That evening, while her stepfamily dined with the Royal Family, Eva retraced her earlier steps back to the kitchen. It was busier than a beehive, with steam, rich aromi, and commands bouncing around the warm room. The di Angelo women were not ordinary guests; Allegra was now betrothed of the eldest Prince, and if the Prophet decreed, would be Queen as well.
Even after fleeing the ball, Eva had imagined herself in that role: dining with the Royal Family, being married in the High Temple, attending court, all with her beloved Niccolo by her side.
A maid pushed by, balancing a tray of dates. Eva realized she had been standing frozen in the entry to the kitchen, lost yet again in her impossible dreams.
She shifted out of the way, and approached a maid who was refilling a pitcher of wine.
"Excuse me, do you know where I could find Alfio?"
The maid barely glanced at her. "Il mostriciattolo should be in the scullery." When Eva did not move, the girl added: "The door on the left."
Beyond the door a short flight of stairs lead to the scullery, which she now remembered. Alfio saw her before she saw him.
"Sit here," he pulled up a stool, then had a cup of water in her hands. "Wait, I'll go find Flavio."
The young boy scampered off. Eva found herself savouring the moment of repose. It seemed only seconds later that Alfio returned.
"This is my brother, Flavio." A young man, the taller version of Alfio, offered her a smile. A young woman about Eva's age was right behind him. "And Ysabella. Ysabella and Flavio—" The older brother clapped his hand over his younger brother's mouth.
"Zitto fratello." Then, Flavio addressed Eva: "Are you feeling better?"
Eva nodded. The girl, Ysabella, pushed her way closer.
"Better, maybe, but not well." She passed over a bowl of soup.
Eva thanked Ysabella and took a large spoonful.
It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. Not only was it her first meal in over a day, but one of the few hot meals she had had in years. She was used to lukewarm leftovers, or bland, quick meals. Here, she savoured each spoonful, noticing every spice.
"It's creamed mushroom," said Alfio. "It was leftover from the banquet. Your mistresses don't eat much, do they?"
"Despite all their demands," Flavio mumbled, then glanced curiously at Eva. She knew what his question would be before he asked it. "Alfio said the Contessa was your mother?"
"Stepmother." Eva was grateful for the soup as an excuse not to meet the inquisitive stares coming from all three.
"Why aren't you up there eating with them then?" Alfio demanded. His brother half-heartedly shushed him; it was clear the elder wanted to shout the same question.
Ysabella offered a softer approach: "You do not have to tell us if you do not feel comfortable. We just want to help you the best we can."
Eva had finished the soup. There was no longer an excuse for her to avoid their inquisition. She took a shaky breath, then looked up to face the three palace servants in their white uniforms.
"The Contessa never liked me. I'm not sure why. When my papà died, she took over our estate, and started making me do more and more work, until...well, here we are. Allegra is going to marry the prince, and I..."
She honestly didn't know what was going to happen to her. Being in Niccolo's arms had felt so perfect, but she knew that at that very moment he was dining with her stepfamily, enraptured by Allegra. And so, just when she thought she physically could no longer cry, tears sprang from her eyes.
When little Alfio hugged her, she only sobbed harder.
...
She was lucky that the Contessa was so vain -she had hired a gilded barouche with a pair of white horses for the evening, as opposed to the carriage that required only one horse that the family used.
"Everyone has seen us with that old horse," Viviana had bemoaned, three weeks before the ball. "This is a chance for you girls to bewitch the princes. I cannot have you showing up in an everyday carriage pulled by a work horse."
Eva had no such reservations. She hitched Amator up to the calèche the instant her stepfamily disappeared down the road.
"One moment, Amator." She kissed the old horse on the nose once she had finished with his harness, then turned and raced down to the kitchen. She had hidden the basket with the witch's gifts behind the cruets of oil and vinegar; the Contessa rarely ventured into the kitchen, but Eva had felt safer hiding the items all the same.
The dress the witch had given her fit like a dream, which she still thought it might be. The delicate lace sleeves hugged her arms, the satin skirt just brushing the floor. Looking down, admiring the gown, Eva noticed the toes of her ratty leather boots peeking out from the pool of silvery-blue satin.
She kicked off the boots, retrieved the jar of jam and a small spoon. Feeling very foolish, she began smearing jam over her only pair of shoes.
The magic worked. As if the witch herself were still before her weaving her spells, the boots transfigured into slippers of shining silver. Pieces of blue glass were inset in the magically smithed silver, glittering like dew caught in grass. in all the artisanal shops, in all of Azurre there had never been finer footwear.
Eva realized she had been holding her breath, and managed to inhale as she slipped the shoes on. Where her boots had pinched and chafed, the slippers cradled her feet, like they were meant to fit only her. She had expected the glass and metal to be frigid, but instead it was as a breeze on a hot day -refreshing rather than uncomfortable.
Eva headed back outside, but before embarking she had one last thing she had to do.
Last night, after her stepfamily had fallen asleep, Eva had crept up to the attic. There, in a trunk that had been untouched for nearly a decade, she had recovered her mother's cloak. Eva had clutched it to her face, inhaling, hoping to find something of her mother, but ended up choking on the musty scent. Despite the lavender sachets in which it had been packed, the cloak was showing more of its time locked away.
