The poke from Petunia’s fan had indeed released an odor of extreme decay into the room, and Petunia gagged and covered her nose and mouth with her handkerchief. She dropped the fan next to the roses, resolving to never touch it again, as some of the rose petals had broken off and were now stuck to the folded lace.
“Are those the roses you picked in the forest?” Poppy’s voice was choked, and the smell was getting stronger.
“Yes, but I don’t think they’re really roses,” Petunia said.
“Clearly. Scoop them into the chamber pot?” “They’ll just fall apart,” Petunia wheezed. “Get the water pitcher.”
“Washing won’t help,” Poppy said, but she went over to the pitcher all the same.
“I’m not going to wash them; I’m going to burn them,” said Petunia.
Still holding the handkerchief over the lower half of her face, she went over to the bundle of her cloak. Galen had once told her that a good soldier never went anywhere without waterproof matches, and she had started carrying a box immediately. Later she realized that this was to stop her six-year-old self from demanding a pistol, but she continued to carry them all the same. She was rather proud of the fact that she could light a fire anywhere, and with any type of kindling.
“Step back, but keep the water ready,” she instructed Poppy.
Seeing the matches in Petunia’s hand when she turned around, Poppy nodded. She hefted the full pitcher of water in front of her, but stepped clear of the dressing table. Petunia realized she would need two hands, but instead of tucking her handkerchief away, she dropped it on top of the rotten flowers and the fan. Then she tapped out a match and struck it on the rough side of the box. It flared to life and she set it atop her little pile.
The whole mess flared instantly. Petunia leaped backward, stuffing the box of matches into her bodice and reaching for the pitcher of water. She hadn’t expected it to burn so quickly or so high, and she could tell that Poppy was just as stunned.
But before she could grab the pitcher to pour it over it, the door flew open and the princes filled the room. One of them tossed something soft and gray, like a massive cobweb, over the flames. The fire died and noxious smoke filled the room, far more than was warranted by the blaze Petunia had created.
The King Under Stone swept in, his face so twisted with rage that Petunia was as frightened as she ever had been of his father. He looked at her, and then at Poppy, still standing frozen with the pitcher of water in her hands. Rionin snatched the pitcher from Poppy and threw it against the wall. The porcelain shattered, sending water and tiny shards of blue porcelain flying across the room.
Then the king rounded on Petunia, and his face no longer bore any semblance of humanity. Petunia tried to step back, but the high bed was right behind her, and she had nowhere to go. Poppy tried to move closer to her and Blathen caught Poppy’s arm, his own face a rictus of fear.
“We do not light fires in this place,” the king hissed. “Not ever.”
“But I just wanted to—”
“I don’t care what you want,” snarled the king. “No one here cares what you want. Now give me the matches.”
Petunia went cold all over. She didn’t want to give up one more thing—not her matches, not her pistol, not her cloak. But if he searched the room for the matches, he would find the pistol.
“She only had the one,” Poppy blurted out.
“Yes. I had a match,” Petunia said, scrambling to think of a story. “When I came here I had a whole box in my pocket, but the ladies took it when they took my clothes. One fell on the floor and I—I saved it. When I saw the flowers had gone rotten, I used the match on them.”
She thought that this was the stupidest thing she had ever said. It was plain that she was lying and she almost closed her eyes, certain that Rionin was about to murder her with his bare hands. Knowing that would make her look even guiltier, however, she managed to keep them open.
It occurred to her that there were no fireplaces in the palace and the lamps all burned with a pale glow that gave off neither heat nor smoke. She had never seen anyone light one of the lamps, and wondered if they used matches or if it was some kind of magic.
“Very well,” the king said at last. “But if you ever light a fire in my kingdom again, I will make you suffer for it.”
Petunia swallowed, and nodded. The king stalked out of the room, his brothers following without a word. When the door had slammed behind them, Petunia gave a faint scream and collapsed on the bed.
“That was very interesting,” Poppy said slowly, sinking down next to Petunia. She hummed under her breath for a moment.
