The Thirteenth Princess

by Nina Clare

  The branches of the tree began very low to the ground, so I could reach them quite easily. I scrambled to quite some height, but the branches were not sturdy. I well recall the loud crack and my sudden rude crashing to the ground. My howls of pain brought one of the gardeners hurrying to me. I remember Old Greenjade’s worried face leaning over me, his sun-browned arms struggling to scoop me up, his staggering gait as he carried me through the gardens. Beryl materialised from behind the raspberry canes as if out of nowhere—which was generally how Beryl appeared whenever my sisters or I were in trouble.

  “She’s gone and broke it,” gasped Old Greenjade as he put me down on a mossy seat. He was pointing to my leg. “Snapped it like a young branch!” he said above my wails of misery.

  “I will take care of it,” said Beryl.

  “I’ll fetch the barber!”

  Beryl laid her hands on my leg, which hurt so angrily I was sure I could see the pain like a hot red haze all around it. She closed her eyes and looked as though she were concentrating very hard.

  And then a strange thing happened.

  The hot red haze began to change to a warm, sunset-orange colour, and then the sunset-orange haze became golden as a kingcup flower. Finally, the golden haze grew green as early summer grass after a shower.

  And then all the pain was gone.

  My leg looked as straight and pink as it always had, and the cut and graze on the knee on my other leg was gone. Beryl sat down next to me and looked a little tired.

  “There we are,” she said in a wearied voice. “All better now.”

  I jumped up and ran round the stone seat in circles—my legs had never felt so strong, and I felt I had never run so fast before. I flung my arms round Beryl’s ample middle and told her, “Pickoo rasbry!” Which meant, “I’ll pick you some raspberries!” (I was only in my fourth summer, recall, and a little slow in speech).

  So there we sat, side by side on the mossy stone, eating a handful of squishy raspberries while I swung my legs hard, much to the surprise of Old Greenjade, who came back huffing and puffing with the barber trailing behind, waving his iron implements to set my broken bone.

  “Not broken,” Beryl told them, “just a bang.”

  “I could’ve sworn it were broke!” Old Greenjade pulled off his straw hat and fanned his face. “It were all sticking out funny. Could’ve sworn it were broke!” He told the barber, scratching his head.

  That was the very first time I recall Beryl healing one of us.

  Over the years, every childhood illness cleared up as soon as Beryl came into our nursery and took over from the palace physician. Nasty cuts closed up remarkably when Beryl pressed her handkerchief to them, and fevers and headaches vanished under her large, warm hands. We were pronounced the most fortunate maidens in all the kingdom when not one of us was left with a single scar from the terrible pox epidemic that swept through Cataluna, though it left pockmarks on the faces of high- and low-born throughout the land, from the Lord High Chancellor’s mother to the youngest scullery maid in the palace kitchens.

  Why no one else noticed these things I could not understand, when it was as clear as daylight to me. But then, as Beryl says, miracles happen all around us every day without most people noticing.

  When I found injured birds in the gardens or rescued baby rabbits from the clutches of the stable cats, I would bring them to Beryl. “Akem ber, Bel” I would insist, or “Make them better, Beryl,” when I could speak in proper sentences.

  Beryl would say, “What can I do? I am not the apothecary.” But I would not move until she took the proffered creature. She would put her big, warm hands over it, and the red haze of its pain would become a sunset-orange glow, and then the orange glow would shine golden as a kingcup, and then the gold would melt into a green like early summer grass after a shower. The creature would be wriggling or fluttering as if it were bursting to run or hop or fly as it had never run or hopped or flown before. Then Beryl would sit down, looking a little tired, and I would hurry away to release my rescue.

  Beryl was unusually good at other things when we were growing up too—little things only I noticed. For example, if any of my sisters lost anything Beryl could always find it, no matter how obscure its hiding place.

  Beryl never told me all the ways she helped my sisters, and she never admitted the deeds were even of her doing. I never pressed her. I did not need to. That was the way it had always been with Beryl and me—we just knew things without having to say them.

