The Piano Girl - Part One (Counterfeit Princess Series)

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  We returned to the kitchen, and I did as he’d said. The juices and drippings shimmered with fat and crispy dark nuggets. I opened the oven door and, using the pot holders, slid the pan inside. I closed the door, triumphant.

  “Dory, you need to start the potatoes,” Liisa said.

  Felix rose from the table, opened a pantry door, and brought twelve large potatoes to the counter for me.

  “Is Liisa your mother?” I whispered.

  “No.” He handed me what looked like a small musical instrument with a pointed tip.

  I picked up a potato in my left hand and thought about my course of action.

  “Dory, bring butter to the table.” Liisa rocked in her chair. “Our guests can enjoy the warm rolls while they wait.”

  I looked about the counters. Sometimes cooks left the butter in a covered dish. Felix rose from the table, crossed the kitchen, and opened a cupboard. He handed me a covered butter dish.

  “Are you and Liisa related?” I whispered.

  “Only by marriage. No more questions.”

  I carried the butter to the table, no longer caring about our audience. “Fauder,” I said, “are vee reladed do Hilda?”

  “Daughder, nod now.” Felix’s muscles rose and his neck disappeared.

  I nodded.

  The young people at the table thought this was particularly funny. I smiled and noted there were two young, nice-looking gentlemen who I had not had the opportunity to admire. And then I reminded myself that I was not my own. I was given away to Prince Wrong when I was an infant, and I had a box for a bun and a pimple on my chin, and…

  “Dory, are the potatoes boiling yet?” Liisa asked.

  My eyes widened.

  “Dory, where are you from?” asked one of the young women. Her red hair was stylishly fashioned in a high bun.

  “Vhy?” I asked, glancing at Felix. I was not to say where I was going or where I was from.

  “Vhy,” the woman said. “I haven’t heard of Vhy.”

  “I think she said, ‘Why,’” Liisa’s granddaughter said. She was lovely. Her clothes were lovely. Her dark hair and her complexion were lovely.

  “Well,” the red-haired woman began, “because of the way you wear your hair, I was wondering where you’re from.”

  “Boxden. I’m from Boxden.” I returned to my potatoes.

  They laughed, of course. They thought I was hilarious.

  At the sink, I peeled a potato with the odd instrument. I whittled the once-large potato to the size of a slim pickle. Now what was I supposed to do with it?

  At the table, Ramsey cleared his throat. “Liisa, if we want potatoes for dinner, you best help Dory in there. You can peel blind better than she can with sight.”

  “Stay seated, Grandma, I will help,” said the granddaughter. She strode gracefully toward me. Perhaps she was of royal birth, but if she knew how to peel potatoes, she definitely wasn’t.

  She opened the same drawer that Felix had, and found another potato instrument. Shoulder to shoulder, we stood at the sink. “Just take a little bit of skin, and grip the potato firmly with your left hand, like this.”

  “Oh, I see.” Her grip was similar to that of holding a tennis racket. Mother always said to shake hands with the racket. Starting at the top of the potato, I pulled the peeler toward me. This technique helped a lot.

  “You’ll cut yourself if you keep peeling like that, and we’ll have bloody potatoes.” She nudged me, and the potato slipped out of my hand onto the floor. Bending to retrieve it, I hit my box bun on the counter.

  To my embarrassment, several at the table chuckled. While I tried to regain my composure, the young woman beside me smiled sweetly.

  “I’m Eliza.”

  “I’m Dory, and I’ve never peeled podados before.”

  She giggled and put the potatoes in a pan, covered them with water, added salt, and lit a fire in the stove. I watched with keen interest. At a young age, I’d wanted to participate in the kitchen, but Mother never let me. She said it was beneath me.

  My children would learn to cook.

  “Dory, take the chicken out.” It was Liisa again. “You’ll need to start the gravy and the peas.”

  “Do you want me to stay and help?” Eliza asked me.

  “If you ever vand do ead.”

  Eliza’s cheeks puffed out before she giggled.

