by M. A. Larson
“Mum used to send me to sleep at night with tales of Princess Dorothea,” said Maggie. “She was always one of my favorites. I keep trying to picture her here, but it doesn’t seem real.”
On that Evie could agree. None of this seemed real. If her own mother could see her now, she would scarcely believe her eyes . . .
Finally they reached the building with a sapphire-blue standard cracking in the wind. A woman stood outside. She was tall, wearing a blue tunic dress similar to theirs, hands clutched to her chest in anticipation. Her flowing brown hair was shot through with gray. There was a soft and warm energy about her, a powerful aura of kindness. This was a distinguished princess in the twilight of her career.
“Welcome, cadets, welcome! My name is Princess Hazelbranch, your House Princess,” she said in a voice like fresh-baked bread. “This barracks is your home for the year, so please, come in and get settled. We still have a few more things to do, and we’re rapidly losing our sun.”
Evie glanced at the hard wall of gray drifting steadily over the mountaintops. From the looks of those clouds, we might lose the sun for a few days.
Inside, the Ironbone Company barracks was surprisingly cozy for such a large building. Aged spruce timbers ribbed the vaulted ceiling. Torches glowed from sconces above ornate, wood-framed bunks with small footlockers at the ends. Round-headed windows ran the length of each wall, and bearskins lined the center aisle.
As the cadets filtered in, Demetra led Evie to the latrines at the far end of the barracks. She sat her down and brushed days’ worth of dirt and detritus from her hair, then scrubbed the dried mud from her face and arms.
“Sorry about this, but it’s got to be done,” she said, working a coarse brush under Evie’s fingernails.
“It’s all right.”
“One of the benefits to being raised in a castle is that I’ve learned the value of looking after my appearance.” She suddenly stopped and stepped back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you don’t, I just . . .”
“I know I look a mess,” said Evie with an apologetic smile. “I haven’t had a chance to bathe since I left home.”
Demetra leaned in again and used a fresh cloth to wipe Evie’s face clean. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that. I haven’t had much experience with common—” She caught herself, then blurted out, “I mean, nonroyals. And quite honestly, I’d prefer to forget all about that distinction while I’m here.” She stood again and looked down on Evie with a smile. “There. You look bloody gorgeous.”
Evie studied herself in the mirror. How could that girl, cleaned and groomed and uniformed, be the same one who earlier that morning had torn open a termite nest with her hands, scooping the carrot-flavored insects into her mouth for breakfast while Remington slept?
“Right, let’s go claim our beds before they’re all taken,” said Demetra, leading her out of the latrine and back through the bustling barracks.
Evie couldn’t help but smile. Girls were settling in, putting their meager personal items in the footlockers, and chatting with one another about who they had been back home. None of them stared at her. None of them laughed at her. None of them even noticed her. It was bliss.
“I’ve held these two,” said Maggie, indicating the bunks on either side of hers. “Whichever takes your fancy—”
“Blimey!” shouted the girl at the next bunk. She dropped to a knee and dipped her head. “I didn’t know you was gonna be here, Your Serene and Exalted Highness!”
Demetra looked around in embarrassment, hurrying over to pull the girl to her feet. “I’m only a cadet, no different from you.”
“Touched by the royal hand! Me da won’t believe it!”
“That’s Anisette,” said Maggie with a smile. “She’s a Blackmarsh girl, too.”
“Are you?” said Demetra.
“Through and through, Highness—”
“Then I order you to call me Demetra.” She walked past Evie and staked her claim to the bunk on the far side of Maggie’s.
“Anisette,” she said, shaking Evie’s hand.
“Uh . . . Evie.”
“Evie, pleasure.”
Anisette went back to her unpacking. Evie looked at her bunk, then watched the other girls, unsure what she was supposed to be doing. She put her knapsack inside the footlocker, then sat down to listen.