  Chapter Three

  I was only in my first year when Uncle ascended the throne following Father’s death. For sixteen years, he ruled the kingdom by crown proxy. The Lord High Chancellor had grown increasingly impatient with him, however, because of my sisters. More specifically– because of my sisters and their lack of marriages. Not only had there been a worrying lack of betrothals—there had also been a woeful lack of suitors.

  I knew the chancellor was anxious about this issue, though he was too scared of Uncle to say it outright. I knew he suspected Uncle of keeping all suitors away from us. How was it I was privy to such knowledge? Because sometimes I would secretly listen in on their private meetings.

  Now, I know listening in on conversations when you should not be present could be considered eavesdropping, snooping, or prying and is most unseemly behaviour. But it was the most pressing of circumstances—something underhand was going on, and my sisters were suffering for it.

  Our education had given us some understanding of most subjects—its purpose was to make us into accomplished, interesting wives, fitting partners for high-born spouses. No other future was even thought of—except by me. I wanted to be an adventurer, an explorer, a navigator of new worlds! But I was alone in this. My sisters all longed for marriage, each of them exhibiting varying degrees of yearning, from mild wishful hopefulness on the part of the youngest triplets to the distracting near despair of my eldest sisters, who had been eligible for courtship for the past five years.

  My eldest three sisters had then just passed twenty-one years, which is considered long past the ripe age for matrimony. Diamond suffered most, being the firstborn, for she was due to be the first to marry. By that time her handsome, noble, dashing princely husband—that is how she pictured him—should have been wearing the crown of our father, and she should have been rounding up her own children to a good even number, perhaps as many as four. And so she felt it very hard that none of these anticipated events had come to pass.

  “It is not that I am too ugly to attract a suitor, is it?” she would ask as her maid brushed out her long, chestnut waves before the looking glass. And we all murmured of course she was not. And she really was not, for all my sisters are quite beautiful.

  “And it is not that I am too dull to make an interesting companion to a potential husband, is it?” she would ask wistfully. And we would shake our heads. For she really was not. All of my sisters are talented. Diamond’s especial gift being mathematics.

  “So why does no one come to woo us?” she would lament. And all my sisters would shrug and sigh with great empathy but were unable to answer the question they were all pondering.

  And so I determined, even though I had no interest whatsoever in being wooed or wed, that for their sakes, and for the sake of the peace and harmony within our walls, I would find out why it was no eligible royal bachelors ever came seeking my sisters’ hands. For we knew very well that in all the kingdoms about us there were princely bachelors aplenty who would surely be pleased to win a beautiful, talented princess for a bride—and in Diamond’s case, a kingly crown also.

  We all suspected Uncle was at the root of this problem, but how to find out? I knew I had to observe and listen to him unseen to discover the truth. That would be an exceedingly difficult task for most people, but it did not pose too much difficulty to me. I knew exactly how it could be done. I would simply make use of the invisible cloak Beryl kept in the little ebony box in her chamber.

  I discovered the cloak by a
ccident, or rather by curiosity, when I was nine. Beryl’s chamber, though very small, was a source of wonder to me. She had a small bedstead, neatly made up with a colourful embroidered cover and a plump feather pillow; a washstand, with basin and pitcher; a wooden chair with a carved back and a cushion; a tiny fireplace, always swept clean; a little table with a candlestick, hand mirror, and comb; and a small trunk at the end of the bed, which held her clothes.

  None of those items was particularly remarkable. But there was one last item that certainly was. Against one wall stood a large trunk of glossy wood, bound with thick straps and shiny buckles. A most imposing trunk, very like the kind Uncle used for his many outfits and articles in the times when he used to make his annual progresses throughout the kingdom. He had ceased making them from the time my eldest sisters came of age, however, no doubt because he did not care to hear the people calling out for the longed-for marriage of Princess Diamond.

