Emilie's Voice by Susanne Dunlap

door with her chin held high.
    When Émilie thought about that moment months later, she felt ashamed that she had been so proud. If she had not been concerned about what Mademoiselle’s servants thought, about what they would tell the other domestics at the Hôtel de Guise when they returned, she would have walked carefully, looking down, and she would have seen the large puddle that lay directly in her path to the door. But because she did not do so, Émilie stepped right into the middle of it, breaking through the thin film of ice that had formed over it once the sun went down. Émilie drew her breath in sharply. For an instant she balanced with her other foot in the air, trying to find a way to step clear of the puddle. But dry ground was too far away, and she ended by standing with both feet in two inches of freezing cold water, which her long skirts quickly wicked up, soaking her to the knees.
    “Damn!” she whispered. She heard the coachman snicker. Trying to act as if nothing had happened, Émilie sloshed the rest of the way to the door, longing to turn around and stick her tongue out at the impudent servants. She fumbled for her key, which she had hidden in her bodice, not wanting to look like a housekeeper with it dangling around her waist, and so it was somewhat awkward to retrieve. When at last she got it, the lock on the door stuck. “Damn, damn! Just open, will you!” Émilie’s feet were so cold she could no longer feel them. But after a moment or two the door finally gave way. She slammed it behind her and leaned against it, listening to the sound of coach wheels and clopping hooves slowly dying away, struggling against the urge to cry. The borrowed slippers were surely ruined—not to mention her beautiful gown, a precious gift from Monsieur Charpentier.
    Émilie walked through the dark workshop, leaving wet footprints behind her and picking up the fine wood dust with her heavy, dragging skirts. She opened the door to the stairs at the back and began the long climb.
    When at last she arrived and let herself in, the fire in the grate had only a glow of forgotten warmth in it, and her teeth chattered audibly. Both Marcel and Madeleine were asleep, but not deeply. It was her father who awoke first and parted the curtains around their bed.
    “How was it—” he began, stopping at the sight of her. “Émilie, child! You are cold!”
    “I’ll be all right. I just want to go to sleep,” she said.
    Marcel’s exclamation roused Madeleine.
    “Did they pay you?” Madeleine sat up in bed and beckoned Émilie to come closer.
    Émilie’s throat felt a little scratchy, so she didn’t want to talk. She was so tired it felt like an enormous effort to walk across the small room to her parents’ bed. When she got there, she simply dropped the velvet bag of coins into her mother’s outstretched hand, then returned to her corner and let her damp dress drop to the floor. As she stepped out of the gown, Émilie saw the extent of the damage to the slippers and could no longer hold back her tears, which trickled down her cheeks, picking up color from the rouge Sophie had so expertly applied to them hours before. Her lovely evening was spoiled. Émilie slipped under her blanket, but not before she had unthreaded the pretty ribbon from her hair and tucked it under her pillow. By the time Marcel came over to make sure her covers were warm enough, she was already in a deep, exhausted sleep.
    “You might have asked her if she had a good time,” Marcel said to his wife when he climbed back into bed.
    “Better that she didn’t. I don’t like it, all this mixing with the wealthy folk. It won’t do for her to be getting ideas. She’ll only be hurt in the end.”
    Marcel sighed and turned over. He wondered why Madeleine was so hard on her only surviving child. She seemed to take no interest in Émilie’s talent and never even asked her to sing. He thought perhaps his wife was too afraid to become attached to their