Moonlight and Ashes (5 page)

I woke from a dreamless sleep to a bright morning, with the delicious thought that it was Sunday. After my early chores and Mass, the rest of the day was mine and I decided to visit my mother's grave on the other side of the city, setting off with a basket filled with sandwiches, a bottle of cold tea and a bunch of flowers from the garden.

Sunday may be a day of rest but, at certain times of the day, the city is more busy than usual. In the morning, crowds in their colourful Sunday best pour out of the cathedral and various small churches and later spill out of their houses after lunch to promenade up and down St Hilda's Square. I had set out in between those times so there weren't many people in the streets. But I didn't mind for it gave me the feeling that I owned the city, that I could look – and look at what I wanted without attracting the suspicion of those who always think that a poorly dressed person is likely to be a thief or up to some sort of mischief. Ashberg is a charming city and St Hilda's Square
is splendid, wide and elegant, with the tall tower housing the ancient clock that is one of the wonders of the world and always a great drawcard for tourists. At that moment it was solely mine – with nobody brusquely pushing me aside to let my betters see – and as the clock struck twelve, I watched with delight as the miniature court parade passed out of the palace gates: first came the trumpeters in red and blue, followed by the magnificent king and queen and then all their courtiers, who passed them by in the finest regalia, solemnly bowing before proceeding on to a grand tune.

But it wasn't just St Hilda's Square that I loved. I could dream in front of shop windows filled with beautiful things without braving the basilisk-glare of shopkeepers. I could dawdle in front of my favourite houses, decorated with the delicate colours and carvings that make them look like the most beautiful gilt gingerbread, without attracting the attention of the city police, for they too had their Sunday lunch back in their barracks. Clearly, criminals were expected to keep the Sunday peace too, and by and large they did. Even a thief must rest sometime, I suppose, and besides, if there is no-one out and about whose pocket you can pick or watch you can lift, then what's the point of cruising the streets looking for prey? It would all change once the clocks struck three.

Halfway through my journey I stopped in my favourite parkland and, apart from a few strays like me, it was empty too. Finch Park is small and simple, without the statues and fountains and gravel paths that make the bigger ones fashionable, but I have always loved it. Amongst the unmanicured grass are riots of little flowers; there are
unruly, fragrant bushes and old but comfortable wooden benches. Best of all, the park is home to lots of little birds – especially its namesake – that dart around in busy groups, their bright movements and chirruping voices surely capable of lifting the spirit of even the most miserable soul. In those moments, sitting on the bench in the sun, eating my sandwiches and scattering the crumbs for the birds, I felt truly happy, without a thought for the past or the future.

By the time I got to my feet again to walk the rest of the way to the cemetery, I felt more refreshed than I had in days. The feeling persisted right to Mama's grave, which was a grassy plot tucked away near a patch of trees at the far end of the graveyard. At her request, it had simply been marked with a plain stone cross, engraved with her name and the single word ‘Beloved'. I knelt at her grave, tears in my eyes. ‘Oh, Mama,' I whispered, ‘I miss you so, so much . . .'

There was a movement in the patch of trees nearby. I stiffened and caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure wrapped in a cloak. In the next instant I heard rapid footsteps behind me and, rather than turn around, I put my head in my hands and made as if I was weeping and unaware of them. The footsteps passed by me without hesitating and when I sneaked a look between my fingers at the patch of trees I saw that the newcomer had joined the figure in the shadows. I couldn't see much of him either, for he was dressed in a long, dark overcoat and wore a hat, but he carried himself in such a way that I had the impression that this was not someone to tangle with. I knew that on no account must I draw attention to myself.

Sunday might be a day of rest for criminals generally but clearly these two were taking advantage of the quietness of both the place and the day. I knew they must be criminals up to something for why else would they meet in such secrecy? They had moved further into the trees so it was impossible for me to even try to see their faces. I just wanted to be away from there should they emerge again and decide I was in their way. ‘I have to go, Mama,' I whispered, ‘but I'll be back, I promise. I love you and always will,' and then I got quietly to my feet, taking care to keep my back to them, and walked away as slowly as I could bear to, my heart in my mouth, the back of my neck tingling. But nobody shouted after me, nobody came running, and I reached the gate of the cemetery without incident.

Once outside, I quickened my steps till I was almost running down the street. Turning the corner, I had my second shock of the afternoon. Drawn up at the end of the street outside a tall gabled house was a Mancer carriage. Its occupant was obviously inside the house as the coachman had climbed down off his seat and was now leaning against the vehicle smoking. He hadn't seen me yet so I quickly doubled back and went blindly down another street, my heart pounding, fit to burst. The sight of that sinister vehicle – the second I'd seen in just a few days – drove out the earlier fear that had sent me fleeing the graveyard. Malefactors planning a crime were one thing; Mancers on the prowl were quite another. What was going on?

