Princess of Glass - Jessica Day George [1]
Poppy reflected that it was no wonder she had been shipped off to Breton. Lady Margaret Seadown, Poppy’s late mother’s cousin, was all that was elegant and refined. Poppy suspected that her father, King Gregor, was hoping for some of Lady Margaret’s elegance to rub off on her.
Fighting down her feeling of panic at the very mention of a ball, Poppy took command of her own voice and said merely, “I’m sorry, Cousin Margaret, but I don’t dance.”
Lady Margaret’s brow furrowed delicately. “But my dear, the unpleasantness with the dancing slippers …” She let the question trail away.
Poppy winced, clenching her fist around the ink-stained handkerchief. Yes, the “unpleasantness” with the dancing slippers.
From the time she could walk until she was thirteen years old, Poppy had spent nearly every night dancing. Dancing until her toes bled and her satin slippers were worn to shreds, and her eleven sisters with her. Until Galen, now married to her oldest sister, Rose, had rescued them from the curse that had begun with their mother’s foolish bargain nineteen years before.
“I can dance,” Poppy clarified. “But I really prefer not to.” Ever again, she added silently. Rose and Galen sometimes danced together, out in the garden with a little impromptu music courtesy of her sister Violet. But the royal family of Westfalin had neither hosted nor attended a ball in three years, though they had banquets and concerts and parties enough to befit their status.
“I see,” Lady Margaret said.
But it was clear that she didn’t. No one did. And as fond as Poppy was of her mother’s elegant cousin, she could not enlighten her.
By the time Galen had helped free her family, the Church was investigating Poppy and her sisters on charges of witchcraft, and nine princes were dead. Their only crime had been trying to solve the mystery and perhaps win a royal bride, but the King Under Stone, the horrible creature with whom Poppy’s mother had made her bargain, had killed them all. Since then they had all agreed—King Gregor, the sisters, and Galen—that none of them would speak of the curse or the King Under Stone again.
“But my dear,” Lady Margaret went on. “Please consider attending the ball even if you don’t dance. The Thwaites are charming, and their social occasions are the height of fashion. There will be wonderful music, and food, and so many fine young people for you to meet. And I hate to have you languishing at home alone while we enjoy ourselves.” She made a face. “I would stay home with you, but Marianne will be heart-broken if she cannot attend, and I must chaperone her.”
Poppy had to think about it for a while.
A long while.
She was not given to fearful turns or attacks of the vapors like some girls (including several of her sisters). But most of her life had been a nightmare of endless, sleepless nights dancing in the arms of the half-mortal son of a half-mortal king. She had no happy memories of balls.
But she would not let old fear rule her life, she decided. During the three weeks that she had been in Breton, the Sea-downs had been invited to no less than seven balls, and turned them all down because they did not want their guest to feel abandoned. She could not in good conscience ask them to give up another invitation just because she was feeling missish. She was fairly certain that the Thwaites were not evil incarnate, and they would not try to kidnap her. She would go, and she would enjoy herself.
Even if she could not bring herself to dance.
Poppy realized she had been holding her breath and let it out now in a whoosh. “I’ll go,” she said to Lady Margaret. “Thank you for understanding if I don’t dance, however.”
“Of course, my dear.” Lady Margaret smiled radiantly and patted Poppy’s hand. “I’ll tell Marianne and Richard. We’ll have a cold supper, and then Gabrielle will help you dress.”
She glided from the room, and Poppy set aside her ruined handkerchief and letter. She would write to Daisy later. For now she opened her