I can handle that.
Can’t I?
* * *
The next day,I stand before the mirror looking at a face that is not my own, standing in a room meant for a princess, and wearing clothing that doesn’t belong to me. I feel like an impostor as I assess my reflection, studying my white lace blouse with its high collar, the green tartan skirt, and the glamoured shoes that peek from my hem. Beneath the skirt and blouse, I have on a clean chemise and corset. I was surprised to find the latter. Before I looked through Maisie’s trunks, I expected to find them full of clothing in the fae style, which usually consists of low-cut dresses in thin, flowing fabrics, designed to wear without corsets. Instead, everything I found was modeled after human fashions, including the undergarments. A pinch of disappointment hit me at first, for I have always admired fae fashions. Yet, this style suits me best. The clothing I wear may be of the finest wool, silk, and lace that has ever graced my form, but it feels more like…me. One less thing I have to pretend about.
If only I could feel as comfortable in my new room.
I turn from the mirror and take in my surroundings. Never in my life have I stayed in such luxurious accommodations. The floor is smooth, glittering opal, the walls pale moonstone. Gilded frames surround beautiful paintings of the night sky, and the furniture is carved of pale birch and black obsidian. The room hosts a bed, a nightstand, a sitting area with a table and chairs, and a dressing area with a dressing table, wardrobe, and screen. When I first awoke, I bumbled around the room seeking a washbasin before I discovered a private washroom behind a closed door.
My skin crawls with the heavy awareness that none of this is mine. None of this is meant for me.
The thought has my fingers drumming against my thighs. For the love of the breeze, how the hell am I going to pull this off?
I shake my head and look at my reflection once more, turning this way and that to ensure it reveals no hint of who I truly am. Even though the glamour only affects my face, hair, and skin tone, one would be hard pressed to find any similarities to my true self, aside from the color of my eyes and my figure, perhaps. But I doubt anyone would notice my eyes, and my form is hidden behind fine clothing no one would ever expect me to wear.
This will work, I tell myself, patting my glamoured hair in its perpetual pink updo.I’ll be safe. I can do this.
I’m about to turn away from the mirror but stop myself when a flash of gold catches my eye. My fingers fly to my locket. I hadn’t thought of it until now and had draped it over my collar like I normally do. While it isn’t the most noticeable piece of jewelry, I can’t risk wearing it. One look between the hinged halves would show my parents’ portraits. Not something Princess Maisie would have any reasonable explanation for. I go to take it off, but when my fingers brush the clasp, sorrow sinks my heart. My locket is all I have left of my parents. That’s never been truer than now when I don’t even have my face or my mother’s hair. So, instead, I tuck it beneath the high collar of my blouse, where not even the chain shows through.
That’s not the only evidence I must attend to…
Anxiety tickles my chest as I glance at the dressing screen. Behind it, my discarded clothing from last night rests in a pile. I haven’t a clue what to do with it, aside from hide it somewhere. There’s no furnace in the room, so burning my things is out of the question. Besides, the thought of destroying my lovely gown makes my heart ache. A proper hiding place will have to do.
I make my way behind the dressing screen to collect my gown, underclothes, shoes, and train ticket—still wrapped safely in its handkerchief—and bring them to Maisie’s trunks. The top one overflows with the clothes I sorted through to find today’s outfit. I pull that one down and begin searching through the rest. It’s mostly clothes, including some rather elegant ballgowns, but I also find an embroidery set, a blank sketchbook, and a book on human etiquette. I may not know Maisie well, and yet it’s hard to imagine her sitting around doing needlework and engaging in soft manners.
Panic surges through me. Is that what I’m going to be expected to do every day while I pretend to be her? Stich, draw, and read like a proper noblewoman? As nice as it might be to have a break from the constant chores that have taken up every waking moment of my life, spending any extended period in idle time sounds like torture.
I continue rifling through the trunks, pulling most items out and reorganizing them so I can decide which should hide my belongings. The last chest I open contains nothing but hat boxes, but when I open them, they aren’t full of hats at all. Instead, one is filled with seashells, another with a collection of tarnished silverware, and a third with various pieces of chipped or broken porcelain dishes.
So, she likes to collect things, I think to myself.Well noted.
I’m about to rearrange the hat boxes into a trunk with the items I know I won’t need when a knock sounds at the door. My heart leaps into my throat. I freeze in place, unable to move as fear seizes me.
Another knock.
I swallow hard and force myself to stand.I can do this.
I’m about to head straight for the door, when I recall the reason I’d been preoccupied with the trunks. My things! With trembling fingers, I gather my gown, old shoes, and undergarments and stuff them into an empty trunk. Then I tuck my train ticket into a fold of my gown and toss a cloak over everything before I close the lid.
With a deep breath, I make my way to the door. It takes me a few moments to gather my composure. How would Maisie answer the door? With her head held high like a royal? No, that doesn’t seem like her at all. With a smile? A frown? I settle on mild curiosity and open the door.
Standing on the other side are my stepsisters.
19
EMBER
The blood drains from my face and with it goes all my hope. How did they find me so soon? Was Maisie caught before she could get far enough away? My stomach churns, sweat prickling behind my neck. It’s over. It’s all over.
“Your Highness,” the two girls say in unison in a tone I’ve never once heard directed at me. They dip into curtsies, batting their lashes when they rise.
For several moments I’m stunned into silence. They don’t know it’s me. They think I’m really Maisie.
Then what in the name of the breeze are they doing here?
My stepsisters’ expressions remain stretched into contrived smiles as I continue to stare at them. When I still find myself unable to speak, Imogen says, “We’re your new lady’s maids, Your Highness. I’m Imogen Coleman, and this is my sister, Clara Coleman.”