  I stirred the drippings while she added cornstarch, cream, and seasonings. Adding ingredients was like playing and creating something edible. I enjoyed helping, being useful, not sitting like the dolts at the table.

  “You need to start cutting the chicken,” Eliza whispered. “I’ll take care of the gravy.”

  I had never cut a chicken. I’d slept with plenty of them, but I’d never sliced into one of them before, and I knew there was an art. I sighed nervously.

  Felix rose from the table. “I’ll carve the chicken.”

  After all the food dishes were delivered to the table, I was allowed to sit down in the chair on Felix’s left. Eliza’s gravy was exceptionally delicious, as was the entire meal. I had not eaten to such content in quite a while. For comfort, I untied the front of my apron and leaned back in my chair. Never had a meal tasted so good to me. But then again, I’d never before dined for five straight days on scrambled eggs.

  ‡

  Chapter Five

  “Dory, it is time to get up.” Felix roused me in the middle of the night. “I have prepared our things.”

  I sat up against my elbows. It was pitch black outside. “It’s too early.” I flopped back down, exhausted.

  “Get up, and be quiet.” He squeezed my pinkie toe until I was indeed awake.

  I sat up and slid on my shoes. Half-asleep, I followed him down the wooden stairwell. He left an envelope on the table for Liisa. Leading the way, he quietly pulled the front door closed behind us. A full moon hung high in the midnight sky, lighting the way to the barn.

  We rode in silence. With a blanket wrapped about me, I huddled next to Felix on the bench seat. The oak trees that earlier appeared laden with green foliage looked like black, gnarly creatures crouched on the silvery hills.

  Several hours later, I awoke with my cheek pressed against Felix’s shoulder. Heavy gray shadows hung beneath his eyes, like he had not slept all night. The sun was halfway to its usual perch. My empty stomach told me it was well past breakfast time.

  “Why did we have to leave so early and not even say good-bye?” I yawned and stretched.

  “Some of the young folk there last night were not expected. Liisa is afraid her granddaughter may have slipped about you being a pianist from Blue Sky.”

  “I thought Liisa was the only one who knew.”

  “It sounds like Liisa also slipped.” Shoulders hunched, he flicked the reins.

  “Who could they possibly be?” I mused out loud.

  “I don’t know, except one of the young men had a hole in his earlobe.”

  “Huh?”

  “Fallon, the dark-haired young man, had an earring scar. A sign of gypsies.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the empty road and was relieved that Felix had waited ten hours to tell me this.

  The countryside changed from scrub, barren hills to mountainous forest.

  “If anyone does follow us, most likely he will head the wrong direction. In my letter to Liisa, I told her that I am delivering chickens to an old friend in Rivers.”

  “Where is Rivers?”

  “West, and we’re headed south.” He flicked the reins. “What lesson did you learn at Liisa’s?”

  There were so many lessons from Liisa’s. “I want my children to learn to cook, and to baste, and to make mashed potatoes.” I glanced over my shoulder at the road behind me.

  ΦΦΦ

  After endless hours of sitting on the wagon bench, my back began to ache. “How are you related to Liisa?” I asked.

  Felix sat hunched with his elbows to his knees. “When my wife and I were first married, we lived with Liisa a
nd Ramsey. They were her great-aunt and uncle. It was a long time ago.”

  “Oh, is your wife still alive?”

  “No, she died nine years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry.” My heart ached for him.

  For lunch, I cooked scrambled eggs over a fire that Felix had built alongside the road. Little sunlight filtered through the trees. The shady, dreary scenery matched my mood.

  “At the next town, we’ll get fresh horses,” Felix said. “You’ll need to wear the wig again. For the remainder of our journey, we will camp. This is our last meal of eggs. After Dover, we will only eat what we shoot.”

  “I could never kill anything, Felix. I don’t want to.” I had no desire to learn the art of shooting.

  “You’ve eaten meat all your life. Now is not the time to become a vegetarian.” He kicked dirt at the fire, smothering it.

