Tales Of Arilland Part 8

"We can't take this."

"Sunday, I'm a frog. What use have I for such a pretty?"

"But its worth alone..."

"That and a hundred more like it wouldn't get me what I want," he reminded her. "But if it buys even a second of your family's happiness, then to me it is worth more than any moneylender could possibly exchange for it."

He was right, she knew. But her conscience still wouldn't let her. Sunday stood there, weighing her needs against her morals.

They both weighed about three pounds of solid gold.

"Please," said Grumble.

Sunday put the bauble in her pocket. She cradled Grumble in her hands and kissed him heartily before he could ask her. "Thank you, my dear friend, more than you will ever know." He was too stunned for words. "Trix and I should be going now," she said. "But I will come back tomorrow. And I will write for you, I promise!"

She did not hear him say goodbye.

Excited, Sunday skipped in Trix's wake back through the brush. They raced each other to the edge of the Wood, to where their house laid on the horizon. Their energy spent, they slowed to a walk, the weight of the golden ball knocking rea.s.suringly between Sunday's book and her leg.

"He loves you."

Trix was like that. Full of snails and puppy dogs' tails one minute, and unnaturally wise the next. What he said was true, but it did not change the way of the world.

"And you love him."

Nor did that.

Sunday covered the lump in her skirt pocket with her hand and said the only thing she could think to say.

"I know."

Sunday awoke to a poke in the side and opened her eyes to see her mother looming over her bed. Seven Woodcutter was not a soft, warm, cookie-making type of mother. She was more of a "spoil the rod" type of mother. At least she wasn't using the rod to wake up her children. Anymore.

Sunday felt the familiar rustle of pages under her cheek. Her family's celebration over their newfound wealth had lasted well into the night, and she had fallen asleep committing the revelry to paper so that she could share it with Grumble in the morning. She knew he would be delighted to hear it.

Her gaze flew to the candlestick beside the bed, and the small stub of candle atop it. Dear, good Friday. She must have come into Sunday's room in the wee hours to snuff it out behind her. Mama always let Sunday have it whenever she discovered a candle burned down to the quick, for it was irrefutable proof that at least some of it had been wasted. Despite the fact that Monday could provide for everything they would ever need, Mama was a penny pincher to the end.

"There's been a Proclamation," Mama said by way of explanation.

Great. Royal Proclamations usually meant more work, less food, and the loss of something they had previously taken for granted.

"Prince Rumbold is hosting three b.a.l.l.s."

Prince Rumbold. The prince whose fairy G.o.dmother had turned the brother Sunday had never known into a dog. The prince who had been reported ill or missing or dead or all three over the past several months. The prince who had evidently been restored to health, rescued, resurrected or simply rumored about. Whatever the story, the spirit had apparently moved His Evil Highness to throw a ball. So he was pretentious enough to have three, and then announced them to the countryside like anyone cared a fig.

"Good for Prince Rumbold." Sunday rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, her pillow that smelled deliciously of sleep.

Another poke. "The prince is throwing three b.a.l.l.s, and all the eligible ladies in the countryside are invited," Mama said. "If you are very good and do all your ch.o.r.es, I will let you go."

"Perfect," Sunday said into the pillow. "I don't want to go."

She felt the pages of her book slip from beneath her cheek. Sunday reached out to grab it, but Mama was too quick.

"You will go into town and sell that little golden bauble," she ordered. Sunday's eyes never left the book she held hostage; Mama had her rapt attention. "In addition to what we normally use, you will buy all the fabric Friday needs to alter dresses for you girls; she is in the kitchen right now making a list. You will do your ch.o.r.es and Friday's for the next three days, and then at the end of them, you will attend those b.a.l.l.s."

"What does Papa have to say about all this?" Sunday snapped.

"Your father has no say in this. Every eligible girl in the country has been asked to attend, which means that every eligible man of means will find a way to be invited. I don't care if it is that awful prince's doing. This may be my girls' only chance to snare a decent husband, and they will not pa.s.s up that chance. I will see at least one of you engaged before the week is out. Do I make myself clear?"

Sunday nodded silently as Mama slipped the book into her pocket. It would have been impossible for her to not feel Sunday's desperation.

