“Perhaps he misheard,” Rose said. She was still gazing down at the perfect flower cupped in her hand.
“And on the way back, an old man with a peg leg accosted me, trying to get me to wear some smelly herb on my lapel!” Alfred blew through his wet lips. “In Breton—”
“Perhaps I was the one wanted back at the palace,” Rose interrupted. “I’d best return.” Tucking the rose into the sash of her high-waisted gown, she got up and walked past the still-blathering Prince Alfred, pulling her cloak tight around her.
That was another thing about Prince Alfred that drove Rose—and everyone else—to distraction. He never stopped talking. He talked about himself. He talked about his prize- winning hounds and his prize-winning horses. He talked about Breton, and how everything there was superior to everything in Westfalin, from the weather to the pigs. By dinner, Rose was ready to stuff her handkerchief in his mouth to silence him.
She settled for not listening. In fact, she didn’t even pretend to listen. No one did. But either he didn’t notice or it didn’t bother him in the slightest. After dinner Alfred followed the sisters to their rooms, where he talked all through several games of cards. In fact, the enchantment caught him mid-sentence, and he went from babbling about his hounds (again) to snoring, with his cheek on the ace of spades in the space of a heartbeat.
“Whew!” Poppy threw down her cards. “What a nightmare! I wasn’t sure if the magic would even work on him.”
“I thought he was going to keep talking, even if he fell asleep,” Orchid said.
“Now, now,” Hyacinth chided them, “we should be more charitable.”
“I agree with Poppy,” Rose said, to everyone’s surprise. “I was ready to knock him over the head with a vase if the spell didn’t get him.” She tossed down her own cards in disgust.
Prince Alfred’s snores were particularly loud in the silence that followed Rose’s outburst. They almost harmonized with the snores coming from the two maids in the other room, and a tinkling sound, like wind chimes or bells, that seemed to be coming from outside.
“What is that noise?” Daisy looked around, puzzled. “I’ve been hearing it all day.”
“One of the gardeners put bells in the ivy outside our window,” Lilac said.
“Why?”
“Why do the gardeners do anything?” Lilac shrugged.
“We might as well go now,” said Rose. The bells couldn’t drown out all the snoring, so what good were they?
“Why are you in such a hurry?” twelve-year-old Iris wanted to know. “You’re the one who’s always moaning and complaining about the Midnight Ball.”
“Because I want this night to be over with,” Rose snapped. “I want all these nights to be over with.”
Her dislike of Prince Alfred had given her a hectic energy. She knelt on the carpet and stroked the pattern, opening the door into the world below. She took a lamp and started down, not looking back to see if her sisters followed.
Shawl
Prince Alfred came and Prince Alfred went, just like all the others. Within a week of his return to Breton, he was trampled by one of his prize horses and killed.
King Gregor sent gifts for the royal family and a letter expressing his deepest regrets. The Bretoner king responded by sending the letter and gifts back, unopened, along with the Westfalin ambassador, who was no longer welcome at the royal court in Castleraugh.
“Sire! This is an outrage! A blatant slap in the face!” Lord Schilling, the prime minister, was scarlet with rage. “It’s practically a declaration of war—”
“No!” Now it was King Gregor’s turn to grow red and shout. “No more war! We swallow the insult and move on. The poor man’s grief-stricken. He lost his eldest son and he lashed out; I can understand that.”
King Gregor was in the council chamber with his ministers, talking over the snub from Breton. Rose sat in one corner, quietly hemming handkerchiefs. One of the girls always sat in on royal councils, as their mother had done, to offer the king silent support.
“But, sire,” the prime minister protested, “my spies in Analousia say that there have been meetings between their prime minister and the Belgique ambassador. And Spanian relations are frigid at best now.” He clenched his fists and barreled on. “They are saying that these princes are not dying by accident, that these are very cleverly arranged assassinations. Your Majesty, they are pointing the blame squarely at you. Our foreign relations are in a worse state now than they were during the war! What are we to do?”
