What Comes of Attending the Commoners Ball

I Just Want to Eat

If there’s one thing I love about this city, it’s the smells.

The cool October air teems with clashing scents: bread, soap, coffee, horse, smoke, fish, sweat, dog. It’s so wonderfully messy and full and alive .

“What are you sniffing at?” Chemmy asks.

“Everything.” My stomach growls. “Especially the bread.” We’re scuttling home from Mistress Hardinge’s sewing shop, skies darkening above us and a sharp breeze playing with the edges of our cloaks. Well, the edges of my cloak; my friend wears a coat, much more fashionable.

“You want to stop?” Chemmy asks, tipping her bonneted head toward the bakery where a round-faced man advertises his end-of-day sale. Her nose is red from the cold.

“Can’t,” I say, but I take an extra deep sniff as we pass his shop. I reach a mitten into my empty pocket. “Maybe another time.”

Chemmy clicks her tongue. “You need to eat more, Hester. I can buy you—”

“No, thank you,” I interrupt. “Besides, I’ll have a feast tomorrow. ”

“A feast?”

I clear my throat, excited to make my grand announcement. “I’m going to the Commoners Ball.”

“The Commoners Ball?” Chemmy laughs. “You wouldn’t!”

“It’s for commoners, isn’t it? Aren’t I as common as anyone else?”

She frowns. “It’s not for commoners like us .”

“Well, I certainly can’t invite myself to the Lords Ball, can I?”

The sharp smell of blood carries on the breeze, and Chemmy slows as we pass a butcher’s shop. Sure enough, there’s Ungus Morfry, taking up most of the doorway. He grins and waves. Chemmy blushes prettily and smiles back. Her feet come to a stop. And here I’d been hurrying because I thought she was cold!

“Evening, Miss Chemmy, Miss Hester.” Ungus nods at us—well, mostly at Chemmy. He wipes his broad hands on his apron. It’s already stained with rusty streaks of dried blood.

“Ungus, you’re a native,” I say. “Tell me about the Commoners Ball.”

“The ball?” He turns, blinking. I feel a bit guilty that I’ve forced him to stop making eyes at Chemmy. “What about it?”

“Hester says she wants to go,” Chemmy tells him.

“Is there a rule or anything that says I can’t?” I ask.

He pokes out his lower lip and answers slowly. “I guess you could, Miss. But no one goes without an invitation. It isn’t done.”

“Ha,” I say. “Then I shall go. I don’t particularly care about what’s done.”

Chemmy shakes her head, making the tassels on her bonnet bob. “Why do you want to go? Even if you can get in, the princes won’t pay attention to you.” She grimaces. “No offense.”

I wave her off. “Oh, I’m not worried about that ; I only want to go for the food.”

The Commoners Ball was the biggest topic of conversation in our musty workshop this afternoon, and the talk of who would be there—and more importantly, what they would be eating—had started me on the idea. When I moved into Mistress Mungon’s boardinghouse last month, I negotiated: half off rent in exchange for an hour or two of work every evening, and not eating the breakfasts Mistress Mungon prepares, nor the larger dinners she makes every Sunday. My purse is happy; my stomach, less so.

“The food?” Ungus blinks at me again, wrenching his gaze away from Chemmy’s fluttering eyelashes. “Are you hungry, Miss Hester? We sometimes have a bit of extra—”

“I don’t need charity,” I rush. “Eating at a ball is not begging . It’s a transaction. Food for company.”

“I didn’t say you were begging—”

A querulous voice from inside the butcher’s shop interrupts him. “Ungus! Close that door!”

He glances apologetically at us—mostly at Chemmy again—and makes to tip his hat before realizing his head is bare. “My mother,” he laments. “I’ll be seeing you.” He steps backward into the shop. Mistress Morfry’s hollering is audible even after he closes the door. I hope she mellows soon, for Chemmy’s sake. She would be such a mother-in-law.

Chemmy sighs, a tiny puff of white in the cool air, and resumes walking. I bite my lip to keep from laughing at her lovelorn expression.

“You look dejected.” I loop my arm through hers. “Perhaps a ball would cheer you up.”

She chuckles and pats my arm. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

I smile.

“Hester! You aren’t serious?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go. I’m as common as anybody—maybe more so.”

We pass a millinery shop, and Chemmy slows to admire a feathered bonnet. “You don’t have a thing to wear.”

I’d thought about this while hemming bedsheets this afternoon. “I think my brown dress will do.”

“No, no. You can’t wear brown to a ball!” Chemmy waves at a peddler packing up her coffee cart for the evening. If I breathe with my mouth open, I can almost taste it.

“Well, I don’t have anything prettier, unless you want to count what I’m wearing now.” Since I’ve only lived in the city of Wellington-upon-Chesbury for a month, my gowns are quite countrified.

