Chương 50: Macarons

Drizella lay flat along the top of the garden wall, on her stomach, only her head raised above the stone to watch the palace garden below. It was boring to watch the prince and Pierre take Cinderella on their tour, but more than boring, it was the stillness that called to her: to keep lying there, to stop watching, to stop thinking, to stop caring. To stop existing. This quiet nothing felt right to her. No. The mission. She must, for Drizella sake. She was not a simple object.

She was a marionette, and a marionette had a role. She must move, or dance, or... well, kill. But first, to think. Drizella needed to think about what to do, which, admittedly, she had not done at all so far. Did the Thomas Thomas mean only to watch over Cinderella at the ball? Would they try to find Caroline and the other Julian members there too, and keep an eye on them? These Julian fellows were ruthless and evil.

If they discovered their meticulously crafted plans had turned to ash, they might as well aim a musket straight at Cinderella and shoot her dead right there on the dance floor. No, Drizella wouldn't count on the Thomas Thomas. After all, it had done her absolutely no good last time—she had ended up dead anyway. But what to do… she would need to mingle at the ball. She could maybe put on a normal face, but they could still recognize her.

Oh, she probably should have bought some costume and applied heavy makeup, or perhaps worn one of those hideous, flowery hats…

"Don't you ought to be doing something?" squeaked Suzy, standing beside her. Drizella had forgotten she was there.

"I'm thinking," Drizella said flatly.

"Thinking about what?"

"What to do."

"That's easyyy," said Suzy.

"See that maid trimming the roses over there?" She pointed with one tiny mouse hand. She saw her: a short, sturdy maid close to the wall. Geneviève, perhaps, though she could not be sure. Cinderella, the prince and the attendant were far off, in the distant corner of the garden.

"Sooo," Suzy went on, "just go down there. Give her some of that shiny gold for her maid's clothes. Yes! Then, when the ball starts, you'll be just a simple maid. Perfect for sniffing around." Ah. That was a classic Fifi method. What had it come to — taking Fifi's lessons from a rodent. Drizella felt that having only a small part of her soul made her think less like herself, which sounded like it ought to be a good thing, since she was stupid, and yet somehow it only made her stupider. This was no good.

She must focus, or she would ruin everything, and the real Drizella would hate herself. She slipped down from the wall, took the narrow servants' stair into the garden, and crossed the gravel to the maid at the roses.

"Excuse me. Geneviève, is that you?" It was her. Drizella's memory served her fine. When she had done the heist she had memorized a great deal about the palace staff, and the details, it seemed, had stayed with her. So she concentrated, to say the right things.

"Yes," said Geneviève, looking her up and down with a frown.

"Do I know you, miss?"

"I am Sophie — Jean's cousin," Drizella said.

"Oh, but I have heard so much of you. And of your late husband, Maurice, God rest him. Such a good man, and a fine carpenter, they say." Geneviève's frown eased a little.

"It's embarrassing, truly, but Jean has asked me to lend a hand today, and I've gone and forgotten my maid's dress. Lend me yours, so I needn't embarrass myself further." She pressed two gold coins into the woman's hand.

"For your trouble. Jean says you're free the rest of the day, you may go home. I only need the dress and the cap."

"You know," said Geneviève, her eyes narrowing all at once, "Jean would never say I'm free. Not today of all days. You wait here. I'll go and speak to..." Drizella snatched the maid's arm, staring directly into her eyes with her hollow, wrong gaze." Y o u wi l l d o a s I a s k e d," Drizella shrieked in a voice that was entirely too low and also wrong." A n d y o u w i l l n o t s p e a k o f i t." Geneviève went completely pale, and nodded slowly.

"Yes... I... I... Yes." With shaking hands she unfastened the maid's dress and stepped out of it, standing in the plain shift she wore beneath. Then she looked at the two gold coins in her palm, and seemed to weigh some thought a moment, before she closed her fingers on them, pushed them deep into her pocket, and ran. Was she going to alert the guard? Or was she too frightened, and content enough with the gold, simply to run home? Drizella could not be sure. She sighed. As she was now, she was not good at this.

The only way she could make people do her bidding was to scare them half to death.

"You were sooo scary!" squeaked Suzy.

"Like a proper demon, you were!" Drizella was no demon, she thought. In hell she was stronger, had a strange dog's sense of smell, and healed fast. Here she had only this weak body. In truth, she was simply hollow and unnatural, and it frightened people. Drizella pulled the maid's dress on over herself, tucked her hair up under the cap, and went in through the palace door.

