Page 55 of Disenchanted
I smiled as I wondered if the young ladies had thought to bring a cushion to land upon should they venture to swoon again. One could not always depend upon the gallantry of a prince as the other silly girls had discovered on that day I had come to think of as the Maiden Massacre.
My smirk faded as the barouche disappeared up the hill and there was still no sign of Mal. The moon had risen like a silver-white queen presiding over a brilliant court of stars. It would be a beautiful night filled with the promise of romance and adventure or total disaster. I was leaning toward the latter. IfMal did not get here soon, I would be attending the ball in my chemise. Where was the wretched man?
Imelda had been in a state of near panic when she had helped me to style my hair earlier. Her nervous fluttering had only increased my own anxiety. I had shooed her out of my bedchamber to go tend to the girls. But as carriage after carriage lumbered past our house, I began to feel rather panicky myself.
As I came away from the window, I was heartened by the sight of the small nosegay of white roses resting upon my dressing table. It had been delivered earlier by an earnest young Scutcheon corporal who had snapped off a sharp bow. He had handed me the bouquet with “the commander’s best wishes and compliments, milady.”
Settling onto the stool in front of my dressing table, I picked up the roses and breathed in their sweet fragrance. Once again, I examined the card that had accompanied them.
Ella,
I know you have much finer blooms in your own garden, but I hope you will find my humble offering acceptable.
Yours, Horatio
An involuntary smile curved my lips. If anyone had told me even a week ago that I would look forward to dancing with Commander Crushington at the ball, I would have declared that person as mad as a Red Grove hermit. But after hearing all that Horatio had overcome in his youth, I was intrigued and wanted to know him better. I was even willing to consider the possibility something romantic could develop between us— if he did not arrest me first.
As for Mal, the only thing that prevented me from wanting to kill my dear friend was the small wooden box resting next to my hairbrush. I opened the box and drew out the precious emeralds that Mal had restored to me. I had not yet been able to thank him, and I resolved to do so while I was choking him to death.
I had to brush my hair back to fasten the emeralds in my ears. I had no idea if they would match my dress. Mal had been so infernally mysterious, he had refused to tell me anything about the gown’s design, fabric or even the color. He had insisted I would just have to trust him.
I was trying to do so, but as the minutes ticked by and he still did not arrive, it grew increasingly more difficult. At least, wearing my mother’s earrings afforded me some comfort. It did not matter if they would complement my gown or not. Imelda had arranged my hair in a soft cascade of curls tumbling over my shoulders. The earrings would not be visible, but I would know they were there, as though this evening I would carry a small part of my mother with me.
As much as I loved Imelda, I could not help wishing that my own mother was here tonight. I tried to imagine what it would have been like, the shared laughter and excitement, the way she would have smiled as she insisted, I borrow her “twinkles,” fastening them on me herself, the look of pride in her eyes as she hugged me. My throat swelled with emotion, and it was with relief that I heard the distant knock on the front door. I leapt up and bolted out into the hall, crying, “I’ll get it!”
I tore down the stairs, nearly tripping over the hem of my dressing robe. When I reached the front door, I flung it open. “Mal! Where have you been—”
I broke off in dismay because it was not my friend. Instead of Mal, I was greeted by the blast of the royal herald’s trumpet. Rhufawn Smythe obviously recalled what had happened on his last visit because he stood well out of my reach so I could not snatch the instrument from him. I had to endure the rest of his fanfare. Leaning up against the doorjamb, I folded my arms and glowered until he finished. As soon as he lowered the trumpet, I demanded, “Now what?”
Ignoring my hostile tone, the herald tossed his red curls as he said, “A message from the royal palace, one of the greatest importance—”
“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. The royal ball has been cancelled and regretfully His Majesty is unable to refund the price of our tickets.”
“Of course not, Miss Upton. You truly are the most cynical and suspicious young lady I have ever met.”
“Then you claim to bring me more good news from the palace?” I asked.
“Er— not precisely. It will depend upon how much stamina you possess.”
“What!”
Rhufawn ventured closer, although he eyed me warily. He drew forth a scroll and unfurled it. Clearing his throat, he used the light spilling from the house as he read, “His Supreme Highness King August the first of that name, ruler of the great kingdom of Arcady, descendent of the noble house of Helavalerian, declares that henceforth swooning in the presence of royalty is strictly forbidden. Any person caught fainting in the vicinity of the king or any of the noble princes, Florian, Kendrick, Ryland, Dahl, or Dashiel will be subject to a heavy fine and an afternoon confined in the Yoke of Shame.”
As the herald finished reading the decree, I did not know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. Someone must have reported the absurd episode that had taken place on our lane to His Majesty. While I was glad that there would not be a repetition of the Maiden Massacre at the ball, I was vexed with the king for using it as an excuse to enact another petty law.
“I do hope you read this decree to the Hansons before they left for the ball,” I said.
“No.” Rhufawn squirmed, managing to look both guilty and defiant. “They were gone before I got there, as were many of theother families on this street. But it is not as though I dawdled. What is a poor herald to do when he is handed a decree to announce at the very last moment?”
“I am sure you did your best, but the king had better be prepared to increase his supply of yokes,” I said. “What if a girl faints because she is genuinely ill? Will allowances be made for that?”
Rhufawn squinted at the document. “There do not appear to be any exceptions, miss.”
“Oh? What about coughing or sneezing in the presence of the king? Has that also been banned?”
“I see no mention of that, so I suppose it is permissible if done discreetly.”
“What about puking?”
