Moonlight and Ashes (4 page)

I wanted this mouse gone. I did not want it to think it was safe here and I also didn't want it to nibble on my hazel twig. Carefully, I crept to the cupboard. I slowly opened the door and stared in amazement, for it wasn't a mouse that had made the sound at all!

Inside my cupboard was a tree – a miniature hazel tree no higher than the length of my hand from wrist to fingertips, but still a tree, perfect in every way. It grew out from the jug, its roots suspended in the water, its tiny but vigorous branches covered in beautiful soft, green leaves that were touched with living gold where the light from my candle fell on them. And as I stared, I saw a slight movement amongst the leaves, a rustle carried by a wind I couldn't feel, a wind that came from – I knew not where.

I can hardly describe my feelings. To say I was astonished would be too slight; to say I was stunned would be too blunt. I felt awe fill me, and delight, and gladness. I felt as if my heart was unfurling like the hazel leaves that had unfurled from the bud. I got down on my knees and put my face close to the little tree, breathing in its scent of green. As I did so, I could hear my mother's whisper and feel her fingers in my hair.

I don't know how long I stayed there in a marvellous peace but after a while I whispered, ‘Hazel . . . Oh beautiful hazel, tell me what I must do.'

I waited but nothing happened. A single leaf detached itself from a branch and came floating down to my feet. I picked it up and held it in my hand. ‘Oh,' I said, stroking the leaf, ‘you are soft as silk, light as a lace handkerchief!'

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I no longer held a leaf in my hand – but an exquisite handkerchief of pale green silk and lace, with a curly ‘S' embroidered in the corner. It was the most beautiful handkerchief I'd ever seen; finer by far than anything my stepsisters or stepmother had in their drawers, finer than anything I'd ever owned or had seen in the finest shops of Ashberg. Why, not even the Empress herself could have something as fine as this!

After the wonder came excitement. The tree's magic was unlocked by
my
words
as I touched the leaf! I could make others turn into anything I liked – anything I needed! Trembling with anticipation, I picked a leaf off the tree. I said, ‘Oh, you are warm as a coin in the purse, light as a banknote.' I waited but nothing happened. I tried again – and to my dismay the leaf began to curl up, its edges blackening as though it were being burned, and in less time than it takes to write, it had crumbled to ash in my hand.

What had I done wrong? I picked another leaf and whispered, ‘You are green as spinach soup and good as fresh bread,' but though my mouth watered at my own words, the leaf did not change. Instead, it melted into sludge, like algae in a pond. Not discouraged, I thought
I'd try to conjure another handkerchief, so I picked one more leaf and repeated my first words. But this time, all I ended up with was a skeleton of a leaf that drifted off my hand like thistledown and disappeared as soon as it hit the floor.

‘Oh hazel tree,' I said in despair, ‘what is it that I must do?' As I spoke an image came into my head of the first leaf detaching itself from the branch before floating down to the floor at my feet. It wasn't me who decided – it was the tree! And until it decided to loose another leaf, there was nothing I could do.

‘But I need you to help me now,' I told the tree, ‘because I want to leave – I
need
to leave – you must understand . . .' My appeal went unanswered.

‘What is the good of you then?' I said sadly. ‘What good is a silly handkerchief to me when I need a lifeline? What is the good of granting me a wish I didn't even realise I was making? You gave me hope and then took it away and now it is worse than ever.' I closed the cupboard, unable to look at it. I left the handkerchief on the chair by my bed. It was an exquisite thing, and to glance at it made the gladness return just a little. Pretty as it was, though, it was of no use. It was a frivolous magic of no importance and it could not help me at all.

I woke the next morning to find the handkerchief had vanished and in its place lay a dry leaf. So the magic had only lasted a few hours . . . It was hardly a surprise, in my low state of mind. And my low state of health. For I felt
sick. I had a bad headache and churning stomach. Indeed I felt so bad that it was all I could do to drag myself up and start my chores. But I knew that if I tried to get a sick day, it would be taken from any free time I was due – and in two days' time, on Sunday afternoon, I was due for a half-day off, after, of course, going to church. Time which would be my own, which was precious to me. So I tried to carry on till, by the end of the evening, I could no longer take it and fainted while trying to finish the mopping. I was brought to by one of the cooks, who bathed my forehead in cold water and gave me a steaming bowl of chicken broth. For once Mrs Jager didn't object because, as she told us, tomorrow was a big day and all hands were needed on deck. The Mayor of Ashberg, his wife and half the City Council were coming for dinner to discuss plans for the Prince's ball. There would be massive preparations all day and on no account was I or anyone else to be sick tomorrow.

I must admit it made me feel a lot better – the chicken broth, I mean. It wasn't only disappointment and despair that had made me sick but simple hunger. I'd had supper but it had been as meagre as always. The broth was thick and rich with bits of roast chicken and herbs; and with the slice of bread I had managed to swipe when no-one was looking, it made the finest meal I'd eaten in weeks – months, even.

