lie, her voice.
On one particular evening, though, there were to be no Scriptures. Instead, Stepmother drew an envelope from her apron pocket—though she never lifted a finger for housework, she nearly always wore an apron. It gave her the appearance of constant dutifulness.
She pulled a thick, square card from inside, so rich that it was almost cloth. The edges ran with a tastefully subtle pattern of angled lacework, punched into the paper by no human hand, surely, but by magic or machines.
“His Highness King Corsin,” she announced to a suddenly attentive audience, “invites us to a Cultural Exposition Gala, to be held at the start of the New Year. The judged Exposition will celebrate and support, through a generous Royal Endowment, the advancements of Esting’s most brilliant inventors and artisans, as well as . . .” Her voice trailed off as she scanned the invitation.
Piety and Chastity leaned forward, rumpling their full skirts. My ears tingled to hear what Stepmother so casually omitted. A judged exposition, with funding for inventors!
“ . . . a ball on New Year’s Eve, at the palace, to commence the Exposition festivities.” Here Stepmother’s voice trilled, and a tremble came into her elegant fingers. “My dear girls, your chance has come.”
Piety and Chastity clasped hands and nodded heads, their respective chestnut and yellow curls bobbing in unison. Their faces, Piety’s oval and Chastity’s heart-shaped, equally lovely and equally vacant, shone with rapture.
An Exposition . . . Royal Endowment . . . inventors and artisans . . .
I cringed as my needle stabbed under a fingernail. I looked down at the bloodstain spreading into the pleats on Piety’s chemise. The pain soon fled—as would the blood, with a good scrubbing.
I pulled my work close, hoping to keep my accident from notice.
I had no such luck. “Mother,” Piety whined, “Nick’s ruined my chemise. I need a new one.” Her plump cherry of a mouth turned to pouting.
She and Chastity refused to call me by my full name, Nicolette—I think they were jealous of its cadence, or its lack of implied virtue. They had christened me Nick at Father’s funeral.
“Then of course you shall, sweet one,” crooned Stepmother.
“Me too,” said Chastity, for probably the twentieth time that day. Her words were usually an echo of Piety’s. “Me too, if Pie gets one.” She narrowed her eyes at her sister. Piety wrinkled her nose.
Stepmother silenced them with a raised hand. “My dear girls, you will both have new wardrobes in full by the Exposition,” she cooed.
I barely managed to contain my horror. Was I expected to produce these wardrobes, and by the New Year? Winter was nearly here already. Even with Jules and the minions, I couldn’t see a way.
✷
That night, I doubled my usual hours in Mother’s workshop. I worked so intently that I didn’t notice time passing until a ray of sunlight issued through the one narrow window in the study and hit me square in the eye. It was too late for sleep then—I had to have breakfast on the table by the time Stepmother came down at seven. Even so, ideas buzzed through my head, and I wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if I’d gotten the chance.
Stepmother was clearly excited too. She ate her poached egg on toast with pleasure, even enthusiasm. She usually liked to act as if eating were beneath her, a necessity she only suffered through to stay strong for her dear daughters.
She even talked to me as she ate. “Go into town today,” she said, pricking open her yolk with the tines of her fork, “and consult the milliner. You’ll need plenty of fabric for the dresses Piety and Chastity described to me last night.” She shook her head fondly. “They always know how to look their best, bless their hearts. They’ll grow out of this vanity when they marry, as I did, but Brother Lane says there’s no harm in letting girls be girls.”
She looked up at me as she said this,
On one particular evening, though, there were to be no Scriptures. Instead, Stepmother drew an envelope from her apron pocket—though she never lifted a finger for housework, she nearly always wore an apron. It gave her the appearance of constant dutifulness.
She pulled a thick, square card from inside, so rich that it was almost cloth. The edges ran with a tastefully subtle pattern of angled lacework, punched into the paper by no human hand, surely, but by magic or machines.
“His Highness King Corsin,” she announced to a suddenly attentive audience, “invites us to a Cultural Exposition Gala, to be held at the start of the New Year. The judged Exposition will celebrate and support, through a generous Royal Endowment, the advancements of Esting’s most brilliant inventors and artisans, as well as . . .” Her voice trailed off as she scanned the invitation.
Piety and Chastity leaned forward, rumpling their full skirts. My ears tingled to hear what Stepmother so casually omitted. A judged exposition, with funding for inventors!
“ . . . a ball on New Year’s Eve, at the palace, to commence the Exposition festivities.” Here Stepmother’s voice trilled, and a tremble came into her elegant fingers. “My dear girls, your chance has come.”
Piety and Chastity clasped hands and nodded heads, their respective chestnut and yellow curls bobbing in unison. Their faces, Piety’s oval and Chastity’s heart-shaped, equally lovely and equally vacant, shone with rapture.
An Exposition . . . Royal Endowment . . . inventors and artisans . . .
I cringed as my needle stabbed under a fingernail. I looked down at the bloodstain spreading into the pleats on Piety’s chemise. The pain soon fled—as would the blood, with a good scrubbing.
I pulled my work close, hoping to keep my accident from notice.
I had no such luck. “Mother,” Piety whined, “Nick’s ruined my chemise. I need a new one.” Her plump cherry of a mouth turned to pouting.
She and Chastity refused to call me by my full name, Nicolette—I think they were jealous of its cadence, or its lack of implied virtue. They had christened me Nick at Father’s funeral.
“Then of course you shall, sweet one,” crooned Stepmother.
“Me too,” said Chastity, for probably the twentieth time that day. Her words were usually an echo of Piety’s. “Me too, if Pie gets one.” She narrowed her eyes at her sister. Piety wrinkled her nose.
Stepmother silenced them with a raised hand. “My dear girls, you will both have new wardrobes in full by the Exposition,” she cooed.
I barely managed to contain my horror. Was I expected to produce these wardrobes, and by the New Year? Winter was nearly here already. Even with Jules and the minions, I couldn’t see a way.
✷
That night, I doubled my usual hours in Mother’s workshop. I worked so intently that I didn’t notice time passing until a ray of sunlight issued through the one narrow window in the study and hit me square in the eye. It was too late for sleep then—I had to have breakfast on the table by the time Stepmother came down at seven. Even so, ideas buzzed through my head, and I wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if I’d gotten the chance.
Stepmother was clearly excited too. She ate her poached egg on toast with pleasure, even enthusiasm. She usually liked to act as if eating were beneath her, a necessity she only suffered through to stay strong for her dear daughters.
She even talked to me as she ate. “Go into town today,” she said, pricking open her yolk with the tines of her fork, “and consult the milliner. You’ll need plenty of fabric for the dresses Piety and Chastity described to me last night.” She shook her head fondly. “They always know how to look their best, bless their hearts. They’ll grow out of this vanity when they marry, as I did, but Brother Lane says there’s no harm in letting girls be girls.”
She looked up at me as she said this,
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