“Good thinking.” Evangeline nodded. “And the shoes?”
Willa smiled softly. “If it’s one thing this story already has, ‘tis shoes. Ember has taken care of that detail all on her own.”
All five Godmothers nodded. “Narrative causality,” they said in unison, except Seonag, who mumbled, “Fraggums.”
“Well then,” Evangeline stated, with a deep breath, “I believe everything is in place for another Happily Ever After, sisters.”
Seonag leaned forward and tapped the carpetbag. “Nae harm in abi’ o’ a wink, eh?”
“Oh!” Willa leapt forward. “The ball! Good thinking, Grandmother!”
The old woman seemed satisfied to have gotten her point—whatever it was—across, and she leaned back in her chair with a satisfied nod when Willa opened the bag to reveal what looked to be a glass sphere, covered in a lace doily.
It was, of course, a crystal ball.
Evangeline hated using the thing; it gave her a headache. But Broca was remarkably skilled at getting a picture from it, and some evenings, they used it to spy on the goings on at Queen Victoria’s court, just so they could ooh and ahh over the gowns. Of course, it was used for other, more important, purposes, but Evangeline enjoyed being able to peek at the courtly fashion the most.
“Very well.” She sighed, doing her best to appear reluctant and not at all as if she were looking forward to experiencing the ball from the comfort of her sitting room herself. “It will be a convenient way to keep up with the full story, I suppose.”
Broca reached out her arms. “Pass the thing here and I’ll get it primed, eh?”
“And Grisel,” Evangeline commanded haughtily, “pour the tea. Without incantations if you please.”
Sometimes, just sometimes, things went as planned.
Tonight would be one of those times, she was certain.
Narrative causality and all that.
Chapter 1
“Ember? Go to the ball? Have ye all gone daft?” Baroness Machara Oliphant, proprietress of The Oliphant Inn, threw her head back and laughed that shrill twitter of hers, which made her sound like a breathless tropical bird.
Not that Ember had ever heard a parrot, but she’d read about them—and their ridiculous sounds—in one of Bonnie’s books and often thought her stepmother resembled the birds, from the careful way she picked up each foot and put it down, to the colorful plumage of silks she insisted on draping herself in.
Desperation is no’ a kind look, Stepmother.
But Ember pressed her lips together, refusing to be baited by the old witch.
“Mother.” Vanessa pretended to sigh heavily, although her gaze never wavered from her reflection in the mirror where she was very carefully applying powder to her jawline. “Everyone in the clan is invited. It will be a grand party.”
“It is a ball,” her mother snapped in return, waving the hairbrush dismissively, before returning her attention to Bonnie’s coiffure. “And it is bad enough I am forced to attend to my daughters’ toilette myself because Ember is too busy to do so. I will no’ have her embarrassing me in front of the Princes!”
In the mirror, Ember caught Vanessa’s gaze, before bending to pick up the discarded undergarments and afternoon gowns Machara had tossed about as she’d helped her daughters prepare for the evening. Her stepsister gave a little shrug, as if to say, We expected this.
They had, and they were prepared. Her sister’s blue eyes cut to the wardrobe, where a simple tangerine-colored gown hung. Vanessa had worn it during her trip to Edinburgh last season, and Ember knew it would fit her, thanks to the slight adjustments she and her stepsisters had made.
But, as if guessing her mother would expect a fight, quiet Bonnie spoke up. “Mother, Ember has been working hard and deserves an evening to enjoy herself like the rest of the clan.”
“And leave the inn unstaffed?” Machara sniffed. “I think no’. Hand me those pins, darling,” she commanded, using her chin to gesture to the pearl-tipped hair accessories on the table before Bonnie, as she held the younger woman’s dark blonde locks in both hands.
“Mother, Auld Ben will be behind the bar,” Vanessa reminded her flippantly. “And most of the guests will be at the ball, will they no’? Ember can—”
“Girls!” It was as if her own shriek startled Machara as much as the three younger women, because she dropped Bonnie’s hair as her hands fluttered, and then clucked her tongue in frustration. “Now look what ye’ve made me do!”
Pressing a shaking hand to her forehead, Ember’s stepmother sucked in a deep breath, as if trying to calm herself. Ember ducked her head and made short work of hanging up the discarded clothing, wanting to do nothing which would hint at her plans for the evening.
“Girls,” Machara began again, speaking slowly but loudly, as if they were all hard of understanding, “this is really quite simple. The Princes are throwing this ball for Mr. DeVille, aye? Mr. DeVille is a grand man, the personal guest of Laird Oliphant and his sons, and is about to become a verra important man in this part of the Highlands.”
“I ken ye want us to impress Mr. DeVille, Mother, but—”
“I want ye to catch the eye of one of the Princes,” the older woman snapped, interrupting Vanessa. “I want ye to be the next Lady Oliphant, no’ just married to a baron as I was to yer father, but married to a laird.”
Ember could tell from the way Vanessa’s gaze dropped to the powders and cosmetics in front of her that her stepsister didn’t completely love the idea.
Perhaps because of who the next Laird Oliphant was.
“Oh, my darling,” Machara suddenly crooned, stepping away from Bonnie to place her hands on Vanessa’s shoulders. She nudged her oldest daughter’s chin up, forcing her shoulders to straighten proudly, as she stood behind her and met Vanessa’s gaze in the mirror. “There’s my beauty,
