Page 24

Araminta went white.
“Are you feeling all right, Mother?” Posy asked. “You look rather pale.”
“He came here looking for her,” Araminta whispered.
“Who?” Rosamund asked.
“The woman in silver.”
“Well, he isn’t going to find her here,” Posy replied, “as I was a mermaid and Rosamund was Marie Antoinette. And you, of course, were Queen Elizabeth.”
“The shoes,” Araminta gasped. “The shoes.”
“What shoes?” Rosamund asked irritably.
“They were scuffed. Someone wore my shoes.” Ara-minta’s face, already impossibly pale, blanched even more. “It was her. How did she do it? It had to be her.”
“Who?” Rosamund demanded.
“Mother, are you certain you’re all right?” Posy asked again. “You’re not at all yourself.” But Araminta had already run out  of the room.
“Stupid, stupid shoe,” Sophie grumbled, scrubbing at the heel of one of Araminta’s older pieces of footwear. “She hasn’t even worn this one for years.” She finished polishing the toe and put it back in its place in the neatly ordered row of shoes. But before she could reach for another pair, the door to the closet burst open, slamming against the wall with such force that  Sophie nearly screamed with surprise.
“Oh, goodness, you gave me a fright,” she said to Araminta. “I didn’t hear you coming, and—”
“Pack your things,” Araminta said in a low, cruel voice. “I want you out of this house by sunrise.”
The rag Sophie had been using to polish the shoes fell from her hand. “What?” she gasped. “Why?”
“Do I really need a reason? We both know I ceased receiving any funds for your care nearly a year ago. It’s enough that  I don’t want you here any longer.”
“But where will I go?”
Araminta’s eyes narrowed to nasty slits. “That’s not my concern, now, is it?”
“You’re twenty years of age. Certainly old enough to make your way in the world. There will be no more coddling from me.”
“You never coddled me,” Sophie said in a low voice.
“Don’t you dare talk back to me.”
“Why not?” Sophie returned, her voice growing shrill. “What have I to lose? You’re booting me out of the house, anyway.”
“You might treat me with a little respect,” Araminta hissed, planting her foot on Sophie’s skirt so that she was pinned in her kneeling position, “considering that I have clothed and sheltered you this past year out of the goodness of my heart.”
“You do nothing out of the goodness of your heart.” Sophie tugged at her skirt, but it was firmly trapped under Araminta’s heel. “Why did you really keep me here?”
Araminta cackled. “You’re cheaper than a regular maid, and I do enjoy ordering you about.”
Sophie hated being Araminta’s virtual slave, but at least Penwood House was home. Mrs. Gibbons was her friend, and Posy was usually sympathetic, and the rest of the world was ... well... rather scary. Where would she go? What would she do?  How would she support herself? “Why now?” Sophie asked.
Araminta shrugged. “You’re no longer useful to me.” Sophie looked at the long row of shoes she’d just polished. “I’m not?”
Araminta ground the pointy heel of her shoe into Sophie’s skirt, tearing the fabric. “You went to the ball last night, didn’t you?”
Sophie felt the blood drain from her face, and she knew that Araminta saw the truth in her eyes. “N-no,” she lied. “How would I—”
“I don’t know how you did it, but I know you were there.” Araminta kicked a pair of shoes in Sophie’s direction. “Put these on.”
Sophie just stared at the shoes in dismay. They were white satin, stitched in silver. They were the shoes she’d worn the night before.
“Put them on!” Araminta screamed. “I know that Rosamund’s and Posy’s feet are too large. You’re the only one who could have worn my shoes last night.”
“And from that you think I went to the ball?” Sophie asked, her voice breathy with panic. “Put on the shoes, Sophie.”
Sophie did as she was told. They were, of course, a perfect fit.
“You have overstepped your bounds,” Araminta said in a low voice. “I warned you years ago not to forget your place in this world. You are a bastard, a by-blow, the product of—”
“I know what a bastard is,” Sophie snapped.
Araminta raised one haughty brow, silently mocking Sophie’s outburst. “You are unfit to mingle with polite society,” she continued, “and yet you dared to pretend you are as good as the rest of us by attending the masquerade.”
“Yes, I dared,” Sophie cried out, well past caring that Araminta had somehow discovered her secret. “I dared, and I’d dare again. My blood is just as blue as yours, and my heart far kinder, and—”
One minute Sophie was on her feet, screaming at Araminta, and the next she was on the floor, clutching her cheek, made red by Araminta’s palm.
“Don’t you ever compare yourself to me,” Araminta warned.
Sophie remained on the floor. How could her father have done this to her, leaving her in the care of a woman who so  obviously detested her? Had he cared so little? Or had he simply been blind?