"Sunday," Mama said more easily, "it's not that difficult. Just do what I need you to do, and I will let you have your diary back before you go to bed every night. But I will take it away again every morning, understand?"

"Yes, Mum!" Sunday hopped out of bed, unable to dress and run to market fast enough.

The trip to market was unbelievable. Sunday was treated like a princess from the moment she arrived at the moneylender's office. He had smiled at the bauble and told her that he was going to have to consult with someone about it, but as he did not want to keep her from shopping he gave her tokens with the royal seal on them and instructed her to leave one with each vendor she purchased goods from. After Trix's misfortune she was wary about trading for a handful of anything, but the vendors lit up at the sight of the tokens and made sure to present to her the finest of their wares. She was probably still a little too frugal with her purchases; even though she had to hire a wagon to help her home with them, she still had a small bag full of gold pieces left over.

Once at home she immediately went to work on her ch.o.r.es. Mama was so pleased with her that she handed Sunday her book directly after supper. While Sunday regretted not being able to spend even a moment with her new best friend, she had experienced the entire day with an eye for how she would tell Grumble all about it. He would be so happy to see her, and she would read to him for hours, and he would understand why she hadn't come.

The next two days pa.s.sed in a blur. The only moments that seemed to drag were the rare occasions that Sunday had to gaze longingly at the treeline of the Wood. She missed her friend more with every hour that she was away, and she hoped he was not desperately pining for her.

Though if her feelings were any judge, he undoubtedly was.

At the end of the third day, Sunday sat in front of the mirror in a gown of silver and tried not to fall asleep while Wednesday braided her hair.

"The words," said Wednesday dreamily. (Wednesday said everything dreamily.) "They're keeping you up at night." If anyone understood the power of words, it was Wednesday.

"Yes," Sunday admitted.

"It shows."

That was less than rea.s.suring.

"But don't worry," her dark sister added. "You look like..." her voice floated off into the ether. She wove a ribbon into the plait. "You still look beautiful."

Papa said nothing as he watched his women climb inside the carriage. He twisted the small gold medallion on the chain around his neck; Sunday had come by her nervous idle hands honestly. She suddenly wished she had her book with her to keep her company. To give her courage.

Papa had tears in his eyes when he looked at Sunday. She felt miserable. Like she was betraying him by even attending the ball. Like she was betraying Grumble.

Once at the palace they walked up the steps and across the yard to where the gaggle of other women were waiting to be announced at the Grand Entrance. Sunday was sure that the Woodcutter women made an odd picture. Mama was humble in her matronly mauve. Friday almost skipped in her scarlet. Sat.u.r.day lumbered in her lavender, her flat-footed gait betraying the fact that she hated wearing a dress more than anything in the world, and that she would have preferred a death sentence to what awaited beyond those doors. Wednesday glided, a waif in her fairy-kissed grey, as if she were wearing her own shadow. And Sunday in her silver walked next to them, feeling more the pretender and betrayer with every step that she took.

Sunday didn't realize she had no idea what she was getting into until she walked through the doors of the Grand Entrance and stood on the landing overlooking the ballroom floor.

It was more people than she had ever seen in her life.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her face flushed. Her heart raced. She froze in place, unable to take another step forward. She felt Wednesday's cool hand slip inside her clammy one, and it gave her the courage to move forward to the top of the red-carpeted stairs. She immediately saw herself plummeting down them.

Wednesday squeezed her fingers.

"Missus Seven Woodcutter," the servant announced, "and her daughters: Miss Wednesday, Miss Friday, Miss Sat.u.r.day, and Miss Sunday Woodcutter."

Sunday wouldn't have been surprised if the whole room had turned to laugh at their ridiculous names. Thank G.o.d there were only four of them. She picked up her skirts in one hand and held fast to Wednesday with the other, letting her sister ease her slowly down the steps.

She was happy to see a familiar face meet them at the bottom, smiling behind a jewel-studded fan.

"Monday," Mama crooned as she embraced her eldest daughter. Sunday's eyes never left the fan. So much nonsense over a stupid cow that wasn't worth half of the useless accessory her sister currently held nonchalantly in her hand. But Mama's pride kept her from taking any charity from Monday, and they were all better off for it. As she reminded them. Daily.

