While Beauty Slept (9 page)

Her eyes bored into mine with such intensity that I felt frozen to the spot, unable even to curtsy as etiquette demanded.

“Have you nothing better to do than idle about?” she demanded. Her voice was husky and rich, each word issued with commanding authority.

The lie slipped effortlessly from my lips. “I have been given leave to assist the queen’s ladies.”

“Hmph.” I could not tell if the sound indicated satisfaction or doubt. “In that case make yourself useful. I left a cape on my bed. Go fetch it.”

“Yes, madam,” I said, dropping my head respectfully. “Begging your pardon, but where will I find your room?”

Millicent exhaled sharply, put out by my ignorance. “The North Tower. First door at the top of the marble staircase. Go.”

Her words were a jumble to me, but I would not risk her displeasure with further questions. As Millicent marched off toward the queen’s rooms, I made my way toward the central servants’ staircase. At the time I knew nothing of the North Tower’s sad history, and I could not have imagined the terrible role it would play one day in my own life. Yet a sense of foreboding sank over me as I followed the narrow passage pointed out to me by one of the footmen, a lonely, deserted extension of the castle’s otherwise bustling service corridors.

I put my nervousness down to fear of disappointing Millicent, a fear that only heightened after I emerged from the passage into a grand hall. I was immediately struck by the sensation of openness and light the room imparted. Unlike the rest of the castle, which retained the feel of a fortress, this section had large windows and whitewashed walls. Statues of knights in heroic poses were arranged in alcoves, interspersed with tapestries of nature scenes. The room had a sense of proportion and grace that even Lenore’s apartments lacked. Why, then, were these quarters deserted, save for Millicent?

Millicent. I knew I mustn’t provoke her wrath by dawdling, yet I could not see the marble staircase of which she had spoken. I turned one way, then another, eventually losing my bearings completely. The angles of the stone walls caused my footsteps to echo back from unexpected directions, so that I felt myself pursued by a foe who was first one step ahead, then one behind. Willing myself to remain calm, I used the windows to orient myself and discern where the tower joined up with the central fortress. A few more turns and I came upon the object of my quest: a staircase lined in pink marble. At the top stood two doors, both closed.

I walked upward, looking for signs of habitation, but could find no discernible difference between them. Then I heard a faint, quavering sound, coming from behind the door on the right. I took a step closer. The sound moved higher in pitch, then lower. It was a woman’s voice, singing. The words were indistinct, but the notes had a melancholy beauty that carried the weight of loss.

I knocked gently, calling, “Hello?”

The sound abruptly ceased. I reached out and took hold of the handle, but the wood did not shift when I pushed against it. My skin prickled with the awareness of another’s presence, willing me gone, and I felt a sudden urge to run from the tower and whatever strange doings it concealed. I stepped quickly to the neighboring door, which yielded with a creak to my touch. As soon as I entered, I knew I had found Millicent’s room.

Most of the women passing their final years in the castle had few possessions, their lack of wealth being the primary reason they lived off the king’s charity. A few had brooches painted with likenesses of their late husbands; others gave small ivory or silver crosses pride of place. As the king’s aunt, Millicent would be granted larger quarters than most, yet I was still shocked by the grandeur of her room, with its soaring ceiling and dazzling glints of gemstones and gold. A massive bed filled the center of the room, with elaborately carved posts that extended well over my head; a crest of four trees surrounding a boar and other wild game was etched into the headboard. On either side of the bed sat heavy chairs and storage trunks, all of a size and luxury unheard of for a spinster’s room.

