“But if the grand duchess … if she really is … and it’s not just a story …,” Petunia sputtered.
“Then she was once the lover of the first King Under Stone,” Poppy finished for her. “Which is why I think you’re not safe there, Pet.”
“If we had known,” Lily said, stricken. “We never would have sent you.”
“Ask Galen when you wake up,” Petunia said with authority, ignoring the way Poppy raised her eyebrows at Petunia’s tone. “I want you to be sure before you start causing problems with the grand duchess, Poppy. And I still want to know what’s been happening with the lot of you since I’ve been gone.”
“Clearly nothing as exciting as what you’ve been up to,” Poppy said.
“What excitement has Petunia been up to?” Kestilan demanded, stalking over to dance with Petunia again.
But before she could think of a cutting reply, they all froze.
The King Under Stone had left his throne and was walking toward them, the dancers parting to make way for the gaunt ruler. Petunia could see that Jonquil had actually stepped behind her partner, visibly shaking. Rionin had once been Jonquil’s partner at the Midnight Balls, but he had not danced in any of the dreams Petunia had had. His father had never danced either but had drawn power from the life and energy of the princesses as they danced with his sons and his court night after night.
“I have come to a decision,” said the king, his voice light but carrying across the entire room like a piercing winter wind. “My father never chose a queen, preferring instead the freedom of bachelorhood.”
The court all laughed, but Lily gave a small moan, pressing back against the chipped silver-and-ebony chair in which she sat. Petunia looked around, distressed, until she saw Rose sidling toward them. Their oldest sister was wearing a dark purple gown, and her partner kept trying to take hold of her arm again, but Rose simply ignored him. Like Lily, Violet, and Orchid, Rose’s original dancing partner had been killed during the battle to free them from the Kingdom Under Stone, and now she danced with some nameless courtier night after night.
“But I would like a queen to sit by my side,” the King Under Stone announced. “A helpmeet, as they say in the sunlight world. To share the joys and pains of this life with me, and to provide me with heirs, who, in turn, I hope will give me grandchildren. Beautiful, sunlight-dwelling grandchildren.”
The court greeted this pronouncement with applause and cheers.
And a scream.
Petunia, who had gone numb at this horrible revelation, felt the scream run through her like a jolt of lightning. She looked at Poppy and Lily, who were closest to her, but it was neither of them.
“It’s Jonquil,” someone called over the continued sound of screaming.
That sounded like Iris, but Petunia couldn’t be sure in the tumult. Where were the rest of the younger set? Pansy? Orchid? All she could see were the cruel faces of Under Stone’s court.
Rose shoved Kestilan hard in the chest to get by and ran to Jonquil. Petunia followed in her wake but stopped when the King Under Stone brushed past her, going in the opposite direction. He wasn’t going toward Jonquil after all but advancing on Lily, who was now prevented from going to their sister by the king’s tall, spare form.
“Never! Never! Never! I would sooner die!” Jonquil was screaming in a voice like splinters. “Never! Never! Never!”
“Rose,” Petunia said, her throat so dry that there was no way even Kestilan, standing just beside her, could have heard. “Rose. Rose. Rose. Rose.” She managed to shout the name at last, shaking off Kestilan’s attempt to grab her elbow and taking the last few steps to reach her sister Lily.
The King Under Stone had his arm around Lily’s waist, pulling her close to his side. His mouth was stretched wide in a smile that showed distinctly pointed canines. Lily was staring down at the toes of her dancing slippers, just peeping from beneath her gown, and her pale skin had grayish undertones now.
Someone took hold of Petunia’s arm again, and she almost elbowed the person in the ribs before she realized that it was Lilac. Violet came up on Petunia’s other side.
“What’s he doing?” Lilac’s whisper was hardly more than a fevered breath.
“We’re not going to like what he says next,” Orchid said flatly, coming up behind Petunia.
Petunia glanced over her shoulder and got a little jolt from seeing Orchid without the spectacles she had had to wear since she was twelve. But, after all, this was just a dream.
