The Runaway Princess

  If she lived with Danior as queen, she could walk these streets anytime she wished, buy what she liked, converse with people and discover their hopes and dreams and fears. This would be her home. She’d have a family. She could belong.

  Enough, she chided herself. Don’t dwell on your loneliness. Think about your plans . . . insipid though they might be.

  Shopkeepers lived above their shops, but today the storefronts were closed. The merchants came to the people this day, wandering the streets with carts and calling out to the merrymakers. Evangeline had already flinched away from families hawking momentos of this climatic Revealing and the marriage of Prince Danior and Princess Ethelinda.

  No one approached her to buy anything. Most people avoided looking at her, except for the ones who glared at the Cinderella rags she wore. One woman said loudly, “You’d think these peasants would have the good taste not to dirty our streets with their presence. There are so many of them—why don’t they go back where they belong?”

  How could they? Evangeline wanted to ask. With the poverty engendered by the poor crops, too many people, desperate and hopeful, walked in rags. If the crystal case wasn’t opened tomorrow and the people given a sign that times would improve, they would be ripe for Dominic’s revolution.

  “They say she’s drowned in the river,” offered one woman in line behind her.

  “That’s not what I heard,” another gossiped. “I heard she’s run off with that handsome Dominic.”

  With coarse disdain, a man said, “A prince who can’t even rule his woman sure can’t rule a kingdom.”

  Evangeline put her hand up to half-cover her face, and accepted the ale from Fair Abbé.

  He looked her over and joked, “I won’t be expecting money for a second pint out of you.”

  “No, but thank you.” Tilting the mug up, she drained it in one pull.

  When she came up for air he was watching her and wiping his hands on his apron. “One street over, Honest Gaylord is giving away buns, first one free. Tell him I sent you. He’ll give you a big one.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him and handed back the mug.

  “You’re Serephinian, aren’t you?”

  “I guess,” she said cautiously.

  “You look like someone I used to know.”

  She stepped back.

  “I never forget a face.” He tapped his forehead. “Let me think.”

  She stepped back again, then took to her heels and skidded around another corner.

  “Hey!” he shouted after her. “I remember now. Come back!”

  She raced in a panic, racing up streets and down avenues, until hunger caught her again and she realized how pointless it was to run from a man just because he thought he knew her. She wasn’t the princess, so she couldn’t look like the princess. Or at least, not much. And if her parents were Serephinian, he might have known them.

  The idea brought her up short. If she stayed in Plaisance, maybe she could at last unearth her parents’ identity. She’d dreamed of them in all those long, lonely years in the orphanage, a faceless mother and father who gave her comfort and support, who even in death watched and guided her along her way.

  But no. What difference would it make to know about her parents? That would accomplish nothing . . . except answer the question of her existence, and maybe, if she found other relatives, fill the gigantic void in her heart.

  A void Danior had filled.

  The savory odor of baking pies caught her, and she followed her nose to a bakery. People gobbled up the flaky rolls the baker handed out as fast as he could—“First one free!” he proclaimed.

  Somehow, after all that running, she’d made her way back to Honest Gaylord’s Bake Shop. Since she’d reached Plaisance, it almost seemed that destiny shoved her along, directing her every step.

  Well, she would defy destiny and go where she wished . . . after she had one of those yeasty-smelling rolls.

  She joined the queue and, as instructed, mentioned Fair Abbé. Honest Gaylord, not quite as plump as the innkeeper but dearly his brother, scowled and handed her the biggest bun. “Don’t sit down, the benches are for paying customers.”

  She thanked him, moved off to the side, and sank her teeth into the most delicious concoction of bread, cinnamon, and dates she’d ever tasted. She almost wept with pleasure as she licked her fingers, and she eyed the line with the thought that Honest Gaylord hadn’t even looked at her, so how would he know if she went through twice?

  In that she was wrong, for as soon as she finished he put his son in charge of distribution and walked toward her, another bun in his hand. She wanted to run; after all, what could he want? But her stomach rumbled, and she obeyed its command.

