“Good thing I don’t need watching over,” he said with a smirk. “Let me help you, with anything.”
Fedya sighed and folded his arms, rubbing his temples. He looked at Killian warily before sighing again in defeat. “Can you clean a piano?”
“Absolutely,” Killian answered without thought. “Whatever you need.”
“All right. Here.”
Fedya rolled his eyes and fished a small silver key out of his pocket, thrusting it in Killian’s hand.
“If you continue down this hall and make two rights, you’ll find my private music room. After you’re dressed, you can get a start on cleaning, and I should be able to join you in about an hour. I’ll have someone drop off some cleaning supplies for you. Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself.”
Killian nodded, clasping the key tight. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Where did everyone go?”
“The west wing of the palace, it’s where the coronation will take place.” Fedya started walking backward as if afraid Killian would keep him there a minute longer. “Now go put some shoes on, you look like a lunatic. And like I said, keep to yourself.”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” Killian called out, but Fedya had already slipped behind the corner out of sight.
Killian’s shoulders slumped and he exhaled slowly. He looked back down at the little key, flipping it between his fingers before shoving it in his pocket. Still he hesitated, crouching down to the puddle of liquid pooling on the floor. He reached out and dipped two fingers in. The liquid was ice cold, and when he brought it up to his nose a familiar sharp smell curdled his stomach. He quickly stood, wiping his hands on his sleeve.
The hall felt almost muffled, the scalloped curtains on the windows drawn back, revealing a world of pure white snow. Its pale light cast everything in a silver, almost otherworldly, glow. It would have been beautiful if not for the stench of lager filling Killian’s nose.
He reached in his pocket and squeezed the key one final time. At least here Fedya seemed a little more willing to talk to him. The music room wasn’t much, but maybe it’d lead to some answers. It was better than being stuck alone in a room, anyway. He turned the corner and promptly, for the second time, collided into a royal.
“Dmitri!”
Unlike his younger brother, Prince Dmitri was already dressed in a crisp, perfectly pressed gold and black suit. His long hair was pulled back into an intricate braided bun on the top of his head, and a deep purple sash wrapped around his waist. He looked just as handsome as the night they had announced their engagement.
Dmitri pulled back from Killian, brows knitting together. “Excuse me?”
Killian’s eyes widened and he instantly dropped his head. “I’m sorry, Prince Dmitri.”
His heart stumbled double-time, a new type of heat flashing to his cheeks. Though he and Dmitri were almost the same height, he kept his head bowed, as though trying to make himself smaller, keeping his face hidden from view. “I didn’t see you.”
The irritation rapidly seeped from Dmitri’s eyes, but the curiosity remained. “That’s alright. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before, are you new?”
Killian stared down at the bundle of clothing in his hands, unblinking. “Yes. Fedya…uh, Duke Fyodor hired me. I arrived yesterday evening.”
“Fyodor, really?” Dmitri’s voice curled with heightened interest, but Killian didn’t dare sneak a peek to read the prince’s face.
“Yes, he asked for me specifically.”
“Is that so? Doing what?”
Killian’s mind raced. “I receive my official instruction later today, but I think he wanted me to assist him with his musical studies.”
“Oh.”
Dmitri’s voice shifted, the interest suddenly gone. Killian bit the inside of his tongue, and his eyes flicked up. Dmitri, alive and breathing, standing right before him, preparing for his coronation ceremony. Would any of this have happened if that pillar hadn’t fallen on him? If someone had warned him, pushed him out of the way, would he still be alive? Killian’s throat tightened. Dmitri still had a chance.
The image of Dmitri’s crushed body flashed in Killian’s mind. His stomach twisted, and he quickly averted his gaze. “Your Majesty, there’s—”
“Perhaps you might give the courtesy of a goodbye when you leave?”
Killian blinked and he jerked his head back up. “What?”
Dmitri’s mouth had thinned to a hard line, but somehow his expression remained soft, sad. “Consider it a personal favor to me. I understand Fyodor can be trying, but a proper farewell can only improve the situation.”
