Princess Ben (8 page)

Across the two pages, I could see now, every chain of pictures ended with cupped hands, and each set of hands held a different substance. One clutched a lump resembling soil, another water with rippling surface. The third pair held what could only have been fire, sans a single indication of discomfort. The last hands I puzzled over, for they appeared to harbor a puff of mist, much like the clouds forever swirling about the base of our waterfall. These pictures meant
something,
I knew, but what?

Suddenly, as I scanned the pages' title, it struck me. The
elemental spells
these were, and such they produced: the four elements of earth, water, fire, and air.

What good such spells would accomplish I had not a clue. The ability to make dirt, or air, seemed rather a waste of magic. Fire, however, particularly a flame one could hold without danger—that was a different situation altogether. I made another attempt at the hand gestures, enunciating as clearly as possible and struggling to align properly my words and movements. Finishing, I gripped my two hands together, determined to cup the flame for a moment at least.

My palms filled with a brilliant glow as flames lapped upward. Reflexively I jerked back my head, afraid my curls might catch fire. But I felt not a hint of pain. The fire, in fact,
soothed my inflamed skin. Hardly daring to breathe, I lifted this magical fire to my face. I blew on it. The flames danced as flames will, burning more brightly still. Marveling at this miracle, I noticed the dust-caked candelabra and the drooping, mouse-gnawed candles. Careful to hold my fire out of harm's way, I blew dust from the curled wicks. This could not work—and yet, when I held my flame close, the first wick caught with ease. The room brightened as the candle flame grew. Thrilled beyond measure, I lit the remaining candles, and this warm yellow glow mingled with the pure white moonlight to suffuse the room with brightness. The page before me now read clearly, and, emboldened by my success, I set to work deciphering the tight prose.

This, too, took time, as the writer's spelling was creative at best, his phrasing archaic, and his penmanship, lovely though it appeared, lacked that crucial element of legibility. Halfway through the first sentence, I was already cursing him—or her, I should say in fairness, for the script, with its elaborate flourishes and illuminations, did have a feminine quality. With the greatest effort, I made my way through the first paragraph, which consisted of a series of warnings, the most important being that the spells could not be used for profit, that the manufacture of ice presented unique
challenges and might result in frostbite, and that attempts at flight would require additional spell work. The warning against profiteering included a most disturbing sketch of a man fabricating a large crystal, only to lose his hands. It had never occurred to me that "earth" might include gems and metals. Even so, wealth held little appeal. Far more interested was I in the concept of flight. Is that what the warning meant, that one produced the element of air in order to
fly?
To fly like a ... like a witch, on a broom? My mind reeled.

I spent the rest of the night in practice. Lucky I was that my first attempt had been so successful, else I would have forsaken the effort entirely. Try as I might, I could not construct air, not even a puff. My attempts at earth were equally futile. Perhaps I managed a dozen grains of soil, but my hands by this point were so filthy that I could not separate old dirt from new. Furious at my imbecility, I returned to my one success and produced a flame so powerful that it singed my hair. With a yelp I dropped the fire, snuffing it, and studied again the minuscule printing, only to learn that emotion played as strong a role in these spells as speech or gesture. I could control the volume, and to a certain extent the contents (specifying the type of earth, say, or that dangerous ice), with my mind. The writer further explained, as if reading my thoughts, that self-control was the very foundation of spell work. I could not resist a heartfelt snort. At the moment I had far too many critics of my self-control; I did not need another.

Nonetheless, I paid close attention to my mood, ignoring the stench of burnt hair. If I could not manage earth or air, perhaps I might at least produce water. This, too, required great concentration. At one point my hands grew damp, which I considered a great victory. Reinvigorated, I wiped my palms on my dress, leaving two long black smears across my middle. My swollen fingers ached, growing stiffer with every movement I forced from them. Finally, after what must have been the twentieth attempt, I again clasped my cupped hands together and to my astonishment found them brimming.

