"You would have to wear the full regalia!" Her voice was louder now, for the benefit of those watching the little group. "I don't know how you expect to dance with all these fans and things hanging off of your sash!"

"Oh, thank you! How kind!" Poppy fluttered her fan at Marianne. "Now if you don't mind!" She steered Christian back onto the dance floor as though jealous.

"Her costume," Christian said in a strangled voice.

"The original design called for one of those long veils, all the way to the floor. But then she decided this morning that it would get in the way when she danced." Poppy gave 235.

a wicked laugh. "Have you seen d.i.c.kon? He's dressed to match."

"No, I--" Then Christian stopped, because he did see d.i.c.kon, or he a.s.sumed it was d.i.c.kon, taking Marianne's hand to lead her into a dance.

In complete contrast to his brother's restrained garb, d.i.c.kon Twaite was wearing a pair of billowing trousers like Marianne's, a sash with a long knife, a turban, and a mask.

And nothing else.

Christian let out a low whistle.

"Lord Richard is dressed like a cavalier," Poppy said.

At first this seemed to be a rather off-the-cuff remark, but then Christian noticed the tall a.n.a.lousian cavalier lurking to the side of the dance floor, his masked gaze clearly on Marianne and d.i.c.kon. Christian started to laugh, and found that he couldn't stop.

It infected Poppy, too, and soon they were both laughing like maniacs as they twirled around the floor. It was all too surreal: the Corley, Eleanora, the gla.s.s slippers ... and here was Lord Richard worried about the fact that his daughter was wearing a revealing costume and dancing with the young man who was on the verge of asking for her hand anyway.

For hours they laughed and danced, and pretended that there was nothing more horrible to come than the end of the ball.

Christian wondered how he could ever have thought about asking Lady Ella to marry him. Not with Poppy in the same 236.

room, even in the same city. She was clever, and witty, and without a doubt the finest dancer he had ever partnered. Eleanora's awkward flirting, fan-slaps, and stilted conversation simply could not hold a candle to Poppy's free and easy manners.

Of course Christian knew that it was hardly Eleanora's fault. She hadn't had a happy life, and she had no experience with b.a.l.l.s and parties. There was also the small matter of her being in love with Roger, while trying to attract Christian's interest on the Corley's orders.

Poppy filled him in on all this as they danced, including her suspicion that Roger would have eloped with Eleanora if he weren't so honorable.

"As it is, I still think he might. If we don't defeat the Corley tonight..." She trailed off briefly, then shook herself. "He may just take her and run for it anyway."

"I can't believe that Roger Thwaite could do something so wild," Christian argued. "Of course, I can't believe that Roger could have a childhood sweetheart, either. d.i.c.kon yes, but Roger?"

"Well, they both do. So perhaps it's a family trait," Poppy said. "d.i.c.kon and Marianne really should be married with all possible speed. Look at them!"

They both twisted to look as they skipped through the steps of the current dance. d.i.c.kon and Marianne were trying to stay as close as possible, gazing into each other's eyes like they had never seen anyone so fascinating, and all while they were involved in one of the more intricate Venezian caribas. caribas.

"They're going to trip," Christian agreed.

237.

"And so is everyone around them, if they don't start--"

But Poppy never finished her thought.

The enormous clock at the far end of the ballroom began to toll the hour: eleven.

"Oh," Poppy's voice was barely a whisper. "I suppose now we should ... you will have to ..."

"Er, yes." Christian took her arm and they eased themselves out of the pattern of the dance, through the gla.s.s doors at the end of the ballroom, and onto the veranda.

Poppy leaned against the stone bal.u.s.trade, her face unreadable behind her mask. The moon was full, and it dulled the colors of her brilliant costume and made her seem like some unearthly creature of the night. He went down on knee, and she loomed over him, her plumed headdress making her even taller.

"Poppy--," he began, but she hissed and he stopped. He coughed, and tried to remember that this was part of a ruse and not a real proposal. "Ella, my love," he said, trying to sound infatuated. "Will you do me the very great honor of, um, making me, I mean, becoming my bride?"

"Oh, la! I am too flattered!" Poppy's voice was high-pitched, and Christian couldn't tell if she was mocking Eleanora or frightened. "But of course I accept!" She smacked his shoulder with her fan as though knighting him.

