Ashes of Roses (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms Book 4) (4 page)

“And what?” Jenaris demanded, hands on her ample hips.

“And Mamma thinks you are too fat,” Shelynne helpfully supplied with a giggle. “I daresay she is right. Not that it is necessarily a bad thing — at least I don’t have to worry about you borrowing any of my gowns, as none of them would fit.”

“Ma-MA!” Jenaris shrieked in outrage, and reached out to give one of her sister’s shining dark curls a sharp tug, eliciting a howl of pain.

“Girls,” my stepmother said in quelling tones. “None of this is behavior that befits a lady, let alone a future Empress. Jenaris, you are not fat, but I do think that it behooves you to be careful in what you eat for the next several weeks. And Shelynne, it is not ladylike to point out another’s shortcomings. You may one day find yourself on the receiving end of such observations.”

While these were fine, salutary words, they did not appear to have the desired effect. Jenaris stuck out a mutinous lower lip; I had no doubt she planned a few more midnight raids on the larder. And Shelynne only rolled her eyes, as if to indicate that she didn’t believe she had any shortcomings in need of pointing out.

As usually happened when my stepmother lost patience with her daughters, she turned her ire on me. “And you, miss, standing there as if you hadn’t a care in the world. You have work to do, so why are you still here?”

“I was only waiting to see if you had any further instructions for me, ma’am,” I replied meekly.

“Get to the kitchen and help Claris with dinner! No doubt she’s been missing you these five minutes, you lazy, idle girl!”

I bobbed my head and made my escape to the relative refuge of the kitchen. My stepmother rarely ventured in there, as she thought it more genteel to call for Claris and have any necessary consultations with her in the dining room.

The cook was bending over a saucepan as I entered, her greying hair wisping in the steamy heat of the kitchen. “Goodness, what a ruckus,” she said. “And of course she would be wanting pork medallions in wine sauce right off, as if she were having company.”

“Perhaps she missed your cooking,” I suggested, at which Claris shot me a very jaundiced look.

“Wanted to remind me who was in charge, more like,” she responded. “Ah, well, at least we had a few days’ rest. There’s some who don’t even get that.”

I nodded, not quite trusting myself to speak.

“Well, don’t stand there bobbing your head like one of those foolish dolls in the marketplace. Those greens need to be shredded, and Miss Jenaris’s must have no sauce, so hers has to go in a separate bowl.”

No sauce? My stepmother really must be serious about this. Somehow I thought it would be difficult to reverse years of indulgent sweet-eating in only a few short weeks, especially if I knew my stepsister. She would find a way to sneak the things she wanted, no matter that her mother had forbidden that she touch even a single piece of bread.

But I knew better than to say such a thing aloud, even to Claris. Word had a way of getting around, especially in a household as small as ours. I realized then that I had not caught a glimpse of Mari — our resident tattletale — but guessed she must have been up in the room my stepsisters shared, unpacking their things and setting aside the ones that needed to be laundered.

I went instead to the pile of field greens and began to rinse them off, setting the clean ones aside to drain as I did so. This was a relatively simple task, so my mind began to wander as I worked, imagining what the inside of the palace might look like, and what the music played at the balls would sound like, and what sort of food would be served at these gatherings. My stomach fairly rumbled at the thought. My stepmother did not precisely starve me, but I ate last, and of everyone’s leftovers, save for the bits that Claris slipped to me here and there.

Well, at least the Emperor liked slender girls, or so the rumors said…

M
aster Mellenden
, the dancing instructor, arrived promptly at ten in the morning the next day. I heard my stepsisters groaning about the time scheduled for their lessons, as neither of them preferred to be up and dressed much sooner than luncheon, but on that point my stepmother put her foot down.

“That is the only time he has available!” she’d snapped, as I lingered in the background of the large salon, studiously dusting her collection of small enameled birds. They’d been quite the fad some years ago, apparently. In fact, the whole house had become quite cluttered due to her tendency to latch on to the newest and most fashionable mode, no matter how frivolous it might be. “Master Mellenden is highly in demand! It was either ten o’clock or nothing! Do you want to look like left-footed fools in front of the Emperor?”

