When Anwin came in to help her, they both sewed as fast as they could, the seams, and then the rose tendrils, twining them around the skirt. Through the open doorway Thursey could see the moon beginning to drop a little, and she could hear the midnight trumpets from the castle, so her heart dropped too— nearly to her toes.
"You don't want to make an entrance while they're at supper, child. Wait until the dancing begins again— these things go on until dawn. There will be no pumpkin to call you back, Thursey, once you are at the palace."
Thursey stared at Anwin. And suddenly all the uncertainty she had fought came flooding out. She lay her needle down and sat looking at her hands. What made her think—what had ever made her think—that she could go to the king's ball dressed in common muslin sewn with swamp vines? Everyone would laugh. Her stepsisters would roar; she could almost hear Delilah.
And Gillie—Gillie would be shocked.
"Oh Anwin . . ."
Anwin smiled, patted her hand, sewed his last stitch, and put down his needle. He held the full skirt out wide so the rows and rows of twined roses shone in the candlelight. Then he stood, lifted Thursey to her feet and unbuttoned her old dress so it slid to the floor. He dropped the rose-covered dress over Thursey's head and fastened it. Then he rummaged in the cupboards until he found the silver cord with which Gillie's package had been tied, and, with surprising skill for a man, he began to brush and bind up Thursey's hair.
When at last she looked into the mirror the old monk brought, she could not believe it. Her hair, piled high in a coronet and woven with silver, was a wonder. Her cheeks were pink with excitement. And the dress — oh, the rose-covered dress looked beautiful. She stared, turned, pirouetted. Then she flung her arms around Anwin.
But the old man held her away, and wiped her tears, and said gruffly, "Come, child, the night is getting on." He led her out to the stable yard and handed her up the mounting block just like a real lady, and then he brought the mare.
Oh, the mare had been polished until she shone. Anwin had bathed her, and her hooves were trimmed and blackened. Across her back was a red silk saddle cloth, and atop it shone Augusta's sidesaddle, polished and fine, and the mare was wearing Augusta's riding bridle!
Thursey, torn between shock and hilarity at borrowing Augusta's prized possessions, could only stand grinning at Anwin. The hair in the mare's ears had been trimmed smooth, as had her muzzle and her fetlocks. And her mane was worked carefully with red ribbons into a thick French braid that ran the length of her neck. Her tail was braided the same, and the old creature was arching her neck and thrusting her ears forward comically.
Thursey mounted and seated herself for the first time in a real lady's sidesaddle and took up the reins. "Oh Anwin, do I look a fool?"
"You look . . . like the loveliest princess ever to grace the land. Like a true princess. I told you one day you would know enchantment, and this is the night, Cendrillon. Now off with you. I don't want to see you til dawn."
Thursey, never having ridden sidesaddle, felt for an instant as if she were going over backward; but the mare moved with a strange new grace, as if perhaps the old hoyden's pride had been restored, and soon enough they were cantering effortlessly through the moonlight, the mare placing her feet exactly right among the rocks and boulders—though her ears twisted around occasionally with curiosity.
Thursey, her gown spread carefully around her, gave the mare her head gladly and gazed up at the palace. I'm going to the king's ball. I really am going. She heard Anwin's voice again, "... like the loveliest princess in the land. I told you one day you would know enchantment—like a princess . . ." She lifted the reins and nudged the mare into a faster canter.
But then between village and castle, just at the beginning of the long drive with the lights shining down from all the windows above her and the music so gay, she was suddenly uncertain again. She pulled the mare in and sat still as stone, staring up the hill at the whirl of dancing figures through the windows.
Rows of torches flamed along the walks and drive and among the gardens. A glow of light fell over the arbors and across the sculptured hedges and the balconies; the windows were brilliant. Torchlight shone on the coachmen who were rubbing down the waiting carriage horses. The mare took a few tentative steps as Thursey sat staring, and Thursey could see the footmen at the top of the marble stairs that led up to the ballroom. She could see a bit of the chandelier inside, and the dancers; the mare pulled suddenly at the bit and began to walk up the drive. The grooms stopped their work and watched. A strange old mare, a strangely clad girl riding up to the palace alone on a night meant for escorts and carriages and laughing parties. A lone girl with swamp roses sewn on her dress. In a panic Thursey pulled the mare round.
I can't. Oh I can't. Not in muslin and swamp roses!
They'll all be wearing satin and velvet and Belgium lace and ermine—I can't go up there. Whatever made me think I could? She leaned over the mare and dug her heels in hard.
But the old mare, mesmerized by the light and glitter and the music, swung stubbornly to face the palace. And somewhere inside Thursey, then, a similar stubbornness burst forth, and made her want to go on.
What had she sewn half the night for if she was going to run away? What would Anwin say if she came home? She grasped at her shredded courage, gave the mare her head, and rode straight for the marble stairs.
A footman took the mare's bridle and did not laugh, and another handed Thursey down as carefully as any lady.
Thursey gazed above her, up the stairs.
The marble flight rose like a mountain. At the very top, the liveried footmen stared straight ahead of them. And though the music was bright, a hush held the night suspended—a hush within herself, as if her own heart had ceased to beat. If she had come early in a group, with her sisters—she quailed, almost turned, then with determination she lifted the hem of her skirt as a real lady would and began to ascend the stairs. Her heart pounded but she made herself go on; her feet seemed very heavy, even in Anwin's silver slippers. She stared down at them and tried to think of Anwin's kindness as she mounted one step, then the next.
Could I really have looked the way I thought in the mirror? Could I have looked beautiful, as Anwin said? Or was it only what I wanted to see? The music swept around her and she could hear laughter and happy voices. One step, another. Do I look all right? Will everyone laugh at me? Her skirts rustled reassuringly, and billowed out around her with the stiffness the roses gave them. Halfway to the top she paused, and glanced upward at the landing.
The footmen still stared straight ahead, as immobile as the marble columns that supported the overhanging roof. But now there was another figure standing above her just at the head of the stairs. A tall young man dressed in dark velvet and gathered linen and white gloves. He was looking down at her, not quite smiling. He was waiting for her, his hand held out to her. She couldn't believe what she saw. She stood staring and forgot her own uncertainties as she looked and looked. Gillie! It was Gillie!
How elegant he was. How could he be dressed like that? How could he be here on the ballroom steps? She felt giddy inside herself, as if the steps were rocking. Gillie had never told her he'd be at the ball.
But of course the king had said all the people; he must have meant the servants, too. Though Gillie didn't look like any servant, not dressed like that. Nor like a goatherd either. He looked quite wonderful; and his blue eyes were steady on hers. She took one tentative step and tried to speak, but only a small croak came out. Was he laughing underneath that serious look? He held his finger to his lips, and she thought, He's playing a game! That's it. The liverymen have dressed Gillie up for the ball.