“I don’t care,” Mistress Ogden snaps. “You’re late. Mister Blackwell will be here soon.” She glares at me. “I had to start the potato stew myself.”
“Mister Blackwell, bah!” Mister Ogden says, belching. “Never liked the look of that man. Calculating, like a snake—though perhaps that’s why you like him so, dearest. Don’t like his sneaky black eyes glaring like he thinks he’s better than me.”
“He is better than you. He’s the one with the worthings.”
While they bicker, I quickly hide the book in the pantry and promise myself I’ll look through it later.
“Worthings? What did I just say—” Mister Ogden leans back—and promptly tumbles off the stool. His worthings scatter across the kitchen floor.
“Harold, get up this instant!” Mistress Ogden practically stamps her foot in frustration.
“The candles in the dining room are lit,” Serena says, glowering as she enters the kitchen. Upon seeing Mister Ogden on the floor she rushes to his side. “Father, what’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you what’s happened, my love!” Mister Ogden picks up a worthing and brandishes it like a sword. “I’ve just won at the Draughts of Life! Don’t need creepy Mister Blackwell coming into my house telling me what’s what. Am I not Ogden of Ogden Manor?” He spreads his hands wide, as though Ogden Manor is a grand palace, instead of the rotting dump it actually is.
Mistress and I glance at each other. She may despise me, but when she really needs something done, it’s to me—and not to Serena—that she looks.
“Come Mister Ogden,” I say in my most humble voice. “Dinner will be soon and I feel you should be dressed in a manner befitting your station. After all, you are the lord of Ogden Manor, are you not?”
Serena stands up. “Don’t you dare talk to him like he’s a fool.”
“Serena!” Mistress Ogden snaps. “Accompany your father upstairs and help him clean up.”
Serena lowers her voice so only I can hear. “I don’t know how you can claim to hate her so much, when you’re exactly like her.”
She stalks from the kitchen, practically dragging Mister Ogden away by the arm, and I grab on to the counter, fighting the urge to vomit. I am nothing like Mistress Ogden. I stop and take a deep breath, and imagine myself feeding Serena’s words to the starved kitten.
“Set the table,” Mistress Ogden commands. When I don’t move she says, “Well? What are you waiting for?”
“When the orphanage brought me to you, did they give you anything from my mother?” I ask. “A keepsake, something to remember her by?” I don’t mention the book, or Mister Travers, as I wouldn’t put it past her to steal the book a second time.
She removes a vase from a shelf. “Your mother was probably nothing but a dirty whore who abandoned you the first chance she got. You really think she’d leave you something?”
“Please,” I say, forcing the anger from my voice. “Did she leave me anything?”
“I haven’t got time for your nonsense.” She begins polishing the vase. “Mister Blackwell will be here in just a matter of—”
“Tell me the truth!” I move to grab her arm. My aim lands low, and my hand knocks the vase from her hands. Glass shatters on the stone floor.
Mistress Ogden stands very still. “You will pick that up immediately, or—”
“Or what?” I interrupt. “You’ll beat me? Deny me more meals? Lock me in the barn again? If you’re going to do something, you’d better make sure it doesn’t leave any marks, otherwise Mister Blackwell may decide not to pay you tonight.”
“I don’t wish to play your games.” She fetches a broom and holds it out to me.
I grab the broom and then hurl it across the room. It smacks the wall and clatters to the ground. I step closer to her, and for the first time ever, I see a shadow of fear flicker across her face. “And maybe I don’t wish to play your games. Maybe it would be worth it to me to tell Mister Blackwell who you really are.”
Mistress Ogden reaches out. Her long nails sink into my bare forearm, piercing my skin, and I gasp in pain. “Mister Blackwell will come tonight,” she hisses. “And you will play your role, do you understand?” She rakes her nails down my arm, leaving small red rivers in their wake. “And if you do not, you will find yourself chained up like a common thief, as I’ll have to tell the sheriff how you’ve been stealing from us.”
“I’ve never stolen anything from you!”
She bends low and whispers into my ear, “It would be my word against yours. Do you think anyone would ever believe you over me?” Her nails dig deeper. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I gasp in relief when she finally releases me.
“Now,” she says, smoothing her skirts, “you will clean this mess up. You will scrape the grime off yourself. And you will make an effort to look like a respectable girl.”
She turns around to leave, but turns back. “And Elara?” Her gaze flicks to my bleeding forearm. “Make sure you wear long sleeves.”
CHAPTER 6
ELARA
When it comes to deception, attention to detail is everything.
The table is set with silver bowls and goblets (the ones Mistress Ogden keeps locked up so Mister Ogden can’t sell them). White candles are placed before each setting and their flames flicker in the drafty dining room. It looks as though we’re about to sit down to a nice family meal, instead of a performance carefully crafted by Mistress Ogden.
When Mister Blackwell arrives and Mistress Ogden shows him into the dining room, I feel a cold, cutting pain. Like a jagged piece of ice has wedged itself in my chest.
“Good evening, Elara,” Mister Blackwell extends his hand, which I take.
“Good evening, sir.”
He raises my hand to his lips, and it’s all I can do not to snatch my arm away. Something about Mister Blackwell repulses me. He is thin. Skeletal, almost. His long black hair hangs down his back and his eyes are dark, unreadable orbs.
We take our places around the table. Mistress and I sit next to each other. She fills our goblets and nods in my direction. It’s a slight, almost imperceptible incline of her head, and like an apprentice taking orders from his master, I understand. It’s time to begin.
“How are things in Allegria?” I ask Mister Blackwell. I force myself to take a small, controlled bite of stew, not letting on how hungry I am.
“Well,” Mister Blackwell replies. “The city is preoccupied with preparations for the princess’s masquerade ball.”
“Yes, I admit I have been thinking of nothing else myself,” I say, affecting a breathless voice that sounds nothing like my own.
“Oh yes, the ball is coming up isn’t it?” Mistress Ogden says, as though the thought has only just occurred to her. “Do you know that when she was little, Elara used to pretend she was the Masked Princess? She cut up one of her dresses—a really nice one, mind you—and tied it like a silk mask to her face.”
“You did?” At this, Mister Blackwell looks at me. For once, his grim manner has vanished and he seems amused.
“Yes, sir,” I lie. And for good measure I add, “I also used to stand at the top of the stairs and wave, like it was a balcony.” I mimic a grand wave with a smile. Serena rolls her eyes but says nothing.
“I used to live in Allegria very briefly.” Mistress gets a wistful look on her face. “I performed with the Royal Theatre Company. Once upon a time, I was quite the actress.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Mister Blackwell casts an unreadable look at Mistress Ogden. And for a moment, I wonder if he knows we’re all just a bunch of pathetic liars.