The hush that followed Schilling’s words was profound. Rose dropped her sewing, and the small ping of her needle hitting the polished wood floor was far too loud. The prime minister looked at her with hard eyes.
“We are to ignore it,” King Gregor said, voice grim. “I don’t care if we do look like fools: we will continue to smile and seek peace while they mutter and rattle their swords. It is all we can do. This country will not survive another war.”
Rose shuddered. She and her sisters knew full well what price had been paid to ensure that Westfalin would win the Analousian war. If another war came … she could not imagine what would become of their poor country then. She dared not make the bargains her mother had made. Westfalin would have to rise or fall on its own strength, and right now that strength was not great.
“Then at least rescind that ridiculous proclamation,” the prime minister was pleading now. “No more princes will be coming. Don’t flaunt the fact that every royal house in Ionia has lost a prince because of your daughters.”
There was a collective gasp from the other councillors.
“You go too far,” King Gregor said in a low voice. “My daughters are innocent. These deaths … are terrible. …” He rubbed his mouth with one hand as though washing away a bad taste. “But how can anyone say it’s Lily’s fault when a horse in Polen throws its rider? Or little Petunia’s idea for two young hotheads to duel?”
With a sick heart, Rose noticed that her father would not even look in her direction when he said this.
Schilling chewed his mustache, clearly biting back a retort. When at last he spoke, his voice was barely under control. “Paying the discharge wages for the army nearly bankrupted us. Now relations with both our former enemies and our allies are strained to breaking point. If we are accused, directly, of having their sons killed … If the archbishop hears these rumors, rumors that we are causing these accidents from hundreds of miles away …”
There was another silence after that, for not even Schilling knew what else to say.
Rose sat, clutching her sewing in clammy hands. She felt like the floor was falling away beneath her chair and had to struggle to breathe evenly and not let her distress attract attention.
Before the silence became truly unbearable, Rose’s father simply repeated his orders for everyone to “hold firm,” and the council was dismissed.
Rose tucked her snarled thread into her sewing basket and stood up.
“Rosie?” Her father gave her a look that was equal parts hopeful and angry.
She knew what he wanted: he wanted her to tell him their secret. Or at least, to tell him it was all over with, that the sleepless nights—on everyone’s part—were done. He had talked at breakfast of sending the younger set to the old fortress in the mountains, and Rose had had to tell him that the shadowy figures in the garden would return, and that this time they might enter the palace itself. She couldn’t say any more, but the expression on her face and the faces of her sisters had been enough to convince him to let them be.
She gave him a tight smile and slipped out of the room. She stopped in her own rooms only long enough to drop her sewing basket on a chair and put a long fur-lined cloak over her wool gown before setting out for the gardens.
In the hothouse with the experimental roses, she ran into Head Gardener Orm. He gave her a grim nod as he carefully inspected the leaves of the pink-and-scarlet rosebush. She tried not to look too guilty, certain that he knew about Galen cutting one
of the flowers for her, and backed out.
She wandered, disconsolate, into the other hothouses, but couldn’t find Galen. She wasn’t even sure why she was looking for him, but she was sick to death of her sisters, and there was no one else near her age in the palace. Anne, their governess, had always been the girls’ confidant, but it was lesson time. And even had Anne been free, Rose did not feel the need to seek her out as strongly as she longed to speak with Galen.
“Rose! Rose! Rose!”
The younger set came tumbling across the winter-brown lawns to meet her. They were red-cheeked from the cold, their hair and cloaks flying. Rose judged that they had just been released from their lessons for the day.
“Rosie-rosie-rose-rose,” sang Orchid. “You have a present!”
“I want a present too,” Pansy said, pouting. “Where’s my present?”
“It is not your birthday,” Petunia said with great authority. “There are only presents on your birthday and the holidays.”
“But it’s not Rose’s birthday either,” Orchid said, dancing around Rose. “That’s what makes it an extra-special present.”