Suddenly, there was a crash like a thousand plates smashing to the floor at once, and Poppy reeled. Christian leaped to his feet and took hold of her waist to steady her. Within the palace, all the clocks began to chime.

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"It can't be midnight," Poppy gasped. "It's only been a few minutes since eleven!"

"It's the Corley's doing!" Christian gripped her waist even harder as she started to pull away from him, her face contorted beneath the feathered mask. "What's wrong?"

"She's calling me ... I have to go!"

Poppy slipped from his arms and ran, back into the ballroom, through the crowd of guests. No one was dancing, they were all milling about in confusion as the clocks continued to chime and chime.

As they tore through the front doors, Christian heard others following him. A quick look back showed Roger, Marianne, and the rest of their friends in pursuit. Outside, a golden carriage shaped like a round market basket was pulled up at the bottom of the steps, and the footmen were practically dancing in place with anxiety.

Poppy flew down the stairs, but tripped just as she reached the bottom. Christian reached out a hand, but one of the footmen all but threw her into the carriage. The coachman had the horses moving before she even sat down.

"Christian!" There was real terror in her voice as the carriage racketed away.

"This way!" Roger grabbed Christian before he tried to chase after Poppy on foot.

Another carriage had pulled up, and Christian saw Lord and Lady Seadown climbing into it, giving orders to the coachman to go straight to their manor at once.

"What's that?" Marianne had stopped just as d.i.c.kon was 239.

trying to help her into the carriage. She was pointing at something near Christians feet.

The prince looked down just in time to avoid stepping on a high-heeled shoe of exquisite blue and gold gla.s.s. He bent and scooped it up, then leaped onto the seat of the Seadowns' carriage beside the coachman.

240.

Imposter

The golden carriage barreled through the rear gates of Sea-down House and aimed straight for the banked bonfire Poppy could see waiting there in front of the stable. It was her last chance to quit, to jump to safety, but she just gripped the side of the carriage and said a quick prayer as they pa.s.sed through the ashes and into the Corley's palace.

The carriage slid to a stop, the horses nearly falling to their rumps on the slick gla.s.s floor. All the servants leaped off of their perches and one of them grabbed Poppy's arm, hauling her out of the carriage like a sack of potatoes.

"Do you mind?" She clambered to her feet, straightening her elaborate skirts with great dignity.

What she saw next made her heartily glad for the man's rough manners, however.

Before their eyes the carriage was melting. In a matter of seconds it was nothing but a sizzling pile of orange gold slag 241.

in the middle of the floor. Poppy gulped, thinking what it would have been like to be trapped in the carriage as it melted.

She turned to thank the footman, but he, too, was gone. All the servants had faded back to wherever they came from, and so had the horses. At least, she thought they had. But there were twelve fat white rats scuttling around the smoldering remains of the carriage, their pink noses wiggling. One of them had a distinctly horsey look, Poppy thought, as it peered up at her. Then they all turned and scampered off to some unseen hole.

And Poppy was alone.

"h.e.l.lo?"

She looked around. The room was circular, and there seemed to be one way in or out: an arch just large enough for her to pa.s.s through. The only sign of the carriage's entrance was a streak of greasy soot on the floor. She took a step toward the arch, and yelped with pain as something stabbed her instep.

Raising her skirts high, she looked down to find that the gla.s.s slipper on her left foot had broken in half. The gla.s.s, which had been uncomfortably hot but pliable during the ball, had hardened now. Her right shoe was missing entirely, and Poppy couldn't for the life of her remember where she had lost it.

She probed her feet with a wary finger, but there was no sign of the gla.s.sy hardness that had affected Eleanora. The broken gla.s.s had scratched her instep, but it was shallow and hardly bled. She knotted one of her abundant layers of underskirt into a pocket and slipped the two halves of the gla.s.s slipper inside.

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Then Poppy padded off to find the Corley.

"h.e.l.lo?" She called out with false bravado as she pa.s.sed through half a dozen empty gla.s.s rooms. "He proposed ... I accepted ... I want to go now."

She turned a corner and found herself in the Corley's throne room. The old witch was crouched on her throne like a toad, eyes glittering, and her silent court gathered around, watching Poppy as she stumbled into the room.

"Well?" Poppy held out her arms, hoping that they didn't shake or her voice tremble. "Here I am. Prince Christian proposed. Can I go now? Um, to be with my prince?"

The Corley laughed.

