Jenny Lundquist: The Princess in the Opal Mask

I turn away and begin stuffing rags into the window sill, intent on keeping my mouth shut. Through the smudged and cracked window, the Ogdens’ untended almond orchard stretches into the fog-laden landscape. The wood around the windows is old and rotting, giving the rain a clear path into the kitchen, where patches of mold fester on the walls.

“Grab the bag of flour and make an apple tart,” Mistress commands. “That should be easy enough for you to do without screwing it up. Are you listening to me, Elara?”

“I can’t make the apple tart,” I say and turn around. “We’re almost out of flour.”

“How is that possible? I gave you plenty of worthings for flour yesterday.” She grabs the nearly empty flour sack and gives it a shake, sending white puff clouds into the air. Then she plucks a wooden spoon from the counter and raises it over her head, as though she intends to strike me.

Without thinking, I reach up and grab the spoon. Mis-tress and I lock eyes, each of us holding either end while we silently mark this moment. The moment where we both understand I am no longer afraid of her.

I remove my hand. “Wooden spoons leave marks, remember?”

She slowly lowers the spoon. With Mister Blackwell visiting she must appear to love me, and a black eye or a bruised cheek won’t fit with the image she wants to project. And tonight she intends to wrangle not just the worthings from Mister Blackwell, but also get tickets to the birthday masquerade for Princess Wilhamina Andewyn, Galandria’s “Masked Princess.”

“Mister Ogden took most of the money,” I continue. “He had a debt to pay at the Draughts of Life. . . .” I break off, because there is nothing more to be said. If Mister Ogden didn’t visit the village tavern, partaking in cards and drinking ale so frequently (and Mistress didn’t love expensive things), the Ogdens wouldn’t need to depend so heavily on the stipend they receive from the orphanage. Ogden Manor might not have fallen into disrepair, and they wouldn’t have had to let go of their servants one by one, until there was only me. The only servant they are actually paid to keep.

“Forget about the apple tart then,” she says. “Go to the Draughts and fetch Harold. You are to return with him immediately and start on the stew.”

“Yes, Mistress. Your every wish is my most desperate command.” I bow sarcastically in her direction. Then I leave the kitchen, before I decide to grab a wooden spoon of my own.

While I’m pulling on my cloak, Serena hollers for me to come to her bedroom.

When I arrive, she is scrutinizing herself in front of a mirror. She has Mistress Ogden’s silvery-blond hair. She’s plump and apple-cheeked from a lifetime of being given the best the Ogdens could afford. Today she is wearing the green silk dress Mistress bought the day after Mister Blackwell last visited.

She holds up first a powder blue frock and then a lavender one, the colors of the Andewyn family crest. “Which do you think the Masked Princess will prefer?”

“She has a name,” I snap. “And I don’t think she’ll care two figs what you’re wearing. You don’t even know if Mister Blackwell can get Mistress tickets yet.”

Serena frowns at her reflection. “Mother will find a way. She always does.” She holds up the lavender gown again and turns her head side to side. “Yes, I think lavender will do quite nicely. I’ll need you to wash it and return it to my room when you’re finished.”

“It’ll have to wait. Your mother has sent me to the Draughts again.”

“Later then,” she says, pursing her lips. “And say hello to Cordon for me.”

I stare blankly back at her. Cordon is the son of Sylvia, the woman who owns the Draughts of Life. He is also my best friend. He has been since I can remember, though lately we don’t talk as much as we used to. And ever since we were children, Cordon and Serena have never gotten along well.

“I will if I have time,” I snap. “Between you and your mother I have quite enough to do already.”

Serena’s expression softens. “Things would go so much easier if you didn’t antagonize her all the time,” she says, and I know she must have heard us in the kitchen.

“Really, you think so?” I say. “You think if I was all sweetness and smiles she’d ask someone else to do the cooking and the cleaning?”

Serena stiffens and her expression of concern vanishes. “You are her servant. What she asks is nothing more than what is proper.”

“Servant,” I scoff. “Most families aren’t paid sixteen hundred worthings a year to house a servant.”

“You’re lucky to be here at all,” she replies coolly, and holds out the lavender dress. “After all, if my family hadn’t taken you in what would have become of you?”

I pluck the dress from her outstretched hand. The word family twists in my stomach like a cruel vice.

When I finally step outside, I pull my cloak tight against the rain and wind. My boots squelch through mud as I make my way from Ogden Manor down the narrow path through the woods leading into town. Overhead, a canopy of almond tree branches blooms with tiny white and pink blossoms. Despite the rain, winter is finally giving way to spring.

I kick a muddy stone as I walk. There was a time when I believed Mistress Ogden was my mother and I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I would have said anything, done anything, to have her smile at me. But over time I realized her smiles—like her love—would never be given to me, and that instead of trying to earn her favor, I needed to learn how to survive her wrath.

And now, all these years later, I have other concerns. One day those bags of worthings from the orphanage will stop coming. And when they do, what is to keep her from tossing me out of Ogden Manor? I don’t know exactly when my birthday is, but I think I turn seventeen sometime this year. I doubt the orphanage will continue paying the Ogdens after I’ve come of age.

One winter when I was very young, the appointed night for Mister Blackwell’s visit came and went and he never appeared. Mistress said she refused to provide a place for me if the orphanage wasn’t going to pay for it, so she threw me out of the manor. I spent the night shivering in the Ogdens’ barn, hoping I wouldn’t freeze to death.

Mister Blackwell arrived early the next morning. A tree had fallen across the road, delaying his carriage. Like the great performer she is, Mistress immediately transformed into a loving and concerned mother. Mindful of how cold it had been in the barn, I played along. After Mister Blackwell left, we never spoke of that night. But the message was loud and clear:

No worthings, no home.

Sometimes when Mistress Ogden has sent me into town to buy food or supplies, I’ve wondered what would happen if I just kept walking? If I walked through the entire village of Tulan and continued beyond it, walking away from one life to find another.

Necessity stops me every time, though. Without a way to provide for myself, where would I go?

The snap of a twig and the sound of something, or someone, shuffling through a bush makes me stop and turn around. I shield my eyes against the rain but see nothing except for a couple of squirrels chasing each other up a tree.

I resume walking and my hand closes over the dagger I keep hidden in the pocket of my cloak. Another twig snaps. I turn around again, hoping to find more squirrels. But this time I see a flash of deep green fabric disappear among the fog and almond trees.

I leave my hand on my dagger and sprint the rest of the way to the tavern.

ELARA