“Me da’s a cobbler on Blackmarsh high street,” said Anisette. She was rough-edged, as was Evie, but with a loud, infectious spirit. Evie liked her immediately. “Any time you need shoes mended, Highness, you come see him. Unless you royals just throw ’em out at the first little scuff.” She winked at Evie with a smile.
“Please, just call me Demetra. I can’t bear that title.”
“Right. Demetra. Well, you come see us. Best cobblers on the Slope. Course, I’m a good sight better than he is these days, but don’t let him hear it—”
“Ah, so that would make you a princess of the sole, then,” said Malora with a smirk, her friends from the coach, Kelbra and Sage, trailing behind.
Anisette looked at her with cinched eyebrows, unsure how to respond to the insult. Before she could, Malora turned to Demetra. “I’ve come to tell you that the kingsblood princesses are over there, if you’d like a bit of space from these street girls.”
There was a moment where no one spoke, each waiting for Malora to complete what must surely be a joke. But she only looked down at Evie with a cold smile.
“Did you really come all the way over here just to insult us?” said Anisette, but the moment was cut short as Princess Hazelbranch approached, reading from a parchment.
“Cadet . . . Eleven?”
“Offer stands,” said Malora to Demetra, and then she and her friends walked off.
“Is there an Eleven here?”
“That’s me,” said Evie, standing.
“Come along, dear.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the Infirmary. Or have you already forgotten your memory curse?” She chuckled at her own joke as she walked away. Evie followed, then hesitated. She looked back at her friends. Only moments after finally starting to feel like she belonged, she was being singled out and led away because she was different.
By the time Ironbone’s cursed cadets had traversed campus and reached the Infirmary—there were quite a few more than Evie had expected, including Sage, who always looked as though she hated the sensation of being alive—the sun had nearly reached the horizon. This would be the first night in many where Evie could sleep soundly, without worrying that a goblin or wolf was creeping up through the undergrowth. She found herself actually looking forward to the night.
Light flooded the Infirmary through a glass ceiling, while nurses in white dresses moved swiftly amongst the sickbeds attending the unwell. The girls were asked to gather near a treatment area, which consisted of several tables surrounded by shelves of tiny bottles of blue and black and green and yellow potions, exotic powders, bubbling chalices, and clay pots filled with unknown substances.
Evie had been one of the first called forward. She sat before the Academy’s chief caregiver, dowdy and droopy-eyed Princess Wertzheim, and answered yet another series of questions. She made one last attempt to explain that her memory wasn’t faulty, but when Wertzheim started to probe further into her family history, Evie decided to abandon the cause. She hadn’t told a soul about her mother and father because she felt protective of them, and would rather drink the odd potion than expose them to these strangers. So when Wertzheim mixed her a small vial of red liquid, she choked it down without complaint.
Now, as she waited for the others to finish their consultations, she started to notice strange things about the Infirmary. Statues of men and women, boys and girls, were strewn about the room. Some stood next to bunks, but most were shoved into the far corner, as though the Infirmary doubled as a royal g
arden’s storehouse. In addition to the statuary, animals roamed the floor unchecked. Goats, ponies, and what seemed to be an entire flock of ducks trailed behind the nurses as they made their rounds. Lizards clung to walls. Pigs and swans napped together on one of the bunks.
A fox walked past on its hind legs, as though it was a person. Her eyes followed it, and found Sage standing behind her. She had a face like a pear leaf, soft and round and tapered into a sharp chin, though always darkened with hostility. Still, for Evie, it was a familiar face in an odd place. She decided to start a conversation. “Lost your memory, too, then?”
“As if it’s any of your business, I’ve lost my sense of humor.”
Evie chuckled nervously, unsure if it was a jest.
“I’m happy you can laugh. I can’t.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .” Sage scoffed and turned toward the table, where a nurse was feeding a cadet a spoonful of smoking yellow liquid. But Evie missed the cue and continued talking. “Why do you reckon they keep all these animals and things in here?”
“They’re not animals,” said Sage with a huff. “They’re people with curses.”
