Prisoner of Ice and Snow

by Ruth Lauren

  “You sneaked out by yourself? Did you steal the key?” I can feel a small smile trying to break through.

  He gives a sheepish smile of his own. “Maybe I learned a thing or two from you.” The smile disappears. “He’s a good person, the prince. You can trust him.”

  Before I can answer, he ducks out of the door, and the lock clicks once more.

  In the morning a knock wakes me. I slide out of bed and open the door. I stare at Prince Anatol, and he stares back. At first he looks uncertain, and then he simply holds out a tray. On it is a bowl of fruit, two glasses, a jug, and several bread rolls.

  Sasha is still asleep, her arm thrown above her head, hair over her face. I stand aside, and the prince pushes the door closed with his boot. He’s wearing a paler blue today, covered by a black cloak.

  I take a roll and bite into it. Maybe I’ll better be able to say what I’m about to say if I’m not distracted by my stomach. I have to tell the prince his sister’s a liar and a thief. That she plotted against our queen and country and threw my sister’s life away to do it.

  And I have to say it, because I need to make an ally of him.

  “I know it wasn’t you who stole the music box,” I tell him. “And I know why you haven’t found out who did do it.”

  He stares at me.

  I tried to think of some way to gild the truth all night, but there’s really no way to do it, so I just come out with it.

  “It’s Anastasia.”

  I swallow and give him a moment to take in what I just said. I can’t look at him. When he doesn’t storm out of the room or call for the Guard or summon the queen, and when my heartbeat has stopped thudding in my ears, I say it again. Then I tell him what Sasha and I talked about last night.

  Anatol’s expression is grave. “This is treason,” he says. “You can’t expect me to believe it.”

  But I hear it—the note of uncertainty in his voice. It’s like he doesn’t want to believe it, but already did a little before I started talking.

  “Think about it,” I say. “You’ve been trying to find out who it was for weeks, and you couldn’t. Why is that? Who else could it be?”

  I try to explain what Sasha said about the princess and Pyots’k. I’m not sure I do as good a job as my sister could have done, but she’s exhausted and sleeping, and I need to convince the prince so that when Sasha wakes I can tell her I’m going to prove her innocence and fix this whole sorry mess.

  “I think it makes sense to you already, doesn’t it?” I say quietly.

  Anatol plunges his hands through his hair, his cloak falling back over his shoulders. He unclasps it irritably and flings it to the floor. “Nothing about this makes sense. She is my sister. Surely you, of all people, can understand how little I wish this to be true.”

  Sasha makes a noise behind us. When I turn, she’s up, her face bright and alert, still creased from sleep. I didn’t even hear her stir. “Wishing it not to be true is an entirely different thing from whether it is or not,” she says gently.

  I think she might have been awake the whole time I’ve been speaking, because she’s talking to the prince but looking at me with a pride that makes me feel warm inside.

  My sister gets up and takes an apple from the tray, but doesn’t say anything further. Then she grabs a pillow from the bed, dropping it to the floor so she can sit on it. She pats the rug next to her.

  I’m not sure if princes are used to sitting on floors, but I sit cross-legged on the thick rug and lean against one of the posts of the bed. Anatol joins us, resting his elbows on the knees of his crossed legs and locking his fingers together. He takes one of the rolls and tears a corner off it.

  His expression is a lot like Sasha’s when she’s deep in thought, figuring out something difficult and not entirely pleasant. We eat quietly while he thinks, but eventually questions are bursting out of me. I have to prove my sister is innocent, or crawling through that tunnel and half drowning to escape will have been for nothing.

  “Did you have Nicolai steal a metal pick from my cell?” I ask.

  His brow furrows. “No. Do you know who started the fire in the tower?”

  The prince sweeps his cloak around himself, and I drag the coverlet from the bed, throwing it around my and Sasha’s shoulders. She tells him what we think about Natalia.

