“A letter?” Mathilde laughed. “To the king?”
“If I could, I would gladly share my invitation,” Elin offered, “for the greatest treasures are those we share with others.”
“We can’t take your place.” Mathilde scowled at her. “They have your name.”
“And there’s two of us and one of you,” Rosamund cried.
“Girls—” I said.
Elin came down one step, looking back and forth at each of her stepsisters. “Gilded edges can be found on even the darkest of clouds—”
Rosamund shrieked: “That solves nothing!”
Elin began to quote her well-worn source, which she held aloft before her: “‘Despair is a common trap—’”
Mathilde twirled to face Elin, her movement quick with exasperation. “Elin, please—”
“‘For every vine with thorns there are roses—’”
“If you spout one more inconsequential maxim,” Mathilde erupted, “I will rip out your tongue and turn it into a pâté!”
We all stilled, watching Elin, who had a habit of fainting under pressure. When she did not wobble, I clapped my hands. “Girls, be quiet.”
All three of them were already silent.
I looked at Rosie and Mathilde. “Go and make yourselves useful. Ready the press for apples. Or…” I waved my hands, wordless with aggravation. “Mend something!”
When they had left—long-faced, feet quickened by frustration— I lifted my skirts and began to climb the stairs toward my stepdaughter. “Elin—”
“Heavens!” She covered her mouth, looking down at my muddied feet.
I eyed her stonily.
“Your boots.” She spoke through her fingers. “Why, they’re soiled!”
“There was no time to change.”
“Our visitors might have seen.” The upper uncovered half of her face was a mask of concern—for her own propriety or mine, it was unclear.
“And they did not,” I stated sharply, losing patience.
Her brow furrowed. “But you yourself would say that comportment is the bedrock upon which one builds—”
I interrupted her, covering my shoes with a hasty flourish of my petticoat. “We do not all have the leisure of hours spent readying at the looking glass. It would do you well to consider that the semblance of virtue can prove as potent as its earnest practice.”
Her hand lowered. She opened her mouth, but before any words came out, I clucked and reached forward to finger her dress. “And all that effort for naught. I do not think the color suits you. You’re looking a little pink at the eyes.”
Her eyelashes fluttered. Clasping her book, clutching a bit too tightly, Elin nodded.
“Go on,” I instructed, jutting my chin toward the steps to her room.
After she’d gone upstairs, I felt, briefly, some regret for my tone. It quickly dissipated. When a girl’s innocence outlives its lifespan, it is only a burden to herself and those around her.
Outside, I moved hurriedly across the grass, toward the place I had left Lucy. Rosie’s angst had been on the surface, but mine was thrumming through me, a kind of poison in my body. I was offered one relief, at least: My falcon was in the oak at the back of the house, perched on an upper branch. I put my hands on my hips and smiled at her. “Come down, Luce,” I called. I tried our low-high-low whistle— a reverberance from my past.
She roused, raising her feathers, but did not move from the branch.
There are several ways to get a falcon down from a tree. Special whistles and commands, a lure—meat or food—waved in a circular motion to catch her attention, or, if desperate, I could borrow another bird, one whose presence would compel movement. But I welcomed a few minutes alone to turn over all that had happened that morning. I would wait.