  The pastry he handed her was substantially different than the first; much heavier, rich with the scent of herbs. Eagerly she sank her teeth into a turnover oozing with meat and carrots, and he watched her swallow with an expression of complacency.

  “You’re kind,” she said.

  “It’s Revealing. Time to feed the beggars, and sister, you look like a beggar.” He observed her shrewdly. “A beggar who has seen better times.”

  Shabby as it was, the silk dress was still silk, and his merchant’s eye had noted the formerly fine apparel.

  “Besides, you resemble someone I used to know.”

  She paused, her suddenly dry mouth suspended over the turnover.

  “That Serephinian girl. The one who used to hang around here, oh, twenty-five years ago, mooning over young Renaud the barrel-maker.”

  That pathetic longing for home and family anchored Evangeline in place, and she shut her mouth, torn between the urge to flee and the need to stay.

  “Her daughter, maybe. You’ve got that moon-eyed appeal, like you’re afraid the big, bad Baminians are going to eat you up. Don’t know how you Serephinians ever get up the nerve to breed.”

  “It isn’t easy,” she mumbled.

  He glanced at her sharply. “Breeding, are you?”

  “No!”

  “Well, sit down before you fall down.” He propelled her toward a crowded bench at one of the shaded tables and slapped a man on the back. “Get up, Percival, you’re done.”

  With a grin, Percival stood and offered his seat.

  “Eleanor was breeding, too, last time I saw her.”

  Stiff with resentment, Evangeline insisted, “I’m not breeding, and I’m not Eleanor’s daughter.” Honest Gaylord’s hand landed on her shoulder, and she found herself seated at a table where everyone knew each other, and she was the only stranger.

  “Whose daughter are you?” Percival asked with interest.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “There you have it. You don’t know if you’re Eleanor’s daughter.” Honest Gaylord spoke to an increasingly interested crowd. “Poor thing, her family didn’t approve of Renaud because they were royal and he was dirt common.”

  “Eleanor from over the river?” Percival squinted at Evangeline. “She has the look of her.”

  Evangeline sat with her half-eaten turnover forgotten in her hand. “Do I?”

  “I say she has the look of all of them. The Chartriers.” Honest Gaylord spat on the ground. “I’ve met a right lot of good Serephinians in my day, but that queen of theirs gave them all a bad name. Brought the rebels down on her and that poor slob of a king, and ignited the whole revolution.”

  “Oh, come on, man,” one of the women down the table said. “I’m Serephinian, and I’ve known a lot of good Baminians, but I say it was your king who brought on the revolution. Couldn’t keep his trousers fastened.”

  “But you think I look like the royal family?” Evangeline insisted. Her world tilted askew. Could she be half royal? Could she be half worthy of Danior?

  “We’d salute you as the princess if you’d show us your mark.” Percival poked Honest Gaylord, and they both laughed like two naughty boys.

  “Mark?” she said, bewildered by their reference and their embarrassed
amusement. “What mark?”

  “Pay them no heed.” The woman turned to the men and chided, “Y’two shush up. Don’t embarrass the girl.”

  Honest Gaylord sobered and cleared his throat. “Eleanor and Renaud had to leave the city, and I heard they disappeared in the Revolution of Ninety-six. Probably killed, poor things. You an orphan? That revolution made a lot of orphans.”

  The woman down the table looked at Evangeline with disfavor. “She’s one of those snooty Chartriers, for sure. Do y’ suppose she’s capable of opening that crystal case? Because they say the princess is a drooling idiot, and our prince is only wedding her for the good of his people.”

  A babble broke out, conflicting stories piled one atop the other. Some were patently absurd; others came too close to the truth for Evangeline’s comfort. The voices got louder and louder until people came running to see what caused the commotion.

  Evangeline kept trying to bring the conversation back to the suddenly fascinating subject. “About Eleanor and Renaud . . .”

