Free of the encumbrance that is Lady Brooke, I fairly skip down the stone hallways. I would swing from the chandeliers, could I reach them, but I content myself with jumping up toward them. My life is no less horrible than before, but at least there is no dour Lady Brooke to remark upon its horribleness.
In short time, I have chosen five dresses, none blue, but none special enough for my grand entrance at my birthday ball. Although one is green, it does not match the exact shade of my eyes.
“It will look lovely on you,” says the tailor, who is from England.
Of course he thinks so. I know what he is about. Having his dress worn by a princess on an occasion of such import will increase his renown. For the rest of his life, he might call himself “Tailor to Talia, Princess of Euphrasia.”
But his apprentice says, “Indeed. It may not be the same shade as your remarkable eyes, but it will bring them out.”
The tailor quickly shushes him, lest the boy disgrace them both by speaking so to a princess. But I turn toward him and smile. He is my age, no more, perhaps the tailor’s son. And—I find it difficult not to notice—he is handsome. For a commoner. His eyes are the color of cornflowers.
“Do you think so?”
He looks down, blushing. “I meant no disrespect, Your Highness. But yes. It will look lovely on you, as any dress would.”
I wonder what it would be like to be a common girl, who could flirt with such a handsome tailor’s apprentice with impunity. Or, better yet, to be the apprentice himself, to be a boy, so young, yet traveling far from home. And to learn a trade such as making a dress. In all my life, I have never created anything, never done anything at all other than silly paintings of flowers for my art master, Signor Maratti. Father hung them in his bedchamber, where they would be seen by no one. Is it enough to be a princess, when being a princess means nothing?
I nod and turn reluctantly to the old tailor. “I shall wear it tonight for dinner. Many noblewomen will be in attendance, and if they compliment my gown, I will tell them your name.”
I start for the door. The tailor bows, but the boy does not move. He is staring at me, entranced by my beauty. I get the shiveriest sensation across my arms. Of course he thinks I am beautiful, but I like that he sees me. I wonder if this is what it will be like when I meet my prince. Maybe it will not be so bad.
Five more rooms, then ten, and still the dress I desire has not been found. It seems a small task, certainly one the best tailors in the world should be able to accomplish. And yet they have not. I sigh. Perhaps I will wear the English tailor’s dress to the ball after all.
I reach the end of the hallway. I have never been in this part of the castle before. Amazing. These rooms have barely been used, but surely a child—a normal child—would explore every room at some time. But I had not been a normal child.
I spy a staircase in the shadows. This is not one of the stairways I am accustomed to using to reach the fourth floor, and when I check Lady Brooke’s map, I see that it was not included. How odd. I am seized with a sudden urge to run up its steps, even slide down the banister. But that is silly, and if I do that, I will be delayed. And then Lady Brooke will come looking for me. I turn back down the hall.
Suddenly, I hear a voice.
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho,
And a hey nonny no…
A lover.
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time…
A woman’s voice, singing. Entranced, almost, I start up the stair.
When birds do sing,
Hey ding a ding, ding!
Sweet lovers love the spring!
At the top of the stairs, there is an open door. I stop. There is no tailor. I knew there would not be. But instead, there is an old woman sitting upon a bench. I see not what she is doing, for she is surrounded by dresses, so many dresses, much more than twenty. But that is not the remarkable thing.
Each and every dress is exactly the same shade of green as my eyes.
“Lovely!” The cry comes from me unbidden. I run into the room.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness.” The old woman attempts to rise from her chair with great effort. She begins to curtsy.
“Oh, please don’t!” I say. She is, after all, very old.
“Ah, but I must. You are a princess, and respect must be accorded certain positions. Those who do not take heed will pay the price.”
She is almost to the floor, and I wonder how long it will take her to right herself. Still, I say, “Very well.” I wish for a second—but only a second—that Lady Brooke were here so that she might see how I follow her directions about not arguing with my elders.
