by Julie Berry
Peter's forehead creased with thought. "I promise not to steal... from Lucinda."
"Fair enough," Beryl pronounced. She reached for the doorknob and shooed us both out.
The cold sent a shock through me. It made the night sky feel huge and barren. Even so, far beyond my reach, millions of stars blazed in the heavens. The moon, just past full, hung low and fat over the house.
"Don't come back until midnight at least," Beryl called. Peter sprinted down the walk toward the carriage and held the door for me, shivering. At the sight of the carriage, I drew in my breath. It was pale and glistening, small and graceful, like my pearl dancing shoes. A team of four white mares with braided manes stamped their hooves, eager to get moving. The driver, swaddled toe to chin in wraps, waved to us.
I allowed Peter to help me in. He fell into the seat beside me as the horses took off. With four of them
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pulling such a light vehicle, we fairly flew over bumps in the road. "Where'd she find this carriage?" Peter said. "It beats Prince Gregor's by half."
"Does it?" I remembered my earlier ride. "You seem to be a connoisseur of carriages."
"Plan to have some of my own, someday," Peter said.
This caught my attention. "With all your thieving and profiteering, you ought to live like a lord. What d'you do with all your money?"
"Save it," he said.
"Such discipline! What for?"
"Just what you said. I ought to live like a lord. And I aim to." That Peter had a driving ambition fascinated me. There was a purpose to his depravity! "So, you'll buy yourself a chateau somewhere and live a life of retirement and ease?"
"I don't know about 'retirement,'" he said. "I'll keep busy enough. But I don't just want to live like a lord. I want to be one."
I turned to face him, but of course, he was only a hole in the darkness. "You what?"
He hesitated. "I want to be one. Be a lord." He sounded defensive. I tried not to laugh. "But how can you?"
"Buy a peerage."
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He made it sound like the most mundane thing imaginable, like buying a spool of thread or a pennyworth of salt. Buy a peerage. Buy a named title and the lands and estates that went with it. Why shouldn't a street thief do that? "But surely," I said, "a peerage itself would be a vast amount. And then you'd need capital to live on, to invest, to build, to operate. Why not keep the money and simply live as a rich man in a fine house somewhere?" The fervor in Peter's answer surprised me. "Because my whole life I've looked around me and thought, 'What puts you here at the bottom, Peter, and those high-and-mightier up top?' Are they cleverer than me? Not likely. Harder working? Not on your silver buttons."
I fingered the front of my gown. No silver buttons.
"'Make way for Lord Fleur-de-lis,'" he mimicked." 'Bow to Lady Beauregard.' 'Clear the area; Count Rymington and his party are arriving.' What makes them better than me?"
Possibly, the fact that they aren't criminals, I thought of pointing out, but he was so overcome by the violence of this passion that I stayed still. "Make no mistake, though," he said, "I've sold to most of the men, and bought from all the ladies, too, when their finances get pinched. They're not all so grand as they like to make out. And someday I'll be Sir Peter Such-and-such, their financier, who makes discreet loans at high interest, and they'll come groveling to me. And we'll see who's bowing then."
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I'd never seen him like this before. I listened to the creak of the carriage wood filling the night and thought of all I'd learned about Peter in just a few short days. He was a rascal, a liar, and a bare-faced cheat, and yet he seemed as inevitable as a force of nature.
"Well, Peter," I said, "it's a bold ambition, but you'll do it, if you're not murdered first."
"Oh, I won't be," he said. "I'm much too careful for that."
The rattle of wheels on cobblestones showed we'd reached the city. Lights from homes and shops reflected inside the carriage, and I took a better look at Peter. In the dim light he looked pale and moody, somber as a judge. A generous impulse overtook me. "You look fine, Peter. The clothes suit you well."
He looked at me, his face unreadable. "You're toying with me. Like at the festival."
That he should think such a thing! "Indeed, I'm not. But if you won't have my compliments, never mind."
The palace came into view. Every window blazed with light. I felt suddenly clammy with sweat, even in the cold.
