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Rhona, the Widow Barclay, stood in the ballroom of the king’s castle beside her two daughters and fidgeted with her left foot. On the jostling carriage ride through town to the castle, a sharp bit of gravel had popped up from the road, slipped through the top of her left boot and landed beside a hole in her worn stockings. Now it was lodged above her heel, mercilessly cutting into tender skin. The pain was excruciating. Trying not to grimace in agony, she tapped her foot against the floor, but the boots were too small and the tapping did nothing to change the position of the pebble. Rhona realized only one action would relieve her discomfort, and that involved removing her boot and shaking loose the intruder. No, she thought, she would sooner die than reveal her ratty stockings and ugly feet in the king’s castle on a night as wonderful and rare as this one. Rhona decided she would press on through the pain. She would stand, walk, curtsy and smile all night, never letting on that her boots were filled with blood.
Rhona had never much liked celebrations, and this night, she felt completely out of place. She could not shirk the awareness that her hair was the wrong style, her jewelry insufficient, and her dress old and dreary. At least she was warm; the chill of late fall and the wind off the ocean could not be felt inside for fires blazed in every fireplace. Indeed, the room was bright as daytime, lit by a million sparkling candles, their incandescent light bouncing off mirrors and glass, glittering like diamonds. People crowded and hovered everywhere she looked, more than Rhona had ever seen, all beautifully dressed and dancing, talking, laughing. At the head of the room, the king and queen sat upon their fine daises, handsome and composed, gazing over the throng. A small orchestra played, and the young people danced as though they had waited their whole lives for this moment. Rhona thought she’d never heard anything so marvelous as that music. She closed her eyes, and the notes resonated through her body, all the way down to her suffering heel.
She brushed her dress. It was satin, and she’d embellished it especially for the event, but it was still the same widow’s black she wore every day. Her boots had been fashionable once, but even without the pebble, they were too tight to even consider dancing. No, she would not dance this night. Among all these people who sparkled like starlight, Rhona felt like a slug, a nobody who had snuck in through a door left unlocked.
Then, she supposed, perhaps that was right. She had only come to accompany her daughters; revelry like this was for the young. Rhona had not been young for many years; perhaps she never had been. She looked at her younger daughter, Liisi. Youth suited her like petals suited a flower; such a glowing, yellow-haired beauty. Rhona had even lent her an ivory brooch, and the diamonds around the perimeter reflected in Liisi’s shining eyes.
Yes, the girl was stunning. She had to be. This night, Liisi needed to secure a husband, or at least a suitor, preferably wealthy or royal, who would pledge to her his everlasting devo
The very idea made Rhona shiver.
“But which is the crown prince?” Liisi was asking, standing on tiptoes to see above the dancing heads. “I cannot see him.”
“I am not certain,” Rhona said. “It’s difficult to see faces when the royal family passes by in parades. Perhaps that is he, over there.”
“No, mother,” said Rhona’s older daughter, Orla. “That young man is an ordinary in the military. The crown prince is on the other side of the room.”
Liisi smirked and, with a quick gesture, flipped open her ornate fan. “You two should be able to see better,” she said. “Thanks to your immense height.”
Rhona smiled. Even Liisi’s impatience and irritation seemed well-suited in the king’s ballroom. The young were never content; perhaps, she thought, this was as it should be. Those who had lived long, hard lives would come to find joy in simple things, but the young must insist that the world improve. Somewhere in that ceaseless longing, a new world would be born, and it was not up to the elders to dream of it.
“Shall I hoist you on to my back, like when we were children climbing trees?” Orla asked her sister, teasing.
“I’m glad you think this is funny,” Liisi said, fanning herself. “I’m quite serious, Orla. I will meet the crown prince tonight. And I plan to dance with him.”
“I doubt not that you will get everything you wish for, Liisi,” Orla said. “One way or another.”
Rhona noticed how neatly Orla’s hair had been fashioned to cover the scars upon her neck. Still, the marks on her face were always visible, and though the ones on Orla’s heart were unobservable, Rhona knew that Orla carried a particular burden. Rhona knew she should be grateful her daughter had survived that terrible fire at all, and yet, Orla’s injuries meant she had only a short time left in the world. This
Rhona regretted more than she could say.
“Now, now, ladies,” Rhona said, and she held up the tiny, bejeweled opera glasses that hung from her wrist on a small chain. “Let us not spend this lovely night arguing. Which one did you think it was, Orla?”
“The gentleman over there, but perhaps…” she looked about. “The young man on that side wears a gold sash bedecked with medals. Is that crown Prince Finnian or the brother, Prince Eiran? I cannot say.”
Rhona looked again through the binoculars.
