“ELLIE!” shrieks Cilla, startling me out of my thoughts. “GET YOUR LAZY ARSE DOWN HERE, MOUSE.”
“Up here,” I mutter, correcting her. “I’m already downstairs. Working. Unlike you.” I know I’m tired, for I usually don’t mind their demands so much. Today, after having had a taste of better treatment, I find myself put out by their sheer laziness. It’s not their fault, of course. They’ve been raised to expect to be waited on hand and foot.
Stacia chimes in, literally, by yanking so hard on the bell that it detaches from its ribbon and goes rolling across the uneven floorboards.
“Coming,” I call out, pinning up my hair as I slip my feet into the worn leather slippers. I don’t regret wearing heels last night, but my feet ache today. I won’t miss them.
“How was the ball?” I ask evenly, suppressing any hint of tone that might indicate how angry I still am for the way they treated me yesterday.
“Horrible!” Cilla snaps. Her glamour has worn off, leaving a grayish cast to her overlarge features. The perpetually downward twist to her thin lips cuts deep ruts at either side of her mouth. “Get me out of this blasted gown before I suffocate!”
Obediently, I move to her back and begin unfastening the tiny buttons trailing down her spine. They remind me of the puzzle that was Alex’s clothing—some pieces were exquisitely crafted, while the jacket was ill-fitting and showed signs of economizing. I suppose my stepsisters must look the same. We spend money on tiny details like carved buttons while pairing expensive silk with cheaper quality linen wherever it won’t be seen.
Yet Alex’s was the opposite. Cheap where it would be seen and expensive clothing concealed beneath other layers. My hands still. I remember myself and continue unbuttoning.
“What was horrible about the evening?” It’s on the tip of my tongue to say,I had a splendid time. For the first time, I realize how hard it will be not to share my secret. I must sneak off to find Maxine at the first opportunity. She will want to hear everything, and I am bursting to share the experience with someone.
“The prince didn’t choose me!” Cilla wails. “The stupid man clearly has no taste. He went after a mystery girl.”
I turn to stone. The placket of her gown flops open over my frozen fingers.
“Hurry up, Mouse. I am fatigued from the ordeal.”
“Mystery girl?” I repeat, feeling faint. I force myself to slip more buttons free. Cilla steps out of the dress and throws it in my face.
“Clean that.”
To what purpose? She’ll never wear it again.
“Who was the mystery girl?” Dread prickles down my forearms.
“If anyone knew, she wouldn’t be a mystery, now would she?”
“I was so sure Prince Alistair would pick me,” sobs Stacia. Her glamour has worn off, too. In addition to the inevitable post-magic haggardness, her face is red from crying. “Pink is my color. Everyone says so.”
No one says so except Cilla. Stacia is too dim to figure out that her sister envies her curves and wants her to wear the most unflattering gowns possible. She wouldn’t listen if I tried to tell her the truth, so I don’t bother.
Alistair.
My heart races. Alex is the kind of false name a man named Alistair might concoct on the spot, the same way I called myself Elsie instead of Elinor. Close enough that he would respond to it, without giving away his identity. A shiver rolls down my spine.
It can’t be. The prince was busy dancing with ladies all night. I peeked in while the herald was announcing his next partner and saw him in a…
White…
Jacket…
Exactly like the one Alex was wearing when he almost caught me on the steps. One that perfectly matched the quality of his waistcoat and fit his shoulders precisely.
Oh, gods.
“Ellie, get this off me,” wails Stacia.
“What is wrong with her?” Cilla snaps. She smacks my cheek. “Lazy cow. Get to work. The prince is searching the entire kingdom looking for his lost lady. We need this place to look spotless when he comes.”
Mute with shock, I unlace Stacia’s gown and loosen her corset strings. She sighs deeply. “Next time, don’t tie it so tight,” she whines, apparently forgetting how she demanded I pull the ribbons hard enough to break her ribs.
Tremaine staggers in, reeking of alcohol. He points at each of his daughters in turn.
