But these weren't livery clothes. These were far richer, far finer. She climbed the stairs toward him, her heart pounding. Gillie did not move, but his eyes urged her on: she felt as if her whole life depended on this moment.
When she reached the top at last, Gillie took her hand and drew her to him so she went giddy indeed; she was in his arms, was being swept through the great doors close to Gillie, was on the polished ballroom floor, whirling, lifted by the music, close to Gillie. . . .
The light from a thousand candles set in crystal chandeliers shimmered over them, catching the flash of instruments where the orchestra played on a raised gallery; the colors of the dancers flashed and changed as Gillie whirled her—she hadn't known she could dance like this, like flying . . . surely she was dreaming, but she didn't care, she willed herself never to wake. She could feel the music in her blood like something alive, could feel the brush of other dancers as they circled, could feel her skirt whirl and dip, and smell the faint scent of crushed roses where she was pressed tight against Gillie—if this was a dream, this enchantment, she would not let it end. But Gillie, so close, Gillie was too real for any dream. The faces around them were happy, smiling, were watching them sometimes. She felt as elegant as any woman there, and she felt cherished and loved—and then suddenly she saw Augusta scowling from the sidelines, her dress dark against the brightness, her venom directed at Thursey, and she felt a stab of fear.
But what could Augusta do? Not run onto the dance floor and jerk her away! The vision of that, the dark square figure running among the dancers, was so funny that Thursey buried her face against Gillie's shoulder in a sudden fit of mirth.
Oh, if this was a dream, this heady nearness to Gillie, she would not let it end.
But then Druscilla whirled close, dancing with the fishmonger—a comical sight—and Thursey wondered what the stepsisters would do to her after the ball when she was home again. "Oh Gillie," she blurted, suddenly coming to earth.
"Shhh. They can't touch you."
Not now, she thought. After the ball they will. Oh well, maybe there isn't any later, maybe I'll never wake up. I won't think about it. Gillie swung her in front of one of the long ballroom mirrors, and the reflection of the two of them spun and paused; she could hardly believe it was herself and Gillie she saw. Surely Gillie was the handsomest man in the ballroom. And her own reflection—oh, yes, her own reflection pleased her now, for she looked as if she belonged in Gillie's arms . . . his lips brushed her hair as he bent to whisper. . . .
Later, at a pause in the music, he held her away. "You look beautiful; it's the most sensational dress in the ballroom, all the women are staring with envy. But? . . ."
Thursey looked at him with chagrin. "She tore it into pieces," she whispered miserably. "Your beautiful dress, Gillie." She felt again the pain of that moment. "At the very last minute they found it, and Augusta— into pieces and pieces — "
"Shh . . . it's all right, it's all right. You did handsomely in spite of it," he said admiringly. The music lifted into a strong waltz, and they were carried on it as on a tide so her feet hardly touched the floor. "But where did you find the roses? I don't remember roses in the village, not like these."
"The swamp roses, Gillie. It was the mare found them. She—if she hadn't run off—it was almost as if she meant me to see them."
"Are you saying? . . ."
"I don't know what I'm saying. Yes," she cried, a gay silliness taking her. Drunk with the music and the dancing, drunk with his closeness, she laughed up at him. "It was just as in the stories, a kind of magic just like . . ." and then she stared at him, confounded.
"Just like what?"
"But in the stories . . ."
"In the stories . . . what?"
"In the stories . . ."
"In the stories there's a prince," Gillie answered quietly. He held her away then. "So the story has come true."
She stared at him and stumbled and wanted to stop dancing. She felt dazed, then frightened. She had known it from the moment she looked up and saw him at the head of the stairs, but she had not admitted it.
She had not really known she knew. Gillie. Gillie, with whom she had sat among the hills. Gillie . . . and she saw the truth of it coldly and clearly: Gillie was not the same now, was not the Gillie she knew. That Gillie was lost to her forever. Nothing could be the same now. They would not walk on the hills again and take their lunch from a basket. They were different now, she and Gillie.
But Gillie was grinning without a care, teasing. "Do you know you've shown yourself to a prince in your nightdress? And ridden with your skirts hiked up in front of him like any hoyden girl?"
She tried to smile but she could not. You can love a goatherd and feel there is some hope. But to love a prince. . . .
He would dance with her this one night, and then— and then—she saw he was still smiling, but her own heart was like lead. "Oh Gillie, not the prince," she said in spite of herself. She could not help the tear that came.
He stared at her, puzzled. Then he swept her from the ballroom and out a side door onto the terrace. There they stood facing each other silently in the shadow of a portico.
She wiped the tear and fought the further tears that threatened. She hadn't meant to cry. Oh, how could she spoil this beautiful evening. She bit her lip and made herself smile. "I'm sorry, Gillie'—it's just—it's the surprise of it, I guess." She didn't know how to tell him what she felt. She could not.
"Thursey, I—Thursey ..." He seemed almost shy suddenly, not like the Gillie she knew. He was feeling sorry for her, that was it. He was trying to think how to tell her he would never see her again. "Thursey, I want ..." But they were interrupted.
"... here—find them here." Oh, it was Augusta!
"... had her nerve, and where did she get that dress, I thought . . ."
"There! There they are, in the shadows!"
Thursey turned, the last joy of the night stifled, and watched the three storm across the terrace, Augusta in full steam and the other two directly in her wake. Druscilla was squinting, the better to see Thursey's features; and Delilah was leaning forward as if the added few inches would help her make out what it was she was not sure about.
Thursey, resigned, stepped out of the shadows to face them.
But Gillie was quicker. He stood between Thursey and Augusta, as the stepmother reached for her.
Augusta scowled at him. "Get out of my way! We thought you were the prince, you charlatan. Then we saw you were not. You've deceived them, you've deceived everyone at the ball! Where is the real prince? And let me have her, she's my charge!" She reached for Thursey again. "She belongs in the kitchen, and you—you belong in the stable yard with your goats!"
Thursey's face flamed. She must get them out of here, get them away at once.
"It's just like I said," Druscilla cried loudly, reaching rudely to feel the cloth of Gillie's sleeve, the while staring at him as if he were a servant. "It's like I said, they've dressed the goatherd up because he looks healthy, they thought to make out the prince was healed and—·"
"I think . . ." Delilah interrupted.
But Gillie looked at them so coldly, all three were silenced. His expression was truly fierce. Then a twitch of laughter twisted the corner of his mouth; he tried to hide it, but he could not. He doubled over suddenly with laughter, roaring.
The stepsisters and Augusta stared. After a long moment, when Gillie kept laughing, they began to shout at him. "Stop it!" Druscilla screamed, "You can't . . ."
"We won't tolerate . . ."
"Cease at once . . ."
Gillie roared the louder, and Thursey, infected, nearly choked with laughter. Never in her life had she laughed in her stepmother's face. Now she could not stop. She hid her face and shook with laughter, nearly crying with it.