Back in my room, I opened the cupboard door to see how the hazel tree was faring. It had grown a little more – it was now the length of half my forearm plus that of my hand, and the roots had now reached the bottom of the jug. If it kept growing at this rate, it would soon
outgrow the jug and it would either die or be discovered. I had to put it somewhere else – somewhere it wouldn't be noticed.

If you want to hide a tree, you plant it in a forest. I didn't have ready access to a forest, but just beyond the kitchen's garden wall at the back of the house was a patch of parkland that had been planted by one of Father's ancestors long ago. Neglected and forgotten as of late, it was in rather a state with the gardeners concentrating on the showier flower gardens and vegetable beds. I headed out there in the dead of night, carrying the tree and a trowel, and soon had the hazel planted in amongst the long grass, near a little pond half-choked by weeds.

It looked as though it was meant to be there – at least, that's what I hoped. I would try to visit it when I could but I'd have to be careful. I hoped it wouldn't keep growing, drawing attention to itself and spreading the faint scent of magic that would eventually attract the Mancers, who would descend like wolves on the fold.

At that exact moment a wolf howled somewhere far away. I shivered. No, surely not a wolf. There were no wolves in the city; it must be a dog howling at the full moon. But I couldn't help my skin prickling and my heart thumping as I raced back to the safety of my room with that long, sinister howl echoing in my ears.

I am standing in bright moonlight as I look up at the hazel tree. It is of only mild surprise to me that the tree has grown so much that the topmost branches are above my head. It must have been raining earlier because there are sparkles of raindrops on the leaves and along the branches and, in the pale light, they make the hazel glitter with an unearthly beauty. The little pond gleams too, the weeds have moved away from its surface and I can see myself and the hazel reflected there beside the moon. It's very still and I hold my breath, waiting.

There's a whisper in the branches – a thread of sweet sound like a distant song. And all at once fluttering down from the tree come dozens – no, hundreds – of leaves, falling silent as snow over me, all over my hair, my face and my cold, bare feet.

No, they are not bare any more but shod in thin, soft slippers the colour of moonlight, while my nightdress has become the finest of lace petticoats overlaid with a glorious
dress of green silk and silver brocade and an exquisite velvet cloak the colour of night. As I look wonderstruck into the mirrored surface of the pond, I see that around my neck is a glittering necklace of clear gems with the liquid shine of raindrops, a heart-shaped emerald pendant set in the middle. At my ears glint studs of emerald and silver, and on my right hand is a ring of pearl and white gold. My chestnut hair has a golden sheen and is done up with a silver net as fine and light as cobwebs, my hazel eyes sparkle with an emerald light and my lips are washed with the palest pink, like the faint beginnings of dawn. Happiness blooms in me like a flower and I laugh out loud. In the moonlight, all alone with a song in my heart, I begin to dance, remembering the steps Mama had taught me long ago.

Dance, my darling, dance, for dawn is coming, a whisper says deep in my heart, and everything has changed, and the dark night in which you have been living will be behind you for ever and you will be alone no longer. It is my mother's voice and I know she speaks the truth, for my heart is full of a delight such as I have never known.

Suddenly there is a pebble in my path. I trip. I wake. For a moment I do not understand what has happened. There is no hazel, no moonlight. The night is black as pitch at my little window. I have no jewels, no beautiful dress, no silver slippers – only my old nightdress that's so worn it is thin as a sheet of rice paper and about as warm. It was only a dream. I put my head in my hands and as I do so I feel something caught in my hair. I pull it out and stare at a leaf – a damp hazel leaf!

My heart beats wildly and I close my eyes. When I open them again, I half-expect I've dreamed this too. But
the leaf is still there: small, not fully grown but absolutely real as it rests snugly in the hollow of my palm. I look at it for a moment longer then, reaching up to my necklace, I open the locket and slide the tiny leaf inside. Its soft, damp green seems to glow with the light of magic, the promise of dawn.

That was this morning. I've had hardly any time to think about it all day as I have been kept busy, busier than I have ever been with the whole house in a frenzy to get things ready for the distinguished guests. The importance of the dinner was highlighted by the presence of Grizelda in the kitchen not once but
twice
, as she hardly ever condescends to descend those stairs, preferring to summon Mrs Jager instead. She was clearly anxious, and I soon learned why: that very morning, she had learned it wasn't just the city dignitaries who would be there in force, but also Count Otto von Gildenstein, a court official sent on ahead of the Prince to oversee the Ashberg celebrations.

Count Otto was a very important man. A senior adviser to the Emperor, he also sat on the Mancer Council, which was made up not only of the most senior Mancers but also of powerful and trusted political figures. His only son, Maximilian, was Prince Leopold's best friend and had only just returned from Klugheitfurt University himself where he had studied alongside the Prince. Although Count Otto owned a hunting estate just outside the city, he only occasionally came to Ashberg and when he did he came alone to hunt, refusing all social invitations. So his
presence at dinner tonight in my father's house would be a real honour and it meant that everything must run even more perfectly than usual. I was sent to clean the sculleries from top to bottom – as if Count Otto would put one booted foot anywhere near them! Taking advantage of the whirlwind of activity downstairs, I sneaked out to check the tree.

