Moonlight and Ashes Read online

  My heart beats wildly and I close my eyes. When I open them again, I half-expect I’ve dreamed this too. But the leaf is still there: small, not fully grown but absolutely real as it rests snugly in the hollow of my palm. I look at it for a moment longer then, reaching up to my necklace, I open the locket and slide the tiny leaf inside. Its soft, damp green seems to glow with the light of magic, the promise of dawn.

  That was this morning. I’ve had hardly any time to think about it all day as I have been kept busy, busier than I have ever been with the whole house in a frenzy to get things ready for the distinguished guests. The importance of the dinner was highlighted by the presence of Grizelda in the kitchen not once but twice, as she hardly ever condescends to descend those stairs, preferring to summon Mrs Jager instead. She was clearly anxious, and I soon learned why: that very morning, she had learned it wasn’t just the city dignitaries who would be there in force, but also Count Otto von Gildenstein, a court official sent on ahead of the Prince to oversee the Ashberg celebrations.

  Count Otto was a very important man. A senior adviser to the Emperor, he also sat on the Mancer Council, which was made up not only of the most senior Mancers but also of powerful and trusted political figures. His only son, Maximilian, was Prince Leopold’s best friend and had only just returned from Klugheitfurt University himself where he had studied alongside the Prince. Although Count Otto owned a hunting estate just outside the city, he only occasionally came to Ashberg and when he did he came alone to hunt, refusing all social invitations. So his presence at dinner tonight in my father’s house would be a real honour and it meant that everything must run even more perfectly than usual. I was sent to clean the sculleries from top to bottom – as if Count Otto would put one booted foot anywhere near them! Taking advantage of the whirlwind of activity downstairs, I sneaked out to check the tree.

  Still covered in leaves, it was nowhere near as big as it had been in my dream but I was certain it had grown. It hadn’t shed any leaves either, and the pond was still choked with weeds, with not a hint of that shining, mirrored surface. It had been a dream and yet the leaf from my dream was in my locket – still fresh and green, still unmistakeably real. None the wiser, I slipped back to the sculleries, just in time before the head scullery maid poked her head around the door to inspect my work.

  If downstairs was a perfect ant-heap of busyness, upstairs was no less frantic, according to the footmen and maids. Madame Paulina and several of her assistants spent hours closeted with my stepmother and stepsisters, performing emergency alterations to dresses that had been considered fine enough for a dinner with city authorities but not quite fine enough for a senior adviser to the Emperor. While hairdressers, perfumers and beauticians attended to the women, a tailor came for my father’s needs and, no doubt under Grizelda’s instructions, Ashberg’s finest perruquier arrived to fit a fashionable wig on Father’s bald head. The upstairs staff did not much like the house filled with these strangers, and even less that Grizelda had given instructions that they were to run errands for them, but there was nothing they could do except grumble at the servants’ table about ‘upstart tradesmen’ who didn’t know ‘the family’ like they did.

  Of course, nobody seemed to remember that I was part of that family. And why should they? The real power in the house had decided I was to be disregarded and brought low and, as my father had not objected except in the weakest of terms, that was what counted. And it had not brought me any friends – far from it. I was not one of them downstairs; but I was not one of them upstairs, either. Babette was right – I was a nobody, a creature everyone could safely despise.

  Night came, and with it the rumble of carriages and the loud, confident voices of the guests. Word filtered down to the kitchen of the splendid gowns and jewels of the women, and the men’s dress uniforms clanking with medals. Even our fat, old mayor, Baron Tomas, looked splendid, apparently, in his magnificent dark red, velvet robes of office and the white, fox-fur-trimmed ceremonial helmet that has always reminded me of the headgear worn by a Ruvenyan warrior depicted in one of Mama’s old books. To me, it seemed to touch a pompous and tedious old man with the glamour of exotic legend, as Ruvenya was a vast kingdom to our east, but I don’t suppose the mayor would be glad to hear it for, like many people hereabouts, he would consider Ruvenya to be a dangerous and barbarous land. Though, he might not say so in a court official’s company, for our Empress herself had been born a Ruvenyan princess.