“I’m not…” Killian paused, but the words faded from his lips. “What do you mean?”
Dmitri almost looked like he wanted to smile. Then it was gone in a flash and he straightened up, the air of professionalism back into place. “Please excuse me; I have many things to attend to.”
With a curt nod he started walking briskly away. Killian’s mouth dropped open, but he struggled for the words as Dmitri sped across the hall. There were so many things Dmitri needed to know, things Killian couldn’t possibly begin to explain. His mind sputtered and he finally called out a strangled, “Majesty!”
Dmitri halted, glancing back with a frown. Killian clamped his mouth back shut, reaching for the right words. He saw Dmitri’s eyes fall down to his bare feet and his ears burned hot. “Good luck tonight,” he finally managed.
His words hung between them for only a second before Dmitri nodded. “Thank you. Go put some shoes on.”
He left without another word. Killian waited until even the sounds of his footsteps faded away before letting out a deep breath. His heart still throbbed in his ears, but the warmth had already begun to ebb away. Muttering, he trudged the rest of the way back to Fedya’s room, locking the door behind him.
The door leading to Fedya’s personal rooms was also locked. Fedya must have snuck in the night before while Killian slept. The thought of Fedya watching him as he slept made Killian’s chest fluster in a strange sort of way, but he shook his head. Fedya probably completely ignored him. He drew open the curtains and early morning sunlight seeped into the walls, turning everything a pale, golden yellow.
The icy water from the sink felt good on his face and neck, and he washed and dressed quickly. The clothes Fedya gave him were thick and lined with wool, and when he stepped back out of the drawing room he saw a pair of brown boots neatly tucked under the chaise. The outfit, while simple, didn’t look like anything he expected a servant to wear. The jacket cropped at his waist, the brass buttons gleaming with a fresh polish. Maybe this was what private attendants wore.
Killian’s stomach grumbled. He grimaced, the cabbage soup from the night before suddenly a distant memory. Sighing, Killian folded up his old clothes and set them on the chaise. He pulled out the wax flower, and in the fresh morning light it looked even more wilted than before. Gently he rubbed his thumb over the petals, pushing them somewhat back into place before slipping it inside his pocket. Then his fingers brushed against something cold and rough.
From the same pocket he pulled out a long, delicate chain. It winked silver back up at him, and on one end hung a small, gold charm. He peered closer at it, but wasn’t sure if it was a star or a snowflake. Either way, it felt warm in his hand.
He hesitated, not sure what to do with it. After all, Fedya had been the one who’d given him the clothes, surely he knew about the necklace? He slipped it on over his head, and then quickly hid it under his shirt, just in case. Even as it rested against his skin, the metal burned.
Snatching up the key, he left the room. The hall remained as empty as before, but as he started walking he saw that the spill on the floor was already cleaned up. He tried to ignore it, when his stomach growled again. He walked even faster, following Fedya’s instructions until he reached a doorway with gold molding and tassels draped around it.
Fedya’s music room had
a fireplace in one corner, and a grand piano in the other. In a way, it looked like a larger version of the room back at the mansion. A crystal chandelier hung low from the ceiling, unlit, but it didn’t matter anyway given the amount of light cast from the enormous window that took up the fourth wall.
Killian quietly stepped inside, shutting the door after him. He gently traced his fingers across the intricate fleur-de-lis wallpaper, and felt a pang of longing for home. Clearing his throat, he walked over to the piano and picked up the basket of cleaning cloths and soap. Killian had never cleaned a piano, or any musical instrument for that matter, before in his life, but it was the only chance he had in keeping Fedya around. He poured the polish onto one of the cloths and carefully began to scrub at the base of the piano bench.
There was a clock in the room, even though Killian couldn’t see it, and the gentle rhythmic tick soon eased his tittering nerves. He sat cross-legged on the ground, working the polish into every groove and curve until his back and arms ached. What was he even doing here? Only magic was strong enough to have done this, but did no one else feel it? Was no one else affected?
