Free Just Like Magic by Elizabeth Townsend Page A

he’d never stop. He nearly put me to sleep.”
“My dear! You have no taste! That was the divine Ferrini!”
“He must have been divine, the way you kept saying ‘I pray you, Signor Ferrini’ all evening.”
“I beg your pardon! I merely wanted to discuss technique.” She simpered. “Viscountess Feldon has asked me to play at her little party next week.”
“Not another musicale!”
“What, doesn’t your lieutenant like music? Afraid you’ll miss him?”
Gerta threw a pillow at her.
All in all, it wasn’t easy to listen to. If I had gone, I would have enjoyed it! I wouldn’t have spent my time being bored or looking for things to criticize. Just to go to one ball, or party—I could still dream, couldn’t I?
But it got worse. Prince Gregory’s ball was getting closer. Lucy found out the exact date and time from Princess Seraphine a day before it was announced and was unbearably smug for a week. Wednesday, October twenty-eighth, the prince’s birthday, was the date set, and my heart couldn’t help beating faster when I first heard it, although I continued to tell myself I had absolutely no chance of going. Positively none.
Then why did I still catch myself looking over our back fence toward the palace? Why did I find my mind slipping back into all my old daydreams as I washed dishes and swept the floor? I knew it would never happen, I knew it, but—
Day by day, Henry got the inside news from the palace via Lottie. In the mornings, when the dishes were done, if Henry was out working in the garden, I couldn’t help going outside and listening to him. Preparations at the palace were ongoing and apparently staggering. Menus had been planned, baking had begun, and wagons were unloading more supplies every day: barrels of Veronian wine, crates of exotic fruits from the islands, and huge chunks of ice from the mountains, packed in straw.
And my dreams wouldn’t die. While scrubbing the dishes, I would find myself imagining that this time Stepmama would have the final word and say “yes.” Somehow I could get a new dress or even an old dress of Gerta’s. Perhaps, perhaps on that special night I would find myself at the palace, dancing in the arms of— 
Wake up, Ella! I would then tell myself furiously. Don’t get your hopes up! You’ll spend that night at home, banking the fire and starting the bread dough as usual. And I’d plunge my hands back into the dishwater and scrub the dishes till my hands were red and wrinkled.
One afternoon, just as I had finished the dishes and was hanging the dishcloth near the fire, a formal rapping sounded on the front door, and the servant’s bell jangled in the kitchen.
I hurried up the kitchen stairs, wiping my hands on my apron, and yanked open the door. Standing on the step was a tall man in red and gold livery. Removing his hat, he said, “I have a message for the Dowager Duchess of Derham, if you please.”
Behind me I heard a gasp. Gerta had come into the hall and squealed, “It’s the Royal Footman! Mama, our invitation—it’s here!”

 
    8
    Two Invitations
The Royal Footman bowed deeply, and Stepmama, in her haste to reach the door, nearly tripped over Mon Petit, who was scurrying around her feet, busily waving his plumed tail.
“Your Grace?”
“Yes! Yes, that is me—I—myself—I mean, won’t you come in?”
The footman bowed again. “I thank you, Your Grace, but I must finish delivering the Royal Invitations.”
“I knew it!” shrieked Gerta.
“Hush!” hissed Lucy.
“Invitation, how charming!” babbled my stepmother, grasping at the creamy envelope the footman extended toward her. “I—you must convey to the king how pleased we are—how honored—”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” And the footman bowed again and was gone.
“Perhaps I should have offered him some tea?” Stepmama looked blankly out the door after him.
“Shut the door, Mama! We want to see the invitation!” Gerta was bouncing with excitement. Lucy was acting bored and