Perhaps, I thought as I made my way back through a tortuous route, it's because of the Prince's visit. They are keeping a closer eye than usual, that's all, checking every stray waft of perhaps-magic that comes their way
and making sure the heir to the throne will be safe not only from assassins but from illegal spells. They'd be busy weaving protective spells of their own, of course, but they could never be too careful when it came to the safety of our ailing Emperor's only son. And that meant they would be on the lookout for anything even slightly unusual, however innocent or harmless. It was not a reassuring thought.

I climbed over the back wall and hurried through the parkland, not wanting to run the risk of being seen by anyone in the house. Thoughts of the Mancers on the prowl had made me terribly nervous about the hazel tree and whether, if by some stroke of bad luck they found it, they'd know it was magic. I had a horrible feeling they would know at once and then I'd be doomed.

Oh dear God, it had grown! It was now waist-high – twice the size it had been in my cupboard. If it kept growing at this rate, in no time at all it would be as tall as it had been in my dream and then who knew when it would stop? What if it kept growing till the top of it reached above the walls and higher, maybe even reaching as high as the cathedral spire? And that could mean that it would only be a matter of days – not weeks – before the Mancers came knocking at my door!

Panic-stricken, I flung myself at the tree, pulling at it, heaving as if I would pull it out of the ground. But it stayed fast and all I got for my pains were scratches from the branches whipping at me, as if the tree had been fighting back. Panting, I fell to the ground, sobbing, ‘Hazel tree,
dear hazel tree, please understand you will be my doom if you don't stay small. What do you want? What must I do?'

Silence. Of course, I could hardly expect the tree to answer me. Feeling stupid and small and helpless, I began to get up when all at once there came a rustle from above and a little yellow finch swooped down and alighted on a branch just near me. Head cocked, it looked at me with its bright beady eyes.

‘I know, little one, I'm an idiot,' I said sadly. Chirruping in a scolding sort of way, the finch hopped down the branch. Before I knew what was happening, it broke off a leaf at the stalk and, darting down, dropped the leaf at my feet. Then it flew back to the tree and sat looking at me as if to say, ‘Well, do you understand now?'

‘I don't know what I . . .' I began, but the words died in my throat as I saw that it was no longer a leaf at my feet but a small picture – a miniature exquisitely painted on a canvas of stretched pale silk. Such miniatures were a renowned speciality of my mother's region and, indeed, we had one in the house, framed under glass. But I'd never seen one as beautiful, as perfect, as this one.

It depicted a ballroom scene with couples dancing on polished floors under crystal chandeliers in a room lined with painted, floral panels. I knew that room, though I had not set foot in it for years. It was the grand ballroom of Ashberg Castle, which was used not only for balls but for other special occasions. As a child, I had gone there every year with my parents for the mayor's Christmas party, to which all the great Ashberg families were invited. There was always a huge, decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the room with the panels draped in holly and mistle
toe and gilt paper chains. There'd been tables laden with food and gifts wrapped in coloured paper for every child.

Those days were long gone for me and best not thought of. But what was the meaning of the miniature before me now? I looked up at the finch, then back at the picture – and saw what I had missed the first time. First, the panels were draped in banners bearing the arms of Prince Leopold. And, second, the first couple in the room, the ones who set the tone for all the others, were not the fat old mayor and his skinny wife, but were young. The man was tall and broad-shouldered in an elegant sky-blue dress uniform, and the young woman, dressed in a magnificent white ball gown, had chestnut hair with a golden sheen. I stared, my heart beating so fast I thought it would jump out of my chest, and I murmured, ‘No. You can't mean that I should go to the Prince's ball!'

The finch chirruped loudly, and its meaning was so clear it might as well have spoken human words. I looked up at it and whispered, ‘But it's not possible . . . It can't be . . . I can't go . . .'

And yet in my mind I knew that I must.

I can hardly describe how I got through the next few days. It was as though I had walked on air and hot coals at one and the same time. The house had been a hive of activity as my stepmother and stepsisters went through an endless parade of dresses and shoes and jewels. There were constant tantrums with angry tears and feet stamped and hair pulled as the girls fought over who would wear what while my father simply never poked his nose out of his study. Fortunately I only got to
hear
about those tantrums, for both my stepsisters and their mother had forgotten all about me in their excitement.

It was bedlam downstairs, too. The girls' maids had sniped at each other over which of their charges would catch the Prince's eye. The footmen had sniggered about the harassed dressmakers and shoemakers who came in and out of the house like badly wound clockwork toys. The under-maids had been sighing over the social pages of magazines when Mrs Jager wasn't looking, which wasn't
often, because in the days leading up to the ball there were fine dinners every night at our house for this bigwig and that. Count Otto came to one of them, which of course meant even more work for everyone, especially the kitchen staff which included me as the lowliest member.