Sunday's princess sister took her hand from Wednesday's and looked her over. Sunday bowed her head in a small curtsey.

"She looks like Tuesday," Monday said to Mama.

Mama turned. Sunday thought it might have been the first time in her life her mother had actually looked at her. "She does, a little," Mama said after a pause.

Sunday's racing heart tripped over itself and skipped a beat in the process. It was the nicest thing her mother had ever said to her. The music stopped. The room went quiet. Sunday was too shocked to notice anything, until she realized that her family were staring at a point just to the left of her head. Behind her.

"Miss Woodcutter," he said.

Sunday turned slowly, and uttered the first words that came to mind that were not profane. "Your Highness."

"Would you do me the honor of accompanying me in the next dance?"

From a man like him, it was a rhetorical question. Sunday straightened out of her curtsey and took his hand as he led her to the center of the room. She stared at the gold medal on his breast, afraid to look at him.

She did not think the prince was simply a shallow man with an eye for a pretty face; there were many girls much prettier than she in the room. He must have known of their connection. Even if he had been too young to remember it, surely he must have heard the legend of Jack Junior. Perhaps this was his way of mending ways between their families. Perhaps this was his way of demonstrating that he always got what he wanted. Perhaps this was a display of his complete and utter ignorance.

The band started a waltz.

Oh why me, Sunday repeated to herself with every movement. Oh why me, oh why me, oh why me...over and over again as they turned in the sea of beautiful people, over and over again until she slipped and said it aloud.

"Why?" said the prince. "Well, because I needed to ask someone a question, and you looked intelligent enough to answer it honestly."

"As you wish, Your Highness." It was a knee-jerk reaction to curtsey at the t.i.tle, and Sunday found herself stumbling. The prince spun her around to cover up the misstep.

"My fault," he said quickly. "So, are you ready for my question?"

She nodded sternly.

"Do I look as stupid as I feel?"

Sunday bit her lips together and tried not to laugh. One did not laugh at His Royal Highness. After a count of three, she felt calm enough to reply. "It would not matter if Your Highness was wearing a sackcloth," she said. "Or nothing at all. No one would ever think you looked stupid, and if they did they would not be traitorous enough to say so."

"Exactly," said the prince. "Which is why I am asking you. I think myself a relatively good judge of character, and I have a feeling that you are the type of person who does not lie casually."

"In that case," said Sunday, "you look fine. Very smart. Very handsome. As a prince should look. Although..."

"Tell me."

"There is a bit of your hair sticking out on the left side."

"I knew it!" the prince said through his teeth. "d.a.m.n nuisance. There is no help for it."

"I'm sure if you smoothed it down with your hand quickly, no one would notice."

"You said it yourself, Miss Woodcutter. Everyone is looking. Everyone would notice, and they would all say I was too vain for my own good."

"I would do it for you," offered Sunday, "but everyone would say I was too familiar."

The prince threw back his head and laughed loudly. Sunday tensed in his arms as she felt every eye in the room turn to them in wonder. She was instantly reminded of her place in the world. Perhaps it was a good thing. She had been feeling entirely too comfortable with this man who was supposed to be her enemy. She felt her cheeks turn instantly red, which no doubt sent more tongues wagging.

"I love that you blush."

"Why did you do that?" Sunday whispered.

"Because everyone was looking," he said, "and now everyone is gossiping. Everyone already a.s.sumes that you are too familiar, so you must dance every dance with me after this. And in order to save yourself the humiliation of being seen dancing with a lunatic all night, you have no choice but to fix my hair."

He smiled in triumph.

"Scoundrel." Sunday reached out a hand and coaxed his dark hair back behind his ear.

Half the room gasped.

Sunday didn't care.

That night in bed, Sunday wrote about her very long day, about her dress and the people at the ball. She wrote about her sisters and their escapades. She wrote that she had made a friend, and that she had danced every dance. But she did not mention the prince to Grumble, to what would be to Grumble when she saw him again. It pained her to not be able to speak of the happiness that brimmed to overflowing inside her, but she did not feel comfortable mentioning this man to her best friend. This man who was a man, and not a frog. This man who was not just a man, but a prince. A prince who was her father's sworn enemy.

A prince she was falling in love with.