“Were they beautiful, the daughters? And pleasant, as befits a princess?”
“One of them was bitter and angry at the bad luck that had befallen them. But the younger one was always happy and sang as she went about her hard work. A wee lass she was, a bonnie, sweet thing.”
“Like me?” Mary asked.
Clarice stifled a laugh.
Cameron’s lips twitched as Mary flung herself back onto the bed so that she stared up at the smoke-stained ceiling. “Aye, very much like you.”
“So what happened?”
“When the knight rode into their courtyard holding forth the shoe, the older lass ran forward to try it on. But the younger one didn’t.”
“Why is that?” Mary queried the ceiling. She raised a hand into the air, squinted up, and traced the path of a distant beam with one wee finger. “Did she not want to be a princess?”
“She guessed her feet were small enough to fit the shoe, but she couldn’t imagine herself as the wife of a prince. She thought people would make fun of her and say she wasn’t fit to be a princess, so she decided it was better to keep back and not even try on the shoe.”
“I wouldn’t think that,” Mary declared.
Clarice looked up from her work. “No, you wouldn’t, poppet. But you should. You should learn your place in the world.”
“Nay, she shouldn’t,” Cam disagreed. “Her place is what she makes it, as is yours. We are none of us born to a single destiny—I’m living proof of that.”
Clarice’s hands worked faster. “Not all of us are so lucky.”
“You might find yourself lucky someday.” Reaching across her for another strawberry, he advanced further, inching closer until their shoulders touched.
She stilled, drawing in a shaky breath. “I am lucky. I have Mary.” She smiled at the wee lass. “That is luck enough for me—I have no dreams of living in castles.”
“Well, I do.” Mary rose from the trundle and dragged another bench out to sit across from Cameron.
Sighing, he beat a hasty retreat down his own bench. It wouldn’t do to romance Clarice in clear sight of her child.
Mary plunked herself down and laced her little fingers together on the tabletop. “What happened to the daughters?”
“The knight gave the glass shoe to the older lass, who carried it up to her bedchamber. Some time passed, until, to the surprise of all, she came back down the stairs with the shoe on her foot.”
“Did it truly fit?”
“Well, not exactly. She walked with a wee limp and her face was white as a puffy summer cloud. But only her little sister noticed, and she kept quiet.”
Mary shook her head, clearly disapproving of the little sister.
Cameron shared a smile with Clarice. “The knight was so happy to find a lass who fit the shoe, he jumped on his horse and rode to the castle to tell the prince. The next day, the prince gathered his courtiers, and they all rode together to meet and bring home his bride.”
“Did he fancy her?”
“Well, there was some excitement, I expect you’ll imagine, when the prince’s party arrived. Though they were poor, the mother gathered all the food she could find for a feast. The selfish sister didn’t help at all, but went to her chamber to don whatever fine clothes she could find to impress the prince. When all was ready, the younger sister didn’t come to the table, but hid herself instead. She knew that her foot was the smallest in the house—aye, maybe in the kingdom—and she worried that if the prince saw her it could ruin her sister’s plans.”
“But the prince saw her anyway, didn’t he?”
“Nay, for she hid herself well, behind an enormous black cauldron in the courtyard. The prince and his courtiers had a merry evening with many toasts to the couple. And when it was all over, the bride-to-be rode away with him on his horse, so full of pride she didn’t bother to say her farewells to her sister and their mother.”
Mary climbed from her bench to hug Clarice around the middle. “Not even to her mother?”
When Clarice bent her head to kiss her daughter’s curly blond crown, Cameron was sure he’d never seen as touching a picture as the two of them together.
“Not even to her mother.” He paused while Clarice drew Mary up to sit on her lap. “But not long after they set upon the road, a wee bird sang from a tree. He trilled, ‘Nippit fit and clippit fit, behind the prince rides, But pretty fit and little fit, ahint the cauldron hides.’”
“Oooh . . .” Mary’s blue eyes grew wider. “There is the name of the tale!”
“Aye. And the prince cried, ‘What is this that bird doth say?’ You can guess he wasn’t truly happy with the bride his knight had found for him. He asked, ‘Have you a sister, madam?’”
“Did she tell him?”
“To her credit, she didn’t lie.”
“Mama says I must never lie.”
“She is wise, your mama. My aunt used to say, ‘Tell the truth an’ shame the deil.’”
The lassie cocked her head. “The deil?”
“The devil, aye? It means you should always tell the truth. The older sister didn’t lie, but she told the prince in a whisper, ‘My sister is only a very wee one.’”
“Did he hear her?”
“Aye, for he was listening hard for the answer he hoped to hear. ‘We will go back and find this wee sister,’ he told his courtiers, ‘for when I sent forth the shoe, I had no mind that the wearer should nip her foot and clip her foot in order to make it fit.”
“Ouch!” Mary shuddered, then yanked a stem off a strawberry. Making a proper mess of it, she stuffed it into her mouth.
“Ouch, indeed.” He produced a handkerchief to wipe the juice from her chin. “They all turned around and rode back to the house, where