But none of it worried me; I was in the strangest state. Somehow, I would go to the Prince's ball. For what reason, I had no idea. I've never been the sort of girl to moon over a picture of a handsome stranger, prince or no prince. I didn't care if I never met him. I did of course fancy the idea of a pretty dress and dancing, and music and good food and the chance for just a few hours to be in the world where I should have been. Mother would have loved to plan this with me. We'd have pored over patterns, colours and styles together. But I was sure she hadn't reached out from beyond the grave just to give me a night's fancy. Something was going to happen at the Prince's ball – something that would change my life.

I'd hoped every night for a guiding vision but I did not dream at all in those nights before the Prince's ball. And though I managed to sneak out a couple of times to the hazel tree, the finch was never there. No leaves fell and transformed, no whisper spoke in my mind, nothing happened to suggest the tree was anything other than, well, a tree. There was one comforting thing though – the tree had stopped growing, almost as if it had taken my plea to heart.

But even the thought of the Mancers had ceased to scare me . . . at least for the moment.

The great day came early for me. I had had to get up before dawn to iron a mountain of my stepsisters' knickers, petticoats and camisoles. They had demanded a pile of freshly pressed underthings, more than any reasonable person would need for a twenty-four-hour period. But reason and my stepsisters are not friends, unless it is their own particular variety that owes nothing to clarity and everything to spite and self-centredness. Not that it mattered much to me today. As I pressed the warm iron over the delicate garments and sprayed them with a mixture of violet and lavender water, I dreamed of that ball. I dreamed all day through all my chores – through the harried shouting of Mrs Jager and the bad temper of the cooks, through a poor lunch of bread and cheese and an afternoon spent running last-minute errands to this ribbon shop and that perfumery, to fetch special headgear for the carriage horses and to place an order at the Angel. Grizelda was already planning ahead. I had been sent to order a boxful of one of the Angel's specialities, blue and white sugared almonds in silver nets. She reasoned that once the Prince had seen her daughters and fallen in love with one of them, he'd surely accept an invitation to a smaller, more intimate affair at the house.

Or, that was the gossip in the kitchens. And at the Angel, too, according to Maria. She and I laughed at how every mother of an unmarried young woman was thinking exactly the same thing, causing the Angel to be overwhelmed with orders for their sugared almonds. Then she grew serious and said it was a disgrace that I wasn't going to the ball, that I had as much of a right – or more – to be there as those two spoiled girls, and I nearly blurted out
my secret but restrained myself in time. I said it didn't matter to me and I had nothing to wear anyway.

‘I can lend you something – a dress I've made for my daughter's wedding later this year,' she said. ‘I would be happy – honoured – to lend it to you.' I tried to protest. ‘No, Maria, you've already been so kind to me – you don't need to do that.' But she said, ‘Why don't you come and try it on, anyway, just to oblige me?'

So I followed Maria to her room at the back of the bakery. A widow, Maria lives at the Angel during the week when she works, while her daughter lives with Maria's mother in the country, the two only able to see each other on Sundays. She opened the trunk she kept in the corner. From it she took out a long parcel covered with rose petals and, unwrapping the tissue paper, she revealed a lovely muslin dress with a full skirt of cream and honey-coloured stripes, a cream bodice set with panels of fine lace dyed a delicate green, a hem embroidered with honey-coloured rosebuds, and elbow-length sleeves finished with ribbons of the same colour as the lace.

‘Oh, it's
so
beautiful!' Shame on me, I hadn't expected anything quite as lovely. ‘You are a wonderful needlewoman, Maria.'

‘You think so? I'm glad,' she said, flushing a little. ‘It is my hobby when I have time. Once, I dreamed I might . . . Never mind, life gave me what it did and I don't regret a thing. But I wanted to give my daughter the most beautiful dress I could afford – and that meant I had to make it. I was lucky – the people at the draper's were very kind and allowed me to have bits of this and bits of that and for not very much. The lace is from a couple
of handkerchiefs from my mother's own wedding day, which I dyed to look more modern. And rosebuds for my daughter's name – Rosa, as you know. So you think it does look all right? It doesn't look like it is too much bits of this and that?'

‘Not at all,' I said warmly. ‘It is most charming and original – no other bride will have anything like it, I am sure of that. Rosa will be the prettiest bride in all the empire!'

Maria's face grew beautiful with her smile. ‘You are a sweet girl, Selena.' Then her eyes took on an impish gleam. ‘But now, will you try it on – just to show you mean what you say?'

‘Maria . . .' I protested, but she insisted, and so I slipped out of my old patched dress and stood in my shabby petticoat as Maria carefully slid the dress over my head.

