Did he see so plainly, then, that she felt one with those others sometimes? "And my father, too, has gone away," she said quietly. "Though in the stories those girls know where their fathers are."
"Was it the war, then? The battles of Balkskak?"
"Yes. He went with the rest of the village, but he didn't come back. No one seemed to have seen him when the last battle was over, all they could talk about was the prince and queen being saved and the sword of Balkskak. I can understand that but—but you'd think someone would know if he died or—or where he is."
"No one could tell you anything?" There was a strong line along Gillie's jaw that hardened when he was concerned.
"No one except my stepmother. She said she heard— I don't believe it—that he died a coward and didn't fight for the king. That he had run off and that was why no one had seen him."
"Why would she say such a thing?"
"She says he was clumsy and a coward because he was crippled working in the mill, but I don't . . ."
"Anyone can be injured," Gillie said softly. "She's an old bear anyway. Crippled how?"
"He lost two fingers in the mill. She said that happened because he was afraid, and not bold in the way he handled the grinding wheel, but ..." She stopped talking, for Gillie looked so strange.
He seemed almost not to see her for a few moments; then his look changed, and he grinned. "Will you hear the tale now? The story of Catskin that the Irish minstrel sang? Though I won't sing it as he did."
"Oh yes," she said and settled down to listen, watching Gillie with curiosity.
He told her of the magic filly who watched over Catskin, and of the three enchanted gowns the filly gave her, that could be hidden in walnut shells. . . . "Catskin wandered alone in the dark forest until she came to a palace where she was taken in as a serving maid. ..." As the tale unfolded, Thursey could see the prince clearly, for he looked like Gillie. "And when Catskin shook the walnut shell over herself, the dress of silver and silk fitted to her at once. ..." Thursey looked down at her own dress, patched and faded, and felt her hair all tangled from the wind. Look at me, she thought, distressed. What must Gillie think!
For Gillie was so handsome, his brown hair curling close to his forehead and his cheeks tanned from the sun, his calloused hands strong and yet so gentle with the goats. How can he even look at me, she thought. And all of a sudden she knew she wanted very much for Gillie to like looking at her.
She was afraid he might guess how she felt, and more afraid he might not—terrified that he could never feel the same.
When the story was finished, he gave her a solemn glance. "And just as Catskin went to the ball, and Cendrillon, and Aschenputtel, so must you. The ball that will be given soon in the palace; I've heard talk of it in the kitchens. The servants say one is held each year. Have you never gone?"
She shook her head.
"Then you must go this year dressed in a fine gown as it is done in the stories."
She sat staring at him. "Me, Gillie? I don't belong at the ball."
"As much as Cinderella did."
"But they are only stories; they're not things that can happen." She studied him for a long time. He did not seem to be making a joke.
"It's what you dream, Thursey. You should do what you dream of doing, else where is the good in dreaming?" A nanny nuzzled against him, and he stroked her absently. "Every year your sisters go, I'll wager. And every year they make you stay at home, isn't that so?"
She colored, for it was true.
"Then this year you must go, too."
"I can't go, I have no dress to wear. They would stop me anyway." Couldn't he see that the ball didn't matter any more? Now that she knew Gillie, dreaming of princes had no meaning.
"We will get you a dress with magic, just as in the stories," he said seriously.
"But they're only stories, Gillie. Magic isn't real."
"We will make it real."
She could only stare, perplexed.
THURSEY went home slowly, with the old mare taking her time, for she liked coming out better than going back, and she was full to bursting with sweet grass and would have preferred a nap in the field. Thursey put her head down on the old mare's neck as they walked, but the mare, stopping suddenly and on purpose, almost dumped her over her head. She looked around at Thursey with an evil gleam in her eye, then went on, walking faster now and nodding her head knowingly. "If you're so smart,'' Thursey growled at her, "why don't you tell me what he was talking about! What kind of magic? And why does he want me to go? What if I married the prince! That would serve him right, stupid Gillie!"
The mare stumbled on a stone and nearly spilled Thursey again, and when Thursey pulled her up and kicked her, she broke into a fast gallop, switching her tail as if she might buck. She raced for home with glee (though she was well beyond the years for that sort of foolishness) and stopped only when she reached her own gate.
Thursey slid off and turned the mare into the yard. "Old hoyden! You've no more dignity than a trollop in a street fight! And you've not answered my question. Why would he . . ." The mare had turned and was looking right at Thursey, and a thought occurred to Thursey so suddenly that she stood staring back, speechless, while she examined it. "Maybe ..." Thursey said, "Oh, maybe he . . . maybe he isn't thinking of himself! Maybe he's just thinking about me, maybe he just wants me to be happy!"
Chapter Four
HREE figures came riding down from the palace, their coats red against the hills and their trumpets blaring. The villagers stopped cobbling and weaving and tinkering and gossiping and crowded into the square.
The two trumpeters' horses pawed at the cobbles.
The herald stood up in his stirrups and held up a document to read, and the villagers were quiet.
"By royal order of his most revered highness, the King of Gies, hear ye this announcement:
Upon the Sunday of Easter, on the day of our Lord, the doors of the palace will open, the musicians will play, and the King will welcome you, each one, peasant and freeman, serf, crofter, villein, lord, steward, seneschel, bailiff, and reeve, and all of your ladies, to the King's annual ball, the spring ball to ensure good crops and good harvest and prosperity upon the land. This most important ball since the battles of Balkskak, the ball to welcome the queen and prince home to Gies castle."
The villagers cheered and Thursey thrilled at the fine sound of the words. The trumpets blared again, and the herald dismounted and pulled out another parchment and began to make the lists.
Every year it was the same, the names of all those who would attend were given to the herald and set upon the parchment. And every year it was the same, Augusta stumped forward in her black habit, gave her own name first, then that of Druscilla, then Delilah. But never Thursey.
Only this year it was not the same.
Augusta stumped forward and gave her own name. Then Druscilla. Then Delilah. Then she turned to go.
"Is that all?" asked the herald.
"All!" said Augusta over her shoulder.
"Not all!" said a voice from the crowd.
Thursey stood on her toes to look. Stepping out from behind a tiny donkey was a monk as round and cheery as one could imagine. His brown robe was dusty and wrinkled and his tonsure seemed grayer, but Anwin's smile was just as merry as ever.
"Not all, lady," repeated Anwin. "You have one more daughter who is old enough to dance at the ball."
Augusta had stopped dead, and now she turned upon Anwin with fury in her eyes.
The herald frowned at her. "Is this so, woman? The King wants every girl, particularly this year."