Chemmy purses her lips and surveys my threadbare red skirt. “I suppose the brown is the nicest you’ve got.”

“I’ll pick some flowers and put them in my hair or something,” I say. “I might inspire a new fashion.” We turn down the narrow alley that leads to the boardinghouse where we share a room, leaving the bustle of the market streets behind us.

“Couldn’t one of your faeries change your appearance?” Chemmy suggests, then yelps when I pinch her.

“Don’t joke about the Folk,” I say. “They might hear you!”

I presume Chemmy rolls her eyes, but I’m looking at the ground, picking my way over a section of muddy cobblestones. We’ve talked of this before, but I’m still surprised that most of these city-dwellers don’t worry about the Folk. The creatures nest in the Ramsfeldshire countryside, where I grew up, but that doesn’t mean one will never wander through the capital.

“You can borrow the sash from my blue dress,” Chemmy says after a moment, ignoring the Folk question. Very diplomatic of her. “It’ll be some sort of color at least.”

I look up to thank her and immediately step ankle-deep into a cold puddle.

Well, it doesn’t matter if I’m neither fashionable nor graceful. I’m not going to the ball to dance—I just want to eat.

I keep my eyes peeled as we walk home the next day, looking for any flower-like weeds that might be growing along the streets. I only spot cobblestones, horse droppings, and bits of old newspapers. A street sweeper tips his hat to me, and I nod in return .

“Hester, look!” Chemmy tugs at my sleeve and points across the street at a little flower girl with a half-full basket of pansies hanging on her thin arm. “Flowers for your hair, if you’re really going to the ball tonight.”

“Of course I’m going,” I say. I lay a hand on my chest. “I’m offended that you doubt me.” Chemmy begins crossing the street, but I hold back. “I can’t buy any flowers, though.”

She looks over her shoulder, two thin lines wrinkling the space between her eyebrows. “They’re only a farthing.”

I scuff one toe on the street, following the groove between cobblestones. “Every bit counts.” I’ve calculated and calculated, working the sums in my head until I’m fairly swimming in numbers. I need every penny I can get if I want to move my parents to Wellington-upon-Chesbury by midwinter. They can sell the rest of the hogs for their coach fare—unless I find a boardinghouse with rooms for swine, which seems unlikely—but we’ll need money for lodgings, including a month down; and then there’s food, and a doctor for Dad’s rheumatism, and shoes for Mum. I can do it—I know I can—but I won’t be buying any luxuries until they’re here. Even if the luxury is only a farthing.

I blink and shake myself from my reverie. Chemmy has disappeared, and I have to look around for a moment before I spot her stooping over the frail flower girl and handing her a coin. I purse my lips. Chemmy picks out a bundle of pansies and dashes back across the street. She has to dodge a hansom cab drawn by a magnificent piebald horse. I admire it until it’s disappeared into the crowds.

“Here.” Chemmy holds the small bundle out, puffing from her run. “I had an extra farthing.”

“I can’t take those.” My chest tightens. Mum’s oft-repeated lessons in bargains and gifts are too deeply ingrained for me to ignore them now, even though I know Chemmy means kindly.

Chemmy rolls her eyes. “It’s a gift from a friend, Hester. And only a farthing.”

I bite my lower lip. “You’re very kind— ”

“Have you truly never accepted a gift before?” she grumbles, yanking me out of the way of a donkey pulling a vegetable cart. “It won’t kill you.”

“We don’t do gifts in Ramsfeldshire,” I say.

“Then it’s not a gift.” Chemmy sighs. “I’ll trade you for some leftovers from the ball. Bring me back some cheese if they have any.”

My throat eases and I nod, accepting the bundle of pansies she presses into my mittened fingers. Not a gift; a trade. I can trade.

Chemmy’s face is a mixture of curiosity and pity.

“If you had any respect for the Folk, you’d understand,” I say, tucking my chin down to my chest. “Gifts are how they trap you.” The Folk are not kind to humans in their debt.

I think Chemmy snorts at this, but the cry of a newsboy drowns out whatever she was about to reply. I perk up, listening for any mention of Ramsfeldshire, but his news is all events in the capital, including speculations about the royal ball tonight.

“Let’s get home,” she says. “I’ll do your hair so you can go get me my cheese.”

My stomach rumbles in anticipation, and we both laugh at the sound. We hurry together against the crowds, and Chemmy doesn’t even stop to flirt with Ungus.

I skip dinner so I can get an early start on my chores. I’m scrubbing the floor of the entry hall, probably getting splinters from the rough floorboards, when Mistress Mungon steps out of the dining room. The clatter of diners floats out behind her.

“Oh, Hester! What are you doing?”

I sit up on my knees, taking the chance to rinse my rag and wring it out. “I’m going out tonight, so I thought I’d get this done early.”