At this hour there was no high-born lady standing elegantly in the middle of a grand foyer — instead she found herself swept into a frantic sea of servants. Dozens of footmen and maids rushed blindly down the corridors, carrying silver platters, yelling orders, and scrubbing surfaces as though their lives depended on it. She saw Jean, the head servant, and decided it was best to take the initiative and approach him herself.

She hoped her story would be enough, for she doubted her gold and her demon voice would serve this time.

"Pardon, sir," Drizella said, approaching Jean as shyly as she could muster.

"Who in the blazes are you supposed to be?!" he snapped, throwing his hands in the air.

"I'm Sophie," Drizella said, lowering her gaze, keeping her voice small.

"You see, since Ann is absent with that terrible cough of hers, I was asked to assist in her place, by..." You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"Blah, blah, blah," he cut in.

"Do stop talking. Do I look like a man with time for it? Look at this place, it's a pigsty! No time! Help with the punch, go see what's keeping Gustave, the guests are here any moment and there's no punch. The ball will be ruined, the prince left unmarried, and all of it laid at my feet. Hurry now, the kingdom depends on it. Quick, quick!" And he was already storming off to shout at some other poor servant. Drizella did not go to Gustave.

Instead she found a dust brush and set to work on a vase, to look busy and pass the time. No one bothered her, and for the moment there was nothing for her to do in any case. She dusted, and dusted, and went on dusting. After a while, the guests began to arrive. One by one, high-born ladies from across the kingdom stepped through the grand doors, wrapped in layers of expensive silk, ruffled tulle, and glittering jewels.

The footmen instructed them to stand in the center of the hall to await the prince's introductions. There was Princess Fredrica, and over there Lady Dubois, and the pompous De la Tour girl… Yes, she knew every one of them by name. What mattered was to watch for anomalies — faces she did not recognize — for those would likely be the enemy. Still they came, more and more of the simpering girls in their silly dresses, but not a stranger among them.

She even saw Juliette, all lady like, her black hair swept up and pinned in glossy coils, in the finest deep turquoise silk. Whatever else might be said of Juliette, she knew how to dress for a ball. But no other irregular came through the main entrance. Victor and James didn't come either—well, they would probably find their own way in, sneaking around and keeping watch. And the candidate for the prince, Amélie, where was she?

Drizella guessed she would copy Cinderella's own strategy: show up right in the middle of the introductions to stand out and catch the eye of the bored prince. So where was she now? There was no use in standing about here, Drizella decided. Better to go and sniff around. She watched another servant carry a tray of refreshments out among the guests, and had her idea.

Drizella found a servants' back room and took up a tray of macarons parisien, then carried it out past the main entrance, glancing about her as she went. There. Sitting alone on the giant, sweeping staircase leading to the grand hall, was a single lady. She was staring at a piece of parchment in her hands, muttering to herself as if memorizing lines for a play. It was her. Amélie. She was strikingly pretty, with blond curling hair and a plain blue day dress.

There was something simple and honest in her, a face with nothing hidden behind it. And lovely as the girl was, the truth was she came nowhere near Cinderella's beauty. Drizella went up to her. She needed to say something.

"A macaron, m'lady?" Amélie looked up in surprise, then smiled warmly.

"How kind of you," she said, and took one.

"Oh, thank you."

"Why are you out here alone?" Drizella asked. It took no small effort to keep it all ordinary: her face, her eyes, her voice, everything the plain servant she pretended to be.

"Oh," Amélie looked to the side, suddenly bashful.

"Are all the others inside already? I'm simply nervous, I think. It's embarrassing, really."

"Your dress is beautiful," Drizella supplied, not knowing what else a normal person would say.

"Why, thank you for saying so." Amélie's smile widened. She got up and came closer.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Drizella nodded.

"I know him, you see," she whispered.

"The prince, I mean. We met, and we danced, and we talked for hours on end, and I love him, I do, and I believe he cherishes me too. But," her face fell, "it was long ago. To me it feels as though it were only two days past, yet to him... he may not remember me at all."

"Oh, is that so?" said Drizella.

"Yes. I'll have to catch his eye," she said, smoothing her dress, her gaze going distant with the effort of planning it.

"I managed it before. But with all these ladies here, I always turn... well, nervous." Drizella tipped Amélie's chin up with two fingers, so the girl would look at her.

"You needn't worry," she said quietly.

"You're surely pretty enough, and just the sort of girl His Highness favors."

