Chapter 5 She’s Eaten a Raw Fish
Agatha
Mercifully, I don’t have a chance to speak to Father before the ball. When I hear his voice floating up from the hall beneath us, I shoo Phildan away (as kindly as I can) and hasten to lock myself in my room.
I’d requested Mrs. Dorian to have a bath waiting for me, but I’m too agitated to enjoy my soak. I linger in the rose-scented water, anyhow, hoping to drown my curse. I doubt it will work.
When the water is quite cold, and my fingers would be wrinkled if the Gift of Clear Skin allowed it, I turn my attention to my dress.
It was no fairy-gift; it’s all handmade, from the glittering glass beads along the neckline to the layers of golden ruffles that swish around my feet.
Father wanted me to look impressive, and as I survey myself in the dull mirror hanging above my dressing-table, I know I do.
The shimmering gown matches my softly curling hair and brings out the best parts of my godmother-enhanced figure. I look worthy of being a duchess.
Why stop at a mere duchess? We should have invited a prince. Rhylorria has an unmarried one, I think.
Stepmother sighs through the door as I’m placing the final hairpin. “Oh,” she breathes, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “I came up … to help you get ready. Am I … too late?”
Distracted by my preparations, I forget Melusine’s curse. “You always are.” I freeze, horrified, as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Stepmother blinks. “Agatha?”
I try to say something like I know the boys wear you out or I wouldn’t ask you to trouble yourself, Stepmother—something light and flattering, as usual. But the only thing that will come out is, “You’re so slow. I can’t stand it.”
I clamp my hand over my mouth—gracefully, because of the Poise—and wait for her to respond.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, she answers with a faint, “Oh.” She turns away, face and voice full of hurt.
I’m sorry, I think to myself. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Melusine told me I’d say what I was thinking, so I think the words as hard as I can. “I’m sorry.” Desperate, I infuse the words with as much Charm as possible, then hold my breath.
Stepmother faces me again, slowly—as usual. I smile, regretful and sweet, and walk to her so I can take her hand in mine. “I’m very agitated today,” I say.
Stepmother returns my smile and presses my fingers gently. “I’m sure … you have no reason to be,” she says. “The duke already … adores you.”
I try to take comfort from that. It’s true. Father said the duke already offered a generous bride-price for me. And I’d done just fine with that man in the woods, hadn’t I? I have nothing to worry about.
Before my nerves are quite convinced, a heavy thud sounds at the door. Father, ready to escort me to the bride-market—I mean, my birthday ball.
“Agatha.” He pushes the door open with a creak, forehead glistening with perspiration. “You didn’t come report after you saw your godmother.”
I’m busy lining my lips with a bit of red paint—I may have Gifts, but it won’t hurt to go a little extra tonight—so I can’t answer him right away.
Think nice things. Say something polite and unsuspicious.
“Agatha had … a great deal of preparing … to do,” Stepmother says. I don’t deserve her, coming to my defense like that after I insulted her. My heart twinges with shame.
Father crosses his arms and hmphs. “You should have prepared more. We have an unexpected guest.”
I raise my eyebrows. He sounds more agitated than normal.
“I can hardly believe it, but he has the seal—but even so, that could be counterfeit—but he has the—the face, too—”
I make a polite humming noise, hoping he’ll get on with it.
“The prince. The crown prince. Of Rhylorria.”
My hand stills, the only sign of shock my Poise lets through. I swallow. “The crown prince of Rhylorria?” I can’t bring myself to say his name. I’ve never thought anything nice about the name Limplemoyne.
“Just showed up.” Father runs a hand through his hair. “And Dorian naturally didn’t know where to put him, and you should have been there to help figure it out!”
“I don’t know why no one in this house can do anything without me,” I say.
Father frowns. “Well, you’re the one with the Gifts.
” He doesn’t seem to mind my frankness. I suppose that’s the Charm still doing its job.
He mops his forehead with an already-damp handkerchief.