  In Dover, a pretty town nestled in the foothills, Felix parked the wagon in front of a feed store. This time he would not allow me to remain alone without him.

  He informed the clerk, “I have chickens to trade for horses.”

  The man nodded and glanced at me and then my wig. Today my complexion was not stained walnut color, but my hair was hidden. “All is well?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Felix slid yet another envelope across the counter.

  At the rear of the building, we parted with our wagon in exchange for two fresh horses. We rode side by side through the streets. Felix carried a shotgun openly in his saddle.

  “If my father’s taking a different route, why are you still leaving letters?”

  “If anything were to go wrong, the letters would help him track us.”

  “Oh.” Their planning had included many details.

  “The horse you are riding—his name is Waluga. Our animals may look common, but they were raised by the best in Blue Sky.” As he rode, Felix stroked the large horse’s dark mane.

  “Blue Sky?” Waluga, my brown mare, could easily have passed for a farmer’s workhorse. Felix’s brown, dappled horse was much larger. “What’s the name of your horse?”

  “Plenty. She is one of the strongest, one of the best.”

  “All the way from Blue Sky?” Like much of our journey, it did not make sense to me.

  “It was your father’s idea. In the leather satchel, there are three dresses for Yonder that you may require before your entourage arrives.”

  Just hearing the old French word made me smile. “When will my entourage arrive?”

  “A few days prior to your wedding.”

  “Why didn’t I travel with them?”

  “You forget, Prince Wron wanted to meet you. And, before you marry and become queen of the vastest empire on our continent, your father wanted you to have these… experiences.”

  “You mean adventures.” I patted Waluga’s velvet brown neck.

  We rode for several hours. Oftentimes, I felt like I was asleep in the saddle. The countryside didn’t help any; it was just miles of barren land—not a tree or a bush or even a prairie dog.

  “Tell me more about Evland,” I said.

  Felix rolled a kink out of his thick neck. “Evland is a small town, two days’ travel from Yonder. Before the war, my wife and I lived there in a white rock cottage, with a sweeping view of the valley. When you ride through town…” He told me exactly the way to get to his old homestead, and because of the emotion in his voice, I listened carefully. “If you ever make it there, Dory, stand at the threshold of our old home and look to the valley.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “On account of the war, we had to. I hid letters that we’d written to one another in an old canister beneath a large rock south of our home.” He appeared thoughtful. “After I deliver Yonder’s future queen, I will find the letters.”

  “Why didn’t you just take them with you?”

  “My wife and I made a vow to each other that we would return.” His chest expanded as he flicked the reins. “I am finally returning.”

  “Oh.” My heart hurt for Felix.

  We traveled until sunset, and then we set up our tents and tied the horses to trees. Over the campfire, Felix baked bread on a stick and roasted a handsome bird that he’d flushed on the trail. He cut off a chunk of meat for me.

  “Chukar is better than chicken.” His gray eyes glistened.

  I unashamedly savored each bite. “I can’t believe how hungry I am.”

  He leaned across the fire to hand me a roll that was golden on all sides. “The sourdough is hungry, too.” He nodded toward a frothy, cream-colored batter. “I will put you in charge of feeding it some flour every day.”

  “Where did you get the sourdough?”

  “There is a woman in Dover who made the starter—the batter.”

  I peered at the tinful of the odd, frothy batter before taking a bite of the slightly sour bread. I liked it. The chukar and sourdough was one of our most delicious meals of our trip, second only to the meal we’d enjoyed at Liisa’s home.

  “Will you teach me to shoot a gun tomorrow?”

  Felix glanced up at me, the firelight in his eyes. “You are not as stubborn as your father led me to believe.”

  “I have never been this hungry before.” I grinned.

  “It is good to know a little hunger.” He wrapped a ball of dough around the end of the stick and handed it to me to hold over the coals.

  After supper, I snuggled in my sleeping bag and gazed overhead at the diamond specked sky. A deep sadness contained me. “I wish I could have told my family good-bye.”

