I’ve changed my mind,” Poppy said.
“What, again?” Lady Margaret’s voice was amused and calm.
She was always calm. Poppy had to admit that she found herself behaving better in the face of Her Ladyship’s sublime tranquility. Even now, refusing to go to the ball she had tentatively agreed to attend, Poppy was trying for serenity rather than fleeing the room and hiding.
“Just wait a moment before you decide,” Lady Margaret said. “Wait until you see your new gown.”
Taking Poppy by the hand, Lady Margaret led her over to the windows, where a dress form had been draped with a thin sheet of muslin. Letting go of Poppy’s hand, Lady Margaret took hold of the sheet and drew it aside with a grand flourish.
Much to her embarrassment, Poppy had a completely girlish reaction: she gasped, and even clapped her hands. Then she blushed and would have fled, but the dress was too magnificent and she had to inspect it from every angle.
The dressmaker had agreed that white would be too plain for the pale-skinned princess. So the gown of heavy white silk was trimmed with poppy red, and her namesake flower was embroidered randomly across the skirt. It was gorgeous and daring and everything Poppy could want in a ball gown.
The only drawback was that if she wanted anyone to see her in it, she would have to attend a ball. Imagining Christian’s face when she walked into Tuckington Palace in that gown would be worth it, however.
“Christian has to see you in this,” Marianne said breathily, echoing Poppy’s thought.
Ducking her head so they couldn’t see her face, Poppy fingered the neckline of the dress. It was low, and the red silk trim was wide and luxurious.
“It is a very fine gown,” Poppy admitted. “Thank you, Cousin Margaret.”
“You are quite welcome, my dear,” Lady Margaret said, a knowing look on her face. “Does the prospect of wearing it entice you to attend at least the royal gala?”
“It does,” Poppy agreed graciously.
“And that whatever it is you’ve been knitting is the same color,” Marianne pointed out.
“It’s a stole,” Poppy reminded her.
She had, fortuitously, been knitting herself a stole out of a fine yarn the exact color of these poppies. It would look stunning hanging from her elbows over the skirt of this gown. Everyone always told her that shades of violet and blue were her best colors, but Poppy had a certain fondness for red that she never got to indulge quite enough.
Which, of course, Lady Margaret had figured out.
“And don’t worry about dancing,” Lady Margaret told her. “At a gala like this one, there will be a great deal to keep you occupied. No cards, but food and music and fireworks. Acrobats and fire-eaters in the garden as well.”
Marianne twirled around in delight. “And scientific displays of strange machines, and poetry readings, and all kinds of things. When King Rupert hosts a gala, he spares no expense.”
“Apparently,” Poppy said.
She wondered, briefly, what it would have been like to be a princess growing up in the massive Tuckington Palace, with fire-eaters and gala balls. She herself had had to share a bedchamber and also a maid with two of her sisters. And until very recently, when Westfalin’s economy finally took a turn for the better, she had only gotten new gowns for very special occasions like Rose’s and Lily’s weddings. After all, she had four older sisters to pass on their wardrobes.
Someone tapped at the door and came in. It was Ellen, and she had a pile of freshly washed and ironed linens. At least they probably had been freshly washed and ironed at some point, but now Poppy could see at least one scorch mark and something like fine soot dusted across on the white cloth. She sighed. Ellen always had soot on her these days, and would never say why. There was a streak of it on her forehead right now. Since their confrontation last week, Ellen had refused to even make eye contact with the princess, and her household skills had degenerated even further.
“Why are there cinders on Poppy’s shifts?” Marianne blew across the pile as Ellen set her basket on a chair.
Another sigh, this one from Ellen.
Lady Margaret put a restraining hand on her daughter’s arm. “Ellen,” she said kindly, “did you still want to go to the royal balls?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship,” Ellen said demurely, but Poppy could swear she saw a secretive look in the girl’s eyes.
“There is still time for me to have Monsieur Delatour make a gown for you,” Lady Margaret said. “Or you are much of a size with Poppy and Marianne. We could retrim one of theirs …” Her voice trailed off as the young maid shook her head vehemently, shedding more black powder onto Poppy’s clothes and the floor.
“No, thank you, my lady. I have a patroness who has provided me with gowns.” Ellen’s voice was wooden, and Poppy’s eyes narrowed.
The other girl was hiding something: glee, disdain, some other emotion. And why? If there was someone willing to help her, why shouldn’t she let the Seadowns know?
Lady Margaret had the same question.
“How lovely, my dear! Who is it?”
“She wishes to remain anonymous,” Ellen said silkily. And then she turned and flounced out of the room.
Marianne rolled her eyes, but Poppy didn’t smile. Something was going on with Ellen, something beyond bad manners and worse domestic skills.
“If you two will excuse me,” Poppy said, with far more grace than Ellen would ever be able to muster. “I really must write to my sisters.” And Galen, she added mentally.
“To tell them about the gown, and how you’re going to the royal gala with us?” Marianne raised one eyebrow.
“Yes, yes,” Poppy lied. Though she might actually mention her beautiful new gown, she had other things to write about. Like asking if Galen knew of any spells that left a residue of soot.
“And wait until you see the costume I picked for the masked ball,” Marianne said as she and her mother left the room. “You have to come!”
“We shall see,” Poppy promised, giving her friend a small smile as she shut the door.
Secretly Poppy knew that she would never go to the masked ball. Nothing could be more horrible than being surrounded by strange people garbed in even stranger masks, their hard eyes staring out from hideous, inhuman faces …
She shuddered, and hurried to the writing desk. Galen might know something, and if not, perhaps he could find out for her.