“It’s just the prince and a companion—said he was possessed of a great desire to meet the famous Lady Agatha, didn’t want to draw attention to the travels—very flattering—can’t risk insulting them—” Father’s forehead is already glistening again, and longing lights his eyes. “Imagine, a prince—!”
My reflection—perfect, serene, and yes, princesslike—stares at me from the mirror. There’s no hint of my inner turmoil, of Melusine’s curse, of this new conundrum.
“You can forget about Duke Mansfield,” Father says.
I nod, keeping my red-painted lips sealed in a confident half-smile.
“Oh! And what did that godmother give you? Nothing terrible, I hope? Did she give you—” He coughs and looks at the wall, embarrassed. Apparently it’s gauche to say the word “fertility” out loud, even though we all know that’s what the final gift is.
Or what the gift was supposed to be.
I become very interested in making sure my cheeks are powdered to perfection. Hopefully Father will take my silence as embarrassment, too.
“Well?” Father meets my gaze, awkwardly, in the reflection.
I smile—at least Melusine didn’t take that from me!—and nod again.
It works. He heaves an enormous sigh of relief. The belief that his daughter has been blessed with future fruits of the womb, instead of another burden like Cleverness, does wonders for his mental state.
“Wonderful!” He claps his hands and stands up straighter.
I hadn’t realized how saggy he was when he first walked in.
“I knew she’d come through for us! Though, if it’s to be Rhylorria, I suppose it matters less, doesn’t it?
And your ankles aren’t very off-putting.
” He chuckles, looking me up and down with a gleaming face.
“Now, my dear, all that’s left is to secure your engagement. ”
I swallow. He’s so excited; he’s been looking forward to my marriage for years, but I fear that gleam will be extinguished long before the evening is over.
Father holds his arm out, so I walk over and slip my hand through the crook of his elbow. Stepmother blows a lazy kiss as I pass.
“You’re quiet, Agatha,” he says, leading me through the doorway and toward the stairs. I hear the noise of the party even from this wing of the manor: it’s a faint strain of music mixed with a great number of voices.
“I’m nervous, Father,” I say, and it comes out quite easily because it’s the truest thing I can think.
Father whispers needless reminders as we make our way across the manor to the ballroom.
Needless, because he’s been preparing the guest list for nearly seven years now, and I’m quite familiar with all the names and titles and stations and whatever else we could discover about my would-be suitors; in fact, the amount I’ve learned about some of these men is astonishingly awkward.
Father thoroughly researched each of the possibilities, and arranged them in a list of most- to least-desirable.
Money is the primary scale, obviously, but he had a few lesser considerations, too, like prestige, rank, and projected future income.
But in his zeal to find suitable beaus, he’s picked up on a lot of other little tidbits.
A new fear strikes me: what if I accidentally blurt something I shouldn’t know, like about Lord Shadebale’s habit of selling lame horses or the dog-fighting ring that Lord Francis runs?
Try not to think about those things. Try to only think nice things.
But as we arrive in the doorway of the ballroom, my head swirls with the worst thoughts imaginable. My eyes dart from face to face, recognizing different men by their descriptions and remembering all the stories I’ve heard about them.
Count Chrestowine? Gambles. His father’s coffers are endless, but even endless coffers can get a bit tight when the eldest son visits the gambling-houses every night. And some days, too.
Lord Turneyblade? Always been a little twisted. The sort of man who plucks the legs off insects just because.
Mr. Jestery? Can’t read. Completely uncouth.
Lord Hurdebrooke? Never married, but has already fathered at least two children.
My mouth goes dry. I know so many unpleasant things about these men. I’ve thought so many unpleasant things about these men. I’m thinking them now.
The Poise carries me through, even as my stomach turns and the inside of my palms begin to itch. Father clears his throat. The musicians notice us and cease their playing.
And then, suddenly, dozens of eyes are fixed on me.
As much as I’ve cursed Melusine today, both out loud and in my heart, I am grateful for that Poise. It’s the only thing keeping me steady. Goodness knows, I can’t rely on Father. He’s shaking like a leaf. With excitement?
