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She was in luck—at the second door, the butler recognized Ammalia’s description as that of one of the neighbors, a sweet girl who lived three doors down with her family, the Tremaines. Ammalia’s spirits rose, and she hurried down the street to the indicated home.
The residence was old, but sturdily built. Three stories of pretty brick. It was nothing like the Parmenzan castle back home, but then, how many English houses were? The important thing was not the exterior. If Ammalia’s luck held, the pretty maiden she hoped to find was somewhere inside.
Box tucked under her arm, she marched to the front door and prepared to knock.
Doing so was unnecessary. The front door was already ajar, and swung all the way open at the first brush of Ammalia’s knuckles.
Inside was a scene of utter chaos.
A pair of magpies flew about the parlor in wide, swooping circles, as though caught in a tempest. A black cat with a loud hiss and sharp claws tore over the furniture to give chase, leaping and swiping at the air and skidding on the hardwood floor, only to sprint and leap after the birds all over again.
In the center of the room stood the young woman who had caught Ammalia’s eye earlier, looking even more memorable now than she had before. Two well-dressed young ladies about Ammalia’s age tugged at the mystery woman’s ivory gown, which hung from her slender frame in tatters. The—sisters?—crowed with delight as they yanked pearls and bits of ribbon from what might once have been a pretty dress. An older lady in an extravagant ball gown reared back her hand as though set to strike Ammalia’s angel’s face… which already bore a red mark.
They all froze at the sight of her.
Her mystery woman gasped and dipped into an immediate curtsey, the torn strips of her skirts flying. “Princess!”
Ammalia inclined her head, then glared at the other three. “And you are?”
“This is my house and these are my daughters,” babbled the older woman. “Well, not that one. That’s just Cynthia. But these two jewels are my darlings Dorothea and Stasia. And I am Lady Tremaine.”
“Welcome to our home,” chorused Stasia and Dorothea, curtseying in unison.
Ammalia stared back at them impassively.
“Cynthia, go and get cleaned up and fetch some tea for the princess,” Dorothea hissed under her breath. “Where are your manners?”
“Where are the manners, indeed,” Ammalia said dryly.
Cynthia looked stricken and her eyes took on a suspicious shine.
“Not you, dear heart,” Ammalia assured her. “You are the only one who did not appear to be perpetrating violence on other people when I arrived.”
“It wasn’t violence,” Stasia blurted. “Not exactly. That is, Mother might have slapped her, but that was only because—”
“Now, now,” interrupted Lady Tremaine. “Let’s not bore the princess by airing our dirty linen, shall we? Cynthia, you heard Dorothea, did you not? The tea shan’t fetch itself.”
“She stays,” said Ammalia.
Lady Tremaine and her two daughters froze.
“Then… how will we have tea?” asked Stasia hesitantly.
For God’s sake.
“Cynthia, do you work for these ladies?” Ammalia asked.
“I…” Cynthia bit her lip and glanced at the others out of the corner of her eye, as if torn between loyalty and honesty. “I don’t get paid, no. I live here because this is my home.”
“My home,” Lady Tremaine corrected her. “Settled on me when I married your father.”
“May he rest in peace,” Cynthia murmured, her eyes lowering in pain.
“I see.” Ammalia sent Lady Tremaine her iciest glare.
“I’m afraid I do not see,” said Dorothea. “With all due respect, princess, why are you here? Has your brother come, too?”
“He had better things to do, I’m afraid.” Probably a nap. Or a glass of vin santo and a rubber of whist. “His royal highness sent me in his stead.”