“Interesting?” Petunia’s voice came out as a shriek, and she laid her arm over her eyes.
Poppy asked a little while later, “How many matches have you got?”
Hero
The hunting lodge was locked tight, and all the curtains were drawn. It looked as though no one had been there for a month at least. There were even dried leaves blown across the front steps, the sight of which was apparently hilarious to the crone.
“A very nice touch,” she cackled. “But never fear, young hero, someone is inside.”
“Are you sure?” Bishop Schelker’s face was tense.
They were all tense. As soon as Oliver had spurred his horse along the track, the others had followed, arriving only a heartbeat after. Karl and Johan and the rest of Oliver’s men were not far behind, either, even though they were on foot.
The crone didn’t even bother to answer Schelker. She climbed down off her horse and tied it to the long rail in front of the lodge, then pointed to Oliver.
“Boy! Hero! You have nice, broad shoulders: see if you can’t get yourself through that door.” She made an encouraging gesture.
Oliver got down from his own horse and tied it to the rail. He looked helplessly at the door, a massive thing of aged oak and iron. He could try ramming his way in, but he knew full well that his bones would break before the wood so much as splintered.
“Stop toying with the poor lad,” said Walter Vogel as he dismounted.
He threw his reins to Oliver, who tied up the old man’s horse as Walter hobbled up the steps to the door. He did something for a moment with the lock, and the door swung open.
“Magic,” Oliver breathed as Bishop Schelker tied his horse beside Walter’s.
“Picked the lock, more like,” the bishop snorted. “Herr Vogel has many talents. Not all of them that mysterious. Or very honest.”
“Oh,” Oliver said, feeling foolish.
“Come along.” The good frau stalked up the stairs to the door.
Oliver and the bishop hurried after her. Oliver drew his pistol and was pleased that the bishop did the same. He wasn’t being overly cautious then. Their bullets were silver, which the bishop had blessed, but that would hardly keep them from being effective on an ordinary man.
Like Grigori.
“Hello the house,” Walter called out cheerfully. “Anyone at home?”
Silence.
Complete and utter silence. Not a single footstep could be heard that was not their own. No bustle of servants, no sound of a small caged bird twittering from the parlor, no hiss of a teakettle from the kitchen. The hair on Oliver’s neck stood on end, and he knew that they were all gone: Grigori, his men, everyone. But where had they gone without Oliver’s men seeing?
“I think we’d—” Bishop Schelker began, but Oliver silenced him, holding up one hand.
Oliver was sure that he had heard something, but he wasn’t sure what or where the sound was coming from. They all froze in the middle of the front hall, heads cocked and eyes unfocused. Then Oliver heard it again: a scraping noise that came from a room on the left.
Oliver readied his pistol and crept toward the room with Bishop Schelker just behind. Oliver crouched down and peered through the keyhole but couldn’t see anything. He tried the door latch. It opened easily, and Oliver jumped into the room with his pistol cocked.
Thre
e men were lying bound and gagged in the middle of the floor. Oliver recognized Galen and Heinrich and assumed that the third man was another of the royal husbands.
Oliver holstered his pistol and pulled out a hunting knife. He ran to Prince Galen and sawed through the ropes that bound his hands while Bishop Schelker rushed to Prince Heinrich.
“This is a fine state of affairs,” said the crone as she came into the room. “Got the drop on you, did he?”
“Yes,” the crown prince said with disgust, removing his gag. “He did.”
“In all fairness, he did have a small army,” Prince Heinrich said.
“He … what?” Oliver looked around.
The hunting lodge showed no sign of a scuffle. Oliver’s heart clenched as he noticed a small marble statue of a stag in the corner of the room. He was almost certain that had belonged to his father.
“We followed Grigori here because we had his people tied up in the woods,” Galen said, as he massaged his hands and wrists. “We outnumbered him fourteen to one! Heinrich had a gun to his head! Then, when darkness fell, the room was filled with people—”
“Those weren’t people,” the prince Oliver didn’t know interrupted, his voice dark with revulsion.