No, it was a nightmare. A nightmare that went on and on.
“Rose,” Petunia shouted again. “It’s not Jonquil!”
There was no way that Rose could hear her. Jonquil was now simply sobbing, wordless, and Petunia’s heart shuddered at the depth of her older sister’s pain.
“‘Never’ is quite right,” the King Under Stone said, his voice drowning out Jonquil, though it was not all that loud.
His lips twisted in derision, and even from across the ballroom, his eyes took in Jonquil’s wasted frame, her lank hair and extreme pallor. Petunia wanted to claw out his eyes for looking at Jonquil like that—Jonquil, who had once been the great beauty of Westfalin, who had been courted by princes from across Ionia. It was the King Under Stone’s fault that her looks were spoiled now, and now that they were, he mocked her and tossed her aside.
“Such as you would be wholly unsuited to being my queen,” he went on. “An accident of birth made us partners during my father’s reign, but it seems silly for me not to have a choice, when there are more princesses than princes.”
He laughed, but none of the courtiers did this time. Looking at them, Petunia thought some of the gentlemen seemed almost sulky. She wondered if they had petitioned to be partnered with one of her sisters and been denied. Served them right, she thought. Nasty things.
“At first I thought to marry the eldest and make myself king of Westfalin as well,” Rionin continued in a smooth, amused voice. “But the taint of that common gardener and his dribs and drabs of magic has become offensive to me,” the King Under Stone said to Rose, who was now holding a silent, semiconscious Jonquil in her arms.
“I’m married too,” Lily murmured. She rubbed her ring finger, but in this nightmare, there were no rings there.
“What’s that, my beloved?” The King Under Stone looked down at Lily with a smirk.
“I am married,” Lily said in a louder voice. She slammed her elbow into the king’s ribs and twisted out of his arm in the same motion.
“We do not recognize the mumblings of your quaint little religion down here,” the King Under Stone sneered, straightening his jacket as though Lily’s strike had been nothing. His smile grew even wider than before. “And,” he added, “it’s not as if you have any children to tie him to you. I may not have my father’s temperament, but I do have all his powers.” He threw back his head, his black-and-silver hair rippling down his back, and laughed.
Petunia’s heart turned to ice. Lily sank to her knees.
“You bastard,” someone screamed. To Petunia’s shock, it was Hyacinth. “I will see your head mounted on the front gate!”
Hyacinth made a run at the king but was caught by Pansy and Daisy, who had gathered near to help Rose with Jonquil. Jonquil now appeared to have fallen unconscious, and Rose sagged beneath Jonquil’s weight, her face bleak. Poppy stood by Rose’s side, watching the king with calculating eyes, and Petunia wondered if there was some way that Poppy could bring her beloved pistols into this nightmare.
“Let her go, Daise,” Poppy said. “I, for one, would like to see him torn apart. And if Hyacinth is willing …”
“You can’t do a thing,” the King Under Stone said lightly. He raised Lily to her feet and kissed her on the cheek. She shuddered and tried to pull away, but he held her all the more tightly, both arms winding around her. “After all, it’s just a dream.”
Petunia woke in her bed, sweating even though the window was open.
She got up, closed the window,
and lit the candle on her bedside table. She took a moment to look at the flame as it grew and steadied; fire always soothed her. Then, holding her candle before her like a weapon, she marched across the corridor in nothing but her nightgown.
Petunia entered Prince Grigori’s room without knocking. She yanked the bed curtains aside and looked down at the sleeping prince. He was terribly handsome, but Petunia didn’t stop to stare, just grabbed his shoulder and shook.
“Wake up,” she said. “Wake up, Grigori!”
“Hmm? What is it?” He blinked around sleepily, but then his eyes widened when he took in Petunia in her nightgown, her candle held just over his head. “My petal, what has happened?”
“I need to go home,” Petunia said tersely. “Now.”
“What time is it?”
“I don’t care,” Petunia said. “I need to go home.”
Dodging out from under her candle, Prince Grigori struggled upright. “Have you had a bad dream?”