As I stepped farther inside, I noticed objects scattered across every flat surface, from the heavy stone mantelpiece to the tops of the trunks to the edges of the table where Millicent kept her washing basin and hair combs. Delicate silver spoons, rings inlaid with stones in colors I had never seen, a bowl of aromatic flower petals—each new discovery filled me with wonder. But what intrigued me most were the miniature figures arrayed over the fireplace. A few had the look of saints, but others depicted women whose manner of dress was foreign to me. One tiny, rough wood carving had no clothes at all, drawing all the more attention to her swollen breasts and pregnant stomach. Another, no bigger than my thumb and crafted from a strange green stone, was polished to such a gloss that my hands were involuntarily drawn toward it. This woman was naked as well, and though the immodesty disturbed me, I found myself oddly soothed as I ran my fingertips along the smooth curves, wondering who could have made such a thing.

“What are you doing?”

Mortified, I turned to see Millicent standing in the doorway. I dropped into a hasty curtsy, my legs wobbly with fear.

“Thought you’d help yourself to whatever caught your fancy, eh?” she snapped.

“No,” I protested. “I lost my way, I’ve only just arrived—”

Millicent cut me off, her voice icy as she pointed to my hand. “And what do you have there?”

She reached out toward my clutched fingers and pried them open. She seemed taken aback when she saw what I held; the green statuette remained cradled in my palm for a moment as she looked at me suspiciously, then back at the strange little woman. I felt sick with fear. If Millicent chose to believe I was stealing, she could have me turned out in disgrace. My word would count as nothing against hers.

Desperate to avoid such a fate, I fell to my knees.

“Please, madam, I was only admiring it. I have never seen such a thing before.”

“I am sure of that,” Millicent said tartly.

I held out the figurine and pressed it into her hands. My subservient posture and obvious distress appeared to mollify Millicent, for she snorted and motioned me to stand.

“My cape,” she said briskly.

A swath of deep green velvet was draped along the bottom of the bed. As I picked it up, the fabric rippled over my arms and I saw that the edges were embroidered with a pattern of alternating diamonds and stars. Instantly, I knew. Mother had painstakingly stitched the same pattern on the bodice of my Sunday dress; I could see the tiny diagonal thread lines that were typical of her work. I had searched in vain for a trace of my mother since arriving at the castle; now, here in my hands, I had found it. My fingers lingered on the stitches, following the lines laid out years before. Millicent stared impatiently, and I held up the cape behind her, gulping down a sob as I was overcome by a wave of grief. She twisted around and stared in confusion as my face crumpled in anguish.

“I am so sorry,” I mumbled. “The cape looks very much like the work of my mother. My late mother.”

“You must be mistaken. It was made by one of the castle seamstresses.”

“Mayren?” I asked softly.

The name caught her by surprise. Then confusion gave way to understanding, and she reached out, cupping my chin with one hand. As she gazed into my face, it was as if she saw past the chambermaid’s uniform to the young woman within, all the way down to the relentless ambition I kept hidden beneath a humble façade. My hopes for advancement, my fear of humiliation, the shame of my bastard birth—she did not condemn me for any of it. The power she commanded flowed from her skin into mine, and my body tingled with expectation.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I see it now.”

She dropped her hand and pulled the sides of the cape around her body and walked to the fireplace, reaching toward the mantelpiece to replace the green figurine. Then she paused, her hand in midair, reconsidering. With a swirl of fabric, she turned and passed the piece to me.

“If this of all things caught your eye, then you shall have it.”

I sank into a deep curtsy and thanked her. The tiny woman both fascinated and repulsed me, yet I could not stop my fingers from sliding repeatedly across the lustrous stone.

“Who is she?” I asked. “A saint?”

Millicent snorted in amusement. “Hardly. These sorts of carvings are called wishing stones. Rub the belly and your deepest desires will come to pass. So they say.” She uttered the words with a smile, but her eyes gleamed mischievously. Was she making light of the servants’ suspicions that she could harness the powers of witchcraft? Or was she acknowledging that the whispers were true?

I scurried to keep up with Millicent during our return to the royal apartments; despite her age she walked at a brisk pace on legs that were longer than mine. At the doorway to the queen’s rooms, she stopped abruptly and asked my name.