Mistress Mungon props one fist into her soft hip and nods. “ Good. You don’t get out enough.”

I hesitate to tell her I’m going to the ball. Like as not, I’ll be turned away at the door anyhow. “I thought it would be a nice change.”

“Just mind you’re home by curfew, and the rest of the rules, too. I won’t have my ladies out all hours of the night.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” If I’m always thinking in terms of bargains and debts, Mistress Mungon’s always thinking about respectability . Her list of rules is extensive, and any hints of impropriety will earn her boarders a passionate, though well-meaning, lecture. I regret to say I’ve received one already, but how was I supposed to know that sitting on the roof to catch the moonlight wasn’t respectable ?

I squeeze the last drops of water out of my rag, and Mistress Mungon nods kindly before turning away with a swish of her yellow-and-pink striped skirt.

Now there’s some color. I wonder if she’d lend me her dress for the ball?

I snort a laugh at the thought, imagining my scrawny frame drowning in one of Mistress Mungon’s full-bosomed dresses, and resume my scrubbing.

There are dishes to do, too, but Chemmy helps with those once dinner is finished—I promise another piece of cheese, or whatever I can fit in my pocket, to repay her—and we make quick work of it. I wipe my hands on my damp apron and survey the kitchen to make sure everything is done, and then we hurry up to our room on the highest floor of the boardinghouse.

In our tiny room, I pull my brown dress off a peg behind the door. I’d pressed it the previous night, even though I hate pressing; I figure I should at least try to look decent. I slip it on now, button up the front, and tuck my ward charm into my bodice.

“What’s in that, anyhow?” Chemmy wrinkles her nose.

“Dried folkbane. The Folk don’t like the smell, or at least that’s the wisdom of the ancestors, and I am not going to start doubting them without very good reason. ”

Chemmy hmms at this information. “Turn around so I can tie this sash.”

“The closest I’ll ever come to being dressed by a maid, I suppose.” I turn as instructed. Chemmy fusses over the sash—why, I don’t know, for the pale blue looks rather horrid over my drab frock.

“Your waist is too high,” she grumbles. “No one makes dresses like this anymore.” After another moment of tweaking, she has the fabric arranged how she wants it, and steps back, lips pursed as she looks me over.

“You’re wasted sewing bedsheets,” I say. “You should get a job as a dressmaker.”

“Maybe someday.” She shakes her head, done with her survey. “You look very nice—for anything besides a royal ball.”

“Good enough!” I take my hair out of my snood and shake out the dark curls. Chemmy bids me sit on the single stool, and takes her time arranging my hair in some sort of braided black jungle, tucking the pansies in carefully.

“I’ll be late,” I protest. I glance at the window, but it’s shuttered and I can’t guess at the time. My stomach growls—there had better be good food at this ball.

“You’re supposed to be late,” Chemmy mumbles around the hairpins in her mouth. She takes one out and slides it behind my right ear. “That’s how you make an impression.”

“I don’t want to make an impression. I just want to fill my pockets with rolls and cheese and then come home.”

Chemmy laughs, sending hairpins pinging against the floor, and we waste several moments finding them all.

“I wish you had a shawl.” Chemmy sighs. “Lace would help.”

“I think I’m beyond help.” I stand, gingerly feeling at the hair on the nape of my neck. Chemmy bats my hand away.

“Don’t touch it—it will all fall out. Oh, Hester, you can’t wear that !”

This to my cloak, which I’m wrapping around my shoulders. “I have to,” I say. “It’s too cold to walk there without it. ”

“No one wears cloaks. You need a coat!”

“Should I ask a prince if he has one I can borrow?” I clasp my hands and bat my eyes at imaginary royalty. Chemmy doesn’t offer hers. My frame, though bony, is still too broad to fit.

Chemmy flops on the bed and surveys me with a half-critical, half-laughing eye. “You’re really going?”

“You spent so long on my hair that I have to. It would be a waste otherwise.”

“You’re going to make a fool of yourself!”

“Oh, I know,” I say, grinning. “It won’t be the first time, nor the last either, I suppose. Sure you don’t want to join?”

“You couldn’t pay me to go. Wait! What about gloves?”

“Gloves?”

“All the ladies wear gloves.”

“I could keep my mittens on, but that would inhibit the feasting a bit.”

She sighs, but as she has no gloves to lend, I simply stoop to drop a kiss on her head and admonish her not to wait up for me.

“Of course I will,” Chemmy grumbles as I step into the narrow hallway. “You’ll probably be back in an hour, since they’ll turn you away at the door.”

I laugh and wave before making my way down the rickety staircase. Mistress Mungon peers at me over her round spectacles when I pass the common room.

“Don’t forget curfew!” she calls. “And enjoy yourself, dear!”

Before I know it, I’m prancing up the streets toward the palace.