Page 1 of Disenchanted
one
Once upon a time… That is how a good story should begin or, so I have been told. These tales always involve a poor but sweet young maiden who attends a royal ball, falls in love with a charming prince and lives happily ever.
This is not my story. While I am certainly poor enough, no one would ever describe me as sweet, and our kingdom’s prince is far from charming. When I did get the chance to go to a ball, my mind was more set on burglary than falling in love and… But I am getting ahead of myself.
My story starts on what promised to be another ordinary day until someone came hammering at my front door with enough force to snap the ancient brass knocker in half. At that moment, I was kneeling in front of the library hearth, ramming a long-handled broom up the chimney while soot sifted down over my face and hands, speckling the apron I wore over my old grey woolen gown. Only the kerchief knotted about my head prevented my hair from becoming a shade of ash blonde. I was in no fit state to receive callers.
When the insistent rapping continued, I shouted out, “Can someone please answer the front door?”
I knew both of my stepsisters were near at hand, entertaining one of their vapid beaux in the parlor. But when Amy and Netta were anywhere in the vicinity of an eligible young man, they tended to become so addle-pated that it affected their hearing. There was no response to my plea other than the sound of muffled giggling.
I sighed, hoping whoever was at the front door would have the wit to go away and come back later. I gave the broom another shove, but only succeeded in dislodging a little more soot. There was something up there blocking the flue, some poor swallow perhaps or even an owl. I flexed my shoulder muscles and rammed harder. There was a loud crack as the ancient broom snapped in half.
I rocked back on my haunches, staring in dismay at the splintered spear of wood in my hand. The top half of the broom was stuck somewhere up the shaft, further blocking the flue.
“Oh, frap!” I swore since there was no one around to frown or be shocked at my vulgarity.
Meanwhile the rapping continued; the idiot at the door as persistent as a hedge fly trying to get at the sugar bowl.
“Amy! Netta! Get the door,” I bellowed.
At least this time, I managed to get a response.
“We are busy, Ella, dear,” Amy sang out. There was more giggling.
As if I am not, I started to shout back only to give up, muttering, “Never mind.”
I struggled to my feet, trying to wipe my hands clean on my apron, but it was only making matters worse. I stomped from the library, aware that I was leaving a trail of soot all along the main hall I would be obliged to clean up later. Just add that to the many other tasks facing me this afternoon. The thought did nothing to improve my mood.
I flung open the door, stopping the caller in mid-rap. “What?” I demanded.
The round florid-faced little man on the doorstep drew back in dismay at the sight of me. He was clad in all the accoutrements of a royal herald, a blue toque with a jaunty feather perched on top of his auburn curls. His costume was ridiculously antiquated, a sapphire blue doublet, the sleeves slashed with silver, the colors of the royal house of Helavalerian. The short baggy breeches and tight hose he wore were enough to make any man look absurd, never mind one as stout as him.
I was no more pleased to see him than he was me. If I had known the caller was a messenger from the palace, he could have rapped until the knocker disintegrated. I would never have opened the door.
Recovering from his initial dismay, the herald puffed out his cheeks and raised his trumpet to his lips.
“Don’t do that!” I grabbed the trumpet and wrenched it away from him, stopping him mid-toot. He gasped in outrage, bouncing on his toes as he tried to retrieve the trumpet, but I held it easily out of his reach.
“Miss! I must sound the trumpet. It is protocol.”
“You were supposed to have blown the horn before you knocked.”
He sank back on his heels, looking disgruntled. “I was warned that people are unlikely to answer their doors if I sound the trumpet first. Especially at this house, Miss Upton.”
Despite my layers of soot, the man knew who I was. Obviously, he had been warned.
“What happened to George, the herald who used to work this street?” I asked.
“He retired.”
“Surely he is a little young for that.”
“The poor man’s nerves were a wreck. He’s gone off to join the Loyal Order of Hermits in the Red Grove Forest. He simply couldn’t endure any more of the abuse heaped upon him, all the insults and threats, being set upon by dogs or angry cats.” The herald directed a pointed glare at me. “Or having pails of dirty water flung on his head.”
“I was washing the second story windows and the bucket slipped from my hand,” I protested. “It was an accident.”
Well, almost. It was George’s own fault for provoking me. When I refused to come down from the ladder to take his message, he had shouted the tidings up at me, that the palace had declared a new (and exorbitant) tax on windows. Dumping the wash water on his head had been a purely involuntary response. Still, if I had contributed in any way to poor George becoming a hermit, I felt a twinge of remorse.
