“How dreadful,” Petunia said, caught up in the story despite herself.
The grand duchess patted her hand. “The worst was to come. We were no longer allowed to join our dear king in the Palace Under Stone, but told that our sons would be raised as princes, and in time we might see them all again.
“Our father married us to whatever fools he could find before the scandal spread. Which is how I ended up in Westfalin. A lovely country, to be sure,” the grand duchess said, giving Petunia’s hand a squeeze. “But so far from my home, and so far from my true king … though for that, everything in the sunlight world is.” She chuckled a little at that. “And I was right: my king did favor me. He arranged for that silly little earldom to be broken up so that I might live in comfort on my estate, one of his last acts before he was murdered.”
Petunia sat frozen. She didn’t know which was worse: that this strange person sitting beside her might be a courtier impersonating the grand duchess, or that these words might actually be coming from that respected grand dame.
“Oliver’s estate … the King Under Stone …” Petunia could barely whisper the words.
“And then,” the old woman continued as if Petunia hadn’t spoken, “after a lifetime of waiting, I was contacted by my son! My firstborn, the son of my heart and soul!” The grand duchess’s eyes were shining, and she was looking beyond Petunia now, savoring the memory. “He would come as a shadow to my bedroom window, nightly visits from my dear one after so many years! The sad news that my magnificent king had died was a great blow. But I was consoled when my son told me that his two oldest brothers were also dead, and now he is the King Under Stone!”
“Rionin is your son?” Petunia’s entire body went numb.
The white hair, the green eyes … Rionin looked so much like the grand duchess. Why hadn’t she seen it before?
“Yes,” the grand duchess said with great pride. “Though I have always called him Alexei.” She sniffed. “It was his father who named him Rionin. A strange name, but I know that my king must have had his reasons for this. Perhaps in his language it had some noble meaning,” she mused. “I must ask him.”
“Rionin is your son,” Petunia said again. The sensation was slowly and coldly trickling back into her body. “Could you not … can’t you tell him … my sister Lily is already married!” Petunia clutched at the grand duchess’s hands desperately. “Please tell him! She doesn’t want to marry him! None of us want to stay here and marry the princes! Can’t you help us, please?” Tears stung her eyes.
The grand duchess looked at Petunia and smiled, and Petunia felt relief wash over her. This was the grand duchess, she was sure. And the grand duchess would help them. The tears wobbled and fell from her lower lashes.
“Don’t worry, my dear Petunia,” she said. “I’ve been speaking to my son a great deal about you. Kestilan won’t like it, of course, but I hardly care. His mother was some feather-brained Belgique countess. He’s hardly worth your attention, child.” Now the grand duchess squeezed Petunia’s hands in both of hers. “No, no, I will have you for my Grigori, the only one of my children or grandchildren who wasn’t a disappointment to me, other than my Alexei! And Alexei has finally agreed … that’s why you are here, isn’t it?”
“What?” Petunia pulled her hands free and leaped off the bed.
“Come now, Petunia, I’ve seen you and Grigori together, you will make a lovely couple. You will live here with me, but of course we shall go to the palace every night for the dancing! And we will have servants, not like those things at the palace. The maids from my estate, and Grigori’s men.”
“Why— No— How could you—” Petunia didn’t even know what to say, but the grand duchess just continued to look at her with her bright eyes and her wide smile.
“It will be wonderful, my Petunia. You may call me Grandmother, if you like.”
Petunia backed toward the door, her hands behind her. When she felt the latch she fumbled it open.
“You are not my grandmother,” she said. Then she turned and ran through the door.
She didn’t get far. In the passageway she ran straight into Grigori. He seized her arms, and she screamed and writhed out of his grip. She grabbed the pistol from his belt and stepped back just far enough to aim.
“My petal, what are you doing?”
