“What is it, Stepmother?” she asked, reminding herself to be polite. No good would come if the woman suspected her plan to sneak out after they left in the carriage.
“Inside, please,” Machara demanded imperiously, and Ember complied, turning to ask what this was about…just in time to receive a door slammed in her face.
“What—!” she cried out, as she stepped back to avoid a nose full of splinters.
There was no way she could miss the sound of a key turning in the lock.
“Stepmother!” She lunged for the knob, yanking on it. “Baroness, what are ye doing?”
“I’m locking ye in, ye stupid girl. Did ye think I wouldnae learn of yer plans to attend the ball?” Her voice was full of scorn. “I willnae have ye showing up there and detracting the Princes’ attention from where it belongs: on my Vanessa.”
Oh Lord in Heaven, that’s what this was about? “Stepmother, I dinnae want to attract attention. No’ from the Princes, no’ from the Laird, no’ from anyone.”
Except, maybe, the stranger downstairs—
Nay, focus!
“I swear, I just want to see the castle all decorated, all the finery. I want to see my sisters dancing, and my shoes, the shoes they’re wearing. They’ll—” Choking off a sob, Ember pressed her forehead to the wood. “Please, Stepmother,” she whispered.
But there was no sound from the hall.
Machara had taken the key and left, without even listening to Ember’s promises and pleas.
She was alone. She was alone and locked in and had lost her chance to go to the ball.
Except, she had her satchel, did she not? Perhaps there was something she could use…
As she stepped away from the door and turned toward the lantern to catch the light, her eyes fell on the bed, and onto something she hadn’t noticed before, spread across the coverlet.
It was a gown, but not just any gown.
Ember’s breath caught in her throat, and her fingers shook as she reached her hand out toward the silk concoction. It was a gown straight out of a fairy tale.
The white wasn’t merely white, but seemed to glow with some inner light. The logical part of her brain said the waft and weave was responsible, but another, larger part, breathed “magic.” Across the gown’s white bodice and skirts, tiny beads—pearls, maybe?—picked out a design she couldn’t quite recognize.
Ember allowed her satchel to hang down her back once more, then wiped her palms down her thighs, afraid to dirty the gown. But her hands itched to hold it, and as the sound of the carriage leaving the courtyard echoed up through the open window, she lifted the silk ball gown with a reverence usually only reserved for metal.
It was gears!
The design, picked out in tiny seed pearls, were gears, hundreds of them, all interconnected and looking as if they could work together.
If she had designed a gown, it would be this one. It matched the design she’d engraved on her shoes—
The shoes!
Sucking in a breath, Ember held the gown out in front of her and looked down. The thing was sized to her perfectly and would do wonders to set off her dark red hair. But…the skirts were lopsided, cut too high in the front.
Nay. The gown is cut high to reveal the shoes.
In this gown, her red shoes would be fully on display, and a large part of the masterpiece.
Was this gown for her?
It had to be.
But who would leave it for her? Especially now she was locked in without a chance to attend the ball?
Her gaze landed on the box at the foot of the bed. It was small, the kind Vanessa received from the modiste’s when she accepted delivery of new gloves or a chemise. Ember carefully draped the gown over her arm and reached for the lid.
She sucked in a dazzled breath. Nestled amongst the tissue was an exquisite white mask, decorated not with feathers, but with gears—real metal gears, painted white. It was perfect for a masquerade where one’s ballgown and shoes were designed with a mechanical sort of motif.
But that wasn’t the last of the gifts from her mysterious benefactor.
There, dangling on a blood-red ribbon, lay a key.
Slowly, Ember’s gaze turned to land on the door.
And she smiled.
Chapter 2
“Excellent work, Grisel. I see the gown and mask were in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.”
“Of course. And did ye see her hide the key after she used it? Bright lass, eh?”
“Wass’n there? Och, wee peepins!”
“Grandmother’s right, Evangeline. Can ye no’ turn the ball a bit so we can all see what’s happening? I’d like to watch the ball as well.”
“All of ye quit yer complaining; I’m trying to watch.”
“Broca, be kind. Willa, here. Can you see now? Good. Now, let’s check on our young cowboy, shall we?”
* * *
“I dinnae ken, Max.” Roland squinted and tipped his head to one side, studying Max’s costume. “A cowboy? Is that no’ a little too on the nose?”
One side of his mouth pulling into a lop-sided grin, Max DeVille shrugged into his leather vest, then adjusted the fit in the mirror. They were standing in the dressing room off Roland’s suite—imagine having an entire room just to dress in—as they prepared for this ball Roland’s father had insisted on throwing for him.
“Listen, mister, you said it was a costume ball, right? So I’m wearing a costume. Besides, those enthusiastic servants of yours scrubbed my denims so deep, there’s no dirt left at all.” He bent his knees, then quickly straightened again. “Look at that—the damn things can bend.” Shaking his head in mock sorrow, he blew out a breath. “It’s a shame when a cowboy’s dungarees don’t stand up on their own. My father would be mortified.”
Roland chuckled. “From what ye’ve told me of the auld bastard, he deserves a little mortification. But are ye certain ye wish to wear that get-up to the masquerade? I could find something more comfortable for ye.”
“More comfortable?” Max turned and