“Under Stone’s court,” clarified Heinrich. “They surrounded us, tied us up, and then they were gone in a matter of minutes.”
“Where are the princesses?” Walter’s voice was as sharp as Oliver had ever heard it.
“They’re gone,” said the other prince as the bishop freed him. “They went to Under Stone to be with Petunia, before we were ambushed.”
“Ye gods,” Oliver said, feeling sick.
“Begin at the beginning,” Bishop Schelker urged.
Galen leaned back against the sofa, still sitting on the rug. His skin looked grayish, and his voice was raw, but he waved away Schelker’s waterskin. “We were coming here for lunch,” the crown prince began. “Halfway here, Petunia saw a rosebush in full bloom and tried to pick some of the flowers. We tried to stop her, but Grigori interfered. Before we could get to her, the ground opened up and she fell.”
“We know,” Walter Vogel said. “Oliver’s men were watching.”
“We came here, and when the courtiers arrived,” Heinrich said, continuing the story while Galen finally took a drink from the waterskin, “we were overpowered at once, all of us. Galen, Frederick, and I were tied up, and we could hear Grigori talking to the girls in another room for some time. They must have agreed to go after Petunia, because after a while, we heard only Grigori and his men. Then they disappeared too.”
“I’m amazed that Poppy didn’t just shoot Grigori,” Bishop Schelker said.
“She almost did. And so did I,” Galen told them. “But he is the only one who knows where the new gateway into the Kingdom Under Stone is.”
Prince Frederick sighed. “But now they’ve gone, and we still don’t know where the gate is.”
“We are not entirely without hope,” Walter assured him. “The gate is somewhere in this lodge. Oliver’s men haven’t seen any sign of anyone leaving.”
“Oliver’s men again?” Heinrich murmured.
Oliver was strangely embarrassed. “They were worried about Petunia,” he muttered.
“And a good thing too,” Frederick said.
“We’d better find that gate,” the crone said. She turned and started out of the room.
“Hold a moment,” said Heinrich. He got to his feet, nearly falling against the sofa as he did so. He stretched and rubbed his bad leg for a moment, a frown creasing his face. “What do we do when we get there?”
“Whatever needs to be done,” Walter Vogel said.
“Not good enough,” said Heinrich. “What will need to be done to stop this from happening over and over again?”
“Seal them all up once again, and this time we’ll make sure it holds,” the old man said, rubbing his seamed face.
“Can you be sure?”
“I haven’t spent the last fifteen hundred years learning to knit my own socks, boy!” The crone looked like she might box Heinrich’s ears, if she could have reached them.
Heinrich didn’t look pleased; he looked even grimmer, if that were possible. “You’ve found the way? Galen’s studies—”
“Galen’s studies are a wonder,” said Walter Vogel gently, “but as the good frau has said, we have had centuries of time to perfect our original spell.”
“Last time it took a dozen practitioners, and most of them died,” Galen pointed out. He put a hand on Walter’s shoulder and squeezed it. “If we dared to take more time—”
“What did I just say to the other one?” The old woman jerked a gnarled thumb at Heinrich. “We wouldn’t have come if we didn’t think we could succeed.”
“The power will mostly pass through the good frau and myself,” said Walter. “The rest of you will be quite safe.” He leveled his gaze at Oliver. “But we will need all of you.”
“Of course,” Oliver said, getting to his feet. He tried not to show how stiff the ride had made him. “Of course I’ll do whatever necessary.”
“And if you’re wrong, Walter? About the focus? About the effectiveness of the spell?” Heinrich’s frown had never left his face.
“Have we ever been wrong before?” The good frau smacked him on the upper arm, which was as high as she could reach. She looked at Galen. “Well? Tell him!”
“No, good frau,” Galen said, with a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You never have been wrong.”
“I have everything here that Walter and the good frau have asked for, and the items that you sent for as well, Galen,” Bishop Schelker said, indicating a satchel slung across his chest. “Let’s find the gate and go. The princesses have spent long enough below.”