Or is he worried I’ll mess this up?
If I do become a princess, I suppose I’ll have someone to announce me at these sort of events. And I’ll be important enough that I won’t have to talk to anyone. Blessed thought, at the moment.
But here, in our little mountain hamlet, there’s no one to announce us but ourselves, so Father clears his throat—twice—and says, feebly, “My good sirs, I present—” He is interrupted by a fit of coughing that turns his face bright red, even brighter than when he had oh-so-delicately inquired about my most recent Gift.
When he finally recovers his breath, he continues, “I present my daughter, Lady Agatha Montberger!”
Let’s see. Of the two dozen men my father has assembled, nearly all are looking at me with unbridled admiration.
One man—the honorable Mr. Carter, if I’m identifying him accurately by the bit of profile I can see around the great wine-glass he’s currently upending—doesn’t look at me at all, due to the fact that he’s engrossed in the aforementioned wineglass.
One man looks surprisingly … disinterested. I narrow my eyes.
Now, it isn’t that I want to be seen merely for my beauty, or appraised like a horse at auction. But it is my birthday party, so for a guest to seem so … so bored! Who wouldn’t be insulted?
I meet the man’s gaze with a bit of defiance. Wait—I recognize him. Doubly so.
This must be the purported Rhylorrian prince, Limplemoyne—detestable name.
The circlet resting atop his thick brown hair and the haughty regal bearing identifies him as surely as the wine-glass identifies Mr. Carter.
Just my luck that the one man Father most wants me to marry is the one who wouldn’t like me after all!
But I recognize him doubly because, although we haven’t been introduced, we have indeed spoken.
This is the scarred, grubby stranger who was looking for a godmother.
Lem
I should have known that beautiful creature was the fabled goddaughter.
I wish I wouldn’t have made such a fool of myself.
It wasn’t flirting, not really. I was just overcome by her charms. The soft sunlight made her hair gleam like a dragon’s treasure and her moss-colored dress seemed to be growing up out of the forest itself and her lovely smile was directed right at my heart—ahem.
I’ve gotten lost in thought. Sure, she’s got charms, but I hope she doesn’t think I actually want to marry her.
Her bright eyes, which don’t quite match the smile she’s wearing, skim over the crowded hall.
I don’t call it a ballroom; it’s a moderately-sized breakfast parlor at best. They’ve done some clever work with the window-dressings and carefully placed mirrors, but there’s an overall air of gilded shabbiness.
I wonder how many of the girl’s charms will fade if she gets too far from one of these fairies.
If Henry were with me right now, he’d elbow me in the ribs and call me grumpy again. He’d be right.
And yes, it is entirely because I’m jealous that this no-rank, upstart, backwoods family has somehow won the good graces of a godmother while Henry and I wandered around all afternoon, being scratched by brambles and holly bushes, without a single sighting of a fairy to petition.
Jealous, grumpy, and only half-washed because I spent too much time lost in this blasted forest—I’m sure I’ll make an excellent impression.
Not that it matters. Since I’m not here for her at all.
I tug at my waistcoat and notice that there’s still a bit of dirt under my fingernails. Good, good. My disinterest should be evident to all. Let another of these suckers get the lady, and leave me alone to search for the real treasure of Candor.
The lady and her father have begun circling the room. I was wise enough to realize that I’m likely the main attraction of her evening, so I’ve situated myself as far from the doorway as possible. Not difficult, since the other fools here were practically salivating on the threshold.
Despite my determination to not marry Lady Agatha, I still find myself watching her as her father makes formal introductions. Her face is, well, perfect, and yet …
My brows wrinkle together. There’s something off about her expression. A touch of anxiety underneath the facade of elegance.
There’s too much noise in this room for me to hear what’s being said, but watching Lady Agatha’s face is enough to let me know that something is wrong. She seemed so polished and controlled when I saw her in the woods this afternoon. What has happened to make her look like she’s eaten a raw fish?