Princess of Glass - Jessica Day George [14]
Ellen just nodded, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. Hanks’s smile thin out. “Yes, ma’am,” she said hastily.
“I will introduce you to His Lordship in an hour, though most of your duties will be with the young ladies of the household, Lady Marianne and Her Highness Princess Poppy of Westfalin.” Mrs. Hanks swelled a bit with importance when she said the princess’s name.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ellen said, her voice barely audible. She hadn’t realized that she would be waiting on girls her own age, girls who would have been her friends if things had gone differently.
It seemed that she did have tears left to cry after all.
“Here is a dress that should fit,” Mrs. Hanks laid a bundle on the bed. “Apron and cap as well. We can alter them later if there is any need. The black stockings and shoes you have on will be just fine. I’ll let you get freshened up,” Mrs. Hanks said, not noticing Ellen’s distress—and who cared if a maid was upset? The plump housekeeper went out, closing the door behind her.
Steeling herself, Ellen went to the washstand, trying to avoid her reflection in the dim little looking glass that hung above it. There was a bouquet of dried flowers hanging next to the mirror, belonging to the maid that Ellen would share the narrow room with. At least they would not have to share a bed: there were two cots, thank heavens. And the basin and pitcher, though plain, were not cracked or chipped. The servants quarters at the Laurences’ were furnished with things too damaged to be used in the more visible parts of the house.
She lifted the pitcher and poured water into the basin. As it ran into the white porcelain, the water turned green. Ellen nearly dropped the heavy pitcher, only just managing to put it back on the table in time. From the glowing green water, she heard a kindly voice speaking.
“Poor dear! All alone in the world, aren’t you?”
Ellen whirled around, but the door was still closed and there wasn’t another soul in the room. “Who said that?” Her voice came out thin and shaky.
“They call me the Corley,” the voice said. “But I am also your godmother, my dear. Pour more water into the pitcher, that I may see you.”
“What?”
“When you pour water, I can see you,” the voice said, still patient and soft. It was a plump voice, a gentle voice, the voice of a grandmother in a lace cap and woolen shawl. “Pour the water, dear Eleanora, and let us talk.”
Still shaking, Ellen picked up the pitcher again.
Dancer
Purl two, knit four, purl two, knit four,” Poppy muttered under her breath. She gave her yarn a tug to unspool more.
“Step two, three, now entrechat,” said the dancing master, and brought his long cane down with a crack on the wooden floor.
At the cue, Marianne leaped into the air, clicked her heels together, and then landed with a thump. She wavered for a moment, nearly fell, and regained her balance with an embarrassed burst of laughter.
“Stand straight,” the dancing master barked. Mirth fled from Marianne’s face and she threw her shoulders back. “Again,” the man said. “Step two, three, and entrechat!”
Marianne leaped and flapped her feet and did her best to land with grace and dignity. As Poppy sat in the corner, dividing her attention between her knitting and Marianne’s lesson, she reflected that she had gotten off easy. Since Poppy did not dance, there was no need to disgrace herself trying to learn the strange new Analousian steps that were all the rage. They were part ballet, part acrobatics, and even the normally graceful Marianne was having trouble. Poppy thought that she could master the entrechat and a few of the other steps with a minimum of effort—after a decade of experience, she could dance on the steeple of a church if she wanted to—but she was thrilled to not have to.
“Oof!” Marianne, temporarily