Ella Enchanted Read Free

I didn’t know whether to give him my hand or to let him push up on my elbow. He wound up with the middle of my arm and I had to grasp the side of the carriage with the other hand for balance. When he closed the door, I caught my skirt, and there was a loud ripping sound. Father winced. I saw Char through the window, laughing again. I turned the skirt and found a gash about six inches above the hem. Bertha would never be able to make it smooth.
    I arranged myself as far from Father as possible. He was staring out the window.
    “A fine affair. All of Frell came, everyone who counts anyway,” he said, as though Mother’s funeral had been a tournament or a ball.
    “It wasn’t fine. It was awful,” I said. How could Mother’s funeral be fine?
    “The prince was friendly to you.”
    “He liked Mother.”
    “Your mother was beautiful.” His voice was regretful. “I’m sorry she’s dead.”
    Nathan flicked his whip, and the carriage began to move.

CHAPTER 3
    WHEN WE reached the manor, Father ordered me to change into something clean and to hurry down to greet the guests who were arriving to pay their respects.
    My room was peaceful. Everything was just as it had been before Mother died. The birds embroidered into the coverlet on my bed were safe in their world of cross-stitched leaves. My diary was on the dresser. The friends of my childhood — Flora, the rag doll, and Rosamunde, the wooden doll in the gown with seven flounces — nestled in their basket.
    I sat on the bed, fighting my need to obey Father’s order to change and go back downstairs. Although I wanted to draw comfort from my room, from my bed, from the light breeze coming through my window, I kept thinking instead of Father and getting dressed.
    Once I had overheard Bertha tell Mandy that he was only a person on the outside and that his insides were ashes mixed with coins and a brain.
    But Mandy had disagreed. “He’s human through and through. No other creature would be as selfish as he is, not fairies or gnomes or elves or giants.”
    For a full three minutes I delayed getting dressed. It was a terrible game I played, trying to break my curse, seeing how long I could last against the need to do what I had been told. There was a buzzing in my ears, and the floor seemed to tilt so far that I feared I would slide off the bed. I hugged my pillow until my arms hurt — as if the pillow were an anchor against following orders.
    In a second I was going to fly apart into a thousand pieces. I stood and walked to my wardrobe. Immediately I felt perfectly fine.
    Although I suspected Father wanted me to wear another mourning gown, I put on the frock Mother liked best. She said the spicy green brought out my eyes. I thought I looked like a grasshopper in it — a skinny, spiky grasshopper with a human head and straight hair. But at least the gown wasn’t black. She hated black clothing.
    The great hall was full of people in black. Father came to me instantly. “Here’s my lass, young Eleanor,” he said loudly. He led me in, whispering, “You look like a weed in that gown. You’re supposed to be in mourning. They’ll think you have no respect for your—”
    I was engulfed from behind by two chubby arms encased in rustling black satin.
    “My poor child, we feel for you.” The voice was syrupy. “And Sir Peter, it’s dreadful to see you on such a tragic occasion.” An extra tight squeeze and I was released.
    The speaker was a tall, plump lady with long and wavy honey-colored tresses. Her face was a pasty white with twin spots of rouge on the cheeks. With her were two smaller versions of herself, but without the rouge. The younger one also lacked her mother’s abundant hair; instead she had thin curls stuck tight to her scalp as though glued there.
    “This is Dame Olga,” Father said, touching the tall lady’s arm.
    I curtsied and knocked into the younger girl. “Beg pardon,” I said.
    She didn’t answer, didn’t move, only watched me.
    Father