Moon Like a Clock, Dreams Like a Story

Elouise could hardly breath in the corset she was being strapped into. Sorry, “contoured” into.  With each yank upon the silk laces, she could feel her lungs wheezing, and looking into the mirror, the same could be said about her heart.  Each shallow breath reminded her of what her stepmother believed to be fun: gowns so frivolous you drowned in the ruffles, with lace ready to strangle you if it made you appear a tad more becoming.  It was quite a different picture than the one Elouise wanted to paint for herself.  What she wanted was to spend her days reading and writing, tucked into a world of words and stories.  Certainly not the ball she was preparing for.

“Can’t you suck it in any more?” a maid asked, her fingers nearly white as she gripped a strand of silk. “Miss Margarelle will be wanting you as shaped as a ripened pear.  I know it is uncomfortable; my mother used to do the same to me.  I just…”

Elouise smiled grimly.  She knew of the reputation Margarelle had with her maids, just as much as she had seen maids leaving her room with bright pink cheeks.  “Of course,” she sighed.  “And please.  If she gives you trouble, ensure she knows it was me who caused any issues.”

Her maid visibly relaxed.  “Thank you so dearly, miss.”

Elouise dipped her head.  “Of course.  What is your name?”

“Clara,” she whispered hesitantly, momentarily twirling a ribbon with her fingertips.

“Well, Clara, please call me Elouise.”

“I will, Miss Elouise,” Clara agreed as she yanked yet another breath from Elouise’s lungs with a sharp tug.

Elouise cringed, both at the name and the even lessened ability of breathing. “Just Elouise would be preferred, please.”  And after thinking for a moment, she added “Miss.”

Clara smiled and blew a stray strand of hair from her face.  “That does sound odd.  Point taken, Elouise.”

Elouise grinned triumphantly and sat still for the rest of her “contouring.”  Next came the gown, which she could admit was beautiful.  It was dusty rose velvet with a drop waist, a back that could be called a subtle train, and gold accents here and there.  It did, of course, have too many ruffles, too much lace, and was too fitted, but she did feel pretty in it.

“Clara,” she said suddenly.  “Do you know who made this dress?”

Continuing to stick pins into Elouise’s dress, Clara responded with a distracted “I did.”

Elouise quickly spun around, most definitely ruining whatever Clara was pinning.  “Really?” she asked, eyes sparkling.  “That is absolutely incredible.  This gown is gorgeous.”

Clara blushed and shook her head, but Elouise could see the corners of her mouth curling into a smile.  “Thank you.  Though I did not see it to be your style.”

“It’s not,” Elouise admitted, “But that doesn’t make it any less beautiful.”

Clara gifted her a small smile, tentative but somehow still sure, and went back to pinning.

Later that evening, hair twisted into a complicated curl pile sparkling with pins glittering like stars even she had to admit were beautiful, Elouise took a breathless step down the stairs.  Clara had succeeded in sucking every bit of oxygen from her lungs, and though Elouise had said it was okay, it was still quite annoying as she stumbled through every step in her gem-encrusted ballet flats.

“Miss,” she said in a practiced voice when she reached the bottom floor, sweeping into a surprisingly graceful curtsey she was rather proud of.

“Elouise.”  Her stepmother said her name like a demand that wished to become a dream.  “I’m glad we were able to muster you into looking presentable this time.  With that gown and hair, you could even be called desirable.”

“Why thank you, stepmother,” Elouise responded through gritted teeth.

“However,” Miss Margarelle continued, “you have ought to wipe that terrible face of agony away, or the prince will be repulsed before you can even ruin it with your words.”

Elouise forced her lips into a smile, which seemed to be enough to earn the approval of her stepmother, as she was then whisked away into a velvet-seated carriage.

When Elouise arrived before the stretching stairs of the palace, she had to admit that the moment felt just a little magical.  Her gown truly was gorgeous, and the moon, a delightful shade between silver and gold, hung in a smoky blue sky like a clock of dreams.  As she climbed the steps with ruffles clenched in whitening knuckles, surrounded by girls with hope radiating through pink cheeks and bright smiles, she almost felt a flicker of inspiration.

That flicker grew greater, stronger, the closer she came to the imposing set of golden double doors.  She was greeted by doormen in regal coats who collected her crumpled(if she wrote the story she was trying to snuff out of her mind, she would call it constellation-creased) invitation.  As much as she hated it, the air seemed to sparkle and twirl with possibility and the magic of storytelling as she stepped into the ballroom.  Her gown was still cutting off her circulation and her breathing, but she found herself feeling both pretty and strong, something she had longed to feel all her life.  She had wished for it on every star, every birthday, and every time she tossed a coin into the shimmering waters of a well.  Her shoes clacked on the tile floor as she stretched her arms out and looked up at the ceiling adorned with twinkling chandeliers; looking ridiculous was hardly something she cared to worry about.  She spun in circles there on the tile, hair getting messy and smile never threatening to fade.

Yes, she would write a story.  It would be filled with an evil stepmother and frivolous gowns, dreams and defiance, someone who cared so much as to make a perfect gown just as Clara had done; someone who knew the dreams of someone even better than they did themself, who could make them bubble to the surface and come true.  There would be a glittering clock in the sky, and stairs that seemed impossible to climb.

Elouise kept twirling.  She spun and spun, more of the story whirling into view with every swish of the dusty rose skirt.

“Excuse me, Miss,” an amusement-filled voice interrupted.  Elouise breathlessly, in a good way for once, stopped herself from spinning.  Being rather unsteady, she was forced to accept the gloved hand that was offered out to her.  When the grand ride of the world came to a halt, she found the voice to come with a perfectly white, and irritatingly charming, smile.

“May I have this dance?” the prince asked with kindness and awe flooding the question.  The light of the chandeliers seemed to sparkle in his deep brown eyes.

Perhaps, Elouise thought, there would be a prince in her story, too.  For once, she decided, she could allow it.

As long as he was as determined as he was charming.