“It is strange that she will not come forward,” Genevieve allowed. “You said she didn’t know you were the prince?”
Charles thought back to that night, remembering how—moments before she took off—she’d exclaimed that she hadn’t met the prince. “Yes, and she vanished soon after I tried to tell her.”
“I’m sure she knows by now.” Genevieve reopened her fan and batted it at herself. “Perhaps we should have another ball.”
“Please, Aunt Genevieve, be serious.”
“I do not usually enjoy such spectacles myself. Heaven knows they’re a tremendous waste of money and time.” She paused. “But sometimes your father does have a spark of wisdom in him. The last ball was open to every eligible maiden in the kingdom. Do you understand the importance of that, Charles?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” he admitted. “Not until recently.”
“Ferdinand must not have been pleased about that, I can assure you. The villagers have few opportunities to mingle with nobility. Men like Ferdinand do not allow it.” She let out a resigned sigh. “Another ball may well be the solution. Maybe your girl will make another appearance.”
“I doubt it. I fear she’s vanished for good.”
“People don’t just vanish,” said the duchess. “Mark my words, if she has any sense in her at all, she’ll be at the ball. And if you have any sense in you at all, you should make sure she’s the right one for you, not just because she fits a silly slipper. We’ll make it a masquerade.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following. Why a masquerade?”
Genevieve clasped her hands. “Because, my dear nephew, even if this girl is as wonderful and kind and beautiful as you say, I want you to be sure you’re in love with her and not a pretty face. What do you say?”
“What choice do I have?” said the prince with a sigh. But he managed a smile at his aunt. “My father did always say you were wiser than he.”
“Did he now?” Genevieve said with a twinkle in her eye. “That just may be the smartest thing he’s ever said. I’ll be sure to remind him of it.”
She opened the window of the carriage to wave outside at the people. “Besides, your father hasn’t officially welcomed me back to court. He owes me a party.”
“Won’t he be suspicious, given you hate parties, Aunt Genevieve?”
“I wouldn’t count on your father remembering that. In any case, it would be nice to be presented before the court again, to remind my old enemies that I’m still well and alive.”
Bemused, Charles shook his head at his aunt. “Then I’ll do it. But only to welcome you to the kingdom. It’s been so many years since I’ve seen you.”
“Oh, good. It’s rather gauche to suggest a ball be held in one’s honor, but I’ll have a word with your father. I used to be quite good at making him think my ideas were his own. You’ll see. That girl of yours will be there, too—I’m sure of it.”
Charles hoped she was right.
The duchess had instructed her to be back before lunch, so Cinderella walked briskly, making for the Royal Library.
She’d visited a few times now, but always to acquire books for the duchess; she’d never gone for herself.
The library was in the southern wing of the palace, at the end of a long hall that displayed not only paintings but also an eclectic collection of royal art: porcelain vases, sculptures of birds and trees, finely woven tapestries, jeweled trinkets.
She wandered down the corridor, skimming the paintings on the walls. There were plenty of the king and the late queen, and far too many of a man who looked like an older version of the Grand Duke—the current duke’s father, she presumed. Most of his portraits looked newer than the others, as if they’d been planted on the walls to replace what had been there before.
She soon came across a portrait of a young, unsmiling Prince Charles, mounted on a magnificent stallion.
“You look so serious,” Cinderella said to his portrait, her shoulders shaking with humor. But her laughter soon died. The artist had also somehow managed to capture the depth in Charles’s warm eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than seven, the age the duchess had said he’d been when he lost his mother.
A bittersweet mix of emotions stirred inside Cinderella, but she pushed them aside as she entered the library.
“What books should I seek?” she wondered aloud, unable to contain her excitement. “One of those pirate adventures Her Highness can’t seem to get enough of reading? Or a book on gardening—or art? I would love to paint a portrait of Mama and Papa one day . . . then again, it’s been so long since I’ve sat with a good history book. The palace library should have plenty of books on how the royal gardens came to be, or on the palace’s architecture, or—”
Magic, it suddenly came to her. If there was a place for her to learn more about it, and the tumult her fairy godmother had alluded to, it would be here.
“More tomes for Ginny, eh?” The librarian, Mr. Ravel, pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose and continued reading whatever was on his desk. “If she keeps this up, we’ll need a cart to haul back all her books once she leaves. Well, what is it today?”
“I’d like whatever you have on the history of magic,” said Cinderella.
Mr. Ravel’s eyes flew up from his page. “Excuse me?”
“I said, I’d like—”
“Yes, yes, I heard the first time.” Mr. Ravel threw a quick glance over his shoulder; he looked worried someone might hear. Then, glowering at her, he whispered harshly, “Does Ginny think I’m hiding something from her? I told her I gave the duke all I could before he was exiled. Everything else was destroyed: the paintings, the books, everything.”
This wasn’t at all what Cinderella had expected to hear. “Destroyed? But why?” She swallowed. “Because it’s forbidden?”
“Obviously, you dimwit child!”
“But why . . . why is it?”
He scoffed. “I suppose you’re too young to remember its perils—always praying that our prince or princess wouldn’t be cursed at birth by a dark fairy. The council spent years working to ban magic, and we are all better for it.”
The speech sounded rehearsed, like something Mr. Ravel was supposed to say. “What would happen if a fairy were to sneak back into Aurelais and use her magic?”
“She would be executed, most certainly!”
“Executed!” Cinderella cried. “But magic can do so much good. Why would the king—”
“Shhh!” the librarian cried. “Enough with the questions. We shouldn’t even be discussing this. Are you trying to get me dismissed? Tell your mistress I value my position here, and I don’t want to hear about this ever again.”
“Yes . . .” Cinderella said, stricken by the librarian’s outburst. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now if there is nothing else—oh, hello there.”
A group of young girls entered, distracting Mr. Ravel as Cinderella slipped into the library. Once she lost herself among the stacks, she let out a sigh of relief.