had slipped through a back door of the hallway and found his way to the kitchen. There he had already introduced himself as Hal to the head housekeeper and applied for the next available job.)
The man in black, while the schoolmaster watched, threw the silver ladle to the floor. From his seat he leaned forward across the table, squinting and mumbling and trying to see his own image in the base of a many-tiered silver candelabra.
With a whoosh of flame it ignited his thick hair lubricant so that for a moment he appeared to have a halo. Then two villagers adroitly doused the flames with their drinking water, and the man sat, defeated, confused, with no eyelashes left, and bald but for a singed fringe around each ear.
"I need my valet," he announced piteously. "I need to have my dandruff whisked."
The elderly peasant woman who had poured water on him glanced sympathetically his way and explained, "Yer gots no dandruff, sir. It's burnt off."
The queen could not hear the bits of commotion at the end of the table. She sat smiling blankly as the king droned on. The king heard nothing but his own voice. He hated parties, hated speeches, hated making toasts. But he did love the princess.
"So," the king concluded. "That's that. Daughter, butterfly. Birthday. And in a minute, a special song, right?" He looked at the triplets. They blushed and nodded.
"And then the choice. The princess makes her choice. Chooses from the suitors, gets a husband. Law of the Domain, that's what it is.
"To the choice!" he said loudly, and held up his goblet.
The guests all rose and echoed the phrase. "To the choice!"
The schoolmaster was beside himself with dismay and disappointment. He rose to his feet out of respect for the king, but he could not bring himself to repeat the words of the toast. Standing silently as the guests raised their glasses to honor the occasion, he glanced at the young woman he had known for such a short and hopeful time as Pat. He wondered whether she felt a disdain for his stupidity, a smugness that he had been so easily fooled.
But to his surprise, he could see that the princess was terribly sad.
The king nodded to the trio of serving maids, and they curtsied together and began their song.
***
Tess, from her place on the pulley tray, could not see much, but she heard everything. She had listened with a smile to the king's loving words about his daughter, but her face fell when he mentioned the choice and made the toast. How could her beloved princess choose among the three—or four, if the conjoint counts were considered two—equally repulsive suitors?
Tess had heard the duke sobbing, and the orphan's words of comfort. She had glimpsed a tiny bit of the flustered excitement when the prince caught fire. But she couldn't see the conjoint counts. They were seated in a specially built double chair not far from the queen, just out of the chambermaid's range of vision.
She began to hear them mutter, though, when the serving girls began their song.
"What're they, twins like us?" Colin poked his brother and pointed to the serving girls.
Cuthbert poked back. "Quit it!" He leaned forward to get a better view. "Nah. Not twins. There's three of 'em!"
"Are they joint?" Colin asked.
"Nah. Holding hands."
"We can sing as good as that, I bet. We're joint."
"Shhh!" The villagers held their fingers to their mouths. "We want to hear the song."
The counts both put their tongue between their lips in order to make their usual rude noise. But they forgot to. Their attention was caught by the trio, who had begun their song.
" Tonight's the night of the Birthday Ball, " they sang.
" Ball, " said Count Colin aloud. But he wasn't saying it to be rude. He was—well, he was singing the word along with the girls.
" Dinner first in the banquet hall, " they sang next.
" Hall, " sang Colin and Cuthbert together.
" Banquet hall Banquet hall Banquet hall! "
"We can't do that part 'cuz we only got two of us, blast it all," Colin
The man in black, while the schoolmaster watched, threw the silver ladle to the floor. From his seat he leaned forward across the table, squinting and mumbling and trying to see his own image in the base of a many-tiered silver candelabra.
With a whoosh of flame it ignited his thick hair lubricant so that for a moment he appeared to have a halo. Then two villagers adroitly doused the flames with their drinking water, and the man sat, defeated, confused, with no eyelashes left, and bald but for a singed fringe around each ear.
"I need my valet," he announced piteously. "I need to have my dandruff whisked."
The elderly peasant woman who had poured water on him glanced sympathetically his way and explained, "Yer gots no dandruff, sir. It's burnt off."
The queen could not hear the bits of commotion at the end of the table. She sat smiling blankly as the king droned on. The king heard nothing but his own voice. He hated parties, hated speeches, hated making toasts. But he did love the princess.
"So," the king concluded. "That's that. Daughter, butterfly. Birthday. And in a minute, a special song, right?" He looked at the triplets. They blushed and nodded.
"And then the choice. The princess makes her choice. Chooses from the suitors, gets a husband. Law of the Domain, that's what it is.
"To the choice!" he said loudly, and held up his goblet.
The guests all rose and echoed the phrase. "To the choice!"
The schoolmaster was beside himself with dismay and disappointment. He rose to his feet out of respect for the king, but he could not bring himself to repeat the words of the toast. Standing silently as the guests raised their glasses to honor the occasion, he glanced at the young woman he had known for such a short and hopeful time as Pat. He wondered whether she felt a disdain for his stupidity, a smugness that he had been so easily fooled.
But to his surprise, he could see that the princess was terribly sad.
The king nodded to the trio of serving maids, and they curtsied together and began their song.
***
Tess, from her place on the pulley tray, could not see much, but she heard everything. She had listened with a smile to the king's loving words about his daughter, but her face fell when he mentioned the choice and made the toast. How could her beloved princess choose among the three—or four, if the conjoint counts were considered two—equally repulsive suitors?
Tess had heard the duke sobbing, and the orphan's words of comfort. She had glimpsed a tiny bit of the flustered excitement when the prince caught fire. But she couldn't see the conjoint counts. They were seated in a specially built double chair not far from the queen, just out of the chambermaid's range of vision.
She began to hear them mutter, though, when the serving girls began their song.
"What're they, twins like us?" Colin poked his brother and pointed to the serving girls.
Cuthbert poked back. "Quit it!" He leaned forward to get a better view. "Nah. Not twins. There's three of 'em!"
"Are they joint?" Colin asked.
"Nah. Holding hands."
"We can sing as good as that, I bet. We're joint."
"Shhh!" The villagers held their fingers to their mouths. "We want to hear the song."
The counts both put their tongue between their lips in order to make their usual rude noise. But they forgot to. Their attention was caught by the trio, who had begun their song.
" Tonight's the night of the Birthday Ball, " they sang.
" Ball, " said Count Colin aloud. But he wasn't saying it to be rude. He was—well, he was singing the word along with the girls.
" Dinner first in the banquet hall, " they sang next.
" Hall, " sang Colin and Cuthbert together.
" Banquet hall Banquet hall Banquet hall! "
"We can't do that part 'cuz we only got two of us, blast it all," Colin
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