Grigori snatched at the pistol, fouling her shot in the narrow passageway, and the bullet merely grazed his shoulder and embedded itself in the wall behind. He wrestled with her, and she managed one more shot, which went wild and shattered an ornate mirror on the wall near the door. He tore the pistol from her grip and wrapped his other arm around her waist, lifting her free of the ground and carrying her, writhing and screaming, back to his grandmother.
The grand duchess cried out and rustled her swathes of lace, but Petunia didn’t spare the old woman a look. She was more monstrous than Grigori or Rionin, as far as Petunia was concerned, and she never wanted to speak to the grand duchess again.
Grigori threw Petunia onto the foot of the bed and kicked the door closed behind him. Petunia was on her feet again in an instant. She lunged at Grigori, who held the pistol high over her head with one hand and pushed her away with the other. He frowned at Petunia as though her behavior were completely irrational.
“Let me go, you monster!” Petunia spit at him, and a glob of saliva struck the middle of his chest.
He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at it, frowning even deeper. Behind her, Petunia heard the grand duchess suck in a breath in disgust.
“Such unbecoming behavior, Petunia! And what makes you want to leave? You have already admitted you have no love for Kestilan!”
“I want out of this whole horrid place,” Petunia said, panting. She tried for the pistol again.
“I admire your spirit, my petal,” Grigori said, stepping away from her. “But this is ridiculous! I am your betrothed, and you must stop—”
There was a shout and a crash from the front of the house.
Petunia used the distraction to punch Grigori in the stomach, and when he doubled over, she snatched the pistol from his hand. She cocked the hammer but didn’t know whom to aim at. Grigori? The grand duchess? Or the new threat coming down the passage?
The door burst open, slamming into Grigori, who was just straightening, and knocking him to the ground. Standing in the doorway was a man in a wolf mask holding an ax. Petunia made her decision, crossing to the bed and aiming her pistol at the grand duchess, who began to wail and wring her hands.
“Oliver,” Petunia ordered, cutting through the old woman’s wails. “Take care of Grigori, I’ve got my eye on her.”
Grigori started to scramble to his feet as Oliver brought the butt of his pistol down on the back of the prince’s head. Grigori went down like a felled tree, and the grand duchess screamed like she had been wounded herself.
“My Grigori!” She clawed at the lacy bedclothes, trying to rise.
“Madame, please be still,” someone said, coming into the room behind Oliver.
“Galen!” Petunia recognized his voice at once and nearly dropped the pistol. She was almost shaking with relief.
“Steady on, Pet,” he said, looking around. “Walter?”
A bubble of hysteria formed in Petunia’s chest as their old gardener came hobbling into the room, peg leg and all. He raised one eyebrow at Petunia, who was standing over the ruffled bed with a large pistol aimed at the grand duchess’s chest.
“Well, Petunia,” Walter finally said. “I see you’ve found us an excellent spot to finish our preparations in.”
“It was my pleasure,” Petunia said, and couldn’t keep the hysterical laughter contained any longer.
Invisible
Oliver followed Petunia silently and invisibly through the silver wood to the path, where four of the dark princes were waiting for her now. They were pacing along the path, occasionally taking a few steps between the trees, then they would leap back with expressions of great pain.
“What are you all doing here?” Petunia glared around at them, and Oliver had to admire her courage. “I hardly need four of you to help me break off some twigs.”
Just moments before, she had helped to bind Prince Grigori. She had listened, face impassive, as Grigori admitted that he had written in wax on the floor of the hothouse to open a gate between the estate and the Kingdom Under Stone.
Then she had watched as Oliver and Galen had dragged Grigori down the passageway to one of the other bedchambers. She had listened unflinching to the screaming and recriminations of the Grand Duchess Volenskaya while Heinrich had checked the old woman’s room for any weapons. He had nailed the window shut before locking the grand duchess into her ornate bedchamber.
Without the slightest sign of fear, Petunia had listened while Galen had told her their plan, nodded, and then swept out of the chalet without even bothering to look back. Not that it would have mattered if she had: both Oliver and Galen had donned their invisibility cloaks so that they could follow her.
