At the same time, from another direction, completely surrounded by mirror bearers walking sideways in the prescribed manner, Prince Percival began strolling toward the castle entrance. He was dressed entirely in black, and had enhanced his eyelashes with jet black mascara and added a little metallic gray shadow above, on the lids.
He was practicing his own dance steps, pointing his toes and wiggling his slim hips in a kind of tango. He turned from left to right, admiring himself in the mirrors as he did, stopping occasionally to check his makeup (for in addition to the mascara and eye shadow, he had applied some blush) or to adjust his mustache. Frequently he ordered another whisking of his shoulders by the valet, who trotted immediately behind him, carrying the dandruff brushes.
The Birthday Ball
The Birthday Ball
He carried his gift in his own back pocket, adjusting it now and then when the mirrors revealed that it was causing an unsightly bulge.
Behind his group, though unseen, a large swarm of bees was following in a slow-moving, purposeful cloud. The ringing of the carillon, which continued playing birthday music, masked the deep buzzing hum.
Finally, the conjoint counts, wearing a red plaid suit that they had finally agreed grudgingly upon, lurched forward from their encampment. They moved in circles because of their disagreements, one turning left while the other turned right, which invariably slowed them down and required a full circle before they could get aimed toward the castle once again.
Cuthbert had combed and trimmed his beard, but Colin had poked him in the ribs while he was doing so, causing the scissors to slip, so the beard now had an oddly scalloped shape. Colin himself had shaved, but Cuthbert had nastily jostled the arm that held the razor several times. So Colin's cheeks and chin were peppered with small dots of blood-smeared toilet paper, which he intended to remove as soon as they reached the castle entrance.
The villagers arrived first and were welcomed and ushered inside, then led up the grand staircase to the banquet hall. Their eyes were wide at the magnificence of the marble floors, the fine tapestries on the walls, and most of all, when the banquet hall doors were pulled open, at the huge tables set with embroidered cloths and decorated with flowers, candles, and plates that hinted at the food yet to be served.
Footmen pulled out individual chairs and helped each villager to be seated. In a corner of the banquet hall, a harp player began to pluck the strings of a magnificent instrument, and the deep, vibrating chords filled the room with background music.
A footman consulted his list and looked down at a very small girl in a patched dress who seemed to be all alone and a little overwhelmed.
He leaned down and said gently, "Might you be Liz?"
She nodded.
"An orphan?" he asked, still looking at his list.
"Yes, that's me, a norphan," she whispered. "I never been to nuffink like this before."
He took her hand. "You're to sit here," he said, indicating a gilt chair, "next to the princess." He lifted the little girl into it and sat her on its satin cushion. She found herself beside the chair of honor, which was still unoccupied.
"Blimey," Liz said aloud. She grinned and scratched her mosquito bite.
***
The harpist played a long chord and then fell silent, and buglers entered the hall. Standing at either side of the doorway, they waited while a butler called out "Their Majesties!" and then played a fanfare as the king and queen entered.
The king hated parties. He loved his daughter, wished her well on her birthday—in fact, wished for the best for her always—but he hated parties and hoped that this one would not last long. He disliked ceremonies, was uncomfortable in his gold tights, and wanted to get back to his butterfly collection.
The queen, in contrast, adored elaborate occasions. She had spent the entire morning trying on one gown after another, having her hair done and redone, fussing with jewels and makeup, and enjoying time-consuming preparations for her daughter's birthday. Even now, as she entered the banquet hall, nodding her head graciously to the left and right, she was thinking that she should have worn the patent leather shoes with the stiletto heels instead of the soft satin ones she had chosen.
The Birthday Ball
"Would you hold this scepter?" she muttered to the king. "I can't greet everyone graciously with a stupid scepter in my hand." He took it from her, and she began to blow kisses to the villagers, who had stood respectfully at their seats and were watching their entrance in awe.
"Please, be seated, humble peasants," she called to the long tables lined with standing villagers.
With her husband she walked to the two magnificent chairs waiting for them at one end of the head table. Arranging her skirts, she sat gracefully in one, and the king took his place beside her. The harpist resumed playing.
"What would you like me to do with the scepter?" the king murmured.
"Eh?"
"The scepter," he repeated.
"What's kept her? She'll be here. She's going to make an entrance. After the suitors arrive. Look at that, dear! Look at that sweet little waif."
The queen waved to Liz at the far end of the long table.
The king sighed and placed the scepter on the floor under his chair.
"We're ready!" the queen called to the butler at the door. "Bring in the suitors now!"
17. The Arrivals
The schoolmaster was late. Wearing his best clothes and carrying a small birthday gift, a bouquet of flowers, for the princess, he had joined the throng of villagers at the gate to the castle grounds and waited there for the carillon to announce the beginning of the celebration.
But when the bells began to ring and the crowd moved forward, he lingered. He was looking for his favorite pupil, the young girl, Pat, who had only recently joined his classroom. He had a gift for her, as well. It seemed an appropriate time, this celebratory evening, to present her with a gift that he hoped would trigger a desire in her to go on for further training to become a teacher.
There was something about Pat. She was pretty, of course; he recognized that. But it wasn't her good looks. It was her liveliness, he thought, her energy and enthusiasm, and her love of learning. And, too, the gentleness with which she helped the younger children, especially the tiniest one, the one named Liz. And her sense of humor! He liked that almost most of all, watching her try to keep her face serious, the way he so often did himself, forcing himself to be stern in visage when his mouth wanted to move, always, into a smile.