by Julie Berry
I slid into a chair, numb. Around the room a parade of marble bas-relief warriors jousted, shot arrows, and threw javelins in a never-ending battle.
Only the fallen warriors with their lolling mouths and slits for eyes would ever rest.
They brought me a plate of food. I picked at it, barely able to swallow. I needed to leave this place. “Eat,” I scolded myself. Gather all the strength you can, then leave and go… where? Back to the ruin of my house. I could sleep in the barns with Dog to keep me warm. It would do for a day or two until I’d had time to think of something. Dog! Bless his loyal hide, he had more lives than a cat. The sight of him landing after Coxley threw him would haunt me long after this.
I forced down my meal, rose from the table, and hurried back upstairs. Once in the corridor I hesitated, unsure of which room was mine. I lingered for a moment, waiting for someone to pass by who could tell me, but no one came. I paced up and down, analyzing each door until I’d convinced myself it was one in particular. I rattled its doorknob and, hearing no response, opened the door.
There stood Peter, shirtless and in his knickers, a tailor measuring his outstretched arms.
“Oh!” I quickly pulled the door shut.
Peter?
“Lucinda!” Peter’s voice called after me. “Come in.” What was he doing here?
What was he doing here? And in his knickers?
“Not till you’re dressed,” I said through the crack.
Peter made a noise of annoyance. He and the tailor exchanged some words. The door opened and the tailor breezed out, wrinkling his nose at me. I wasn’t sure whether it was me, personally, or Louise’s dress that he found so objectionable.
I pushed open the door. There sat Peter, lounging in an easy chair. He was clad in a lacy white shirt that was open to his chest, loose trousers, and a pair of embroidered red slippers.
“There you are!” Peter said pleasantly. He rose and kissed my hand.
I nodded. “Here I am. Why in the name of heaven are you here? And what’s this about?” I indicated the hand he’d kissed.
He shrugged. “When in Rome, eh? Got to play the part. This is living, isn’t it?”
I slid into a chair opposite him. “Not for me.”
His face fell. “So Gregor’s talked to you?”
I nodded. “Briefly.”
Peter stretched his arms and propped both hands behind his head. “Short and to the point? Just as well.”
I couldn’t find any meaning in this utterance, and I didn’t strain myself trying to. “Tell me, Peter, what fantastic yarn did you spin them to let you stay in the palace?”
He flicked a speck of dust from his trousers. “No yarn at all. Straight truth.”
I leaned back against my chair. If I waited, sooner or later the details would brag their way out.
“Something I’ve been wondering, Peter,” I said. “Were Beatrix’s pearls really fake?”
He grinned. “How should I know? Always make people question the worth of their valuables. They stop guarding them so well, and don’t work so hard to recover them.”
I almost laughed. It would be some time before I could be merry again.
Peter watched me for a moment. Concern crossed his face.
“Say,” he said, “you’re not upset about Beatrix, are you?” Why this sudden concern for my feelings? I wondered. And why did he need to remind me of her?
“No,” I said cautiously. “Why should I… ?”
“Because I do like you, you know,” Peter cut me off. “I mean, you’ve grown on me.”
My mouth hung open.
“At first I thought you were just another stop on my rounds,” he said, warming to his theme. “Place to sleep, make a lift, not get turned in. But I give you credit.” He nodded solemnly. “You’re hard to fool.”
Perhaps when Coxley threw me off his horse I hit my head in a bad way.
“And you’ve cleaned up nice.”
I explored my skull with my fingertips, looking for tender spots. “Why do you say this?”
“I just hate to disappoint a lady, is all,” he said primly. I worked hard not to grimace. “I’ll survive.”
He waved his hand at me. “And you see, that’s the thing right there,” he said.
“I couldn’t disappoint Beatrix, either. And if it came to a choice between the two of you, well…” His eyes were confident I’d sanction his choice. “You’re a sight too independent minded, if you know what I mean. But Beatrix—she’s as gentle and tractable as a flower. That’s the kind of woman you want.”
I nodded sympathetically. “Absolutely.”
He must have been tippling after breakfast. He’d probably robbed the wine cellars. What on earth did he mean, pitying me? What was he babbling about? I hid a smile at his depiction of Princess Beatrix, the gentle flower. Not as I knew her.
“Oh! By the by, I nearly forgot.” Peter jumped from his chair and went to the bureau by his bed. He pulled open a drawer. “Gregor told me this morning about your house. I thought you might want to have this.” He handed me a soft parcel wrapped in tissue paper. “Seeing as how I won’t have a use for it anymore.”
I only half heeded him. I took the parcel and wiped away the wrapping. Inside a discolored velvet pouch were a handful of papers. One was a sketch of Papa and Mama, and the other was a sketch of Mama and Papa holding a dark-haired child on their laps. Mama’s drawings.
The last paper bore a red seal and ornate penmanship. “It’s their will,” I cried. “However did you find it?”