I step back and study the dresses. It seems there is every style and every fabric: satins, velvets, brocades of all designs, and a lighter fabric I have never seen before, which will float behind me like a cloud of butterflies.
Finally, the woman rises. “Do you like anything?”
I had nearly forgotten she was there, so enchanted was I with the gowns.
I sigh. “Yes, I like everything! It is all perfect.”
She laughs. “I am honored that you believe so. For you see, I am from Euphrasia. I have seen you all your life, Your Highness, and have flattered myself that I knew better than any foreigner the designs that would suit my own princess.”
“Indeed.” I try to recall if I have seen her before, perhaps in the crowds at a parade. But why would I have noticed an old woman who looks much like any other? Only her eyes are unusual. They are not glazed over with a film of white, like so many very old people’s are. Instead, they are lively, black and glittering like a crow’s.
“Have you a special favorite?” she asks.
“This one.” I start toward the lightweight dress. “I shall rival the fairies in this!”
“’Tis my favorite, too. Do you mind, Your Highness, if I sit back down? I know it is not the correct way, but I am quite old, and my knees are not what they once were when I was a young woman like yourself, dancing at festivals.”
“Of course.” I am flooded with gratitude toward this stranger who knows what I want, who understands me as Mother and Father and wretched Lady Brooke do not. I approach the dress. The old woman has settled back onto her stool and has begun some sort of needlework. There is a contraption in her hand, something that looks like a top with which children play. It is nearly covered in wool that has been dyed a deep rose.
“What is that?” I ask her.
“Oh, ’tis my sewing. I make my own thread. Do you wish to try?”
Sewing? I step closer. The contraption is a wooden spike weighted at one end with a whorl of darker wood. A hook holds the thread in place, and when the thread is finished, it winds around the stick below the whorl, to be used for sewing. There is a quantity of unfinished wool at the top. “Oh, I should not.”
“Of course not. I misspoke. ’Twould be unfitting for a young lady such as yourself to make dresses. You were born merely to wear them. Humble souls like myself were meant to create.”
I nod, approaching the dresses again.
“Only…”
“What is it?” I am touching the fabric, but I glance back at her.
“They say ’tis lucky. ’Twas handed down to me by my mother and her mother before her, and all who make thread with it are entitled to one wish.”
“A wish?” I know what Lady Brooke would say on the subject. Her thoughts on wishes are much like her thoughts on magic. Superstition is the opposite of God. Still, I say, “Have you ever wished upon it?”
“Aye.” She nods. “I have indeed, when I was young. I wished for a long life.”
I stare at her. Her face is like crumpled silk, and her hair the color of paper.
“How long ago was that?”
“When I was your age, fifteen. So nigh upon two hundred years.”
I gasp, but the old woman holds my gaze.
“What would you wish for, Your Highness? I know you must have wishes, trapped as you are in this castle, longing to marry if only to get out, not daring to hope for freedom.” Her voice is very nearly hypnotic. “Be not afraid. What do you wish for?”
My freedom. Or love. Or…travel. I wish to travel the world, to be not a princess trapped in a protected existence, but a human girl. Silly thought. I cannot do that.
“I think…” I say, “I will try it.”
She nods and moves aside to make room for me on the bench. Her movement is less labored than before. She pats the space beside her. “Sit, Princess.” She hands me the object, stick first. “This in your right hand. Then take the thread in your left, and spin it clockwise. When the thread has begun to spin, you make your wish.”
I take the stick. I am distracted, thinking of my wish, my freedom, of seeing the world. As I reach for the thread, I feel a stab of pain in my finger. The hook at the end has punctured my left ring finger. When I glance down, I see a drop of crimson upon my skirt. Blood.
It is only then that I realize what the object is.
A spindle. The princess shall prick her finger on a spindle.
I hear the old woman’s laughter as I begin to sink down.
Malvolia!
My last thought as I hit the ground is, I should have listened to Lady Brooke.