Page 93 of A Slipper in the Smoke
“Why a pumpkin, I wonder?” Snowdrop asked, as the carriage trundled through the streets. She kept her voice low, no doubt concerned about the driver overhearing them; automatons were not supposed to speak.
“It’s the national vegetable of Navarra,” Elena told her. “A symbol of our agriculture.”
“Huh. I should really know that.”
Elena frowned. “Why?”
The carriage gave a slight lurch. Snowdrop clung to her seat. If she fell, she’d be exposed as human. Elena wondered if this disguise was as well thought out as Snowdrop seemed to think it was. How long could she act like a machine?
The carriage slowed in front of the elevators. Crowds had gathered around to witness the finery, held at bay by silver ropes and a heavy guard presence. Dandelion and Clover disembarked and helped the women down. Once more, no one questioned them as they were ushered into the lifts, although the men were required to surrender their weapons.
No one checked Elena. No one dared. To lay a hand on a princess of Navarra was unthinkable.
They headed into lifts along with two guards from the palace. No one spoke as they rose, not even as the palace appeared, a glistening golden spectacle shining against an ink blue backdrop.
Elena wondered if Princess Sofia would gasp. It was certainly a splendid sight compared to the more humble Navarran palace, but she decided against it. Let the guards think she was used to splendour.
The lift ground to a halt. Elena followed the guards off, walking up a path lined with light. Other guests were making their own way towards the main doors, ladies in silk and feathers, satin and lace, men in tailored suits with brass pocket watches and pressed shirts. Everyone was shiny and beautiful.
And tonight, Elena was too. Tonight, she was one of them.
If only for a little while.
She really hoped they found the Toulousian prince as soon as possible, and got out of here as fast as they could.
The walk to the doors seemed to take forever. It seemed completely unnatural for her to stroll up the marble steps when she’d spent weeks skirting in and out through the back doors, but now she stood atop them, staring in at the great gilded ballroom where she’d fixed automatons only two days ago.
“Announcing Her Royal Highness, Princess Sofia of Navarra!” called the master of ceremonies.
For a moment, everyone in the ballroom halted, turning in her direction. Trumpets sounded, as they would for any royal visitor. Dandelion and Clover removed themselves from her side, slinking off into the crowds, and Elena descended down the steps with only Snowdrop trailing behind her.
She walked across the ballroom, heads bowing as she passed, all the way to the golden throne at the end on a raised dais.
Elena was glad of her mask. She wore it like a shield, the only protection she had in the room against a sea of glittering sharks.
Ahead of her sat Queen Mira, resplendent in a gown gold and studded from head to toe in gems. For the first time in sixyears, Elena stared at her face. It was porcelain white, as smooth as cream, heavily made up in rouge and glitter in the shape of a mask. She was beautiful, but it was the kind of beauty that could only be purchased, as soft and welcoming as an icicle.
“Princess Sofia,” the Queen said, in a careful, measured voice. “How glad we are that you have finally returned to our kingdom.”
“It is an honour,” Elena said, dropping into a bow. Gods and gears, it had been years since she’d had to bow in a dress. She wished she’d practised that rather than all this dancing.
Queen Mira smiled. “No politics tonight,” she said, “we shall save that until the morning. Please, come, drink, be merry. I believe the the Toulousian Prince has requested your first dance of the evening…”
She gestured to a young gentleman standing at the side of her. Elena had not paid anyone else much attention. The dais was crowded with nobles, and it would have been rude to give anyone but the Queen attention at first.
She turned now, and her heart almost stopped.
Standing beside the queen in a pristine pearl and silver suit—wearing the red Toulousian sash and a simple mask of white lace that did nothing to hide his face—wasPip.
There’sbeensomekindof mistake,Elena was certain.Pip isn’t the prince. Maybe they just look very similar. Perhaps your mind is playing tricks on you. Maybe the real prince hates balls, and he’s asked Pip to take his place…
But the nobles would have to be in on it, and somehow, that didn’t seem likely.
Pip descended down the steps towards her, smiling in his distinctly Pip-like way.
This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be happening.
And yet…