  I went looking for Beryl on that particular afternoon. She was not in the jewel house, where she was often to be found. She was not chatting with the cooks in the kitchens or getting a breath of air in the herb gardens, so I went up to her chamber. It was in the same wing of the palace that housed our bedchamber, for her role had been of Royal Nurse to us in our youth. Her door was unlocked, but she was not within. I reasoned she must be planning to return soon to have left her door unlocked, and so I sat and waited.

  I did not realise at that young age that Beryl had no need to secure anything with conventional keys and locks. No manmade lock could keep Beryl from opening what she desired to open, and no mere mortal could open with any key what Beryl determined should stay shut. And so, with the hindsight of years, I realise she had somehow permitted me to enter her chamber that day. Perhaps it was a test of my honesty. If so, then I certainly failed.

  I perched carefully on her wooden chair. I dared not move or touch anything. Beryl was very particular about neatness, and not touching what did not belong to you. I sat awhile, at first enjoying the quietness, for when you are one of thirteen sisters living in a great palace surrounded by bustling servants and hustling courtiers, quietness is not something to be often found.

  After a time, I grew restless of the wait. My eyes were continually drawn to the great chest that filled almost the full width of the far wall, enticed by its broad straps and gleaming, shiny buckles.

  I slid off the chair to examine it more closely. At first I kept my hands behind my back so I would not be tempted to touch what I knew I ought not to. But I could not resist extending just one single finger to stroke the polished golden bands that encircled it.

  Then suddenly my whole hand was running over the wide straps, which were of a bright crimson colour.

  And then my fingers were tugging at the shiny buckles. One buckle undone. Two buckles released. My hand hovered over the third and final buckle. It was clear to me even then that the chest had not been fashioned in our kingdom. No worker in Cataluna would affix an odd number of straps to so grand a trunk, as this one had.

  Once the last strap was undone, I hesitated briefly before lifting the lid.

  Inside was a cover of scarlet cloth. I pushed it aside, and my eyes widened at what lay underneath.

  There were boxes of all manner of shapes and sizes. Some painted with pictures, some covered with rich fabrics. Some made of shell and different types of wood. There were little boxes made of glass and large boxes covered in materials I had never seen before. They were such exciting-looking boxes. So mysterious. I gazed at them admiringly.

  And then I began opening them.

  I counted fifteen boxes. But to my great dismay, almost none would open. No matter how hard I tugged at the lids, pressed over every inch of them, searching for hidden springs, they would not open for me. I only succeeded in opening three boxes out of the fifteen.

  The first of the three was a beautiful, round, golden box with a painting of a tiger on its lid—I knew it was a tiger although I had never seen one because Mistress Epidote, our topography and zoology tutor, had shown us a picture of one. Inside was a perfectly round, polished object of brass and wood with a star-shaped picture carved in the centre of it and letters carved around its circumference. I had no idea what it could be. I turned it round and round in my hands, examining it, but it was a mystery to me. I placed it back in its golden case.

  The second box was small and silvery. Inside was a little mirror of beaten silver in a frame of the most delicate filigree work. I looked into the mirror to see my nine-year-old, sun-freckled face, but suddenly my face disappeared, and in its place was the face of a boy about the same age as myself. Quite a nice-looking boy, I thought, with a bright and sunny smile. He looked like he would be a good playmate. I knew so few boys; those who worked in the palace were never much fun to be around, excepting the stable hand who groomed our ponies. I puzzled over who the boy could be—and then his image faded and my own face reappeared. I was looking at myself with a baffled frown. I looked for some time longer at the mirror, but it did not change again. I carefully returned it to its silvery box.

  The last box I could open was of plain ebony. It opened easily, the lid lifting smoothly off, but to my disappointment it was empty. I shook it and turned it upside-down, not quite believing there was no treasure inside. As I was replacing the ebony lid, a strange shimmer of light glistened from within and caught my eye. I blinked and looked again. There was most definitely a faint shimmering inside the dark interior of the box. I put my hand inside—and my hand disappeared!