When Oliver had led the charge through the silver wood to the source of the screaming and shooting, they had seen the two princes Under Stone who had been with Petunia crossing the lake in their little boat. That had chilled Oliver more than the screams or the gunshot. Were the princes running away and leaving Petunia? What had happened?
But he shouldn’t have been surprised to find that Petunia had things well in hand when they arrived.
Oliver did like to think that when she looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, her face had brightened. Not just to have help, but to see him specifically.
When they broke through the woods and found that four princes had returned, Oliver felt a flash of relief. The princes would have had to take more than one boat across the lake, which meant that he and Galen would have an easier time crossing as well.
That had been the one uncertainty in their plan, because the boats were crowded at three passengers, and adding one invisible stowaway would have been dangerous enough, two impossible. Oliver had been prepared to wait on the shore until Galen could sneak back over later to fetch him, but now it seemed that they would both be able to cross the lake immediately.
“Well? Answer me!” Petunia shook a handful of silver twigs that she had hastily gathered at the princes, who recoiled.
“We thought you had been attacked,” Kestilan said. “So we went for help.”
“It’s really not all that helpful if you stand on the path sulking while some fool with a pistol tries to take me hostage in the wood,” Petunia retorted.
They had decided that she had best stick as close to the truth as possible without mentioning Oliver, Galen, and the others. The King Under Stone would know about his mother’s chalet in the forest, and there was no sense pretending that Petunia had been lost for an hour.
“What?”
Now Kestilan came forward, concerned, though the twigs in her hands kept him from actually touching Petunia. Oliver was quite pleased by this, and by the way Petunia held them up to fend him off when it looked like he might put his arms around her.
“Did you know that Prince Grigori and the Grand Duchess Volenskaya are living in the middle of the silver wood?” Petunia’s voice was sharp.
The princes stared at her.
“You didn’t, did you?” Her tone changed and she sounded pitying. “Rionin has brought his mother and his nephew Grigori here and built them a lovely house in the thick of the woods. I stumbled upon it, and Grigori tried to take me captive. I barely managed to fight my way free.”
Kestilan and one of the other princes looked impressed, and Oliver could hardly blame them. The third prince looked suspicious, though, and the last was angry.
“No wonder our palace is falling into ruin,” he raged. “He’s been using his power to build a pretty little cottage for his mother, has he? And where are our mothers?”
“Tirolian,” said the suspicious prince. “Stop it. I, for one, had enough parent in our father. I have no wish to bring my mother here.”
“If Rionin were to die, Stavian would be king,” Tirolian said in a low voice to the suspicious prince. “A not unwelcome change.”
“Do you dare to speak treason against our brother Rionin?” Kestilan looked aghast.
“Can we go back to the palace and speak treason in comfort?” Petunia brandished her twigs again. “I would like to return to my sisters.”
“We will return, but there will be no talk of treason,” Kestilan said.
“What a shame,” Petunia said, and began to stroll down the path.
The princes fell into ranks behind her and Oliver came after them. He assumed that Galen was also with him, but the crown prince moved so silently that Oliver had no idea where he was. Oliver stayed as close behind the princes as he dared, straining to hear what Petunia and Kestilan were saying. But he needn’t have worried, Petunia clearly wanted everyone to hear what she said next, and her voice carried down the path.
“You know why Rionin allowed me to come here and gather these twigs, don’t you?” Petunia’s voice was arch. “He wanted me to find his mother’s chalet. If I hadn’t found it by accident, I’m sure that Grigori would have come to collect me. Rionin promised me to Grigori, you see. Rionin’s mother likes me too much to let me marry the son of some feather-brained Belgique countess. At least, I believe those were her words. Grigori’s reward for bringing his grandmother here, along with my sisters and me, is that he gets me.”
She said it so lightly, as though it were of no consequence, but Oliver’s hands curled over his weapons. How could she say and do these things and act like she didn’t care whether Rionin gave her—gave her like she was a piece of property—to Grigori or to his brother Kestilan?