It fell around me in whisper-soft folds, giving off a faint fragrance of roses, and Maria breathed, ‘Oh, it fits perfectly! And you look lovely! Wait, let me show you.'

She took a hand mirror from the table by her bed and held it up to me. The mirror was old, the polished surface a bit tarnished, but I could see myself and the sight gripped at my heart. ‘You must take it, Selena, you must, and you must go to the ball, no matter what those ones want.'

‘No – I can't – and it's your daughter's dress –' I stammered.

‘Rosa would think exactly the same as me,' said Maria firmly.

‘But it's her wedding gown –'

‘She will wear it just as happily at her wedding,' said Maria, briskly, ‘and no harm done.' Suddenly, there were
tears in her eyes. ‘Your poor, dear mother would have wanted this for you, I know she would.'

‘Yes,' I said, without thinking, ‘it
is
what she wants.' Then, seeing Maria's puzzlement, I added hastily, ‘I had a dream the other night in which she spoke to me . . .'

‘You see,' said Maria, returning to briskness. ‘If your own mother spoke to you in a dream, then you must listen. If she wants you to go to the ball, then you must go. And how else are you going to go, if not with this dress?'

I would have told her about the hazel tree's magic there and then but something stopped me. It was better Maria didn't know, for her sake if not mine, just in case it ever got to the ears of the Mancers. But it did leave me with a dilemma – how was I going to explain I didn't
need
to take the dress to go to the ball? And then quite suddenly it struck me, as I remembered what the girls in my mother's village received on their sixteenth birthday aside from the hazel twig: honey, cream and roses – all of them on this dress! I had assumed the hazel tree would gift me a ball gown transformed from leaves, as it had done in my dream, but what if that was not what was meant to happen? What if this was intended instead?

But in the magic miniature (which had long since faded and disappeared like the handkerchief) the girl had been wearing a court dress, not a charming muslin frock made for a country wedding. I looked at myself in the mirror, at the way the cream and honey and pale green set off not only the colour of my hair, but also my skin, which isn't as pale as a lady's should be but is touched with a hint of sun. I saw the way the gown flattered my too-thin figure, making it look slim rather than skinny, and I made up my
mind. ‘Then I'll borrow it, dear Maria,' I said, and hugged her, ‘but only if you let me give you something in return.'

‘I'll tell you what you can give me,' she said with a bright smile, hugging me back. ‘You can give me the pleasure of showing off my dress at such a glittering occasion and you can also give me the pleasure of hearing all about the ball, the dresses and whether the Prince is really as handsome as his pictures – that would be more than enough.'

‘Oh, Maria!' I said, and hugged her again.

‘There are some underthings that go with it . . .' she said and, after rummaging in the trunk, she brought out a ribbon-trimmed petticoat of fine, white cotton, and a camisole and knickers to match. She put them into the parcel too, and turned to me, her eyes shining. ‘Now you'll have to do your hair nicely, perhaps put in some flowers – and some ribbon, too. Wait a moment, I'll see if I can find some –'

‘No, no, it's all right,' I said hastily, thinking she might give everything away. ‘I'll find some ribbons at the house – my stepsisters have discarded so many. And there are flowers in the garden and the greenhouse. I'll wear your locket, too, just as I am now. See how pretty it looks against the dress?'

‘No, no,' said Maria, shaking her head decisively. ‘The locket is pretty but it is not suitable for such an occasion. I remember your mother had a lovely pearl necklace that would do very well.'

It would. But it was locked away in Grizelda's jewellery box and there wasn't even the ghost of a chance she'd lend it to me. As to trying to get it out of there without asking her, I didn't fancy my chances at all. Seeing the look on my
face, Maria said gently, ‘But it would equally work with something very simple, say a single rose at the breast – pale yellow or white.'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘there are early roses in the greenhouse.'

‘The very thing, then. Flowers on a young and pretty woman can look just as effective as jewels and can be much more charming,' said Maria, firmly. I nearly laughed, because to look at the pair of us, you wouldn't think we were kitchen servant and scullery maid, but society ladies discussing the latest fashion. Instead, I said, ‘You are wonderful, Maria, and I am so grateful and so honoured that you are my friend.'

‘Get on with you, girl,' she said, a little shyly, ‘and get yourself back to that house before they begin to miss you.'

‘Miss
me
?
Them
? Never,' I said, gaily. ‘If I vanished in a puff of smoke I daresay they'd all be glad.'

Maria shook her head sadly and said, ‘It's a disgrace, that's what I say, and it's time it was stopped. I'd bet a week's wages that once that Prince sets eyes on you, everything will change.'

I didn't say that I couldn't give two hoots about the Prince to a romantic like Maria – who was I to pour cold water on that? Then she said, worriedly, ‘Oh dear, I've just had a thought – shoes. What are we going to do about shoes?'