Once upon a time (because that’s how these things start), there was a wealthy merchant, with a healthy wife and a single, beloved daughter.

The daughter, Eleanor, wasn’t the prettiest girl in the town of Gandry, but she was pretty enough for mothers and fathers of local sons to paint over her fierce intelligence with soothing thoughts of her father’s gold and encourage their boys to pay her every attention.

Eleanor banged through the heavy front door, slamming it behind her and dropping her wet cloak on the polished floor as she made for the stairs. Why had father insisted on moving into this stupid house in the middle of town two years before?

Whenever she left it, she had to put up with the clumsy flirtation attempts of every boy over the age of twelve. She stomped up the stairs, pausing and leaning over the bannisters as her mother glided into the hall below her. “Nora, darling, gracefully please. How was your walk?”

“My Sundarian language class with Master Fang was interesting. Avoiding the grabby hands of the resident riffraff to and from was tedious.”

Her mother’s brow furrowed. “Oh dear. It was fortunate Fabian Taylor was able to protect you then, I saw he was kind enough to walk you across the square.”

Eleanor snorted and resumed her path. “Fabian Taylor is the riffraff I was referring to. He has sweaty hands and bad breath and keeps trying to kiss me.”

Mistress Marchant tutted at her daughter. “Darling, you shouldn’t be so familiar with him, he’ll get ideas.”

“He already has ideas, mostly from his mother since he doesn’t have the brains for anything other than food, and she got her ideas from you.”

Eleanor slammed her bedroom door and stormed across the room to flop in the window seat and pull off her muddy boots. The seat, little more than a wide window ledge with cushions purloined from the bed and downstairs sofa, was her favourite place in the house.

She pulled a large, well-loved book from beneath the cushions and settled back with a sigh. She ran her fingers over the worn gold of the title Tales of Magic and Wonder. Papa didn’t approve of her reading such things, filling her head with nonsense, but none of the princes, or knights, or master mages in disguise in it ever tried to put their hand down a girl’s bodice.

And if they’d tried, well, those girls would have shown them a thing or two, with the full support of their mothers.

She opened the book and pulled out the yellowed notecard tucked into the front. To my beloved granddaughter on occasion of her twelfth birthday. Your great-grandpa bought me this for my twelfth birthday and wasn’t your great-grandma cross! Such a waste, she said. If you’re going to spend that much money on a book, make it a useful one, she said. I believe this is a useful one, and I think you do too. Keep your faith in faerie and learn from their stories. Love always Grandma Ruth.

She put it back and turned to the story about the girl who defeated the ogre, then snapped the book shut and shouted. “What do you want?”

The bedroom door inched open and the upstairs maid, Betsy, peeked in. “Sorry miss, but Mistress says you’re to get ready for dinner as there’s guests expected.”

Eleanor crossed her arms. “Tell them I’ve caught a cold, being out in the rain all day, and can’t come down.”

Betsy gave her a disbelieving look, but closed the door and departed. Eleanor sighed and re-opened her book. She was barely two pages in, the ogre had just started stealing goats and sheep, when a sharp rap on the door preceded the entrance of Mrs Fisher, their housekeeper.

The cross-looking woman stalked across the room and picked up Eleanor’s boots, holding them pinched between the tips of her fingers. “And I suppose you want these, and your cloak clean and dry for this evening? Not to mention the mud you’ve tracked across these rugs brushed out?”

Eleanor frowned. “Why would I be going out again this evening?”

Mrs Fisher looked even more sour. “To attend the Mayor’s Quarter-Day Dance.”

Eleanor closed her book again and sighed. “I caught a cold this afternoon and simply cannot go out in this weather. I’ll take dinner in my room.”

Turning her back on Mrs Fisher’s bitter lemon face, Eleanor gazed out of the window. Their old house was so much better, tucked up at the top end of the wharves her father’s barges used, her old room had a view across the Snowrush River to the strip of woodland the Orna rulers insisted be kept along the full length of their side. On a good day, she’d be able to spy on kelpies in their black horse forms weaving through the trees and slipping into the swift, icy current.

Here, she looked out over a sad little strip of kitchen garden and into the stableyard of one of Gandry’s many inns. On a good day, she might see a nice horse.

Mrs Fisher left in a fading rustle of starched skirts, even they managed to sound disapproving. Why hadn’t Mrs Dorin come with them from the old house? She’d never huffed and pinched her lips when Eleanor refused to scuttle about like a frightened cockroach.

She sat forward, peering through the rain, as a smart travelling carriage rolled into the stableyard, the insignia of the Dukes of Clearfall on door. Were they here to attend the dance? Or was it merely a servant, lent the carriage for some errand or other?

She shrugged and turned back to her book, no doubt she’d hear all about it in the morning if Their Graces had appeared in the Assembly Hall.

Her door opened again. This time it was her mother. “Come now, darling, we have guests tonight and you know how much Master Gent enjoys his conversations with you.

Eleanor’s book was plucked from her hands. “You have just enough time to get into your gold dress. I’ll send Betsy up to do your hair. You can have your book back after the dance.”

She hated the gold dress. It was too tight, too fussy, and it itched. “I’ll wear the blue.”

Her mother turned at the door, Eleanor waved towards the rain running down the window. “The gold gets horribly marked when it’s wet and you remember how upset Mrs Fisher was when the hem got a little muddy that time.”

Mistress Marchant shuddered. “Very well, the blue.”

Eleanor made reluctantly for the wardrobe as the door closed. She hoped Mrs Fisher appreciated how considerate she was. She pulled out the blue dress, an indigo shade that sat well with her mahogany-brown hair and eyes and the gold tint to her skin, courtesy of Grandma Ruth, who’d come from the Scattered Isles. The dress was a little old-fashioned with it’s wide, square neckline and simple ornamentation, but it was Sundarian silk, accented with velvet bands, and that set it apart from all the wools and linens the other girls would be wearing.

After putting her foot down with Betsy, she wanted her blue moonstone hairpins, ribbons were boring, Eleanor set her shoulders back, and glided down the main stairs and into the front parlour, smiling politely at the affable old merchant chatting with her parents. The smile froze into a snarl when she recognised the fourth member of the group.

Master Gent’s son, Sebastian, was a sly, slithery toad disguised as a handsome young man. He was bending over her mother’s hand as Eleanor paused in the doorway and was clearly saying something flattering, as her mother was giggling like a coy dairymaid. Only Eleanor could see his sneer.

She entered the room and greeted Master Gent with all the charm she possessed, ignoring Sebastian. She’d hated him since the day they’d first met as children, when he’d pushed her into the river and then claimed he’d tried to save her. All he’d done was laugh as she nearly drowned, and no one believed her. Instead, he was petted and cooed over as a hero, and she was sent to bed without supper for being naughty.

Her mother took her arm. “Look who’s here darling, your dear friend Sebastian. It’s been far too long. I hope you’ll take plenty of time this evening, and in the next few days, to spend time together.”

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