  Until the moment she looked up and saw two familiar men moving toward her.

  Victor and Rafaello. Victor watched her without ceasing, his blue eyes calm, measuring. Rafaello charmed the people around them, getting them to move aside for no more reason than his smile.

  Evangeline’s head began to pound. One of these men, or both, were traitors, so Danior had said. If they took her, she might be returned to Danior—or she might be held hostage or killed.

  Honest Gaylord pounded on the table with his fist. “If the princess is alive and residing in the Palace of the Two Kingdoms, then I say the prince will show her to us tonight in the light of the full moon. Otherwise”—he shook his head sadly—“we’re all doomed, Baminian and Serephinian alike. The poor are desperate. They’ll rise and kill us all.”

  Rising to her feet, Evangeline pointed at Victor and shouted, “Do you want to know what’s happened to the princess? Ask the prince. There he is.”

  As one, the crowd turned to Victor.

  Honest Gaylord shook his head. “That’s not the prince.”

  “He’s not,” Rafaello agreed.

  “Yes, it is. It looks just like him,” Percival said.

  “You’ve only seen him from a distance,” Honest Gaylord said. “I’ve shaken his hand. That’s not the prince.”

  Evangeline carefully placed the turnover on the table and declared, “It’s the prince. He’s out looking for his princess.”

  “She’s right.” One of the men standing beside Victor grabbed his hand and dropped to one knee. “Your Highness, I have a goiter. Can you cure it?”

  A hubbub broke out, louder than before. Victor tried to disengage his hand while loudly denying his royalty. Evangeline sat back down, then ducked under the table. Crouching low, she ran to the next table, and the next, and the next, until she had reached the next shop, where clothes draped the boards and she could hide.

  It was fully a minute before Victor’s big voice boomed out, “The princess. What happened to the princess?”

  Wrapping her hands around her knees, Evangeline peeked out and saw everyone rise to their feet.

  “She’s not the princess,” Honest Gaylord said in disgust. “She’s Eleanor’s daughter from across the water.”

  “Eleanor was the princess’s aunt,” the woman said tartly. “Don’t y’ think the princess could resemble her, too?”

  Evangeline held herself very still, trembling with the need to get away, yet knowing it was safest to remain. Boots and shoes, gowns and trousers strode past. Voices called, seeking the counterfeit princess. Victor shouted, Rafaello charmed everyone he could, but they couldn’t find her. They searched down the street, in the alley, down toward the river.

  The original crowd gradually dispersed. A new crowd gathered, intent on getting the first bun free. Congratulating herself on the success of her ploy, Evangeline scooted out from under the table, and cautiously stood.

  Honest Gaylord kept serving buns. If he saw her, he didn’t say. The people snacked, then bought; all was calm. Elaborately casual, she picked up her half-eaten turnover from the table and moved toward the street she’d first come down. She had a mission. She wanted to get back to the Serephinian side of the river. She wanted to see if anyone there remembered the woman called Eleanor, or knew her ultimate fate.

  She’d walked perhaps half the way when Victor rounded the corner toward her. She stopped.

  He stopped.

  She glanced around. There was nowhere to go except back up the street, or down a narrow, shadowed alley.

  She looked back at him, at his eyes lit up with unholy amusement. He smiled—a smile of wicked amusement, looking far too much like Dominic. “Your Highness! Enough games. You’ve had your fun.” He patted his thigh as if she were a dog to be summoned. “Come now, girl, let’s go.”

  She threw the turnover at him as hard as she could. Her feet discovered flight. She tore into the alley and raced along, through garbage and around discarded barrels. Behind her, she heard Victor shouting, and she only ran faster. The alley forked. She took the left passage, and almost immediately it narrowed yet more. The shadows deepened. A blank wall of blush-colored stone rose twelve feet on one side. On the other side, a series of dark doors marched along. She tried two. Both were bolted.

