Chapter Five
Caught a Chill
Maxine
“These worlds are known by very few, and there is a reason. A reason that must be guarded closely. Therefore, if you speak a single word…even that first word…about these different worlds, I will settle a curse on you and your mother, a bitter curse so powerful, you’ll rue the day the words left your lips.”
That was what the witch who transported us had said after Mom and I, bound and gagged by Dad and a couple of his buddies, melted from our world into the new one.
She’d been wizened and haggard and looked ready to drop.
But she scared the beejeezus out of me.
And she had the power to rip me from everything I knew and deposit me somewhere I didn’t want to be.
Not to mention, it seemed Mom and I were pretty badly cursed already.
In other words, I knew to keep my mouth shut on that score.
Something I sensed was going to make it difficult to recruit help by being honest with people, telling them I wanted to get home, and just where that home was.
“I think you’re ready, milady.”
I came back into the room.
And it was a gorgeous room, with a huge bed with scrolled head and foot boards padded in buttoned pear-colored velvet, with creamy covers accented with a green floral design, ruched pillowcases and a forest-green velvet bolster. These colors and accents, along with the soft, dove gray flocked wallpaper on the walls, completed the room with its impossibly delicate, feminine furniture and fixtures.
I was seated at one of these impossible pieces, a dainty dressing table with bi-fold oval mirrors on the top. It was covered in pearlescent tubs and crystal bottles and vials. All mine, I knew, as one thing my dad-not-dad was not was a man who skimped when it came to presenting his product to its prospective buyers.
I’d learned this the last few weeks, considering, after I was given a brief, harrowing visit with Mom and Maxine of this world, the only people I was allowed to see were Dad-not-Dad, a dressmaker and her assistant, and a cosmetologist, who created powders, paints and scents personally for me.
Edgar had been at every one of these meetings, overseeing them, acting an ass and making certain I said nor did anything untoward. And even if the women openly, in manner if not verbally, shared they thought this odd (like they thought my clothes were odd, considering the fact, until the dressmaker made some for me, I wore my jeans and tee), that was how it happened.
Otherwise, I lived in his house with him, and he took great pains to make sure his servants, which I heard, but never saw, also never saw me.
Now, I had Idina, who I’d met the day before we left.
And I could not get a bead on her.
She was definitely shy, although very good at her job, if the new, and utterly gorgeous, soft, upswept hairstyle she gave me (along with all the others she’d done, as well as the subtle makeup) was anything to go by.
She also seemed reserved.
This was a problem.
I needed to make friends with the servants.
As far as I could tell, they were the only hope I had to hear things or get into places I could not, hopefully discovering where Mom was.
Also, helping me get to her.
And then helping me find a witch to get us home.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to communicate this, because I thought it was probably imperative not to bring a curse on Mom and me prior to us getting the hell out of here.
But I’d have to find a way to do it.
I made another attempt at this by catching her eyes in the mirror and saying, “It’s beautiful, Idina.”
“I’m pleased you like it, milady.”
I smiled at her. “I’m sorry I gave you more work by getting drenched.”
She appeared a touch confused. “It would have had to have been redone for dinner regardless, milady. You can’t wear a day style to dinner.”
Of course it would. Edgar had told me, on most days, I’d have at least two changes of outfit, it could be three or more.
A morning gown, should I be staying at home, inside.
A traveling or strolling outfit, should I be going outside.
And evening attire, always, for, “We, in this world, have proper decorum, unlike what I saw briefly in your world,” he’d said. “Therefore, we always dress for dinner.”
And dinner was a fraught affair. I knew this with how many times he’d struck my fingers brutally with a thin rod after I went for the wrong wineglass or fork.
I’d been denying it (more like trying to ignore it), but the weight in the pit of my stomach that I’d been holding made itself known. I began to feel slightly nauseous and definitely like I was about to burst into tears.