  Count Otto did not arrive for more than an hour after the other guests, and the footmen relayed news of the growing tension upstairs. ‘They’re afraid he might not turn up at all,’ said one of the footmen. ‘He’s done that before, apparently.’ The cooks were also in hysterics at the thought that their vast, carefully planned meal would spoil if it was delayed for much longer, and everyone downstairs looked glum at the prospect that a furious Lady Grizelda would visit her disappointment on us.

  But thankfully he did turn up and all was forgiven. Despite having ‘a face like a bulldog and the build of a prize-fighter’ (a footman’s cheeky words), he knew exactly what to say to everyone and charmed the whole assembly with his flattering description of the Province of Ashbergia as ‘one of His Imperial Majesty’s most loyal’ and of Ashberg as ‘one of the jewels of the Empire’ which the Prince, whose many official titles included Duke of Ashbergia, was looking forward to visiting with immense pleasure and anticipation.

  ‘He said that the Prince is keen to make glad as many citizens of Ashberg as possible, from the high to the low,’ the same footman went on, ‘and so as well as the ball for the toffs there’s to be a big night-fair for us common folk that same night and, later on in the week, the Prince might address the crowds in St Hilda’s Square.’

  ‘Must feel different to his father then,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Nobody’s ever taken a pot shot at him, that’s why,’ chimed in another. Despite all that stuff about Ashbergia being ‘one of the most loyal’ provinces, long ago, many years before I was born, someone had actually taken a shot at the Emperor while he was on a visit to Ashberg. The hopeful assassin had been a madman who thought he was a reincarnation of the Grey Widow. It was soon proved there was no wider plot and the assassin was executed, but the fear of lone dealers of death suddenly appearing from within cheering crowds had haunted the Emperor ever since.

  ‘I’ve heard the Prince is handsome,’ sighed one of the maids. ‘Hair like gold and eyes like cornflowers, a manly bearing and a gift with words.’

  ‘Bah! That’s what those perfumed papers tell you,’ scoffed a footman, ‘but anyone can look good when they have an army of skivvies to attend to them.’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s not like that at all,’ persisted the maid. ‘I read that while he was at university, he shared an ordinary apartment with his friend Maximilian von Gildenstein and they just had one of those college servants and that the Prince was like any other young man who –’

  ‘You’ll rot your mind reading that rubbish, my girl,’ said Mrs Jager, coming into the kitchen just in time to overhear. ‘The Prince is not just any young man, he is the heir to the throne and a very great man indeed and the likes of us have absolutely no business discussing him as if he were a mere dandy from the social pages. While I am in charge down here, there will be no more disrespectful remarks, is that clear? From anyone,’ she went on, glaring at the footman, who shrugged sulkily but said nothing more.

  I woke from a dreamless sleep to a bright morning, with the delicious thought that it was Sunday. After my early chores and Mass, the rest of the day was mine and I decided to visit my mother’s grave on the other side of the city, setting off with a basket filled with sandwiches, a bottle of cold tea and a bunch of flowers from the garden.

  Sunday may be a day of rest but, at certain times of the day, the city is more busy than usual. In the morning, crowds in their colourful Sunday best pour out of the cathedral and various sma
ll churches and later spill out of their houses after lunch to promenade up and down St Hilda’s Square. I had set out in between those times so there weren’t many people in the streets. But I didn’t mind for it gave me the feeling that I owned the city, that I could look – and look at what I wanted without attracting the suspicion of those who always think that a poorly dressed person is likely to be a thief or up to some sort of mischief. Ashberg is a charming city and St Hilda’s Square is splendid, wide and elegant, with the tall tower housing the ancient clock that is one of the wonders of the world and always a great drawcard for tourists. At that moment it was solely mine – with nobody brusquely pushing me aside to let my betters see – and as the clock struck twelve, I watched with delight as the miniature court parade passed out of the palace gates: first came the trumpeters in red and blue, followed by the magnificent king and queen and then all their courtiers, who passed them by in the finest regalia, solemnly bowing before proceeding on to a grand tune.