Still covered in leaves, it was nowhere near as big as it had been in my dream but I was certain it had grown. It hadn't shed any leaves either, and the pond was still choked with weeds, with not a hint of that shining, mirrored surface. It had been a dream and yet the leaf from my dream was in my locket – still fresh and green, still unmistakeably real. None the wiser, I slipped back to the sculleries, just in time before the head scullery maid poked her head around the door to inspect my work.

If downstairs was a perfect ant-heap of busyness, upstairs was no less frantic, according to the footmen and maids. Madame Paulina and several of her assistants spent hours closeted with my stepmother and stepsisters, performing emergency alterations to dresses that had been considered fine enough for a dinner with city authorities but not quite fine enough for a senior adviser to the Emperor. While hairdressers, perfumers and beauticians attended to the women, a tailor came for my father's needs and, no doubt under Grizelda's instructions, Ashberg's finest perruquier arrived
to fit a fashionable wig on Father's bald head. The upstairs staff did not much like the house filled with these strangers, and even less that Grizelda had given instructions that they were to run errands for them, but there was nothing they could do except grumble at the
servants' table about ‘upstart tradesmen' who didn't know ‘the family' like they did.

Of course, nobody seemed to remember that I was part of that family. And why should they? The real power in the house had decided I was to be disregarded and brought low and, as my father had not objected except in the weakest of terms, that was what counted. And it had not brought me any friends – far from it. I was not one of them downstairs; but I was not one of them upstairs, either. Babette was right – I was a nobody, a creature everyone could safely despise.

Night came, and with it the rumble of carriages and the loud, confident voices of the guests. Word filtered down to the kitchen of the splendid gowns and jewels of the women, and the men's dress uniforms clanking with medals. Even our fat, old mayor, Baron Tomas, looked splendid, apparently, in his magnificent dark red, velvet robes of office and the white, fox-fur-trimmed ceremonial helmet that has always reminded me of the headgear worn by a Ruvenyan warrior depicted in one of Mama's old books. To me, it seemed to touch a pompous and tedious old man with the glamour of exotic legend, as Ruvenya was a vast kingdom to our east, but I don't suppose the mayor would be glad to hear it for, like many people hereabouts, he would consider Ruvenya to be a dangerous and barbarous land. Though, he might not say so in a court official's company, for our Empress herself had been born a Ruvenyan princess.

Count Otto did not arrive for more than an hour after the other guests, and the footmen relayed news of the growing tension upstairs. ‘They're afraid he might not turn up at all,' said one of the footmen. ‘He's done that before, apparently.' The cooks were also in hysterics at the thought that their vast, carefully planned meal would spoil if it was delayed for much longer, and everyone downstairs looked glum at the prospect that a furious Lady Grizelda would visit her disappointment on us.

But thankfully he did turn up and all was forgiven. Despite having ‘a face like a bulldog and the build of a prize-fighter' (a footman's cheeky words), he knew exactly what to say to everyone and charmed the whole assembly with his flattering description of the Province of Ashbergia as ‘one of His Imperial Majesty's most loyal' and of Ashberg as ‘one of the jewels of the Empire' which the Prince, whose many official titles included Duke of Ashbergia, was looking forward to visiting with immense pleasure and anticipation.

‘He said that the Prince is keen to make glad as many citizens of Ashberg as possible, from the high to the low,' the same footman went on, ‘and so as well as the ball for the toffs there's to be a big night-fair for us common folk that same night and, later on in the week, the Prince might address the crowds in St Hilda's Square.'

‘Must feel different to his father then,' someone muttered.

‘Nobody's ever taken a pot shot at him, that's why,' chimed in another. Despite all that stuff about Ashbergia being ‘one of the most loyal' provinces, long ago, many years before I was born, someone had actually taken a shot
at the Emperor while he was on a visit to Ashberg. The hopeful assassin had been a madman who thought he was a reincarnation of the Grey Widow. It was soon proved there was no wider plot and the assassin was executed, but the fear of lone dealers of death suddenly appearing from within cheering crowds had haunted the Emperor ever since.

‘I've heard the Prince is handsome,' sighed one of the maids. ‘Hair like gold and eyes like cornflowers, a manly bearing and a gift with words.'

‘Bah! That's what those perfumed papers tell you,' scoffed a footman, ‘but anyone can look good when they have an army of skivvies to attend to them.'

‘I've heard he's not like that at all,' persisted the maid. ‘I read that while he was at university, he shared an ordinary apartment with his friend Maximilian von Gildenstein and they just had one of those college servants and that the Prince was like any other young man who –'

‘You'll rot your mind reading that rubbish, my girl,' said Mrs Jager, coming into the kitchen just in time to overhear. ‘The Prince is not just any young man, he is the heir to the throne and a very great man indeed and the likes of us have absolutely no business discussing him as if he were a mere dandy from the social pages. While I am in charge down here, there will be no more disrespectful remarks, is that clear? From anyone,' she went on, glaring at the footman, who shrugged sulkily but said nothing more.