Apparently neither of my stepsisters did, for at that comment they’d muttered and sighed and rolled their eyes, but did not offer any further argument. And so it was set that Master Mellenden would come three days a week for the next month.

He was a handsome fellow, somewhere in his early thirties, I thought, and I could see why he would be so in demand among the ladies of the town. My stepmother was lucky to get him, even at the unfashionable hour of ten in the morning.

Our house was not grand enough for a ballroom, but Janks and I rolled up the rug in the second salon and moved all the furniture against the walls, leaving enough space for several couples to dance there. My stepmother did most of her receiving in the main salon, and so having the smaller room out of commission for the next month probably would not discommode her too much.

Janks’s service was not done there, either, for Master Mellenden declared that the only way for a young woman to learn to dance properly was with a man, and so the poor footman had to suffer through learning the
verdralle
and the
linotte
and the
padrane
, all the while handling both of my stepsisters as if they were made of eggshells. For their part, they tended to wear a look of disgust any time they were unlucky enough to be partnered with Janks rather than the dancing master, which I thought exceedingly ill-mannered of them…even though such behavior was only to be expected.

I, of course, could take no part in these proceedings, but could only pretend to be useful by fetching fresh water for them to drink, or to run and get Jenaris a new pair of slippers when she tore the stitching on hers, or to be there to open the windows when it became too warm and the girls declared they couldn’t dance another step without some fresh air. To be sure, the air in Iselfex was none too fresh in early Sevendre, but I wasn’t about to say such a thing out loud.

No, I only wanted to be present as much as possible so I could see how one was to place a hand on one’s partner’s shoulder during the
verdralle
, or how to do the complicated underhand turn during the
linotte
, or the way one must always start a dance with one’s right foot first. All this, and so much more, catching a faint whisper of what the tunes must sound like when played by a full quintet and not the one pointy-faced young man Master Mellenden brought along with him to play the flute as accompaniment.

It all seemed so complicated, and yet wonderful at the same time. I was not completely unschooled; my father had had a dancing master for me when I was young, as well as a tutor to teach me how to read and write and figure. He had taught me how to ride a horse himself, not trusting anyone else to do it — and also because I thought he wanted any chance he could take to ride the fields of his beloved estate, and taking his young daughter out on her pony afforded him the opportunity to be out in the wind and the sun, and not cooped up in the house.

Even so, it had been many years since my last dancing lesson, and I drank in what I could and prayed it would be enough. I wished there were some way I could coerce Janks into practicing with me, but of course he would think it foolish of me to want to dance, and if Mari should ever catch us at it, even if he were to agree — I shuddered at the thought. No, best to commit the various steps to memory, the same way I had learnt my multiplication tables, and to hope I would be able to recall the
padrane
as easily as I could remember six times nine.

Besides Master Mellenden, there was Mistress Rhandil, the seamstress, who was in and out of the house so often I rather began to wonder whether she could have saved herself some time and taken up residence in one of the unused bedrooms on the third floor. And I didn’t even want to think what all those bolts of shining fabric were costing, and the trims woven with precious metals, and the silk stockings and embroidered purses and feathered fans! True, last year had provided a bountiful harvest, and my stepmother always took the lion’s share of such income from her tenants, but even so, I could not see how she was possibly able to afford all this.

Manners and etiquette cost nothing. That is, my stepmother’s younger sister, who apparently had been quite the beauty in her day, had married a baron, and actually spent a good deal of time at court. Since she had borne only sons, she had no daughters who would be rivals for the Emperor’s hand, and so she took it upon herself to pass on her own knowledge of the court.

“‘Your Majesty,’ of course, for the Emperor, and the dowager Empress. ‘Your Highness’ for the Crown Princess, ‘Your Grace’ for any dukes or duchesses who might be present. Anything below that, and you’re safe with ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady,’ thank goodness,” said Lady Khorinne, sipping from a delicate etched glass filled with rhubarb cordial. “If you are very lucky, and His Majesty takes a particular interest in you, then he may give you leave to address him by his given name, but of course you should never do such a thing unless you have a very clear invitation.”