Peter grinned. “Behind the second wall panel to the right of the fireplace in the parlor. People always hide things there. I thought it would be a treasure map to the location of your parents’ hidden fortune. No such luck.”
I stroked the papers and pressed them to my heart.
Then I smiled and reached for his hand. “Thank you, Peter. If you weren’t so rotten, I’d have nothing to remember my parents by.”
He flopped back into his chair, his arms sprawling over its back. “It’s the least I could do, after… you know.”
My curiosity got the best of me. “No. I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
He leaned forward in his chair. “You mean you truly don’t know?”
I spread my hands wide. “Know what?”
He drummed his fingertips on the armrests of his chair. “The Crown Prince marries Princess Beatrix on Christmas Eve,” he said.
Must everyone remind me? “I know that already. What about it?”
Peter’s face went slightly pale. “You’re looking at him.”
The story tumbled out. King Hubert and Queen Rosamond had two sons a year apart. When the elder son was three years old, he toddled off at the Winter Festival and was never found. As it happened, the Amaranth Witch had just appeared in Saint Laurenz for the first time when the queen was expecting her eldest, so afterward her strange appearance and the disappearance of the boy were linked and called the work of a curse.
The entire kingdom was searched. Soldiers looked for a child with a long birthmark on his cheek. But in all the homes of the city he was never found, and so it was feared that he’d wandered into the river and been washed out to sea.
But then Queen Rosamond recognized his birthmark at the ball. King Hubert was so delighted that his son had amassed an independent fortune entirely on his own, he declared this to be the kind of king the country needed. Not a moony-eyed dreamer like Gregor. Before an astonished crowd of onlookers, King Hubert proclaimed Peter, né Roderick Alphonse, his rightful son and heir to the throne. Apparently Peter was nearly swallowed by a horde of young ladies eager to… congratulate him. Beatrix, not to be robbed of her kingdom, promptly switched her affections to Prince Roderick, and urged that the wedding be moved closer, for fear of her slippery new bridegroom changing his mind.
“But I did consider you,” Peter assured me. “For quite a while. About half an hour. Beatrix wasn’t too happy with me.”
I covere
d my mouth with my hand. “I’m touched, Peter. Deeply.”
He nodded, pleased with himself. I had to look away so he couldn’t see me laugh.
“Where did you go, that day you got lost as a child?” I asked.
“I don’t remember it,” Peter said.
“Someone must have taken you in,” I insisted.
Peter grinned. “Poke.”
“What?”
“Poke, the peg-leg,” he said. “I wandered into his little basement quarters, or so he tells me, and there I stayed. So he kept me on and fed me. Taught me all sorts of things. Before he lost his leg, he was the best thief this city’d ever seen.”
“How’d he lose his leg?”
“Fellow hired him to scare some horses off a road at night,” Peter said. “Man swore the carriage would be empty, and the driver, who was in on the plot, would jump to safety. No one’d get hurt.” Peter shook his head. “But the carriage wasn’t empty. A man and his wife died. Poke got his leg smashed. Always said later, that was his punishment. After that he stuck with good, honest thieving.”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
Peter watched me. “Here, now, don’t take it so hard,” he said, patting my hand.
I shook my head and wiped my eyes. “I’m not crying over you, silly.”
Peter shook his head, plainly convinced otherwise. He patted my shoulder as he rose to show me out. “You should talk to Gregor,” he said. “Losing Beatrix like that was a heavy blow. Maybe you could cheer him up.”
Somehow my feet led me down the corridor and stairs to the front door, not without passing a dozen servants busily decorating cut trees with apples and pomegranates and garlands of red ribbon.
A doorman let me pass through and out into the grounds.
It felt less cold today than it had all the last week. The sky was gray, so thick it was nearly white. The kind of day that makes no shadows but bathes all the world in the same wan light.
I meandered down the walk, around the castle, and through the gardens.
Evergreen boughs rustled as squirrels leaped among them, sending forth their piney fragrance. Red berries on an evergreen shrub couldn’t have fit the Christmas wedding any better if Beatrix had ordered them herself.
I felt grateful for the cold. It reminded me of what was real.
So, swaggering, swindling Peter was king-to-be. A pickpocket in the palace.
And spun-sugar Beatrix would be his wife. I smiled. At least she would not be quite the docile female Peter was expecting. May she live long and hearty.
I reached the rear of the palace. Is this where I was headed all along?
I looked up at the balcony. His balcony.
I gathered my courage.
As the first fleecy snowflakes began spiraling down from the sky, I bent to pick up a handful of stones.
They clattered onto the balcony floor. The curtain parted, and Gregor opened the door, his arms bare, his shirt open at the throat. A red flush rose in his cheeks when he saw me.
“Hello,” I said.
His breath froze in clouds. Snowflakes gathered in his hair. He waited, tensed, as if ready to spring away from me for good. Oh, dear. Where to begin?
“You never finished my dancing lesson,” I said.
His eyes narrowed. “Are you going to steal my purse?”
I nodded. “Probably.”