A dog lying at the foot of one of the bunks scratched its ear. Evie studied it, trying to imagine how this could be a person, when, in the same bunk, the statue of a boy lifted its head. It was alive, its calcified skin pliable, trapped somewhere between stone and flesh. When she was ten years old, Evie had stumbled upon a wounded fox cub. It looked as though it had met with an owl or hawk and somehow survived, but only just. She knew it wouldn’t survive much longer. She had the strangest sensation then, an intense compassion for the cub mixed with revulsion at its horrific wounds. The same sensation came over her now when she looked at the statue. Or boy. Whichever it was.
She could feel the uncomfortable tickle of someone’s eyes on her, so she turned and found a squat, fat pig. It chuffed and snorted, but its eyes never left hers. It was disconcerting, a bit too intense for such a placid farm animal, so she stepped away and pretended to admire some multicolored vials on a shelf. But the pig followed.
“What do you want? Go away.”
Its bristled snout twitched as it took in her scent. She looked to her fellow cadets, as much embarrassed as alarmed, but none seemed to notice what was happening. When she tried to edge away, the pig darted forward. She backed into the shelf, vials shattering on the floor.
“Help!”
The pig’s snorts grew louder and more insistent. It lunged at her again, and she tripped over a green-headed mallard, falling to the floor amid a flurry of quacks.
The pig stood only feet away, its body shuddering like the injured fox cub in the forest. Several nurses approached, but kept their distance, as though it might come after them next.
“What’s it doing?” called Evie.
“Stay calm!” said Wertzheim. “Don’t move!”
The pig’s wheezing had become quite labored, its squeals more urgent. It was clear the creature was in great distress. Hooves clacked against stone as the pig’s body was wracked with violent spasms. A large brown spot on its side began to distend. The screams of the cadets rang through the Infirmary, joining the pig’s panicked shrieks.
Finally, it collapsed on its side, bleating as though it were being butchered by an invisible cleaver. The needle-haired body elongated and contracted at once. Joints cracked as the legs violently speared straight. The snout began to mash in toward the rest of the face. The stricken animal squealed uncontrollably as its entire body mutated and contorted.
Evie held her breath as the creature—it could no longer be called a pig—writhed on the floor.
“Someone do something!”
Wertzheim dashed forward and threw a burlap blanket over the suffering creature.
“Move, Cadet! Now!”
Evie scrambled to her feet. The other cadets backed away from her as though she had caused whatever had just happened.
More nurses rushed to help Wertzheim. They held the beast down and spoke in comforting tones. The thing beneath the blanket began to steady, taking huge, heaving gulps of air. The shock of the violent episode lingered like an echo, broken only by the casual honk of a swan. Finally, the nurses helped the creature to sit up.
“Oh . . .” said Wertzheim. “How extraordinary . . .”
The blanket fell. Where there had once been a spotted pig, there now sat a boy. He was muscular and long with short black hair and heavy eyebrows. His muddy brown eyes looked utterly dazed, like he had just somehow survived a fall from the Queen’s Tower.
“Where is she?” His voice was a dry squeak, somewhere between pig and human. He ran his squinting eyes through the crowd until they found Evie. He tried to push himself up, but his arms buckled. A hacking cough rolled up from the deepest part of his lungs. The nurses helped him to his feet. He held the blanket around his chest like a cloak as he staggered toward her. With each shuffle of his feet, more humanness returned.
“Steady, now, steady,” said one of the nurses.
“It’s you . . .”
More cadets backed away, leaving Evie to him. “Hello,” she said with a grimace. Why can’t he just go to someone else?
“I’m back.” He rolled his neck, producing a cascade of cracks. Then he met her eyes again and flashed a wide smile. “I’m back!”
The onlookers murmured in confusion. The tension in the room evaporated as suddenly and unexpectedly as it had come.