“Oh, mother, the horror,” Liisi said. She closed her fan and pushed the opera glasses away from her mother’s face. “Do not let people see you watching through that thing. They’ll think we came here to ogle the royal family.”
“There is no harm in looking,” Rhona said.
“Everyone here has come to notice and be noticed,” Orla said. “Your mother simply brought a tool to make it easier. And see, she is not the only one. That lady over there does the same.”
Liisi glanced in the direction Orla pointed. “That woman with the awful dress shaped like an aubergine?” she exclaimed. “She sells pasties in the market.”
“Work is not a bad thing, Liisi,” Orla said.
Liisi sighed, exasperated. “Oh, it is though. Work is terribly crude. My future husband, whoever he may be, inherited his land and title and will never bow to another. And neither will his future wife.”
“I fear that life will offer you many surprises, my daughter,” Rhona said.
“I am sure it shall, dear mother,” Liisi said. “And I cannot wait to learn what they are.”
Rhona glanced at Liisi. Her daughter had misunderstood
her meaning, but she would not correct her.
“I am beginning to think,” Liisi said, “That standing here with you two shall not advance my cause. I must determine which is Prince Finnian and inscribe my name upon his dance card.”
“Provided it is not already full,” Orla said.
Liisi again popped open her delicate, lacy fan, and hid her face behind it. “Oh, sister,” she said. “When His Highness sees me, room will be found on his card.”
“Good luck, sister,” Orla said, waving demurely with her gloved hand.
Liisi waved coyly and disappeared into the crowd.
“She needs luck,” Rhona remarked. “I believe every young woman from the kingdom of Braemuir is here.”
“Perhaps,” Orla said.
Rhona watched her older daughter play with her dark hair, fingering the lower tendrils of her locks and pulling them to her face. Without thinking, Orla seemed to be trying to cover the scars on her neck.
“Don’t play with your hair, dear,” Rhona said. “It looks so lovely, and if it comes undone, I haven’t any idea how to set it right.”
Orla glanced at her mother. “You know, mother, not every young woman from Braemuir is here tonight,” she said. “At least one lady is not present.”
“Pardon?” Rhona said.
“Cinder,” Orla said. “You should have let her come. There was no reason to make her sit at home in the dark house, while we attend a ball at the king’s castle. Everyone was invited. The invitation said so.”
“You would have had her join us wearing that dreadful rag?” Rhona said.
“That dress belonged to her own mother,” Orla said. “A
tion. Their little family might soon lose their home. And if this came to pass, Rhona did not know what course they would take.
“And she tried to fix it. We could have helped her. That is what sisters do. She had every right to be here.”
Rhona sighed. Orla did not know what Rhona knew, that an orphan’s life was filled with difficulties and pain. Orphans did not have parents who championed their cause nor any dowry to secure an advantageous marriage. Indeed, without a lightning strike of luck, as she herself had had, orphans never rose in society. Only hardship lay ahead for her ward. Pity, for Rhona liked the girl’s spirit. But she believed Cinder was better off not attending the king’s ball, not knowing what beauty and light were contained in the world. The girl’s life would have been ruined by a grandeur she would never encounter again.
Rhona herself wished she did not know of so much loveliness. Tomorrow, she would wake up in a crumbling manor house and all this would be gone, evaporated as though it never happened. She felt it very unfair to be offered this vision now and know it was almost ended, already on its way to becoming a memory.
“Orla, dear, wouldn’t you care to dance with some young gentleman?” Rhona asked. “Go and greet someone.”
Orla turned toward her mother with an expression of bemused surprise. “Who would care to dance with me? With this?” She touched her face, skin rippled in streaks of pink and white.
“Marks on the face do not affect dancing,” Rhona said. She was trying to make light of the subject, but she knew she had failed.
“No, but scars frighten possible dance partners,” Orla said. “There are so many young women here tonight, why would any young man care to dance with me?”
“Oh, Orla,” Rhona said. “Do not speak so.”
Orla laughed. “I sound very sad, don’t I? But I am only speaking of what I know to be true. Excuse me, Mother, I must investigate the confections.”
Orla left Rhona’s side, and suddenly Rhona felt like she
had been depleted of a girder that was holding her upright. She shifted her posture and the pebble again bit into her heel. She grimaced and tried once more to move her foot and dislodge the grain, but to no avail. She glanced around. She recognized a few people, the pasty woman included, but she had no friends in the room. She had lived in Braemuir Kingdom in the country of Dalkeith for seven years, but had made few acquaintances. She’d come there to raise Gerik’s daughter after his wife died. She might have met more people if their house had been closer to town, or if her daughters had become friends with the local girls, or if Gerik had bothered to introduce them. They might have held parties of their own at Bowmore House, after all, the manor had once been stately enough for entertaining. But none of these had come to pass, so she remained a stranger in her adopted village, and now she stood in a room full of people, utterly alone.