They tramped from room to room, looking for a way to reach the Kingdom Under Stone. In every room, Walter Vogel and the good frau would stand with their heads cocked as though listening to something. Then they would shake their heads and move on.
“The whole house reeks of magic,” the crone complained after a few minutes. “Did Under Stone’s men tramp through every pantry and water closet?”
After they had searched every room in the house, they went back through the front hall. Walter decided that Prince Grigori had destroyed his gate after he and his people went through, and there was no point in lingering.
They would have to make their own way Under Stone.
Frederick moaned. “How long will that take?”
No one answered him.
“As there is no food here, we could go to my hall,” Oliver offered. “It’s not very fine, but you could work there unmolested as long as you needed.”
Oliver couldn’t bear to look at Galen’s or Walter’s faces as he said this. He could see that they were thinking that making their own gate would take not a matter of hours or days, but months or years. It didn’t bear thinking on.
He reached out and nearly brushed the canvas of an enormous painting that hung on the nearest wall. It was a hunting scene and looked very familiar. He was almost certain that it had belonged to his family. In fact, one of the figures wore a dark tunic that clearly had been painted over, and he thought it had borne his family’s coat of arms before. He squinted at it. The paint in several places looked wet, now that he gave it closer scrutiny.
“Shall I return to Bruch, while the rest of you go to this hall of Oliver’s?” Frederick asked.
He started to add something more, but Karl and the rest of Oliver’s men burst through the front door. Karl had an ax in one hand and a pistol in the other, and all their masks were in place.
“What’s afoot?” Karl demanded.
“Ah, an escort back to the young earl’s hall,” said Walter Vogel with a laugh.
“Karl,” Oliver said, holding up his hands. “Hold your fire!”
When he lowered his arms, his elbow passed right through the painting as if it hadn’t been there. Oliver slowly removed his arm, then he plun
ged his hand in. It was as though there was no paint, no canvas, and no wall behind. It just kept going.
“I believe I’ve found the gate,” Oliver said.
He moved his arm back and forth. The gate was as high and as wide as the painting, and Oliver held his breath as he thrust his head in to look around.
“Oliver! What are you doing?”
He heard Karl shout, but it wasn’t necessary. He could see quite well, and there was nothing to alarm him. Just a stairway of gold that descended toward a silver gate. Beyond the gate he could see a wood, also of silver, and beyond that the spires of a black palace. He drew back.
“That’s the gate all right,” he told them, feeling almost giddy.
“How in heaven’s name?” Prince Heinrich’s mouth was agape. “They walked through a painting?”
“And not a very good one, either.” The crone sniffed. “Those horses have stumpy legs, and what are they hunting? I can’t tell if that’s a fox or a polecat.”
Oliver bowed to the old woman. “When this is all over, I shall replace this painting with a portrait of you, good frau.”
“Well!” That seemed to please her. “Help me over the frame, then.”
Arsonist
Petunia was crouched in a corner of Rose’s bedchamber, trying to light the leg of a small table on fire. Her sisters all stood watch, except for Poppy and Violet, who had gone off on some mission of their own. This made Lily even more nervous than did the prospect of setting Rose’s room on fire, for as she said, “Anytime Poppy gets that look in her eye, it makes me nervous.”
“Just light it already,” Jonquil shrilled. “And try not to use up all the matches!”
“Thank you, Jonquil,” Petunia snapped. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Be nice,” Daisy whispered. She was standing next to the chair with a pitcher of water, ready to douse the experiment.
But there was no fire. Petunia had even shredded a handkerchief as kindling and wrapped the bits around the leg of the chair. They had no books in their room, though Rose swore she had seen some of the princes reading when they had been trapped in the palace as children. Even if the slick wood of the chair was reluctant to burn, the linen—or whatever it was the handkerchiefs were made of in Under Stone’s realm—should have caught fire by now; she’d placed three matches directly on the threads.