The mask. I held it up to my face. Could I, perhaps, wear it all evening and remain hidden from Gregor as a silent observer? I tried it on again, for practice.
"You look quite nice, too," Peter said, startling me. "Now that I have the mask on? Thank you kindly."
"No," he said. "With or without the mask. More so without it, I'd say." 228
I made a show of wiggling a finger in my ear. "Is this Peter talking? Is there another girl in the carriage?"
He looked out the window. We couldn't see the palace anymore; we were approaching it head-on, and nearly there.
"Come, come," I said. "You may be a lord someday, but you aren't one yet. No need for the courtly manners, and certainly not the moody temper. If you're to be my escort tonight, I insist you be a cheery one. You can even insult me if you like. It always makes you feel better."
The carriage pulled up at the drive and stopped. Up the sweeping granite staircase I saw the broad doors thrown open to admit other new arrivals. It might have been noonday inside, so many lamps were lit.
And somewhere in this glittering chaos was Gregor. I reminded myself to breathe. And breathe again.
I stood on the curb with no notion of how I'd exited the carriage. The driver chirruped to the team and moved off toward the stables.
Don't leave me here, pretty horses.
We both stood, looking up, speechless. A line of footmen in powdered wigs and matching gray jackets stood at attention, clearly wondering why we didn't approach.
"You've been here often, haven't you?" I whispered to Peter.
"Never through this door," he said.
He held out his arm, and I took it. I was bound to
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stumble in these infernal slippers. I had no practice moving about in such foolishness.
I used my free hand to hold my mask in place, and concentrated on each step to avoid looking at the door.
A tall, dour-faced man stood by the doorkeeper. He'd probably been greeting palace guests since the Flood. He inspected us up and down as if committing us to memory, and asked, in a voice as deep as the grave, "Your names?" Oh dear. I hadn't thought about that.
"Dorian Carlucci," Peter said, and elbowed me under the cover of my wraps. The man frowned at Peter, looking down at him through his small spectacles. Not my true name. Whom should I be tonight? Angelica? Gregor would recognize that.
What to say?
"Mask off, please, mademoiselle," the man said. I lowered the wand. "Beryl White," I told Sir Serious. It was the first thing that came to mind. Peter gave me a sideways glance. "Of?"
I held my head high. "Of the Palisades."
Sir Serious took a closer look at me, but nodded to the doorman, who pushed the vast door open.
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Chapter 26
And we were in. I clapped the mask back over my face.
A bowing manservant relieved me of my wrap and whisked it away. Without it I felt exposed in my red gown. I'd never worn anything quite so tight. I didn't see anyone else wearing a mask, which made me nervous, but still I hid my face.
I couldn't see the floor for all the swishing skirts. The air was thick with dizzying perfumes, sizzling savory fragrances, and the bewildering scent of wine. It was hot and steamy, swirling with light and smoke from a thousand candles. Music came from somewhere, though I couldn't make out the tune exactly over the buzzing voices.
No sign of Gregor, thank heaven. Yet that didn't stop me from searching for him.
It felt terribly lonely to enter a room so full and
know
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that no one cared if I was there. But soon I wished I was merely anonymous. Staring eyes were everywhere.
A stout gentleman passed by, brushing into Peter. Peter's hand followed him, reaching for a leather case that jutted out of the man's pocket. I yanked him back sharply. "Are you daft?"
Peter leaned over and whispered, through smiling teeth, "I could have a heyday in here in under five minutes."
Was there no limit to his nerve? "Don't you dare."
Peter sighed and patted my hand, which still rested on his forearm. "Do you realize what you're depriving me of?"
I pretended to straighten his lapel, but instead, yanked it tight till I had his full attention. "I won't be arrested again, Peter. Not tonight. Understand?"
He rolled his eyes.
I leaned closer to whisper even softer. "Why are they staring at us?" "Maybe it's your mask," he said. "This isn't a costume party."
"I know," I said miserably. "But I don't dare take it off. Can we leave now?" Faces half-concealed by pince-nez and fans turned our way and whispered to one another. Heads towering tall with powdered hair wagged in our direction. Their notice seemed to spread like ripples in a pond.