Petunia started to laugh. She laughed so hard that the prince had to take the candle out of her hand before she dropped it on the bedclothes. She laughed until she was crying, sobbing, in a heap on the floor by his bed.
The prince set the candle aside and climbed out of bed. He scooped Petunia up in his long arms and carried her back to her own room, where he tucked her into her high bed and summoned Olga to sit with her. Then he sent for his grandmother’s physician, who brought extract of poppies to help her sleep.
“No,” Petunia gasped as the physician held the cup to her lips. He tipped a little down her throat. “No! Not poppies!” He forced her to drink a little more. “No! Not unless Poppy can take her pistol! And where’s mine? I don’t want to sleep without my pistol!”
“She’s delirious,” Petunia heard the physician say as she slipped into the grayness. “You’d better send a letter to her father.”
And then she heard the sound of a valse being played, shrill and just slightly out of tune.
Prisoner
Things had not gone as Oliver had hoped, but they had certainly gone as he had expected.
He was being held in a tiny attic room at the palace while Karl and the others had been taken to the Bruch jail. King Gregor didn’t believe Oliver was an earl, but apparently being the leader of the bandits, the abductor of Princess Petunia, and the claimant to a divided earldom made him too interesting for the regular jail.
But not interesting enough for immediate questioning. Oliver sat in the little room until evening, when the door was unlocked and a dinner tray shoved inside. An hour later the door opened and a hand groped around for the tray. Oliver obligingly pushed it closer to the door with his foot.
“Every compliment to the royal chef,” Oliver called as the door closed.
The guard only grunted.
He grunted, too, when Oliver thanked him for the breakfast tray. And Oliver thanked him for lunch as well.
And that was all Oliver did. Sit in the room. Sleep. Eat. And try to get the burly guard to do more than grunt.
In the late afternoon, he heard voices outside his room, and the door swung all the way open. The guard stood in the doorway, his rifle held crosswise, and behind him Oliver saw skirts of red-sprigged muslin.
“Hello,” Oliver said cautiously.
“Hello,” said a voice, and Poppy peeped around one of the guard’s large arms. “Are you well?”
“A little bored,” Oliver said. “But otherwise unharmed.”
A spark of amusement lit her eyes. “I’ll send up some books. You can read, can’t you?”
“All the Wolves of the Westfalian Woods can read,” Oliver said grandly.
“Even the ones with four legs?”
“Poppy,” someone whispered loudly from a hiding place a little way down the passage. “What are you doing?”
Oliver guessed that it was Daisy, who seemed a good deal more timid than her twin. He gave Poppy a wink over the guard’s arm and raised his voice a little. “I have endeavored to teach them myself,” he said. “And they are coming along nicely.”
“So tell me,” Poppy said, “what is an educated young man with courtly manners, who even teaches wolves to read, doing robbing coaches in the middle of the forest?”
“Poppppyyyy,” moaned her sister.
“Hush, Pan,” said Poppy without taking her eyes off Oliver.
Not Daisy then, but Pansy, who was less than a year older than Petunia. Oliver considered his answer for a long time. It was possible that Poppy and Pansy were here out of mere curiosity, without their father’s permission. But it was also possible that King Gregor wanted Oliver to reveal some dastardly intent while flirting with Gregor’s beautiful daughters.
“Well, Your Highness,” Oliver replied at last, “I needed to feed my people. And after the depredations of the war, and with our homes and farms gone, we had no other recourse.”
“Your people?”
Poppy asked it at the same time Pansy asked, “What happened to the farms?”
“When the border was redrawn, some of the farms in my earldom ended up Analousia,” Oliver explained. “They were given to Analousian families who had lost their lands in the war. Some of them were near the manor, however, and that was given to the Grand Duke Volenskaya, who became the Duke of Hrothenborg.”
“That’s where Pet is staying,” Pansy said, and Oliver heard a rustling as she came closer.
“That’s right,” Oliver said.
“So you really are an earl,” Poppy mused.
The guard snorted at this, but Oliver and Poppy ignored him.