  “At the prison, Anastasia nodded to a big, strong-looking girl,” he says. “I wondered about it, but then we argued and I thought no more on it.”

  He rubs a hand across his brow, mussing his hair. “So my own sister had her spy light the fire in the tower. I only just got away into the tunnel.” He looks at Sasha and bites his lip. “I’m sorry that she let you take the blame.”

  “You really believe me, then?” I ask.

  I look him in the face. I thought his eyes were cold and haughty before, but now they’re just hurt and tired. He does believe me. I even—almost—feel sorry for him.

  We all know how important the music box is to the treaty with Magadanskya. Everything I care about—my country, my parents, my sister—is in the balance here. I have to get this right.

  I lean forward. “We need to find the music box.”

  Anatol shakes his head. “I’ve searched the whole palace and haven’t been able to find it. Your lives are at risk. Your family’s lives are at risk. But I have to try to stop her. For the good of the realm. I just … I don’t know what to do.”

  Sasha shivers. But having the prince on our side changes things. If he’s willing to go against his own sister to do the right thing, then I’m willing to go as far as I need to in order to clear our names.

  I shake my head. “You need to think bigger. Bolder.”

  “You have an idea?” A slow smile builds on his face. “This doesn’t involve a crossbow, does it?”

  “No.” I smile back, but it soon fades. “Just a chance. A small one.”

  Princess Anastasia tore my family apart and blamed my innocent sister for her crime. There’s no way I’m going to let her get away with it.

  Prince Anatol looks straight into my eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Sasha and I change into the servants’ uniforms the prince has borrowed for us, while he sits outside the marble bathroom, penning a note. “Are you sure this will work?” he asks through the door.

  “Yes. Write it exactly as I said,” I call out, slipping the embroidered tunic over the trousers I’m wearing.

  “Valor!” Sasha whips her sash at me. “Shouldn’t you be a little less bossy?”

  “Nonsense. I’m being … assertive.” I take the sash from her, wrap it up, and tie it in the fashion of a servant over her tunic. It’s not a bad fit. No one will suspect it’s not hers at first glance.

  “There,” I say, turning her to face the gilded looking glass. “Two palace servants.”

  “As long as we don’t see anyone who happens to recognizethe two disgraced daughters of the queen’s former first huntswoman and adviser,” she says.

  I put my hands on her shoulders. “Details,” I say with a smile—though I couldn’t eat the food the prince brought for us along with the uniforms. My stomach feels twisted the wrong way.

  We hurry back into the bedroom, where the prince is sitting at the dresser, leaning over a scroll of paper. He adds a flourish to the end of the note, blots the ink, and offers it to me.

  Dearest Anastasia,

  My spies have gathered information regarding two girls that might be of interest to you. Meet me with all haste in the hothouse so that we may speak of the matter privately.

  Your brother and humble servant,

  Anatol

  “It’s perfect,” I say.

  He rolls it up and tucks it into his tunic.

  “Ready?” I ask Sasha.

  She smoothes down her braids and nods.

  Prince Anatol opens the door, and we follow him back along the dull corridor and through the first secret panel to the second, where we all stand straining our
ears. Silence.

  He slides back the panel, and we slip out into the warmth and light of the gold-and-blue palace corridor. I keep my eyes lowered as I follow the prince, Sasha behind me. As we pass the hidden entrance to the dungeon, a chill creeps across my skin.

  Prince Anatol strides up a grand sweeping staircase with a polished marble rail. The low hum of voices carries up the stairs. My blood rushes loud in my ear as we walk across the mezzanine. Below us on the mosaic-tiled floor, two courtiers are engaged in an argument. A group of the queen’s advisers stands close together, their deep-blue cloaks blending like the petals of some great flower as they discuss matters of policy. Three servants wait quietly at the edges of the room in case they’re needed.

