Olga should be at the castle without fail.

"But, good dame," cried Olga, when the courier had gone, "prithee tell
me why thou didst make such a promise, knowing full well this gown of
tow is all I own. Wouldst have me stand before the Prince in beggar's
garb? Better to bide at home for aye than be put to shame before such
guests."

"Have done, my child!" the old dame said. "Thou shalt wear a court robe
of the finest. Years have I toiled to have it ready, but that is naught.
I loved thee as my own."

Then once more the old Flax-spinner went into her inner room, and
pricked herself with her spindle till another great red drop of her
heart's blood fell into her trembling hand. With witchery of words she
blew upon it, and rolled it in her palm, and muttering, turned and
turned and turned it. And as the spell was laid upon it, it shrivelled
into a tiny round ball like a seed, and she strung it on to a thread,
where were many others like it. Seventy times seven was the number of
beads on this strange rosary.

When the night of the first ball rolled around, Olga combed her long
golden hair and twined it with a wreath of snowy water-lilies, and then
she stood before the old dame in her dress of tow. To her wonderment
and grief she saw there was no silken robe in waiting, only a string of
beads to clasp around her white throat. Each bead in the necklace was
like a little shrivelled seed, and Olga's eyes filled with tears of
disappointment.

"Obey me and all will be well," said the old woman.