“Pardon me, you look a bit lost,” came a man’s voice. “May I be of some assistance?”
Rhona turned and saw a gentleman standing beside her, hands clasped behind his back. Dressed in a foreigner’s military suit, the man was tall and slender, hair thin and graying.
She curtsied slightly. “My daughters are off enjoying the festivities,” she said. “Now their old mother wanders about, having forgotten what one does at a party.”
“Ahh,” he said. “I am sure I do not possess your daughters’ beauty and charm, but my company might prove entertaining. My name is Gustave De Fontenay,” he said, and he bowed his head. “I am a guest of his highness, King Humphry.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Rhona said. “I am the widow, Rhona Barclay.”
De Fontenay gave her a humble smile. “My pleasure,” he said, his accent thick. “How strange that one can be surrounded by people and feel so solitary.”
Rhona smiled slightly. “I was just thinking this.”
He offered her his hand, and she rested her gloved hand
upon his. “I am sent from Gallia as an envoy from King Mattieu,” De Fontenay said. “Let us find a servant who can bring us some wine.”
“Why, that would be lovely,” she said. “So, you are a visitor to our country?”
“I am,” he said. “I appreciate this place, how rugged it is, the land and the people. The sparkling cities of Gallia are not here, but there is natural beauty: tall pines, cliffs that cut the coastline, the apples, oh, a fresh Braemuir apple right off the tree is matched by none.”
“Since you are from Gallia, have you spent much time in the City of Light?” Rhona asked. “I have heard the city is impossibly beautiful.”
“I have,” Monsieur said. “The architecture is stunning, the cuisine delectable. But one grows weary of so much celebrating. As if every day was a ball like this.”
Rhona looked at the spectacle before her. “I can only imagine.”
Monsieur De Fontenay directed Rhona into a quiet gallery off the side of the ballroom, then asked a servant to bring them a bottle of the king’s wine and two glasses. The pair strolled and gazed upon portraits of generations of royal family members, making quiet conversation.
“How long have you been away from home?” Rhona asked.
“Many weeks,” he said. “My wife wrote me a letter recently and told me of all the berry cakes she had made. At that, I nearly wept. I did not know I would be homesick for something as simple as berry cake!” He chuckled at his own emotion.
Rhona laughed with him, but quietly thought, ahh, there’s a wife.
“When I was a child,” she said, “I had a dear friend whose mother was from Gallia.” Rhona stopped then, for suddenly, without warning, the memory came alive before her.
Ailen.
Rhona could see the girl as she had been the last time
they’d met: face tear-streaked, eyes wide with terror, grief and confusion. Rhona had been nineteen, Ailen sixteen. It was a strange moment, like the end of time. And after it, each girl fled the town where they’d lived their whole lives, but in opposite directions. “You must leave, now,” Rhona told Ailen. “Go to the island of St. Kiana. You will be safe.”
She had sent Ailen away on a goatherd’s wagon and never saw her again.
Rhona composed herself and tried to return her mind to the king’s ball. “What business brings you here,” she asked, “and keeps you away from berry cake for so long?”
“I lead a faction of the cavalry and army,” he said. “We depart come morning. I remained only to attend this ball, for I was invited by the king and queen. Unfortunately, we return home unsuccessful.”
“Oh,” said Rhona. “What was the nature of your mission?”
“It is a complicated political matter, regarding the succession to the throne in Gallia,” he said. “Many years ago, King Mattieu took a lover. Some believe the woman bore a child and stole away to your country to raise the baby. They say the queen murdered the woman and the child as well. But some say the child survived. A few months ago, the queen died, never having produced an heir. So the king sent us here to see if we could locate his lover’s child.”
“Oh, my, such intrigue,” she said. Then, the music stopped and the room became quiet. Rhona and De Fontenay strolled to the grand hall to see what had captivated everyone’s attention. A young lady in an exquisite dress of green and gold had joined the ball. She was so lovely, she radiated like the first star in a summer sky.
Rhona caught her breath; she’d never seen a woman so beautiful.
Yet, something about her looked familiar. Was it her eyes, her mouth, or the shape of her face? She felt suddenly that she was looking at her dear Ailen. But that was not possible; Ailen was three years her junior, and this young
woman was the age of her own daughters.