All the dancing and pouting and singing, after her long walk across the gardens and back, was making Rose tired. She took hold of Pansy with one hand and Orchid with the other and continued walking back to the palace. Petunia followed obediently.
“Now,” said Rose when they had calmed down. “What’s this about a present?”
The younger set could only babble that one of the maids had been given the present by a tall young man who said it was for Rose. When they reached the princesses’ apartments, Poppy filled in the details.
“One of the under-gardeners sent you a present,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you can guess which one, can’t you?” She shook back her dark hair. “No guesses? Well, it was the handsome one. The young, handsome one with the broad shoulders. The one who fancies you. What’s his name again? Oh, yes! Galen!”
Her twin, Daisy, frowned. “He doesn’t fancy Rose,” she said earnestly. “It’s impossible: he’s a commoner.”
Rose brushed aside that remark.
“What about Heinrich and Lily?” Poppy’s eyes sparked with challenge.
“May I see my present?” Rose interrupted, not wanting to stir up old heartaches even though Lily wasn’t there. Thinking of the handsome young soldier—so like Galen in appearance—gave her a pang. She knew Lily still grieved for him. Rose gave a significant look to the package, neatly wrapped in brown paper, that Poppy was holding.
The younger girl handed it over, and Rose took it to her favorite divan by the window. Her sisters followed her. Rose gave them another look. The younger set didn’t understand, but Poppy did. With a sigh, she pulled them away, taking her twin with her. They sat on the other side of the sitting room, watching Rose.
Realizing that was as much privacy as she was going to get, Rose turned her attention to the package. It was lightweight and soft within the crackling paper. It had been tied with yarn rather than string, pretty red wool that gave it a festive appearance. She untied the wool and folded back the paper. Out of the corner of her eye Rose saw Poppy half rise from the couch, craning her neck to see what the package contained.
It was a shawl. A triangular cobweb of soft white wool, warm and light. The shape of a flower had been worked into the back. Rose held it up and heard her sisters gasp. A folded letter fell to her lap. She let the shawl drape across her knees and opened the letter.
She read,
Your Highness,
I thought you might need this, as the days are getting colder. White will look good with your hair, and the scarlet ball gown I’ve seen you wear in the evenings. I hope it was not too presumptuous of me.
Yours sincerely,
Galen Werner
“What does it say?” Poppy was on her feet now, dancing around in anticipation. “What does it say? Does he love you madly?”
“Poppy,” Daisy frowned. “I told you—”
But Poppy was already across the room, holding the shawl up to the light to admire it, putting it down again to reach for the letter. “What does it say?”
Rose snatched the letter out of her sister’s reach. “It says that the weather is cold, and he thought I might like a shawl. The end.” She refolded the letter and tucked it into her belt.
The words of the letter had been very formal, almost stilted. But she fancied that there was a little hidden warmth there. He had noticed the color of her hair and remembered her red gown. He had taken the time to make her this shawl, and there had been the meetings in the hothouses, the bouquets for them all, and the rose he picked just for her. …
“Why are you laughing?” Jonquil came into the sitting room, looking upset.
“Galen, the good-looking under-gardener, is in love with Rose,” Poppy said.
“What?” Jonquil frowned around at them, not even seeming to really hear what Poppy had said.
Lily came into the room, looking just as upset as Jonquil. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?” Rose got to her feet. She took the shawl back from Poppy and, without really thinking about it, swung it around her shoulders. Lily and Jonquil both looked very grave.
“Father has just had a letter from the archbishop,” Lily said. Her face was as white as chalk. “He’s accusing us of witchcraft. The archbishop is threatening to excommunicate Father and the twelve of us, if it proves to be true.” She stretched out her hands to Rose. “The bishop who brought the letter has already taken Anne to his rooms for questioning. I suppose he thinks she’s teaching us spells along with geography. Bishop Schelker tried to stop him, but he doesn’t have the authority.”
