Ella Enchanted - By Gail Carson Levine Page 0,20

your Tonic.

I closed the book, and whispered to its spine, "Don't erase the letter, please."

Then I drank my Tonic.

A centaur colt! A little beauty. If only I could see him, and pet him, and let him know me.

The tears that hadn't come in the afternoon came now. Mandy would be desperate if she knew I hadn't eaten in three days and if she knew I was under the thumb of a monster like Hattie.

* * *

THE NEXT morning, Music Mistress led us in song, and singled out my off-key voice.

"Ella does not notice that there is more than one note," she told everyone.

"Come here, child. Sing this." She played a note on the harpsichord.

I wouldn't be able to. I could never carry a tune. What would happen when I couldn't obey?

I sang the wrong note. Music Mistress frowned.

"Higher, or we shall send you to a different school to sing with the young gentlemen." She depressed the key again.

My next attempt was much too high. One lass covered her ears. I wished her an earache.

Music Mistress played again.

My temples throbbed. I sang.

"A little lower."

I hit the note. She played another. I sang it. She played a scale. I sang every note. I beamed. I'd always wished I could sing. I sang the scale again, louder.

Perfect!

"That's enough, young lady. You must sing when I tell you to, and not otherwise."

An hour later Dancing Mistress told me to step lightly.

My partner was Julia, the tall maiden who had teased Areida the night before. I pressed on her arms, using her to support my weight so I could step lightly.

"Stop that." She pulled away.

I fell. I heard giggles.

Dancing Mistress took Julia's place. I couldn't lean on her. I pretended my feet were balloons. I pretended the floor would crack if I didn't move lightly. We stepped. We glided. We sprang forward, jumped back. I wasn't graceful, but I didn't shake the ground. My gown was soaked with perspiration.

"That's better."

At lunch Manners Mistress said, "Don't rap your knuckles on the table, Ella. The king would be ashamed of you." She frequently invoked King Jerrold.

Tables were forever safe from me.

"Take small stitches, Eleanor, and don't yank the thread. It's not a rein, and you're not a coachman," Sewing Mistress said later in the afternoon.

I stabbed myself with the needle, but my stitches shrank.

It was the same every day. I dreaded new orders. The curse didn't make me change easily. I had to concentrate every second. In my mind, I repeated my commands in an endless refrain. When I awoke, I instructed myself not to bounce out of bed. Leave the nightdress for the servants to put away. At breakfast don't blow on my porridge, and don't spit out the lumps. On our afternoon walk, don't skip, don't leap about.

Once I actually spoke aloud. It was at dinner. "Don't slurp," I instructed myself.

I said it softly, but a pupil seated near me heard, and she told the others.

The only subjects that came easily were those taught by Writing Mistress: composition and ciphering. She also taught penmanship, which was the one subject in which I did not attain excellence, because Writing Mistress issued no orders.

She taught Ayorthaian but no other languages. When I told her I knew a little of the exotic tongues and wished to learn more, she gave me a dictionary of exotic speech. It became my second-favorite book, after Mandy's present.

Whenever I had time, I practiced the languages, especially Ogrese. The meanings were dreadful, but there was an attraction in speaking the words.

They were smooth, sleek, and slithery, the way a talking snake would sound.

There were words like prySSahbuSS (delicious), SSyng (eat), hijyNN (dinner), eFFuth (taste), and FFn00 (sour).

My progress in all my subjects astounded the mistresses. In my first month I did little right In my second I did little wrong. And gradually, it all became natural: light steps, small stitches, quiet voice, ramrod-straight back, deep curtsies without creaking knees, no yawns, soup tilted away from me, and no slurping.

But in bed, before I fell asleep, I'd imagine what I would do if I were free of Lucinda's curse. At dinner I'd paint lines of gravy on my face and hurl meat pasties at Manners Mistress. I'd pile Headmistress's best china on my head and walk with a wobble and a swagger till every piece was smashed. Then I'd collect the smashed pottery and the smashed meat pasties and grind them into all my perfect stitchery.

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EXCEPT FOR Areida, I had little pleasure from the