Young women's eyes sized Peter up then turned to me. They lingered on my mask. I knew it was out of
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place, yet the more people stared at it the more I dreaded ever removing it. "All the ladies envy me, Peter," I said. "You shall have your pick of dancing partners."
Peter thrust his chest out even farther, if such a thing were possible. "I am devastating, aren't I? Togs like these suit me. In two years' time, I'll own a dozen sets."
Another servant appeared with a tray of small meat pastries. At the sight of them my stomach growled, but I hesitated. Peter, whose ease I envied, took two and offered me one.
The serving man nodded toward a tall double doorway. "The line begins over there."
Poking out from the doorway was the end of a long queue of couples that disappeared from view inside the next room. With a sinking heart, I stepped closer until I saw. We weren't even in the ball proper. This was merely a foyer.
Peter steered me toward the end of the line. From there I could see into the grand ballroom. It dwarfed the room we'd first entered. Here the music was louder, the lights brighter, and the assembly even more vast and colorful. The orchestra played in a balcony, and dancers made good use of the floor. On a dais at the head of the room, festooned with flowers and ribbons, stood four tall thrones. King Hubert and Queen Rosamond, both round and beaming, sat in two, and another regal couple in the others. The
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king and queen of Hilarion. It had to be. For standing between the two pairs of thrones were Gregor and Princess Beatrix, arm-in-arm.
He'd never looked better.
Nor, I imagined, had she.
The line moved closer and I got a better view of the princess. She was swathed from shoulder to toe in rose silk--no match for the roses in her cheeks. The pearls at her throat were so large they reminded me of Beryl's stone. Her flaxen hair was done up in curls that tumbled gracefully down over her shoulders, with a tall, delicate lace cap nestled on top. She held a dainty hand out for each guest to kiss, and gave all her sweetest smile and curtsy. From this closer distance I could see even more clearly how exquisitely pleasing her features were. In beauty and manners she was everything a princess ought to be. She would make an exemplary queen someday. And she was standing much closer to Gregor than I fancied.
Gregor stood erect in his royal red coat and tails, trimmed with medals and ribbons, an ornamental sword belt draped over one shoulder. He greeted each guest, acknowledging them affably. Beside him Princess Beatrix reached only to his chest in height, but he smiled down upon her, obviously pleased by her every word.
He's happy now, I realized. He's sorted himself out,
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and he's got what he always wanted. He loves her, or, at least, is starting to.
Who wouldn't?
Besides me, I mean.
How could I come here, against his express wishes, and complicate his happiness? What kind of fiend was I? How did I let Beryl talk me into this? It wasn't Beryl's fault. I'd come because I wanted to. What madness makes us seek to see our own worst torment?
Worse still, I'd come with a tiny hope, born of seeing myself in the mirror, and hearing all of Peter's flattery. I'd imagined that, maybe, once Gregor saw me, if he did, he'd...
I couldn't bear now to complete the thought.
We drew closer. The line ahead of us dwindled alarmingly as each group of worshippers paid their respects and were absorbed into the dance or the refreshment tables or the rooms where cigars fumed and cards and billiards were played.
I made up my mind. I would do nothing to disturb Gregor's peace or his plans. If I truly cared for him--if I loved him--there was no other honorable choice than to hide behind my mask. If my mask would hide me.
And did I love him?
The flickering candles in hundreds of lamps reminded me of the candles in his chapel.
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Oh, my heart. I did.
If only he weren't a prince. If only he was a poor peasant somewhere, I could be a poor peasant beside him. All I'd ask for was his smile, and endless dancing lessons. But he was a prince, and not just in name. He deserved a greater heart than mine.
"Peter," I whispered. "This is important. Do I look like myself?" "No," he said. "You look like her." He pointed to a stout older woman holding court in an alcove with a circle of weary listeners and a plate of hot dainties.
"Be serious," I said. "Do I look like myself?"
"This is an odd time to fish for compliments."
I groaned. "I'm not, you idiot. I mean, am I recognizable? Will Gregor know me?"