  Anatol stiffens and hesitates. We’re going to have to walk right past them all to get to the hothouse. He takes a breath and leads us down another staircase. This one pools like the train of a wedding dress on the floor in front of the courtiers. They stop their argument and bow as soon as they see the prince. He inclines his head, and I dip into a low bow, keeping my head down, praying they don’t notice my burning ears.

  “Here, girl.” One of the advisers holds her cloak out in my direction as we pass. I recognize her voice—she worked with my father. I stutter the beginning of an answer, stuck between not wanting to face her and not wanting to draw attention by ignoring her. My face is burning. Anatol flicks his hand, and one of the palace servants comes running across to take the cloak.

  The prince leads on, and I hold my breath, expecting a hand to stop me or a voice to call out. But the invisibility of servants protects us, and we reach the glass doors of the hothouse. The ornate entrance of the palace, the same one I walked through in chains a few short weeks ago, is closed against the snowdrifts outside. I hope my friends are safe and warm. I hope Feliks knows somewhere in the city they can go. And that I’ll get the chance to find out if they’re okay later.

  We step into hot, wet air. Deep green leaves as shiny as polished malachite press in on all sides.

  “Come. This way,” says Anatol. We push through the foliage, overgrown as it is onto the small paths.

  “This is a good place for you to hide,” he says. “I’ll lead her here.”

  I sweep a thick tendril laden with bloodred blooms out of my way. A glass fountain stands in the middle of the room. Red, blue, and gold fish swim in its depths. Water sprays out of the mouth of a giant glass snow leopard rearing on its back legs in the middle of the fountain.

  “Good. Go. We’ll be well hidden,” I tell the prince.

  His throat bobs. He nods once, and then he’s gone. He’ll find a servant to deliver the note, then wait inside the entrance to the hothouse for the princess to arrive.

  Sasha is already pushing through the dense vines to find a place to hide. “Here,” she says after a minute.

  Bright-smelling leaves brush my hands and face as I follow her into a hollow where the plants tangle above us. I peer out at the fountain, arranging a few big fronds so that we’re hidden. Sasha’s shoulder bumps mine. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispers.

  I can’t believe it either.

  She presses her lips together, but it’s obvious she’s just trying to be brave. I was angry, even a bit upset, when I thought Nicolai had betrayed us. How much worse it is that the princess has used her so.

  The door creaks slightly. We both hold perfectly still. I catch a glimpse of Anatol’s anxious face, and then he disappears again. We wait. As my legs stiffen, I become sure that it won’t work. Anastasia isn’t coming.

  I see Anatol again. He’s pacing in the little space by the door.

  The door opens. Anatol says something in a low voice. The voice gets louder, plants and leaves swish, and he walks out right in front of the fountain. His eyes dart about but land on nothing. He can’t see us.

  “Must we go so far into this place? You know how I hate it.”

  I take shallow breaths. Anastasia.

  “I am sorry, sister. I thought you would rather talk about this away from prying eyes and ears. We can go elsewhere if it pleases you.”

  The princess, upright in the tight bodice of her white dress, sweeps forward and glances down at the fish in the fountain, disdain curling her lip. Pearls adorn the diamond headdress that holds her piled braids back, and on each of her eyelashes sits a tiny white pearl to match.

  “No. You may tell me what you have to tell me here. What have your spies uncovered?”

  Prince Anatol holds his hands behind his back. “That the girls have escaped from Tyur’ma—”

  The princess stamps her foot. “I know this. Why do you waste my time?”

  “Then you know that they are still out there in the city, free to tell their story of innocence to whoever will listen.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Innocence?” asks the princess. “Whatever do you mean?”

  My heart beats fast and hard. Sasha grips my hand so tight it hurts.

  I think Anatol is going to have to accuse her outright, but brother and sister must know each other as well as Sasha and I do. The looks passing between them say it all.

  Anastasia laughs, her dark hair shining in the light pouring in through the glass roof. A dark ruby the size of a date glints on her finger. “And who will believe the words of two vengeful criminals from a disgraced family over those of the future queen?”