Across the crowded room, the girl’s nervous eyes met Rhona’s. In that moment, the girl reminded her of her ward, her own stepdaughter. But Cinder had stayed home from the ball for she had not been able to secure a proper gown. She could never have attained a dress like that, composed herself and traveled to the castle. There had not been enough time.
The crowd between them closed and Rhona lost her view of the young woman. Just as well; she did not like the tricks her mind was playing, projecting ghosts from the past in the halls of her mind. It must be the wine, she thought. I would have been better off with whiskey.
“I should go seek my daughters,” she said. “But I have been honored to meet you.”
“You as well, madame,” he said, kissing her hand.
Rhona turned toward where people were dancing and saw the young man who she believed was Prince Finnian. He held out his hand to the beautiful young woman. The look on his face, on both their faces, were expressions of delight and adoration.
She stopped and watched them, and smiled to herself. She must be the Duchess of Spitzbergen. How strange that for a moment, I thought she was Ailen. Stranger still to think upon Cinder… The young woman and the crown prince put their arms around each other, and when the music began to play, the two danced. Nobody in the room could look away. The couple were the perfect dancing partners, their eyes held each other fast and their feet barely grazed the floor, moving in time.
And more than all that, she thought, our Cinder
does not know how to dance.
The next morning, when all the candles in the king’s ballroom had long been cold and the last bit of detritus swept from the ballroom floor, Rhona found herself at the castle door, holding the reins to the family’s palfrey and rapping furiously on the door. She could not catch her breath after her galloping ride on horseback through the morning’s dark, misty roads. She hated to come to the king’s castle in this condition, exhausted from a sleepless night and dirty from her ride, her hair a mess; indeed, she hated to go anywhere by horseback, but she had no time to waste.
“Please,” she said breathlessly to the servant who opened the door. “I must see Monsieur De Fontenay. It’s urgent.”
The servant looked at her with a puzzled expression. “But ma’am, you cannot bring a horse inside the king’s castle.”
Rhona grumbled. “I forgot the beast was here. Where do I put it?”
The servant blinked. “Usually, guests bring their horses to the stables and a groom takes care of it,” she said. “Ride back out along this path and you’ll see—”
“I do not have time to ride back out the way I came,” she said, flustered. “I must see Monsieur De Fontenay now.”
“Wait here,” the servant said. A moment later, she appeared with a scruffy boy of about twelve years. “Pavel, watch this lady’s horse while she comes inside.”
does not know how to dance.
The next morning, when all the candles in the king’s ballroom had long been cold and the last bit of detritus swept from the ballroom floor, Rhona found herself at the castle door, holding the reins to the family’s palfrey and rapping furiously on the door. She could not catch her breath after her galloping ride on horseback through the morning’s dark, misty roads. She hated to come to the king’s castle in this condition, exhausted from a sleepless night and dirty from her ride, her hair a mess; indeed, she hated to go anywhere by horseback, but she had no time to waste.
“Please,” she said breathlessly to the servant who opened the door. “I must see Monsieur De Fontenay. It’s urgent.”
The servant looked at her with a puzzled expression. “But ma’am, you cannot bring a horse inside the king’s castle.”
Rhona grumbled. “I forgot the beast was here. Where do I put it?”
The servant blinked. “Usually, guests bring their horses to the stables and a groom takes care of it,” she said. “Ride back out along this path and you’ll see—”
“I do not have time to ride back out the way I came,” she said, flustered. “I must see Monsieur De Fontenay now.”
“Wait here,” the servant said. A moment later, she appeared with a scruffy boy of about twelve years. “Pavel, watch this lady’s horse while she comes inside.”
does not know how to dance.
The next morning, when all the candles in the king’s ballroom had long been cold and the last bit of detritus swept from the ballroom floor, Rhona found herself at the castle door, holding the reins to the family’s palfrey and rapping furiously on the door. She could not catch her breath after her galloping ride on horseback through the morning’s dark, misty roads. She hated to come to the king’s castle in this condition, exhausted from a sleepless night and dirty from her ride, her hair a mess; indeed, she hated to go anywhere by horseback, but she had no time to waste.
“Please,” she said breathlessly to the servant who opened the door. “I must see Monsieur De Fontenay. It’s urgent.”
The servant looked at her with a puzzled expression. “But ma’am, you cannot bring a horse inside the king’s castle.”
Rhona grumbled. “I forgot the beast was here. Where do I put it?”
The servant blinked. “Usually, guests bring their horses to the stables and a groom takes care of it,” she said. “Ride back out along this path and you’ll see—”
“I do not have time to ride back out the way I came,” she said, flustered. “I must see Monsieur De Fontenay now.”
“Wait here,” the servant said. A moment later, she appeared with a scruffy boy of about twelve years. “Pavel, watch this lady’s horse while she comes inside.”
does not know how to dance.