  I gasped and pulled my hand out again—it was restored to normal. I dipped it in a second time—and it vanished! I could feel the texture of something under my invisible fingertips. It felt like fabric, a very light, gauzy material. I closed my eyes and lifted it out. I draped it over my bare arm and opened my eyes to see that, yes, my arm had disappeared! I put the gauze around my neck and shoulders and took up Beryl’s little hand mirror to see my reflection—but I had completely disappeared. I pulled it off—and there I was!

  I felt a mixture of delight and fearfulness at such a wonder. Then I remembered with a rush of guilt that I should not be touching Beryl’s things. I bundled the invisible cloak back into the little ebony box and put it back inside the great chest. I remade the straps and hurried out of Beryl’s chamber.

  But I could not stop thinking about that invisible cloak . . .

  I lay awake through the night watches thinking about it and dreaming of all the things I could do if I were invisible. I wished for the thousandth time I had a couple of triplet sisters or even a twin I could share such a secret with—what fun we would have had together with an invisible cloak!

  I did try hard to resist the temptation to take the cloak, but it was not many days before my feet seemed to find their own way up to Beryl’s chamber again. My hands seemed to have a will of their own as they pushed open her door. And all the while I was telling myself I was just going to go in to ask Beryl to help me with my wretched lessons, for Diamond was getting exasperated with my inability to understand the basic laws of trigonometry. Or, I told myself, I just needed to ask Beryl to come and look at the new foal in the stables, which I was sure was limping a little. All the while, another voice was telling me I knew full well I had seen Beryl walking towards the jewel house just a short while ago.

  I do not know for sure if it was Beryl, I told my better self. It looked like her for sure, but it may not have been her.

  You know it was Beryl, my better inner voice reproved.

  Oh well, it will not hurt just to check her chamber anyway . . .

  I loved being invisible. I took the cloak and kept it. I carried it in a little purse I wore inside my gown. As I grew older I ensured the seamstresses always added a pocket to the inside of my gowns.

  At first I used the wonderful cloak to do silly nine-year-old pranks, like skip around the kitchens until the pastry cook took out a tray of fresh-baked tarts, and then run off with a handful. And when I saw that young footman wit
h even more freckles than me who always pulled rude, freckly faces he thought I could not see when I ordered him to fetch things, I would trip him up and run away, leaving him sprawled on the floor in bewilderment at having inexplicably fallen over his own feet yet again.

  And if the Master of the Horse had, in my opinion, been too harsh on the new horses in the training yard, I would spend some time rearranging his stables. He would stomp and shout and demand to know who had put his best saddle inside the grain bin and who had smeared treacle on his favourite crop!

  And, of course, no one knew.

  Once, when sitting beside Beryl as she examined and sorted uncut gemstones in Lapido’s work chamber, I forgot myself and asked her, “How can something be made invisible?” Instantly, I was assailed by a pang of conscience reminding me I had taken her cloak without consent.

  She paused in her work and turned to look thoughtfully at me, which made me uncomfortable. I was quite sure she could read my thoughts at times.

  “It is only light that makes things visible,” she answered.

  “So if there is no light, then things cannot be seen?”

  “No.”

  “But what about things that cannot be seen even though it is not dark?”

  “Well . . .” she said, looking at me even more closely so that I could not help forming a guilty blush. “If an object has different properties so it absorbs and reflects light in different ways from ordinary objects, then it could be invisible to human eyes.”

  She went back to her work, and I dared not ask any more questions.

  As I grew older, I stopped using the cloak for my foolish games—or anyway not so frequently. But I loved to disappear for a solitary walk or to sit quietly wherever I chose without being disturbed. And in due time I began thinking of how I could use it to find out what Uncle was up to.

  After all, how could I do nothing while my sisters were pining away for love, or rather, the lack of love?