“He sent me a book of history. It was that which made me fall in love with him.”
A shadow crossed her eyes. “A book of history?” She frowned, then seemed to recover and reached her hand forward as if trying to touch me through the mirror. “It will be fine.”
“What shall I do?”
“I will tell you, but you must be calm. Be calm.”
Her voice was soothing like wind in autumn leaves, and I felt myself relax. My neck began to droop, and even my feet felt heavy, the way they felt at night before sleep overtook me.
“Mmm . . .” It was the only reply I could manage.
“All right then. Tonight at dinner, you will see him. He will pretend not to recognize you. Perhaps he will even hope he is mistaken, but you must remain calm. Understand?”
“Calm.” I nodded and took a shaky breath.
“As you file in, you will be introduced to the king. You will curtsy, and you will be called upon to make some small talk. When dinner ends, you will play your hand.”
I must have misheard her. There must be more. But no, Kendra was nodding as if it was decided.
“That is your plan?” I asked. “That is your magic? Sneak me into the palace only to reveal myself over dinner? They will throw me out.”
Kendra frowned. “The king may be sympathetic. After all, it is his grandchild you are carrying.”
Again, her voice soothed me like a glass of Riesling. “Of course.”
“But if it does not work, you have still your secret weapon.”
“Secret weapon?” My voice was like a clock’s pendulum, regular, false. I did not know I had a secret weapon.
“If all else fails, tell him you can spin straw into gold.”
“But I can’t spin straw into gold. Why would I say that?”
“Just tell him you can,” Kendra said, as if it made perfect sense.
And I agreed, because I wanted it to.
Kendra Speaks
Poor Cornelia! Poor little fool! For a miller’s daughter to fall in love with a prince was dumb. And for a miller’s daughter to sneak off to the woods with a man she barely knew was sheer idiocy. This was how the foundling homes got filled, and how young women were cast out by their families. And yet my heart went out to her. Life was hard for a young woman of limited means. The men had all the power.
Cornelia might have thought I didn’t know her, but I did. She had been coming into my stall for some time, first with her mother, then with her sisters, and finally, by herself. She loved the books there. And my plain, dour assistant fancied himself in love with her. For hours each day, I listened to him wax rhapsodic about her beauty! Her brains! The talents he was certain she possessed, though we had seen no evidence of them at all! Every Thursday morning, he came in smelling of cologne—men’s cologne was a new invention, and he bought it by the bottle! If she came, he followed her like a pup, and if it rained and she did not come, he moped for the next week.
In fact, I knew that it had not been Karl who had sent her the history book. Perhaps you, dear reader, had guessed it too, but I knew for a fact. Indeed, I had been the one to sell it to my lovestruck boy!
And it was because of this lovestruck boy that I told Cornelia to say she could spin straw into gold. I have mentioned that my assistant possessed a rather rare ability. With it, he would help Cornelia—one way or another.
Well, back to her!
5
Cornelia
So that is how I, a mere miller’s daughter, ended up in a barn, far from the castle, with the chickens, expected to spin straw into gold.
I would much prefer not to narrate the dinner. Perhaps you think you can imagine the horror? You cannot. I wish I could rip it from my own memory as well, but I am afraid it will haunt me forever.
Once, when I was little, my mother took my sisters and me to a play. It was a wonderful entertainment about a clever girl named Finette who outsmarted an ogre, gained a magical chest of clothing, and married a prince. I loved the story so, and for weeks, even months after, I could close my eyes and see it before me, Finette chopping off the ogre’s head, the king offering his son’s hand in marriage, Finette in all the finery from the magic trunk, as if it were still happening. It was a wonderful thing!
This story is less wonderful by far. Yet here, too, I live it over and over and over in my head.
An hour before dinner was to begin, a woman knocked upon the door. She was, it seemed, my maid. Sophie’s maid. And she had come to dress Sophie and do Sophie’s hair, even though my dress and hair were already more wonderful than they had ever been, better than I had looked at my sisters’ weddings.