holding it close like a lifeline, and hurried back toward our manor.
I remained behind, watching her go. At first, as I watched her fade from sight, I’d been joyful. But a deep, aching sadness replaced it once I saw only the empty, lonely stretch of road. Everyone would be at the ball tonight.
Everyone but me.
“Truly!” Comfort’s voice rang up the stairs. “Can you find another mirror? We’re fixing hair down here, and there aren’t enough to go around.”
Our home was bursting at the seams with girls. They spilled into hallways and stairwells, chattering about princes and palaces. To them, tonight was a golden doorway to a new life. To me, it was only a reminder of the life I had forfeited.
Still, I dutifully searched. I pawed through drawers, dug into boxes, even pressed my cheek to the dusty floorboards to look beneath the bed. At last, my fingers brushed against the smooth frame of a mirror lodged in the depths of a drawer in my room, pinned beneath a thick stack of papers.
I tried to pull it free, but the papers refused to budge.
With a frustrated sigh, I lifted them out, stacking them haphazardly on the table.
Budgets, translation drafts, and lists of students for the finishing school all spilled across the surface.
I reached to move the final stack of papers trapping the mirror in the drawer then realized what they were.
I froze.
My fingers had brushed against a bundle of unopened letters, neatly tied with a red ribbon.
For a moment, I simply stared. I knew these letters. I knew the familiar scrawl across the topmost envelope, marking them for me and me alone. My chest squeezed around my heart and all the air vanished from my lungs. How could I ever have forgotten these letters?
Abandoning my quest for the mirror, I sank onto my bed and untied the ribbon.
My hands shook as I picked up the first envelope and slit it open.
Out fell a single piece of parchment, with the handwriting scribbled across it.
I knew that handwriting, though it had been two years since I’d seen it last.
Dear Truly,
I don’t think there are any words I could say to make you feel better, but please know that I am thinking of you constantly. I miss you. My arm and shoulder are still on the mend. I’m sure you are recovering much faster than I am.
Hubert came in yesterday and gave a lecture on how I should have handled our situation more diplomatically, and that if only I was more like him, we wouldn’t have been attacked.
I punched him. I am proud to say that even with my arm all plastered up and puncture wounds in my shoulder, I was able to land a pretty solid blow.
But now my recovery time is supposed to be even longer and Hubert said if I hadn’t just been attacked by a mob, he probably would have set one on me himself.
Anyway, now the physician (and Mother) have confined me to my bed and Hubert isn’t allowed in my living quarters at all.
All the better for me! And all the worse for everyone else who has to deal with his massively inflated ego.
But he has a black eye, which made me feel a whole lot better about being confined.
Write back soon! All I have for company is a book Mother gave me. It is Hubert’s old etiquette book about upholding a princely image and maintaining dignity. Lucky me.
Your best friend,
Curtis
The room blurred.
Curtis’s voice leapt from the page, so vivid I could almost hear him reading the words aloud. How I wished I could hear his bright, bubbling laugh and listen to his incessant chatter just one more time.
Two years gone, and just reading his words on this page made my heart pound.
I reread the letter. He had been injured that day of the attack. He hadn’t just been bruised—he had been wounded. I strained my memory, trying to conjure up the images I worked so hard to forget, despite them being burned into my nightmares.
Concentrating hard, I vaguely remembered Curtis coming towards me right after I’d been burned, with blood pouring down his arm.
I sat, stunned and open-mouthed, staring at his letter.
He’d been injured too, but I…I had never asked about him.
I’d hadn’t written to him or allowed him in to see me when he came to call.
I hadn’t even sent Comfort to ask for me.
How selfish I had been, wallowing in my own misery when he’d been suffering as well.
It was easy to imagine Curtis, arm encased in heavy bandages, still managing to punch stuffy, boring Hubert right in the eye.
I smiled, envisioning the Queen scolding Curtis and giving him a dull guidebook about the mannerisms of a pompous, upstanding prince.
Hubert probably already had it memorized.
I reached for the next letter with trembling hands, eager for the words that I should’ve read years ago.
Truly,
Remember that book I told you about? It goes over everything from controlling my temper to arranged marriage protocol and how to select the proper colored doublet for different banquets.
I tried to avoid reading it. I considered letting it accidentally fall into the fire, or out the window into the moat, or maybe even gouging out my eyes.
But because of my little stunt with Hubert, Mother has all my tutors forcing me to memorize passages, and they are all teaching about etiquette and proper behavior now.
Mother says it is the area of my education that has been grossly lacking, and it is time this error is remedied.
So now, my languages tutor is requiring essays on how to maintain a more dignified image…
in three different languages! Any chance you want to write one for me?
You would have to change your handwriting, though I think you have a broken arm like I do, so it might be too hard for you.
But if you can make your perfect writing a tad messier, our conspiracy will never be discovered!
Another instructor is trying to teach me how to sit stiff-backed and not bounce my head to keep my crown nice and steady while I parade down the corridors.
It is actually the most amusing lesson. We just sit and stand and walk around my room (Did I mention I am still not allowed to leave this infernal chamber?) while balancing books on our heads.
I thought this was princess stuff. Maybe that is why Mother is making me do it—to make me suffer!
If only I was a commoner and could get a whipping and be done with it! But no…
Hope your recovery is going better than mine!
Yours Truly (Get it?),
Curtis
These letters and many more had been here all along, waiting for me. They offered a lifeline I hadn’t known existed at the time.
As I clutched the stack of envelopes to my chest, one thought burned through me with terrifying clarity:
Curtis had never left me.
I had left him.