Page 61 of A Slipper in the Smoke
The Toulousians werereallygenerous.
Of course, there wasn’t much to put in the letter. She just wrote that she was sorry it had been so long since her last communication, that she was doing well, that she liked her new job at the palace and would be sad to see it ended.
I’ll admit, a large part of me will be mostly sorry to say goodbye to Pip. I have never met anyone like him, and I doubt I ever will. I just wish I could scoop him up and keep him with me forever. I wish I could bring him home with me. Home to you.
It hurt to write much more than that, and she found the letter difficult to finish.
“Are you all right?” Pip asked that evening. “You seem out of sorts.”
“I wrote a letter home to my friends today,” she admitted. “I’ve not written to them in… a long while. For some reason, it left me feeling… strange.”
Pip put down his book and took her hand. “You miss home.”
She nodded. “Today more than other times.”
“What would you like to do, when you get back to Navarra?”
“Exist,” she breathed. “Be. Live. Run through the fields, dance and sing. It doesn’t even matter if no one remembers me, if my friends have moved on, if all I have is graves and memories. At least I won’t have chains. At least I can be free.” Her throat caught, like a faulty gear unlatching in a mechanism. “I want to go home,” she told him. “Ineedto go home.”
Pip shifted onto the bed and pulled her into his arms. He made her no promises—he never did—but for a moment, she fooled herself into pretending that he could.
The next morning, Elena woke to a gorgeous brown-skinned woman standing over her, dripping with sun-shaped jewels. Elena was sure for a moment that she was still dreaming, and even closed her eyes again, certain the image would disappear.
The image coughed. “Good morning, Elena.”
“Princess Lucia!” Elena spluttered, immediately trying to stand, “What are you—”
“I hear the doctors have finally given you the go-ahead to be released from bed,” Lucia exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I thought I might loan you a couple of my dresses? We’re a similar height.”
Elena glanced round, wondering why Lucia was being so generous, half expecting to see her stepmother in the corner ready to ridicule her. But there was no one, not even a maid hovering in the corner.
“Can you get up?” Lucia asked. “I can call someone if you need assistance—”
“I can stand,” Elena insisted, swinging her legs out of bed. She pulled herself into an upright position, refusing to wobble.
Lucia beamed. She walked over to the chaise beside the fireplace and whipped off a gown that had been draped there; a morning dress made of layers of soft emerald fabric.
“Luckily our colouring isn’t too dissimilar,” Lucia said, still smiling as if they had been friends their whole lives. “Go ahead—try it on.”
Elena took the gown and slipped behind a screen. “Forgive me,” she said through the panels, “but why is the princess of Firenze helping the guest of a servant?”
Lucia paused for a moment. “You mean… Pip?”
“Who else?” Elena asked. She tugged up the skirt. Lucia’s wide hips meant it fitted just fine, but the bodice was proving more difficult. She was terrified of ripping the sleeves—no way those were fitting over her bulky shoulders.
“Pip is very dear to me,” Lucia continued. “He has a certain something about him.”
Elena could hardly disagree, although she found it odd that a princess should be so familiar with the servant of another country. Then again, she wasn’t sure of the political relations between Toulouse and Firenze. Perhaps they’d been meeting since they were children.
Deciding there was no point dwelling on it—or struggling anymore with this dress—she stepped out from behind the screen, the sleeves still dangling below her breasts. “I can’t quite get them on…”
Lucia marched over, seizing the sleeves and looping them behind her back in some sort of bow. She adjusted the lace on the bodice and guided Elena towards the mirror. “There,” she said, “pretty as a picture.”
Although clean and presentable for the first time in what was likely years, Elena was less than enamoured with her appearance. Her short, choppy hair didn’t do the dress justice, she looked pale and tired still, and though the dress fit, she hardly looked like a princess.
Because she wasn’t. She never would be.
Lucia seemed to sense something was amiss. She steered Elena into a seat and wordlessly started brushing her hair. A ribbon was found, and the princess braided it into two plaits either side of her head and then pinned them up, giving the appearance of an elegant updo. “A fashion in Firenze,” she told her.