"Oh!" I cried out, clapping with joy. Water sprayed everywhere, further marking my gown. I raced to wipe the book, but of course it rested dry and unmarred. Again, and again, and again I created water, using the first two handfuls to clean my hands, scouring them with my undergarments, which I am sorry to report never fully recovered from this abuse. The third handful I drank. Doubtless I should have wondered whether magical water might be less than potable, potentially even poisonous. But after hours in that room,
dust caked my throat, and however poisonous the water may have been, it tasted sweet as a mountain spring.

Now I noticed the first beams of morning glowing through those delightful gemlike windows. I must depart this room, ere my empty cell be discovered! Hastily I scanned the chamber. Was there anything I had left, any single item or object of importance I should note? But for my footprints and the drops of water surrounding the lectern, the room looked as it had for years untold.

I snuffed the candles and raced down the stairs, now panicked as well that the magic doorway might be sealed. To my heartfelt relief, however, the portal presented the same tangible doorjamb, with only the faintest hint of a filmy barrier. No one had yet arrived; that was one fear eased. I took the last steps two at a time and then, with the overwhelming sensation that my life would never again be the same, I stepped through the veil. Oh, how I now loved this wretched little room! How powerful my gratitude to the queen for imprisoning me within this cell!

Filthy though I was, I threw myself down on the mattress, my mind racing with a great storm of ideas, plans, and notions. I had so, so much to consider.

Half an hour later, deep in dreamless sleep, I found myself being shaken awake in the rudest possible manner.

When Queen Sophia relegated me to this tower cell, she instructed Lady Beatrix to tend to my attire that I be clothed appropriately for classes, dance lessons, riding, meals, and the formal dinners I so abhorred. Utilizing the ever-growing wardrobe in my Peach Rooms, Lady Beatrix would select a seemly ensemble. Yet the lady discovered soon enough that the climb to my cell taxed her greatly. Moreover, I believe she suffered from claustrophobia, so profound was her reaction to that dark and narrow staircase. Thus, with the queen's blessing, she delegated the actual task of dressing me to Hildebert, a formidable handmaid who had little interest in my rank or susceptibility to bribes and was not above the application of brute force. I would emerge from my cell perspiring but dominated, to present myself, should she be available, for Sophia's inspection.

At the moment, however, it took all Hildebert's efforts to awaken me. "What have you done to yourself?" she grunted. "You're covered in filth, you are!"

I blinked, struggling to gather my wits.

"And what are you doing in your gown yet? You never even donned your nightdress!"

"No one undressed me," I answered peevishly but with undeniable truth.

"Milady will have to see this herself!" So saying, Hildebert tossed me aside and stomped away, pausing just long enough to lock me in.

I remained sprawled, laboring to recall the past hours. My hands, swollen and stiff, brought back Sophia's beating. And the tower room ... had I dreamt it? My gown was irreparably soiled; that was one reassurance. And my curls still reeked with that unmistakable stench of burnt hair.

Leaping off my pallet, I rushed to the wall. In daylight the stones appeared doubly solid, absolutely impregnable. And yet, as I reached out, my hand slipped into them as though into water.

Why did I now suddenly have this power? But, I realized,
I had never touched this particular wall before. No one traipses about a castle fondling every rock and bit of mortar. It was a plain, dull expanse of masonry, the likes of which I'd seen for hours on end every day of my life. Perhaps, indeed, the portal opened for everyone.

Soon as this thought sprang into my head, I heard Hildebert's stomping return. I remained in place, startling her as she opened the door.

"We're going to see her," she announced with a scowl.

"Who?" I demanded, with a petulance that before this day had come automatically to my lips; now I had to force the performance.

"Lady Beatrix, of course it be! I'd take you to the queen, but Her Majesty's suffering from a touch of headache."

That was interesting news, or would be when I had time to dwell on it. At the moment, however, I simply stamped my foot. "I'm not going."

As a red cape enrages a bull, so did this capture Hildebert's attention. "Oh, you're not, are you?" She advanced, arms wide.

As she closed in, I leapt forward and caught her formidable middle. The woman staggered back.

Anticipating that she would fall through the secret portal,
I intended to snatch her away, and distract her through tantrums until the incident slipped her mind. To my surprise and great relief, I was spared this, for her head hit the rock—the very rock into which I had just plunged my hand—with a crack that resounded like a whip snap.