The pool of sunlight through the window grew longer. Killian began to count the ticking, transforming them into minutes in his mind. He stood up when he reached forty-seven. This was getting him nowhere.
He shoved the bucket of cleaning supplies under the bench and stood up, cracking his back. Fedya probably wouldn’t even realize he was gone.
The hallway was just as empty as before. Killian’s footsteps echoed as he walked, impossible to silence. He kept an ear out for voices, but he might as well have been the only person on this side of the palace. As he walked, he trailed his fingers lightly against the walls, running his hands against the thick curtains and textured wallpaper, and once again the aching longing for the familiar intricate painted walls of home seeped into his chest.
He stopped. A voice just ahead bounced off the walls, its words muffled and contorted. He pulled back, pressing into the curtains, and peered ahead, when a second, familiar voice joined in. Killian bit his tongue, his heart tugging at the pull of Fedya’s voice. He crept forward a few more steps, the voices growing louder until he spotted an open door up ahead. He ducked behind another curtain, still trying to peek ahead.
Fedya stood just outside the door, talking back to an older woman still inside the other room. She sat in a wheelchair even more intricate than the one his mother used back home. Her long, braided hair hung over her shoulder, and she wore a dress not unlike Killian’s own suit, including a thick cropped jacket and familiar brown boots peeking out from under her skirt. She had her arms crossed tight across her chest, each word growing more exasperated than the last.
“…another word about it. It’s your duty.”
“You have no idea what my duty is,” Fedya practically growled back. “It’s not as though anyone expected this to last for so long.”
The woman pursed her lips tightly together and straightened in her chair. “Perhaps not, but that doesn’t excuse your behavior. Don’t you even care what you’re doing to your brother?”
“I’m sorry that being myself is suddenly such a hindrance to his royal majesty.”
“Fyodor,” the woman said. “That is not what this is about. You can’t go on like this, it won’t last.”
“I’m not sure why you suddenly care so much. You certainly seemed to have a lot of better things to do a year ago when everything went up in smoke.”
“Fyodor!” She stopped suddenly. “Oh.”
Killian froze as she stared directly at him. Fedya huffed and spun around, then stopped mid-step as he caught a glimpse of Killian as well. Killian couldn’t move, feet rooted to the floor. He hadn’t realized when he’d pulled the curtain back, revealing half his face in the process.
Fedya’s face burned bright. “Come out here.”
He hobbled out instantly, his legs numb as he walked over to them. Up close, he could see thin tendrils of silver entwined in the woman’s braid, but her hands were still young as she straightened the cuff on her sleeve. She eyed Killian, tilting her head back so she could look down her nose at him. “Who is this?”
“My attendant.”
“Really.” She didn’t sound like she believed him at all. “What’s his name?”
“Does it matter? Or are you going to start choosing my servants for me too?”
Fedya’s voice was even sharper than before, and the woman pursed her lips as she looked back at him. Fedya gave another irritated huff before turning on his heel and starting down the hall again. “Come on,” he muttered.
Killian twitched, glancing back and forth between Fedya and the woman. She merely looked at him, her lips in the same thin line as before, and he eventually bowed to her, apologizing under his breath before he hurried after Fedya back down the hall. Fedya didn’t wait for him, clattering open the door to the music room and striding inside. Killian hesitated by the doorway, watching as Fedya plopped down on the seat and practically slammed his hands on the keys.
Each angry note reverberated off the walls. Killian hung back a second longer before carefully creeping inside. He kept his eyes downward, stomach gnarled and sick. His mind scrambled to piece together the conversation between Fedya and the woman, but the plunking music jarred his thoughts.
Still, even in anger, the music flowed seamlessly. Loud, abrasive, and strangely intoxicating, Killian breathed in deep as though it could make his heart beat even faster.
The music stopped. Killian jerked his head back up.