  But it wasn’t just St Hilda’s Square that I loved. I could dream in front of shop windows filled with beautiful things without braving the basilisk-glare of shopkeepers. I could dawdle in front of my favourite houses, decorated with the delicate colours and carvings that make them look like the most beautiful gilt gingerbread, without attracting the attention of the city police, for they too had their Sunday lunch back in their barracks. Clearly, criminals were expected to keep the Sunday peace too, and by and large they did. Even a thief must rest sometime, I suppose, and besides, if there is no-one out and about whose pocket you can pick or watch you can lift, then what’s the point of cruising the streets looking for prey? It would all change once the clocks struck three.

  Halfway through my journey I stopped in my favourite parkland and, apart from a few strays like me, it was empty too. Finch Park is small and simple, without the statues and fountains and gravel paths that make the bigger ones fashionable, but I have always loved it. Amongst the unmanicured grass are riots of little flowers; there are unruly, fragrant bushes and old but comfortable wooden benches. Best of all, the park is home to lots of little birds – especially its namesake – that dart around in busy groups, their bright movements and chirruping voices surely capable of lifting the spirit of even the most miserable soul. In those moments, sitting on the bench in the sun, eating my sandwiches and scattering the crumbs for the birds, I felt truly happy, without a thought for the past or the future.

  By the time I got to my feet again to walk the rest of the way to the cemetery, I felt more refreshed than I had in days. The feeling persisted right to Mama’s grave, which was a grassy plot tucked away near a patch of trees at the far end of the graveyard. At her request, it had simply been marked with a plain stone cross, engraved with her name and the single word ‘Beloved’. I knelt at her grave, tears in my eyes. ‘Oh, Mama,’ I whispered, ‘I miss you so, so much . . .’

  There was a movement in the patch of trees nearby. I stiffened and caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure wrapped in a cloak. In the next instant I heard rapid footsteps behind me and, rather than turn around, I put my head in my hands and made as if I was weeping and unaware of them. The footsteps passed by me without hesitating and when I sneaked a look between my fingers at the patch of trees I saw that the newcomer had joined the figure in the shadows. I couldn’t see much of him either, for he was dressed in a long, dark overcoat and wore a hat, but he carried himself in such a way that I had the impression that this was not someone to tangle with. I knew that on no account must I draw attention to myself.

  Sunday might be a day of rest for criminals generally but clearly these two were taking advantage of the quietness of both the place and the day. I knew they must be criminals up to something for why else would they meet in such secrecy? They had moved further into the trees so it was impossible for me to even try to see their faces. I just wanted to be away from there should they emerge again and decide I was in their way. ‘I have to go, Mama,’ I whispered, ‘but I’ll be back, I promise. I love you and always will,’ and then I got quietly to my feet, taking care to keep my back to them, and walked away as slowly as I could bear to, my heart in my mouth, the back of my neck tingling. But nobody shouted after me, nobody came running, and I reached the gate of the cemetery without incident.

  Once outside, I quickened my steps till I was almost running down the street. Turning the corner, I had my second shock of the afternoon. Drawn up at the end of the street outside a tall gabled house was a Mancer carriage. Its occupant was obviously inside the house as the coachman had climbed down off his seat and was now leaning against the vehicle smoking. He hadn’t seen me yet so I quickly doubled back and went blindly down another street, my heart pounding, fit to burst. The sight of that sinister vehicle – the second I’d seen in just a few days – drove out the earlier fear that had sent me fleeing the graveyard. Malefactors planning a crime were one thing; Mancers on the prowl were quite another. What was going on?

  Perhaps, I thought as I made my way back through a tortuous route, it’s because of the Prince’s visit. They are keeping a closer eye than usual, that’s all, checking every stray waft of perhaps-magic that comes their way and making sure the heir to the throne will be safe not only from assassins but from illegal spells. They’d be busy weaving protective spells of their own, of course, but they could never be too careful when it came to the safety of our ailing Emperor’s only son. And that meant they would be on the lookout for anything even slightly unusual, however innocent or harmless. It was not a reassuring thought.