Raging, the woman lunged at me and delivered a great cuff that even at the time I knew I deserved. Our balance of power thus restored, she led me to Lady Beatrix.

***

Hildebert had had no sensation of the doorway! To be honest, if one were to rank the castle's occupants on their potential for magical powers, Hildebert without question would appear near the bottom of the list. Nonetheless, I now had proof that my abilities were unusual if not unique. Perhaps 'twas my ancestors' blood after all.

As I scurried to match Hildebert's quick pace, footmen stiffened with unusual crispness; maids who had rarely acknowledged my presence now curtsied low. Had I considered the matter, I would have attributed it to my preposterously filthy appearance. Lost in my thoughts, however, I scarce noticed the reception.

Lady Beatrix, when we arrived at her chambers, puffed
in horror. "Princess! What have you done?" Apparently we had interrupted her in the middle of her toilette, for she lacked rouge on one cheek.

I repeated, not having another answer, "No one undressed me."

"And so you ended up like this! Did you roll about on the floor? I cannot believe it."

Neither could I. How would anyone who had seen my sterile cell suppose for one moment that it held dust enough to soil a handkerchief, let alone my voluminous and many-layered gown? But I overestimated the opinion in which I was held. Lady Beatrix apparently believed me slovenly enough to manufacture my own dirt. (The fact that I potentially
could
manufacture dirt was beside the point.) With a dramatic sigh, she released me to my bath.

The combination of hot water, my warm breakfast rolls, and a virtually sleepless night worked as an inexorable soporific. Arriving at the ballroom for my dance lessons, I dropped at once onto a divan.

"Her Highness must stand for the first step," chided plump little Monsieur Grosbouche.

"No," I answered, too exhausted to wheedle. "I won't."

Lady Beatrix examined me. "Very well, then." And she
flounced away, settling with Monsieur Grosbouche on the far side of the ballroom. With a last glare in my direction, the two began to discuss the latest fashions in wigs and how these prizes might best be acquired.

Normally I would have puzzled over this unprecedented liberty. I was far too weary to notice, however, and instead collapsed at once in sleep. When I awoke, the adults were still talking wigs (is there, pray tell, enough substance in the topic to fill a minute, let alone hours?) and the time had come to dress for dinner.

Queen Sophia did not join us. Apparently her headache, or what we may euphemistically term headache, continued to plague her. Lady Beatrix and I ate in silence, I counting the moments until I could return to my cell, and she doubtless still caught up in wig prospecting. I did notice, however, that my helpings were larger than usual, and I smiled gratefully to the footman, who bowed low in response.

As Sophia was not present, Lady Beatrix escorted me to the queen's reception room, where Hildebert met us, my nightclothes over one arm. Traditionally my disrobing and donning of nightdress involved no small amount of sharp words, slaps, and, on one dismal occasion, the toe of a boot. Tonight, however, I tolerated Hildebert's rough handling and
sharp tugs with the patience of a mannequin, for the sooner she finished, the sooner my new life recommenced. Several times the handmaid scowled, doubtless wondering to what diabolic act my new docility was leading, but I did not rise even to this ripe bait. Instead I climbed into bed and, as she gathered the last of my dinner garments together, wished the woman good night. With a snort of disbelief, Hildebert marched out of the room, as always locking the door behind her.

No sooner did I hear the faint echo of the staircase door closing far below than I was through the portal. Oh, to think that only twenty-four hours earlier I had not known of this! What a transformation in one's life a day can make.

As I rushed up the narrow staircase, dust already swirling around me, my fingers suddenly brushed cloth. I shrieked aloud as the material collapsed, smothering my short frame. Through fortune alone I maintained my footing, staggering down the steps, ripping and clawing at the enveloping fabric.

My heart pounding, I fled back to my cell. There I discovered myself in possession of a cloak of heavy black wool, complete with sleeves and grosgrain detailing. Impulsively I donned the garment. It fit perfectly, from the deep hood to the snug cuffs to the hem that just brushed my toes. What
ideal protection! So swathed, I could spend hours in my dusty secret room and emerge with pristine nightdress, immune to suspicion.