  She heard Victor calling. He followed like a rat after its cheese. She ran, but she had to do something, before the stitch in her side overcame her, before the pain in her foot grew unbearable. She dove into a small alcove in the wall, and in the alcove she found a small door. She threw her body at it, but it held true. Pounding with the flat of her hand, she cried, “Open, please open.”

  A melodic feminine voice spoke on the other side. “As you wish.”

  Evangeline couldn’t believe it. Someone had heard her. “Hurry.”

  “A moment, my sister, I must find the key.”

  “He’s coming.” Evangeline leaned against the door and slapped it again. “He’s coming.”

  The door opened and she fell into a garden, stumbled forward, and collapsed onto a graveled path.

  Behind her, she heard a solid thunk, and the rattle of a lock. She turned and looked, and Marie Theresia, the postulant from the convent on the cliff, stood smiling before the closed doorway. “She told us you would come here, and you did. Santa Leopolda be praised!”

  Thirty

  Victor slammed into the door, bringing Evangeline to her feet, wild and hunted.

  “Don’t worry.” Marie Theresia took her hand and patted it. “He can’t get in here. And listen”—she lifted one finger as Victor moved along, pounding on other doors—“he’s not sure where you disappeared.” The little postulant’s black-and-white habit stood out among the tangle of pink climbing roses and blazing yellow coreopsis. No wind ruffled the atmosphere here, and dianthus scented each breath. Tiny apples hung in tight green bunches from mature trees placed to give shade to paths and benches. Bees buzzed, tasting each blossom on their way to the row of hives along the outer wall.

  “Yes.” Evangeline panted. “Good. Thank heaven.”

  “Indeed, you should. You are destined from above.”

  Lately, Evangeline had heard too much about her destiny. She had had the sensation of being swept along by her destiny. And she feared she faced her destiny once again. Rubbing her palm against her sweaty forehead, she asked, “Who told you I would come here?”

  “Why, Santa Leopolda, of course.”

  Evangeline’s pounding heart slowed and her breath became slow and even, but she was too tired to comprehend the little postulant. “Santa Leopolda is dead.”

  Marie Theresia only smiled as she drew Evangeline’s arm through her own. “You don’t mind that I call you ‘sister,’ do you? I feel that we are sisters.”

  “No.” Evangeline glanced at the top of the twelve-foot wall. She couldn’t hear Victor anymore at all. Had he gone on, or did he listen for the murmur of her voice? She drew Marie Theresia away from the wall, moving t
oward the building of blush-colored stone, which it enclosed. “In God’s eyes, I suppose we are sisters.”

  “Exactly.”

  Here, the sounds of the city were muffled, lost in the width and depth of a broad enclosure where plants flourished, cherished by their caretakers. Here, serenity slipped like a jewel along the golden chain of days, each blending into the other until peace permeated the earth, the plants, the very air.

  “This is a convent,” Evangeline guessed. “This is the garden.”

  Marie Theresia gazed around with pride. “Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s our sister city convent, the original convent of Santa Leopolda. It was here that she placed the crowns and scepters in the crystal case.”

  Evangeline tested Marie Theresia. “And you talked to her this morning.”

  “Yes, this morning. Yesterday morning. She’s our mother superior, you know.”

  Evangeline relaxed. The girl seemed normal enough, bright and without a hint of madness. Surely she meant that each mother superior was given the title of Leopolda—although that still didn’t explain how she knew Evangeline would land here when Evangeline hadn’t known it herself.

  Tugging her along a path toward the tall fountain in the heart of the garden, Marie Theresia said, “We just arrived.”

  “For Revealing?” Evangeline guessed.

  “I have to be here for Revealing. Ours was a very uneventful trip. I hope your journey was the same.”

  Evangeline sagged as she remembered Danior, Dominic, the hot springs, the village, the rebels . . . Danior. “Not exactly.”

  “How foolish of me,” Marie Theresia chirped as cheerfully as one of the birds in the trees. “You’re the princess. You must be tested by adversity.”