Peter gave me an appraising look. "If he doesn't, he'll want to." I felt my cheeks grow warm.
"Don't be silly," I said. "Not while he's got such a vision there beside him." Peter looked up at the dais. He said nothing. We took another step forward. I'd get no useful information from him. To soothe my nerves I changed the subject.
"What do you think of the princess?"
He looked again at her. "She is very beautiful." He seemed to choose his words carefully.
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"Obviously," I said. "But what do you think of her?"
We stepped forward again. I could hear their voices now, talking with guests. Princess Beatrix's voice rose like a melody over the hum of voices in the room.
Peter looked at me. He seemed unusually serious. "What I think of her is unimportant."
An odd answer. But I had no chance to puzzle out its meaning, for now there was only one couple before us, kissing the king and queen of Hilarion on their outstretched hands.
I tried to swallow but couldn't. I didn't know what to do with my hands, and I felt certain I'd trip and fall onto the dais.
Their Graces of Hilarion finished with that couple and turned their tired eyes our way.
Peter hoisted me forward. Odd that I should be schooled in social graces by a street thief.
"Dorian Carlucci," Peter said, bowing low before their thrones. "Beryl White," I said. I curtsyed so low my knees nearly buckled. Gregor was so close I could smell his cologne. I kept my masked eyes on the floor.
"Charmed to meet you both," said the king. "Enchanted," added the queen. "Welcome to Saint Sebastien," Peter added for good measure.
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We kissed their hands and moved down the line, to stand before the future king and queen of Laurenz, who stood glowing with mutual adoration.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter struggle to hide a smirk. What a fool I'd been! Even if I'd come wrapped in a Bedouin's robes, Gregor would recognize Peter. From there my identity would easily follow. "Dorian Carlucci," Peter said.
"No, you're not," Gregor said, grinning broadly. "Beryl White," I whispered, feeling faint.
"Darling, do you know these people?" th
e princess purred.
"This one owes me money," Gregor said. "How did you get in here, you rogue? You must have hoodwinked Bartholemew." He sounded amused, which was some relief. Not much, but some.
"It wouldn't do to miss the party," Peter said. He made a flamboyant bow. "Now that you've been sold off the market, I had to give the brokenhearted young ladies of Laurenz some consolation."
"In that case you ought not to have brought such a charming companion;' Gregor said, tapping his chin. "Why would she hide behind that mask, I wonder?" Princess Beatrix stood taller and inched closer to him. "Pox," I whispered. The princess let out a little mew of fright.
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"Scars," I added hastily. "Years ago."
"Pity," Gregor said, raising an eyebrow.
A note in his voice alarmed me. Did he suspect? Or was I imagining? "My dear," the princess said to me,"what is that charming weed you have behind your ear? Darling," she crooned, addressing Gregor, "you haven't introduced me properly to this dashing young friend of yours." She fluttered her fan and turned the full force of her smile upon Peter.
She's paying you back for complimenting me, Gregor. Tit-for-tat. "Call him any name you like," Gregor said. "As long as you call him with gold in your pocket, he'll answer." He spoke to the princess, but his eyes were on me.
"What a thing to say!" the princess said. "I can see, Miss White, that I shall need to teach your prince some manners.
I bowed my head. I preferred that my prince's manners remain untouched by hers.
"Are Their Highnesses acquainted with your friends?" the princess continued. She took hold of Peter's hand, leading him over to where King Hubert and Queen Rosamond sat on their cushioned thrones.
"Mother, Father," Gregor said, "these are some friends of mine. May I present," he gave me a sideways glance that made my insides squirm, "Mister Dorian Carlucci, and his fair companion, Miss Beryl White?"
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Peter bowed and I curtsyed.
"Why do you wear that mask, my dear?" Queen Rosamond demanded. "Masks haven't been in fashion these ten years or more."
I made an apologetic bow.
"Well, take it off. Let's see your face!" She smiled but expected obedience. Gregor's face registered alarm. I could barely move. "Mother, I believe Miss White has her reasons--"