It was not just any ball.
The speculation was that the prince was looking for a wife. An engagement to a woman in another kingdom had fallen through. Or the king’s health was failing and there was a pressing need for legitimate heirs. Or the royal family wanted a celebration to instill goodwill with the people. It changed with each telling. The talk was plentiful.
But here is where the rumor found its thrust: Across the kingdom, all the noble households with young women had begun to receive invitations—a chance to brush against the possibility of something greater. It was easy to understand the excitement this caused. The flurry. The hopes and dreams of girls flapped their wings and took flight, dizzying them at the prospect of rescue from an unknown future.
I didn’t mislead myself. Any woman could look at the numbers, the odds, the means, without getting too far ahead: There was but one prince and a kingdom full of women. It was the ball I’d set my sights on. There was no better place to introduce a daughter—no better marker of her deservedness, her gentility—than an invitation. It could offer just enough sheen to make up for the lack of a dowry.
Despite my eagerness, I felt a sense of apprehension. I had not known if the rumors were true. I lacked confidence that my daughters were prepared. I wasn’t certain I was ready to let them into the world. The related expenses would be monumental. And I feared that the ghosts of my past might make themselves known.
But—the carriage was already in the drive.
I entered through the same door through which I had left in darkness two hours before.
“Get up,” I cried, seeing Wenthelen on a kitchen stool.
She turned slowly to look at me, raising an eyebrow.
“A carriage.” I realized I was out of breath and tried to slow down. “With the king’s coat of arms.” I unfastened the rabbit and slung it onto the wooden table at the center of the room.
Wenthelen’s eyes widened, and she stood. “What will you have me do?”
“Find an apron,” I said. “Tuck up your hair. I’m going to get the girls.”
“I’ve never seen anyone royal before.” She shook herself.
“No one royal is inside that carriage. There are not enough guards.” I rushed across the room, toward the back stairs. “Tidy the entry and prepare some cider. And whatever we have to serve with it. As quickly as you can.”
“I haven’t done the baking.”
“Find something.”
“The rabbit?”
“You cannot serve a bloody rabbit.”
As if just realizing what she’d seen, she repeated herself: “A rabbit! Well done, Lucy.”
“Hurry up,” I said.
“Yes, m’lady.”
“For the hundredth time, you don’t need to call me that.” I paused at the doorway. “Except you should. Today, you should.”
“Yes, m’lady,” she said again, lip tugging upward.
Despite all the years that had passed, I still heard Agatha’s voice, her lessons.Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. Small and dainty steps.I heard her as I raced down the hall, taking two stairs at a time. I heard her—avoid clumsy movements—as I barged through Rosamund’s door.
She was still asleep, her dark hair carefully braided and laid out beside her on the pillow. Gray morning light filled the windows.
“Rosie,” I said gently, looking around her chambers. A good portion of the room was dedicated to a dressing area walled off by two paneled screens. Dresses were thrown over the panels and across the furniture: enormous blooms of lace and silk and velvet that had deflated and landed on the chaise longue, across the foot of the bed, and on the back of a chair.
Of all the tasks we had, Rosamund was the best with needle and thread, and she put the skill to good use: She could bead and smock and pleat, and it was thanks to her fingers that the rest of us ever looked half presentable. She could take a decades-old dress, break it down into pieces, and design a new pattern that fit the same swaths of cloth. She spent twice as much time on her own clothing, preening and fussing with embroidery and ribbons, dressing carefully even on the days we never left the house. If you stood in the center of her room, you could see yourself in three mirrors, reflecting back and forth into infinity. The rug on that spot was well worn.
Her attention to sartorial detail did not extend to other areas of her chamber: On a plate on the nightstand, there were crumbs that I did not doubt had been there for longer than I wanted to know. A layer of film covered an old basin of wash water. Half-dead flowers withered in a vase on the sill. Ignoring the squalor, I went to the window, looking out in hopes of catching sight of Lucy, but the oak tree was too far. “Rosie,” I said more firmly. “You must wake up.”
I walked to the bed. When I placed a hand on her forehead, her eyes fluttered open. “You must get up now and put on a good dress. Asgood as you can muster, as quickly as possible. A coach from the palace is here, and we’ll need to greet it in a few minutes.”
She sat up straight, her face falling. “Mother!”