  I crouch, as still as an ice sculpture. Sasha is silent beside me, but I’m sure she feels sicker than I do to hear her employer, her friend, talk about our family like that.

  “No one will believe them,” says Anatol. “Which is why they intend to break into the palace and find the music box.”

  The princess laughs, but it fades quickly. “Let them try,” she says.

  “It’s unlikely that they could get in, of course; I agree.” Anatol sits on the side of the fountain and trails his fingers in the water. “Even for girls who evaded Warden Kirov and escaped Tyur’ma. You are right, as always, sister. Still, I hear that they are the first to escape in over three hundred years. And despite the best efforts of our guards, we have yet to find one member of their group.”

  Anastasia’s mouth is a pink slash in her delicate face. “Why do you come to me with this now, dear brother? Do you wish to ally with me over Mother? Even at the expense of Valor and her precious sister?”

  The prince shrugs elegantly. “I have no wish to see innocent people locked up. But I also have no wish to further displease my future queen.” He drops to his knees in front of her and kisses her hand, his dark curls bent over the ruby on her finger.

  A scuffle in the leaves by my right ear makes me jerk. Wings scrabble on leaves and a blur of yellow flashes past, tweeting in fright. Sasha lets out a squeak and bites her lip. My heart beats and beats with the bird’s wings as it flits up into the canopy above.

  “Just a bird,” says Anatol, who has leapt to his feet. “But we’ve dallied here long enough. May I trust that bringing this information to you proves my loyalty?”

  The princess’s lips curve into a smile, but her eyes are cold. “You may.”

  I don’t believe a word.

  “Then I’ll take my leave.” He hurries away, and moments later the glass doors open and close.

  I barely breathe, studying the princess. Unaware that she’s not alone, she stares into the fountain, her hands twisting in front of her.

  Take the bait, I think to myself, over and over.

  And like a winter hare in one of my snares, she does.

  The princess turns on her heel and runs for the hothouse doors. Sasha lets out a breath and surges forward, but I hold her back, a finger pressed to my lips. I know how to hunt.

  I slip through the foliage, not letting it brush my tunic. The soft leather of my servants’ shoes, designed not to mark the beautiful floors of the palace, is silent on the tile path. The princess pauses at the doors, pulls herself up straight, and swings the doors open. She turns left. We wait for three agoni
zing seconds, and then follow her.

  The great hall is empty. I peek around the corner. A long corridor leads to a large gallery with a high-arched golden door at the end of it. Anastasia’s dress flares out as she pushes the door open, glances behind, and tears forward.

  We run after her. I keep Sasha to the side of the corridor, ready to hide behind the thick drapes framing every window if the princess pauses. I signal to her to keep her eyes open, covering our backs.

  When we reach the gallery, we have to run out into the open through a room with a domed ceiling painted to look like a blue summer sky. The light and shade on the wispy clouds is so real that I pause for the tiniest amount of time. I peer around one golden door. Anastasia’s gone.

  Panic makes me bold and I rush out, followed by Sasha, into the corridor beyond.

  “Watch yourself, girl!” An elderly woman wearing eyeglasses and clutching a pile of scrolls in her creased hands frowns down at me.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “Begging your pardon,” says Sasha, ducking her head and pulling me into a bow.

  I raise my head a little and see a glimpse of white disappearing around a corner ahead.

  “I should think so,” says the woman, who continues on her way, muttering to herself.

  We look at each other and then fly down the hallway, but it ends in a tall tapestry of a bird’s-eye view of the city. No more turns, no more doors.

  I throw my hands up into my hair. “I thought I saw her dress.”

  Sasha spins around in a circle. She presses her lips together, deep in thought, then starts pulling and pressing at the panels around us. I help, all the time glancing down the length of the hallway, but though my fingers are desperate and I tear a nail, nothing moves.

  “Are you sure you saw her?” Sasha is breathing hard, trying not to panic.

  “I—I did. I thought I did.”