He pressed his lips together and looked away.
The snow fell thick and fast now, blurring my view of him. I took a step closer.
“I promise never to rob anyone else, though.”
His face broke into smiles. That one, glorious smile. He reached down his hand.
I reached for his.
Epilogue
I hated to get out from under the warm sleigh wraps, but Gregor reached his hand to me.
Together we walked through the snow to where my house had stood, one day before.
Jets of steam still rose from a few places, though most of the wreckage had burned out and gone cold. Snow had begun to draw a blanket over charred metal and scorched stones, but in places where the fire still smoldered, sooty black spots yawned like gaping mouths.
Gregor watched my face. There were no tears to see today. Only snowflakes melting on my cheeks.
I looked up the hill to the garden. It was draped in white like a bridal veil, clothing even the Grecian lovers with some discretion.
“It was beautiful here,” Gregor said.
“It still is.”
He nodded.
A soft sound caught my ears, muffled and indistinct. I searched for the source of it. Running from the barns was Dog, plowing his way through the snow and sneezing when it caught in his beard.
With no regard for Louise’s dress I knelt in the snow to embrace him. He placed his head over my shoulder and pressed his scratchy neck into mine. His loving bleat nearly deafened me.
At length I stood up again. Dog caught hold of my skirts in his teeth and began tugging me toward the remains of my house.
I let myself be led. Gregor’s bewildered face wondered why.
“This goat is smarter than most people,” I said. “More trustworthy, too.”
We drew nearer to the ruins. “Careful,” Gregor called. “Don’t step on it.”
As if understanding his words, Dog let go of my skirts and proceeded himself to clamber over the skeletal beams and mortared stone fragments. Debris shifted under his feet, and I nearly covered my eyes so as not to watch him collapse and fall into the cellars. But he treaded his way carefully over the mess, avoiding the hot areas. He bent and tugged at something, then carried it back to me in his mouth, dropping it at my feet.
I bent to pick it up. Gregor reached my side. I turned it over in my hands, staring.
“It’s Beryl’s pocket,” I said. “The fabric isn’t even singed.” Gregor poked at it. “That’s like no fabric I’ve ever seen.” I nodded. “Hold out your hands.”
Gregor cupped his two hands together, and I poured the contents of the pocket into them. His eyes grew wide.
They were the only bits of color in all this black-and-white landscape. Each like its own small sun, each color everlasting, as if they were droplets siphoned from the fountain where color first began.
“Just don’t tell Peter about them,” I said.
Beryl had more than kept her bargain. I would be a wealthy woman. I could rebuild my home. It would be a monument to my parents, and to Beryl, and I could live there without fear. I imagined it rising from these ashes like a phoenix.
But I would trade it all for Beryl, if she could come back and stay.
I bent low to scratch Dog’s ears. “At least you’re here with me, Doggy Goat,”
I told him. “You and I will remember her, won’t we?”
As if in answer, he turned and trotted toward the wreckage once more, clambering over it until he reached the back of the house. Here he nosed through metal and rubbish more diligently. At last he maaahed to us. I hurried around the periphery to reach him.
Dog stood by a large earthenware butter crock, cracked and upended. I pulledat it with all my might until the debris pinning it yielded with a snap.
There, looking dejected in its pot, but certainly alive, was an amaranth flower.
Acknowledgments
First of all, everything is Phil’s fault. If he hadn’t been so encouraging, so enthusiastic, so eager to parent our boys while I wrote, none of this would have happened.
While it was happening, many talented writers carried me on their shoulders.
I’ve been blessed by their good humor and encouragement. Cynthia Leitich Smith, Brent Hartinger, Tim Wynne-Jones, Carol Lynch Williams, Erik Talkin, Allyson Valentine Schrier, Kate Messner, and Ginger Johnson, I thank you and adore you.
I’m grateful to Michelle Nagler, whose inspired editing spared Lucinda and me many embarrassments; to Caroline Abbey, who made the way smooth; to Melissa Kavonic and Melanie Cecka, for shepherding the project along; to Jill Santopolo and
Jandy Nelson, for wise and practical advice; and to Alyssa Hisner Henkin, a better ally than I deserve.
My flawless mother, Shirley Gardner, filled her home with books and let me noodle my childhood away with them. Bless you, Mom, for that. Mary Vosler, my sterling sixth-grade teacher, insisted that writing be approached with great care. She shines in my memory. My sister Sally told me, after reading one of Mrs. Vosler’s assignments, that I could be a writer someday. I believed her.
Joseph, Daniel, Adam, and David, my brilliant sons, are the reasons I write.
But first and last, my loving husband, Phil, who continually clamors for more pages to read, deserves all the blame.
JULIE BERRY grew up in western New York. She holds a BS from Rensselaer in communications and an MFA from Vermont College in writing for children and young adults. She now lives in eastern Massachusetts with her husband and four young sons and works as a director of software sales and marketing for a technology startup. This is her first book.
www.julieberrybooks.com