"If... if you say so." Amélie looked honestly touched, color rising in her cheeks.

"Thank you. You're so kind to me, truly. It helps more than you know." Drizella laid a gentle hand along the side of Amélie's neck and whispered, "Yes. Nothing to worry about at all." There was no guard on the staircase. Weak as this body was, Amélie was a slight, slender thing herself. She could choke the life out of her. She should. Amélie was the enemy, after all. Drizella began, very slightly, to build the pressure. No. Stop. The Drizella in her did not want it. Something to do with disappointing. Cinderella?

Herself? Whatever it was. Fine. Amélie's eyes turned to her, confused, and Drizella took her hand from the girl's neck.

"Just be careful," Drizella said quietly, turning away.

"Many dangerous people out there."

"But you said there was nothing to worry about," Amélie noted after her, puzzled. But Drizella was already turning back into the hall, where she found the introductions had begun.

"Mademoiselle Augustina Dubois," announced the diminutive page, "daughter of General Pierre Dubois." The plain girl curtsied before the bored prince and got a blank look for her trouble. Drizella scanned the room for Cinderella. Last time, when the two of them had sneaked into the garden and Cinderella had seduced the prince before the ball, they had skipped the introductions too, and gone straight for the refreshments. And indeed, there was Cinderella, nudging curiously at a dish of caviar.

She would sooner have stuffed her pretty face at the punch bowl, but this time no one had reminded Chef Gustave to make any. Drizella went to her, keeping the macaron tray up.

"A macaron, m'lady?"

"Why, thank you, I..." Cinderella turned and saw who it was.

"Driz... I mean. You, here!"

"Yes," said Drizella, still holding the tray out level between them.

"A macaron?" Cinderella took one. Then a look of concentration crossed her face and she got to her feet.

"You're working this hard, and here I sit doing nothing. I should help, I could..."

"Stop," Drizella cut in flatly.

"Stupid."

"Oh, right. What am I thinking," Cinderella said, smiling to herself and shaking her head.

"It's just... strange." Yes, it was all reversed: Drizella the servant, Cinderella the lady. The funny irony of it was lost on the puppet, but perhaps the real Drizella would remember the moment one day, and laugh. Cinderella had just begun on her macaron when a loud CRASH rang across the hall, a vase going to pieces on the floor. They looked. Amélie had knocked one of the small vases from its pillar, and stood over the shards looking mortified and lost as the whole court turned to stare. The prince looked too.

He stood up right in the middle of Lady Mercedes de la Tour's introduction, turned, and marched purposefully toward the shy, embarrassed Amélie. This was surely her B. M. P.: the prince was meant to come to her rescue, and she had the perfect line and the perfect helpless look ready, an easy, laughing exchange to lift His Majesty out of his boredom and into her arms. It should have worked just fine. But today, it simply was not meant to be.

The prince passed the stunned Amélie without so much as a glance and carried on toward Cinderella, whose cheeks were already packed with two macarons as she worked out the angle to fit in a third. Drizella elbowed her. Cheeks bulging, Cinderella looked up to see the prince bearing purposefully down on her. Drizella knew this was her cue. She took up her tray and withdrew, near enough still to catch some witty remark from the prince about the macarons, and a hearty laugh from Cinderella.

Drizella wondered whether Cinderella had managed to swallow the macarons before that hearty laughter. But even if she had not, she was quite sure that spraying half-chewed macaron over a prince would somehow come off graceful on her. It was Cinderella, after all. Then Drizella looked back at Amélie. She had gone from stunned when the prince passed her by, to lost, and now to something truly wretched, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

This felt like a win, so Drizella felt a need to walk over to the poor girl.

"A macaron, m'lady?" Amélie looked at Drizella, then at Cinderella and the prince, then back at her. Yes, she knew now that something was going on. She struck the tray aside, sending macarons parisiens scattering across the floor, then let out a roar of pure frustration and stormed off. Yes, things had not gone as planned for her.

Then the king and the grand duke, catching sight of the prince and his new interest, set things in motion: a nod to the musicians, who slid into a waltz, a word to the footmen, who dimmed the lamps. And the dancing began. The prince and Cinderella danced beautifully at the center of the hall, while all the assembled guests looked on, in envy or admiration or both. They danced perfectly, and little as Drizella cared for such things, she felt this was as it should be. Cinderella had her prince.

That part of the mission had gone off smoothly enough. Somewhere, the Julian group were only now realizing their scheme lay in ruins. Which meant the dangerous part of the evening had, at last, arrived.