“I’m back!” He pulled one of the nurses into an embrace and spun her in an impromptu dance. His delirious laughter bounced off every wall of the Infirmary. He raced after a group of ducks, scattering them with a chorus of irritated quacks. “I’m back, ducklings!” Then he wheeled on Evie, charging across the floor with fresh fire in his eyes. “Where in blazes have you been?” She tried to form words, but found she suddenly didn’t know any. His hand enveloped the back of her head and his lips pressed to her own, soft and warm and entirely unexpected. Thoughts exploded in her head, each dying the moment it was born. And then his lips were gone and he spun to face the others, arm raised in triumph. “I’M BACK!”
Evie stood motionless, lips still parted, still warm with the sensation of his.
“All right, young man,” said one of the nurses, placing a hand on his back.
“What’s this, a kiss for you as well, my dear?”
“Oh, I should think not,” chuckled the nurse, ushering him away.
As she led him into one of the Infirmary’s private chambers, he shouted, “Prince Forbes is back from the sty! Let it be known!”
Evie dragged her hand across her lips and straightened her dress, though there was nothing she could do about the hot red flush in her face. She tried to act as though nothing had happened, but inside her chest, beneath the dragon scale, her heart pounded so resoundingly she thought everyone must be able to hear.
“Incredible,” said Wertzheim, shaking her head in awe. “Absolutely breathtaking. That young man’s father brought him to us five years ago and we’ve never had a bit of luck with his curse. Tell me, Cadet, how is it that you know him?”
Evie grimaced. Just as when she had arrived at Marburg with Remington, all eyes were once again on her. “I’ve never seen him in my life.”
“Oh, I suspect you have, my dear. The cure for a witch’s curse is quite often tied to its inception. Perhaps when your memory returns, you’ll find him there.” Her mouth curled into a smile. “I should hope so with a kiss like that.”
Some of the cadets laughed, but amidst the crowd, there was one who didn’t. Sage, the girl without humor, the confidante to Malora, stared coldly back. And Evie knew then that this incident wouldn’t die in the Infirmary. She was new to the twin hobgoblins of rumor and gossip, yet she understood implicitly that when she sat down at the Ironbone Company table for supper that night, her kiss would be on the lips of many, many othe
rs.
EVIE DRAGGED her feet across the uneven stone of the courtyard outside Pennyroyal Castle. Her eyes were heavy and her belly was full. With starry black skies above, a tremendous distance traveled, and too many strange occurrences to remember, she could have happily stumbled into the darkness and slept. Instead, a sea of third-class princess cadets swept toward the castle, clumped together by the colors of their company uniforms.
She had been distracted all through supper. The Dining Hall was lit by candles and braziers and roaring fires, warm and sleepy, and the long company tables were piled high with feast atop clean white cloth. Joyous conversation surrounded her, girls slowly transitioning from acquaintances to new friends, but Evie’s thoughts were across the hall on the black doublets of Thrushbeard Company. Remington’s company. He had been sitting next to the strange pig-boy, Prince Forbes, and it made her uncomfortable for reasons she didn’t understand. What were they saying? Did Remington know what had happened in the Infirmary? Why did it bother her if he did?
Now the cadets flowed beneath the spiked teeth of the castle’s portcullis and into an immense rotunda. Torches in iron sconces ringed the walls, interspersed with faded oil portraits of great princesses and knights of the past. Twin staircases of polished stone swept up to the castle’s higher floors; beneath them, a series of archways led to the Royal Hall. On the domed ceiling above, an elaborate mural depicted women in tattered dresses amid the ruins of ancient places. Near the dark edges of the mural, formless shadows huddled, yellow eyes burning out from the gloom. A chill ran through her. She had seen eyes like those before, but what were they doing in Pennyroyal Castle?
“They’ve moved on Tarburn’s Keep, did you know that?” said Demetra. “My sister’s already been deployed.”
She and Maggie and Anisette had been talking nonstop ever since Evie found them in the Dining Hall after her treatment. Maggie had held her a place on the bench, and even dished her a plate of food, but she still hadn’t managed to find a way into their conversation. They mostly spoke of places and things she knew nothing about.