The next morning, when all the candles in the king’s ballroom had long been cold and the last bit of detritus swept from the ballroom floor, Rhona found herself at the castle door, holding the reins to the family’s palfrey and rapping furiously on the door. She could not catch her breath after her galloping ride on horseback through the morning’s dark, misty roads. She hated to come to the king’s castle in this condition, exhausted from a sleepless night and dirty from her ride, her hair a mess; indeed, she hated to go anywhere by horseback, but she had no time to waste.
“Please,” she said breathlessly to the servant who opened the door. “I must see Monsieur De Fontenay. It’s urgent.”
The servant looked at her with a puzzled expression. “But ma’am, you cannot bring a horse inside the king’s castle.”
Rhona grumbled. “I forgot the beast was here. Where do I put it?”
The servant blinked. “Usually, guests bring their horses to the stables and a groom takes care of it,” she said. “Ride back out along this path and you’ll see—”
“I do not have time to ride back out the way I came,” she said, flustered. “I must see Monsieur De Fontenay now.”
“Wait here,” the servant said. A moment later, she appeared with a scruffy boy of about twelve years. “Pavel, watch this lady’s horse while she comes inside.”
Rhona handed the reins over to the boy, then the servant let Rhona in and closed the door behind her. “What name shall I tell Monsieur De Fontenay?”
“The Widow Barclay,” she said.
The servant led her to the king’s receiving room and gestured for her to take a seat, but she was too nervous to be still. She paced the room, clasping the thing she had brought to show Monsieur De Fontenay: a stack of vellum pages covered in handwriting, rolled up and bound with kitchen twine. Her heart raced. Her mind raced. She remembered Cinder’s words that morning: You once knew a girl named Ailen, didn’t you? You were her friend. I can already see it on your face.
After several minutes, Monsieur De Fontenay entered the room. “Pardon me, Monsieur,” she said, curtseying. “I am so sorry to trouble you. Please excuse my appearance.”
“Madame Rhona,” he said. “I am happy to see you again so soon, but my officers are preparing to leave your country this day. I apologize, but I am quite busy.”
“I understand,” she said. “But you must listen to me. I have found the person whom you are seeking. She is my ward.”
Some days earlier…
One dark morning, Cinder awoke upon the cot in the kitchen. The fire had died and now the hearth was cold. Henry, a black and white tabby as old as the hills, slept on a blanket beside the fireplace, curled like a potato bug. He didn’t notice the chill, and Cinder was glad he did not. It must have rained in the night, she thought. Cinder pulled her woolen blanket around her and stood up. The room was dimly lit by the first faint glow of morning that showed through the window. She went to the hearth and touched the floor stones; as she suspected, damp. She peered up the chimney as though she might be able to see the cracks that let the rain through, but all she saw was darkness.
“Something in this house is always failing,” she muttered to herself.
She took a flint and lit a single candle. Her father had built this house before she was born. It was meant to be a shipbuilder’s glorious manor, where his family could live in glory and comfort while gazing out at the Morisar Sea, anticipating future adventures or awaiting the return of the captain himself. But after he died, the salt winds off the ocean had swiftly corroded the house, and they had no funds to restore it. How could five years have passed since he died? She missed him, his great, deep laugh, the smell of his pipe, the hours they spent together looking at maps.
There was much she missed.
Her auburn hair was dusty with fireplace soot. She pulled it back with a piece of twine, then, shivering, took the broom and swept the ashes into a tin pail. She built a pile of logs and sticks in the fireplace, then tucked in oiled rags, paper scraps and dry grass. She held the candle to it, and the rags and twigs quickly ignited into yellow flame. She perched down low to stir the sparks, then watched the blaze curl and char the grasses. Once the fire seemed strong enough to ignite the larger logs, she sat back against her cot and watched flames shift and dance, like orange and yellow sprites hopping about.
“Oh, embers, I wish you could tell me your secrets,” she said quietly in the darkness. “I would have so many questions.”
She felt a kinship with the fire, and not only because she spent so much time tending the ones that warmed the house, but also because she’d gained her family nickname from here: Cinder, a term defined as a remnant of fire, a chunk of burned wood or coal that did not emit flames, but was hot to touch and thoroughly ignitable. Her sister Liisi had assigned it; she’d meant it as an insult. Indeed, her father’s second wife and her daughters seemed to have forgotten that Cinder had once had another name, and Cinder preferred it that way. It meant she had two identities: within this family, she was the house maven, the work horse, the animal-keeper, the kitchen gardener, the cook, and the chargirl. But in her heart, under that secret name her mother had given her, ...