“And is he so very handsome?” sighed Shelynne, who apparently did not care much for titles and wanted to get to the heart of the matter.

“His Majesty is the handsomest man I ever saw,” the Baroness declared at once. “Begging my husband’s forgiveness, for of course he is a very fine man as well, but nothing next to the Emperor. You must count yourselves very lucky, girls, that he is being so magnanimous in giving this opportunity to the young women of his own land, instead of ignoring them in favor of a foreign princess.”

Of course my stepsisters chimed in at once that yes, he was being so very generous, and that they could not wait to see him for themselves.

“Ah, well, not much longer,” said the Baroness. “Only a week left, and so much to do!”

“Yes,” my stepmother put in, with a significant glance at Jenaris’ waistline, which had not diminished much over the preceding three weeks. “We must do everything we can to be ready.”

At that point she sent me to the kitchen to fetch some cakes — “but none for you, Jenny!” — and so I missed the rest of the lesson. Just as well, for my mind was churning. Only one week left! And unlike my stepsisters, I had nothing I could outwardly do to prepare. My prayers, and my worries, I kept to myself.

T
he fateful day
dawned cool and misty, a good sign, and a welcome respite from the heat that had dominated most of Sevendre. Almost from dawn the house was a flurry of frenzied activity, from drawing baths for my stepsisters to helping Claris prepare a morning meal that would provide sustenance without bloating them too much, to helping to lay out the elegant gowns prepared by Mistress Rhandil. As this first event was a tournament and would take place outdoors, the dresses were not quite as elaborate as the evening gowns and ball gowns they would wear later in the week, but still very fine — a dark blue dress trimmed with wheat-colored embroidery for Shelynne, and a burgundy one with soft gray embellishments for Jenaris. And after they were dressed, Mari spent almost an hour doing their hair, getting it to lie in sleek, shining curls over their shoulders, then setting the little caps made to match the gowns at precisely the correct angle on the backs of their heads.

Through all this hubbub I saw or heard nothing from my aunt, and began to wonder if she, too, had decided the enterprise was madness and had abandoned it. I should have known she was made of stouter stuff than that, for almost as soon as the hired carriage bearing my stepsisters rattled off down the street and I had gone out to the courtyard to pour out the used wash water, I heard a whisper from the unused stables.

“Ashara!”

I turned and saw my aunt’s face peeking out from behind one of the stall doors, and quickly set down the basin I was carrying. After taking a quick look around to make sure I was unobserved, I slipped inside.

Aunt Therissa wore a hooded cloak, but she had slipped the hood back. Her dark eyes shone with excitement as she looked at me. “Are you ready?”

“I-I think so,” I stammered. “That is, I have been watching my stepsisters practice their dance steps, and I know which fork to use first, and — ”

“That is not what I asked,” she said, interrupting me, although her tone was gentle. Her gaze met mine, and I found I could not look away. “Are you
ready
?”

My heart began to beat faster, and my fingers suddenly felt as if they had been carved from ice, but I managed to nod. “Yes, Aunt Therissa. I am ready.”

A smile then, although I could not say whether it blazed forth because she was relieved I had not backed out at the last minute, or simply because I had called her by her name for the first time. “Good. You are your mother’s daughter after all.” Once again she murmured words I could not understand under her breath.

I looked down and saw I wore a gown of heavy russet silk, almost the color of my hair, with a subtle pattern of leaves woven into the fabric. Trim of copper and bronze edged the sleeves, and fine lace peeked above the edge of the low-cut — but not too low-cut, as this was a daytime event — bodice.

“Beautiful,” she breathed. “He will see no one else, once he catches a glimpse of you.”

“I rather doubt that,” I said dryly, but she only laughed.

“Very well, I will leave that to the gods, but you must be off. I have a carriage waiting just down the street. Hurry!” And even as she said that last word she muttered something else, and I was looking back at myself, down to the fingernail I had newly broken that morning and the fresh burn along the edge of one hand, from carelessness with a bread pan still hot from the oven.