"Do you think I am a fool?" she asked sweetly. "Christian was to propose to Lady Ella. But he didn't. He proposed to you, Princess Poppy. Poppy. You should be sipping tea in the Seadown parlor while Ella dreams of her marriage. But instead you've ruined everything." You should be sipping tea in the Seadown parlor while Ella dreams of her marriage. But instead you've ruined everything."

Poppy's blood froze in her veins.

"Like your dreams of getting your G.o.ddaughter back?" Poppy choked out. "Eleanora isn't Mary Bess, you know. Nothing can bring her back from the dead."

"Don't you say her name!" The Corley shook with rage, leaping from her throne and coming at Poppy with hands outstretched, her fingers like talons. "Don't ever say her name! She was mine! My G.o.ddaughter--my child! He stole her in the night, took her away to marry that spoiled prince!"

Poppy stepped back but the Corley didn't advance, just stood there in the middle of her throne room with her face 243.

transfigured by madness and her hands clutching at something unseen.

"Now I have my Eleanora," she ranted. "I'll give her whatever she wants: gowns, jewels, a handsome husband, and she will never leave me!"

Poppy pulled the pistol out of her skirts and pointed it at the Corley. Her hands were shaking so badly, however, that she knew her shot would go wild. "Then let me go," she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

Poppy needed to get out, fast. Before the Corley decided to kill her for impersonating Eleanora. Or worse, wanted to keep her as a subst.i.tute G.o.ddaughter. She was so cold with terror that her cheeks felt frozen, and there was not a drop of moisture in her mouth. Even in the Palace Under Stone she had not felt this frightened, or in this much danger.

"You tried to trick me," the Corley said, her voice raw. "But I caught you." She wagged a gnarled finger at Poppy. "So now we're going to play a little game, to see which one of you he really loves. If he picks you, Eleanora will stay with me forever, and you can marry your handsome prince. And if he picks her ..." The Corley's mouth stretched into a too-wide smile. "Why then I will have a new G.o.ddaughter to dote on."

The Corley clapped her hands, and two servants entered the room. Sagging between them, clad only in a nightgown and with her feet clinking against the gla.s.s floor, was Eleanora.

"Time to freshen up!" The Corley clapped her hands and more servants appeared. "Your prince will be here soon!"

244.

Rescuer

Cursing, Christian saw the golden carriage disappear into the ashes, which swirled away before the Thwaite horses could reach them. They drove through the sooty mark on the cobblestones twice, just to make certain, but nothing happened.

The coachman finally halted the horses, and Roger helped the ladies disembark. Christian jumped down from his seat and ran into Seadown House. In the kitchen there was a roaring fire, and the maid tending it shrieked as he grabbed up a kettle of water and threw it on the flames. He coughed as the steam rose up in his face, grabbing a poker to stir the ashes and make sure no lick of fire still burned.

"Your lordship, your ladyship," the scullery maid said tearfully when her master and mistress entered. "I was waiting up to make you tea, but then he he tossed the kettle on the fire," she finished, pointing an indignant finger at Christian. tossed the kettle on the fire," she finished, pointing an indignant finger at Christian.

"It's all right, my girl," Lord Richard said kindly. "We needed some wet ash for... removing our masks. Glued on, you 245.

know." He tapped the edge of his mask, which was quite noticeably tied on with a ribbon. "You run along to bed, and we'll take care of it ourselves."

The scullery maid clearly thought her master had gone mad, but was in no position to argue with him. So off to bed she went, with many fearful looks over her shoulder.

As soon as she was gone, Christian looked to the others to see if they were ready. Roger and d.i.c.kon drew their long knives, and Lord Richard nodded. Christian spoke the rhyme and waited, but nothing happened.

Roger came forward and tried it, and so did Marianne, Lady Margaret, and d.i.c.kon.

"She's shut us out," Christian said. "And Poppy is trapped there."

"I'll fetch Eleanora," Roger said. "It might work for her." Roger came running back into the kitchen only a few minutes later, face white and sweat glistening on his forehead. "She's gone." They all gaped at him.

"Eleanora's gone, and there's soot all over the carpet in her bedroom."

"The Corley," Lady Margaret gasped.

"Now that she has them both, what will she do?" Marianne clung to her mother's waist, and Lady Margaret put an arm around her daughter.

Christian punched the rough stones of the fireplace, feeling a dark satisfaction as his knuckles sparked with pain and blood blossomed across the split skin.

246.