“Elise, madam.”

“You are a most curious girl, Elise. I do wonder what you will make of yourself here.”

It was impossible to tell from her enigmatic look whether she foresaw success or failure. Curiously, the uncertainty did not trouble me. I was now known by name to the king’s aunt, proof I was setting myself apart from the other maids, although I could not yet guess what advantages her favor would bring.

That night I retrieved the wishing stone from my trunk and tucked it under my pillow. Each night from then on, my fingers rubbed against it rhythmically, calming me for sleep. Did that heathen trinket possess magical powers? I will not risk damnation by saying so. But it is also the God’s honest truth that the queen unexpectedly appointed me head housemaid of her apartments mere days after the stone came into my possession. On the first day I undertook my new duties, Millicent swept by me in the hallway, pausing briefly to nod in my direction. It was a passing gaze, no more, yet I understood her meaning instantly. She was watching me, taking note of my progress, assessing my talent. To what end?

Though Millicent was an elderly woman, dependent on her nephew’s generosity, she did not carry herself as a supplicant. Quite the opposite. Born and raised at the castle, she marched through its halls flush with self-importance, quick to reprimand servants and courtiers alike. According to Mrs. Tewkes, she had once played a prominent role at court, even sitting on the Royal Council after the death of the king’s father, but King Ranolf had tired of her hectoring and relegated her to a minor position, overseeing the needs of her fellow spinsters. Yet she had never stopped trying to insinuate herself into affairs of state, and her attentiveness to Queen Lenore made her a regular presence in the royal apartments.

As the days drifted toward midsummer, it seemed Millicent was always there, at the edge of my gaze, hovering over the queen, delighting in Lady Wintermale’s jealous glares. How can I explain, in mere words, the effect she had on me? It was as if the very air sparked in her presence. Enthralled by her air of mystery, I found myself standing straighter and going about my tasks with fresh vigor, swelling with pride whenever she looked my way.

The other ladies grumbled about Millicent’s growing sway over the queen, and I wondered what the two women discussed during their hushed, private conversations. There remained something unsettled about my mistress, as if her thoughts were far removed from the everyday routines of court life. Whenever she was granted some measure of solitude—in the late afternoon when her ladies dispersed to dress for supper or early on Sunday morning before services in the chapel—I would find her staring out the window, her expression troubled. Although I did see her smile, even laugh, she had the lethargy that comes from troubled sleep, and she moved through the castle halls with the hesitant pace of one pushing through waist-high water. On the few occasions the king arranged for evening entertainment, she usually excused herself and retired early.

The place Queen Lenore seemed most at ease was her workroom, a chamber adjoining her sitting room where she had set up a loom, a spinning wheel, and tables piled with the most luxurious fabrics I had ever seen. Though a woman of her rank was expected to have a certain expertise in fine needlework, she preferred the humbler pursuits of weaving and knitting, going so far as to spin her own yarns and threads. Though such diversions may have caused eye rolling among certain noble ladies, I admired her skill in those womanly arts. Seen at her spinning wheel, lost in the task at hand, she might have been any other wife, taking pride in her accomplishments.

Though I was spending more time in her presence, Queen Lenore and I had never exchanged more than a few pleasantries on the day that her personal maidservant, Isla, summoned me into the royal bedchamber for a private audience. The queen stood beside her bed, her dark hair and eyes in striking contrast to her deep crimson gown. Had she a more imperious manner, I would have been cowed by her regal bearing. Instead she smiled warmly and beckoned me over.

“Elise, I have been much pleased by your service,” she began.

I suppressed a foolish grin of delight into a modest smile.

“My husband informs me that we will be graced with a visit from his brother, Prince Bowen, before the month is out,” she said. I had yet to meet King Ranolf’s younger brother, who was said to prefer a life of travel and adventure to the routines of court. My heart began thudding with anticipation. Was I to take part in the preparations for his arrival?