“Yes, I am,” Oliver said simply.
“Then why didn’t you come to Bruch and explain to Father what had happened?” Poppy studied him for a moment. “Or, your father would have, I guess.”
“My father died in the war,” Oliver said. “I became the earl when I was seven. My mother’s family did not approve of the marriage; I doubt anyone even knew that I existed. My mother tried to have me confirmed in my title and to petition for the return of our lands, but that was during the uproar over the worn-out slippers and the dying suitors. Since my mother is Bretoner, she was afraid to bring attention to herself.”
“Bretoner?” Pansy had crept even closer. Oliver could see the edge of a pink muslin gown just peeping around the edge of the door. “Did she know Mother?”
“Indeed,” Oliver said. He felt like he was holding out breadcrumbs for birds, and any sudden movement would make them take flight. Or, in Poppy’s case, peck him. “She was one of your mother’s ladies-in-waiting. But her family wanted her to return home to marry a Bretoner lord, and my father’s family had a second cousin handpicked to marry him.”
“No wonder she didn’t dare come to the palace,” Poppy said. “Bishop Angiers would have had her on trial for witchcraft in a heartbeat. But don’t worry, the Church has long since made things right, and he got what he deserved.”
“That’s good,” Oliver said. The way that Poppy kept looking over her shoulder made Oliver think that they would leave soon. It was time to ask his own questions.
“Are my men all right?”
“For now,” Poppy said. “Until Father decides what to do with you.”
“That’s good,” Oliver said again, not sure what else to say. He wanted them released, but he supposed that they were just as guilty. “And Petunia? Have you heard from your sister?”
“Not since the first day,” Pansy said.
She pushed in next to Poppy so that she could see him around the guard’s elbow. She was as tall as Poppy, with shining dark-brown hair and blue eyes. An utterly lovely girl, as all the princesses were, yet Oliver thought Petunia was far more beautiful.
“We got one letter explaining that she’d gotten lost and had to find her own way to the manor, but nothing since. Did you really kidnap her?”
“It was an accident, but yes,” Oliver said. “She saw me and my brother with our masks off, so we snatched her before she could raise the alarm. She stayed with u
s one night, and then I took her to the manor. Quite unharmed, I assure you.”
“And things at the estate, they seemed … all right … to you?” Pansy pressed.
Oliver started to say that they had been fine, but then he stopped. “I don’t know.” He leaned forward a little, conscious more than ever of the guard. “Your Highnesses, I saw … creatures in the garden of the manor. People … made of shadow. I think they were trying to get to Petunia.” Oliver moved back a little, waiting for Poppy to scoff or Pansy to squeak in fright.
But both the princesses surprised him.
Poppy shrank back, and her hands twisted in her skirts. It was Pansy who stood up straighter and looked him in the eye.
“Shadowy creatures?” Pansy’s voice was shrill despite her stern posture. “What nonsense! Come, Poppy, we’re going.” She tugged Poppy’s arm to make her move.
Oliver stared after them. They’d believed him—he knew they had. But why were they pretending they hadn’t?
The guard glared at Oliver. “If you’re lying, there’s a special place in hell for you.” He slammed the door in Oliver’s face, locking it with a scraping of metal that made Oliver’s teeth ache.
He hadn’t been dreaming the shadows in the garden. One look at Poppy’s face told him that much, and Pansy’s and the guard’s reactions had confirmed it.
“But what are they?” Oliver asked his empty room.
After another night and morning spent pacing the tiny room, Oliver was frantic. His mother and Simon would be beside themselves with anxiety, he wanted reassurance that his men were all right, and he couldn’t stop wondering if the shadow creatures had gone after Petunia again.
Poppy had sent books to him with his dinner tray, but he couldn’t concentrate for more than a pair of minutes. Besides his personal distractions, the books were both rather dry histories of Westfalin. Oliver wasn’t sure whether Poppy was joking or she really thought such things riveting reading for the imprisoned. A scrap of paper fell from one as he leafed through it, but if it had been marking a particular page, he couldn’t find it now.