Fedya hadn’t moved from the bench, his hands hovering above the keys, staring at them in intense silence. His eyes were rimmed in red, and his lips were parted, as though he meant to speak. Killian hesitated and eased forward when Fedya looked straight at him.
“Are you hungry?”
T
he palace was closer to the train station than it looked. Thick clouds of gray smoke covered the sky, but the air was filled with the sticky sweet scent of cherry and apple pirozhkis wafting out from the station bakery. Killian’s mouth watered as he stared longingly into the brightly lit windows, but Fedya hurried on ahead without pause.
“Do you always have this many travelers?” Killian asked as he stepped around a pile of suitcases and hatboxes.
“In the fall, yes. They come for the White Frost Festival.”
“But it’s winter.”
Fedya frowned, and Killian quickly shut his mouth. He forgot, it wasn’t 1916 anymore. Wrong time. Wrong place. But Fedya rolled his eyes and kept walking. “Anyway, they’re here for my brother’s coronation. He’ll be the youngest king Eskor has had in five generations. Not to mention everybody loves him.”
“I would think so,” Killian said, trying to weave as expertly as Fedya through the heavy crowds. “What’s not to like?”
Fedya only glanced at him, but he didn’t answer. Killian wished he could pull the words back, and he avoided looking at Fedya again. Fedya had made them both put on oversized black coats before leaving the palace, and they blended into the sea of dark gray and blues perfectly.
He’d never seen a train platform with so many shops all crammed together in a single line. Their windows glowed yellow, overflowing with trinkets and treats, like a moving kaleidoscope against a wall of steel and smoke. He peered in each one as they passed, but never for more than a glimpse as Fedya rushed ahead even faster. Pastries. Toys. Carvings. Wax flowers.
Killian’s lips tilted upward. He wondered if the woman from the church could carve flowers as big and intricate as these. Up above, the roof was a blend of colored glass, mimicking the patterns of the auditorium where Fedya gave his speech, and they cast the crowds in spheres of red, yellow and green.
“Keep your hands in your pockets,” Fedya instructed. “Don’t give them the opportunity.”
Killian did as he was told, eyeing a group of sharp-eyed boys gathered around a bench. They didn’t look much younger than Fedya
.
They reached a shop crammed between all the others. The smell of fresh sausage and baked dough tickled Killian’s nose, and he had to ball his hands into fists to resist the urge to lunge forward across the counter. His stomach roared as Fedya handed him a full-size sausage wrapped up in thick, warm bread, and he tore into it without waiting. A second later Fedya also handed him a cup of steaming coffee, and even though the bitter taste made him gag, he was too thirsty to care. Still, he couldn’t help but notice the liquid in Fedya’s own cup didn’t steam and looked much lighter in color.
“Come on,” Fedya said after taking a long drink. “No use waiting around here.”
They walked through the platform a few more minutes, and strangely, Killian didn’t want to leave it. He missed being around people, the sounds of their voices and the blend of spices and faraway places drifting out from the opening passenger doors. They sat on a bench to finish their drinks, and Killian closed his eyes, wishing he could pour himself into it all.
“Have you ever been on a train before?”
“Hm?” Killian peeked his eyes back open. “Yes, many times. Why?”
“I’ve never seen someone enjoy a train station so much before,” Fedya said with a shrug. “It’s just a bunch of loud people and smoke.”
Killian grinned. “Maybe.”
They sat a few more minutes before Fedya excused himself. Killian watched him disappear through the crowd before looking back at the train unloading in front of them. Most of the people wore the same, familiar gray coats and fur-lined muffs, but every so often he would spot someone different. A flash of blond hair or the glimpse of a cherry-red silk skirt, and the smile crept back to his lips. Maybe someone from Astrocia would be here.
He watched a little girl tag along her mother’s heels, hoisting a fat, white puppy in her arms, and he grinned. Some things really were the same no matter where you went. A second later, Fedya slid back onto the bench beside him. His cup was full again. “You ready?”
FAIRYTALE Page 20