The younger set stopped giggling. Poppy stopped trying to snatch the letter out of Rose’s belt, and Daisy went pale and swayed where she stood. Rose felt as though all the blood had been drained from her face and hands, and for the second time that day she felt the floor falling out from under her.
“But why?” Rose could barely form the words. “Why?”
King Gregor came into the room just then, one arm around a sobbing Hyacinth. In his free hand he held a long roll of parchment with seals and ribbons hanging from the bottom of it. His skin was gray and waxy. “Why?” he said in a hoarse voice. “Because, according to the kings of Analousia, La Belge, Breton, Spania, and nearly every other nation in Ionia, I not only condone the practice of witchcraft, but used it to kill the princes who refused to marry my daughters.”
Hyacinth fainted dead away.
Interdict
Galen was sitting in Zelda’s pastry shop, talking to Jutta and her husband, when the news reached the city at large. His cousin, Ulrike, her normally rosy-cheeked face ghastly pale, ran into the shop and skidded to a halt at their table. She clutched Galen’s shoulder and panted for a moment while they all stared at her.
“Have you … have you … have you heard?” She gasped out the words, her free hand pressed to her side.
“Heard what?” Galen rose to his feet, concerned, and helped the girl into a chair.
Jutta fetched another cup and poured some tea for Ulrike from the pot on their table. “Has there been an accident?”
Galen felt a surge of alarm. “Uncle Reiner? Tante Liesel? What’s happened?”
Shaking her head, Ulrike took up the teacup in shaking hands. “A bishop from Roma came with a letter from the archbishop,” she said.
“About what?” Galen felt a stirring of dread in his gut.
“They say the royal governess is a witch. She’s already been arrested! The archbishop has accused the princesses as well. The letter says they’ve been using magic to kill all those foreign princes. If they don’t confess, they’ll be excommunicated. And if they do, it will probably be worse!”
They all sat in shocked silence at this. The ladies seated at the next table had been eavesdropping, and one of them dropped her teacup with a small scream. Soon the room was a hubbub of sound as the news spread to t
he other tables.
“There’s more,” Ulrike said, leaning over the table and whispering so that their hysterical neighbors would not hear. “Westfalin has been placed under Interdict.”
Jutta shuddered and her husband put his arm around her, his expression horrified. Galen was so busy worrying about Rose that he almost didn’t hear.
“Interdict?” he said finally, shaking himself. “You don’t mean …”
“I do,” Ulrike breathed. “No mass. No marriages, no funerals, no christenings. For anyone.” Ulrike took a shaky sip of tea and splashed some on her dress in the process. She blotted at the stain with her handkerchief, not really seeming to care.
“The royal governess is a witch?” Jutta frowned. “She comes here from time to time, for tea. She always seemed so kind.”
Galen shook his head. “It’s a ploy to get the princesses to confess to something they didn’t do, to appease the foreign kings. At least you can’t execute royalty for witchcraft. Can you?”
“No, but you can force a king to abdicate,” Jutta said, shaking her head.
Her husband looked at Galen. “Are they guilty, do you think? Have you seen anything suspicious at the palace?”
Galen envisioned little Petunia running shrieking through the hedge maze. It was madness to think of her being a witch. Or delicate Pansy and quiet, gracious Lily. Poppy was a wild one, he thought with a small smile, but he still couldn’t believe such a thing of her. And it was certain that her twin, Daisy, and the devout Hyacinth were not witches.
And Rose?
“Impossible,” he said, putting down his teacup. “It’s impossible for any of those girls—I mean, the princesses—to be witches.”
“Well,” Jutta’s husband said, leaning back in his chair. “It makes sense that something unnatural is afoot, doesn’t it?” He was a large, thoughtful man with thick blond hair and a placid expression. “And they won’t say what it is, will they? And then these princes come, and try to find out, and they die for their trouble.”
Princess of the Midnight Ball Page 9