Oliver couldn’t stand it. He drew his pistol as quietly as he could.
A hand came down hard on his arm.
“She will be all right,” said the crown prince in Oliver’s ear. “Remember, she has known them all her life.” Galen let go of him, and Oliver slowly slipped the pistol back into the holster.
A moment later they were at the shore of the black lake. There were two small boats; it would be a tight fit, but better than they had planned for.
“You ride with Petunia,” Galen murmured in his ear.
Oliver relaxed just enough to realize that he had had his jaw clenched shut. He loosened it, trying to breathe normally as he watched Kestilan help Petunia into one of the boats. He would need to get in without making any noise, just before they pushed off.
Just as one of the princes—Blathen—was stepping into the stern, Oliver also got in. Then he discovered a little hitch: he couldn’t sit in the middle because he would be cheek-to-cheek with Kestilan, but the bow was very narrow.
“These seats are so uncomfortable,” Petunia fussed.
She twisted about in the bow until her skirts were wrapped around her legs. She was leaning on her side, one elbow propped on the gunwale. If Oliver leaned on one hip, he could just fit next to her.
Oliver lowered himself gingerly into the little space beside Petunia. He had to grab hold of the gunwale on his side to stop himself from falling on top of her. As it was, they were pressed very closely together. Her perfume smelled like roses and cinnamon, or perhaps, he thought, that was just Petunia herself.
Blathen pushed them out into the lake with a grunt and nearly fell face-first into the water. He leaped aboard at the last minute, panting, and Kestilan laughed at him.
“Feeling your age?” He began to stroke with the oars.
Oliver looked over and saw that the other boat had also pushed out, with only slightly less effort.
“The boat is heavy,” complained Blathen.
“You’ve crossed this lake thousands of times,” Kestilan sniped.
They rowed the rest of the way in silence, and Oliver did his best not to crush Petunia. It was hard not to put an arm around her, both for balance and because he very much wanted to. He did sigh with relief when the bottom of the boat
scraped onto the coarse sand of the island, but he didn’t think anyone noticed.
Other than Petunia, who gave a small laugh.
“What are you laughing about?” Kestilan turned to help her out of the boat.
“Nothing I’d share with you,” she retorted.
She stalked into the palace, Oliver at her heels.
Once inside, she went straight through the main hall and into a smaller corridor. Oliver would have liked to stop and stare: everything was silver and black, blue and violet, muted colors that somehow seemed garish. He could see the resemblance between the decor of the palace and that of the grand duchess’s chalet. It was really quite morbid.
But Petunia did not stop. She didn’t stop when a courtier popped out of a room and demanded to know what the to-do across the lake had been about. She didn’t stop when a very tall lady in a black lace gown stood in her path and asked what she was doing with an armload of filthy branches like a servant. Petunia just walked around these people, and Oliver stayed with her.
At last she had to stop, because they turned a corner and the King Under Stone was there.
Oliver knew at once who he was, and not just because he wore a jagged black crown. He had long white hair with fine streaks of black, and his face was weirdly ageless: seeming at one moment to be very young, at others, immeasurably old. He stood in the middle of the corridor and stared at Petunia.
“You’re back,” he said in a hollow voice.
“Yes. I do not wish to marry Grigori,” she said. “I don’t wish to marry Kestilan, either, but Grigori would be even worse.”
“I have promised—”
“I don’t care what you promised your mother or your nephew, Alexei,” Petunia interrupted. “I’m not going to be given as a prize to the man who tricked me into coming here!”
She waved the silver branches in his face and he flinched and stepped aside. At the end of the corridor she went into a room that was full of women—and not just any women, but her sisters—who all greeted her with cries of delight. Oliver slipped into the room and pressed himself against the wall, and felt Galen brush against his arm as he did the same. One of the princesses shut the door and then braced a chair against it.