She had aired it out by the beehives, assured that the Contessa would be preoccupied during the day by the ball. And indeed, her stepmother hadn't so much as glanced out a window, so focused had she been on Allegra and Gianna. And the cloak, after a day in the fresh air was no longer quite so stale, though still old-fashioned in its cut.
Eva pulled on the cloak now, and was struck by how well it fit. She was malnourished, to be sure, as scrawny as a young stalk of wheat, but she hadn't considered that she was now as tall as her mother had been.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she fastened the clasp, but quick as they came she blinked them away. She had to be clear eyed to steer the carriage in the growing dark.
The old horse plodded into the village by rote, slowing to a halt by the agora where he usually waited. When Eva slapped the reins to urge him on, Amator tossed his head. The evening jaunt was spontaneous enough for him, but now Eva was suggesting a new route.
She was still pleading with the horse, when a sound behind her caused her to jump.
Convinced it was her stepmother, she turned, ready with excuses and platitudes. But behind her was a group of girls in gowns, their arms linked, making their way down the street towards the castle. The sound had been a peal of laughter. They hadn't even noticed Eva.
Upon a second glance -and after calming her own racing heart- Eva realized that they must have been a group of working girls. Their dresses were simple, but here and there each of them had added a personal flourish: one had white poppies woven into her hai;, another's skirt had silver embroidery in the Torragian style; two girls who Eva guessed were sisters had complementary silk scarves setting off their basic green dresses. All of them laughing merrily, their day's labours done, ready for rich meal and the chance to dance with a prince.
"Come on Amator," she prodded again, and the horse finally acquiesced. "We're going to the ball too."
...
Once Eva had cried all she could, Ysabella shooed the boys away.
"Get back upstairs before they miss you, Flavio. Alfio, go see if Maestra Bagnato is free."
Alfio scampered away. Flavio gave Ysabella a peck on the cheek before departing. The young maid blushed, then shook herself before turning back to Eva, who was wiping her tear stained face with her sleeve.
Ysabella untied her apron and handed it to Eva.
"Use this instead."
Eva hesitated, not wanting to impose further, but Ysabella insisted.
"I work in the laundry, I'll just wash it first thing in the morning."
So Eva blew her nose and dried her eyes. Since Niccolo chose Allegra, and the Cyrican witch disappeared, it seemed she had done nothing but cry. Now, finally, it felt like all her tears were gone, the last of them soaking into this stranger's apron.
"Maestra Bagnato will know what to do," Ysabella was saying. "And I'm speaking for Flavio and Alfio -none of us will tell anyone our new princess is your stepsister if you don't want us to. You have your own reasons."
There were still questions burning, but Ysabella was kind enough not to address them.
Maestra Bagnato, as it turned out, was head of the palace's female servants, which Ysabella explained just before the stocky woman herself arrived in the scullery, little Alfio at her side.
"Now what's in here that's so important this time, Alfio?"
The woman stopped short the instant she spotted Eva.
"And who are you supposed to be?" The sentence was directed at Eva's new allies as much as it was to Eva herself.
Ysabella answered: "This is Eva, Maestra. She works for la famiglia di Angelo."
Maestra Bagnato raised a brow as she looked Eva up and down, taking her her ragged dress and skinny frame.
"I was not informed that our new princess was bringing her own servant. In all the excitement it's clear much slipped through the cracks. Regardless, I cannot have you working in this place looking like this. Do you not have another dress, girl?"
Eva lowered her gaze and shook her head, banishing all thought of her dress from the ball.
Maestra Bagnato sniffed.
"I don't care how you were vested out in the country, but here at the palace neatness of self is of the utmost importance. And I am sure neither you nor your mistresses intend on disgracing this place. Ysabella, take her to the maid's room and get her a suitable uniform."
"Grazi Maestra." Eva lifted her chin and offered a smile to the woman.
"Ridiculous. I am not your padrona." The words could have been harsh, but they were now delivered with a softened tone. "You may call me Fausta."
"Grazi Fausta."
And so Eva found herself not a quarter of an hour later in a fresh white linen dress, tying on an equally pristine apron.
Eva had gasped in pain as she tried to pull off her old dress by herself, her ribs screaming at the movement. Ysabella, realizing she was having difficulty, aided other girl had noticed every bruise and scar that Eva had, but said nothing. Ysabella had also found a strip of cloth with which they had bound her broken ankle. The final touch were a new pair of sabots, which accommodated the bound foot much better than the old gardener's boots she had been wearing.
"There! Maestra Bagnato will be pleased." Ysabella picked up Eva discarded old dress. "What would you like done with this?"
Eva stared at the worn fabric, at the dress she had had for nearly eight years; that she had patched and mended a dozen times over, which until the ball had been her only dress.
"I don't care."
She didn't realize what she was going to say until the words had already escaped her mouth, but they felt right.
"Throw it out or use it for scraps or -or whatever you do here. I never want to wear it again."
Eva still wasn't sure what was going to happen. But if she was going to find a way to win back Niccolo, she wasn't going to do it in rags.