  “Hmmph . . . it was a difficult start for you.” Felix added wood to the fire. “Your parents were afraid you would not cooperate.”

  I remembered my life with them compared to now. “I would not have gone quietly.”

  “I don’t think you would have either.”

  ΦΦΦ

  Over the next few evenings, while we sat near the fire, Felix explained in great detail the parts of a shotgun: the double barrel, the sight, and the butt that I’d hold against my shoulder. And, how if I didn’t load it properly—if there was any gap between the black powder and the shot, it could cause the barrel to blow up. Finally, one evening at twilight, he handed me the gun.

  “You’re ready,” he said.

  I felt ready. I stood with my feet shoulder width apart, propped my right elbow to my hip, and pressed the butt of the shotgun to my shoulder.

  “Sight in that pinecone hanging from the longest branch. Remember to look through the V. There will be a kick that follows; you must brace yourself.” He stood up, perhaps to guard me from falling into the fire.

  I sighted in the pinecone and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked more than I’d expected, and I fell back a step in alarm and mild pain. When I glanced up, the pinecone hung peacefully in place.

  “Try again. Shooting appears to be something that may not come as naturally as your gift for the piano.”

  Felix knew. We’d never discussed my gift before. Oh, how I longed to play, to pour my heartache into the Great Beast.

  “The night of your birthday celebration, you played unlike anyone I’ve ever heard. With a passion both fierce and gentle.”

  “Dhank you, Fauder.” I pulled the trigger a second time and fell back a step. Again, the large pinecone dangled peacefully from the limb.

  “I always play from emotion and memory, and Prince Dell of Nearton”—I glanced over my shoulder at Felix—“had just stolen my first adult kiss. The piano has always been a type of catharsis for me.”

  “You played with great passion.” He nodded.

  “Was it too dark?”

  “No, not dark, but spellbinding. You have a powerful gift.”

  His praise made my fingers twitch with a desire to play.

  ΦΦΦ

  I stopped thinking about home so much and thought more about my betrothed—Prince Wron. I said the first of many prayers: Lord, if he is ugly, let him be kind. If he is handsome, let him be kind. Someday, let me love my futu
re husband.

  Many days later, the sun was hot; and the dry, flat land disappeared into the horizon. The rolling green velvet hills of Blue Sky were only memories. At dusk, we saw our first tree of the day—a lone, gnarly figure without foliage of any kind. It was here that we camped.

  My face felt sunburned as I sat on a rock near the campfire. I was thirsty and famished, and my body ached from eight straight hours on horseback. Enormously exhausted, I gave in to feelings of self-pity. I wanted to be alone under the canopy of stars and took a few steps away.

  “Stay close, Dory; the desert is full of night animals,” Felix said. “Coyotes will call tonight; we must keep the fire going.”

  I returned to my sitting rock. I disliked the lowly coyote. I knew enough about them to know that they gathered courage in a pack. As had become routine, dinner was sourdough bread baked on sticks and an odd-shaped bird.

  “Is it the blue bird?” I asked.

  “Yes, not as tasty as chukar, but the meat is not blue.” Felix handed me a chunk of meat.

  “You are a good shot, Felix, and a fine cook.”

  “We’ll continue our shooting lessons tomorrow before the land changes to green.”

  “Grass again?” I asked, hopeful.

  “No, marsh.”

  I lay in my sleeping bag and listened to the coyotes howl at the full moon. Their wails sounded closer and closer.

  “As long as the fire burns, they’re harmless, a pack of whiners.” Felix snapped a branch from a gnarly tree, adding fuel to the fire.

  “Good.” My eyelids felt heavy.

  “Good night, Princess.”

  ΦΦΦ

  Midmorning, we stopped at the crest of a hill to survey our surroundings. A frothy lime-green river about one hundred meters wide stretched as far as the eye could see. Felix cupped his hands over Plenty’s ears.

  “The horses do not like Swamp Valley.”

  “Any crocodiles or surprises I should know about?” I felt only slightly anxious. Each day was a new adventure with Felix.