  I climbed over the back wall and hurried through the parkland, not wanting to run the risk of being seen by anyone in the house. Thoughts of the Mancers on the prowl had made me terribly nervous about the hazel tree and whether, if by some stroke of bad luck they found it, they’d know it was magic. I had a horrible feeling they would know at once and then I’d be doomed.

  Oh dear God, it had grown! It was now waist-high – twice the size it had been in my cupboard. If it kept growing at this rate, in no time at all it would be as tall as it had been in my dream and then who knew when it would stop? What if it kept growing till the top of it reached above the walls and higher, maybe even reaching as high as the cathedral spire? And that could mean that it would only be a matter of days – not weeks – before the Mancers came knocking at my door!

  Panic-stricken, I flung myself at the tree, pulling at it, heaving as if I would pull it out of the ground. But it stayed fast and all I got for my pains were scratches from the branches whipping at me, as if the tree had been fighting back. Panting, I fell to the ground, sobbing, ‘Hazel tree, dear hazel tree, please understand you will be my doom if you don’t stay small. What do you want? What must I do?’

  Silence. Of course, I could hardly expect the tree to answer me. Feeling stupid and small and helpless, I began to get up when all at once there came a rustle from above and a little yellow finch swooped down and alighted on a branch just near me. Head cocked, it looked at me with its bright beady eyes.

  ‘I know, little one, I’m an idiot,’ I said sadly. Chirruping in a scolding sort of way, the finch hopped down the branch. Before I knew what was happening, it broke off a leaf at the stalk and, darting down, dropped the leaf at my feet. Then it flew back to the tree and sat looking at me as if to say, ‘Well, do you understand now?’

  ‘I don’t know what I . . .’ I began, but the words died in my throat as I saw that it was no longer a leaf at my feet but a small picture – a miniature exquisitely painted on a canvas of stretched pale silk. Such miniatures were a renowned speciality of my mother’s region and, indeed, we had one in the house, framed under glass. But I’d never seen one as beautiful, as perfect, as this one.

  It depicted a ballroom scene with couples dancing on polished floors under crystal chandeliers in a room lined with painted, floral panels. I knew that room, though I had not set foot in it for years. It was the grand ballroom of Ashberg Castle, which
was used not only for balls but for other special occasions. As a child, I had gone there every year with my parents for the mayor’s Christmas party, to which all the great Ashberg families were invited. There was always a huge, decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the room with the panels draped in holly and mistletoe and gilt paper chains. There’d been tables laden with food and gifts wrapped in coloured paper for every child.

  Those days were long gone for me and best not thought of. But what was the meaning of the miniature before me now? I looked up at the finch, then back at the picture – and saw what I had missed the first time. First, the panels were draped in banners bearing the arms of Prince Leopold. And, second, the first couple in the room, the ones who set the tone for all the others, were not the fat old mayor and his skinny wife, but were young. The man was tall and broad-shouldered in an elegant sky-blue dress uniform, and the young woman, dressed in a magnificent white ball gown, had chestnut hair with a golden sheen. I stared, my heart beating so fast I thought it would jump out of my chest, and I murmured, ‘No. You can’t mean that I should go to the Prince’s ball!’

  The finch chirruped loudly, and its meaning was so clear it might as well have spoken human words. I looked up at it and whispered, ‘But it’s not possible . . . It can’t be . . . I can’t go . . .’

  And yet in my mind I knew that I must.

  I can hardly describe how I got through the next few days. It was as though I had walked on air and hot coals at one and the same time. The house had been a hive of activity as my stepmother and stepsisters went through an endless parade of dresses and shoes and jewels. There were constant tantrums with angry tears and feet stamped and hair pulled as the girls fought over who would wear what while my father simply never poked his nose out of his study. Fortunately I only got to hear about those tantrums, for both my stepsisters and their mother had forgotten all about me in their excitement.