The Secret Prince

by Violet Haberdasher

  How do I look?” Adam asked, pulling at his neck cloth. “Ridiculous,” Henry said. “Oi, you look worse,” Adam protested. “At least my waistcoat fits.”

  Henry frowned at his reflection in the window of the servants’ car and adjusted his waistcoat, which admittedly was slightly too small, not that it could be helped. It was strange seeing himself dressed as a lackey, with a crisp white neck cloth and silk hose and short breeches.

  The livery had come from Parliament Hall, along with Mr. Frist, who was some sort of junior secretary acting as a liaison. It was rather extravagant, Henry had to admit, but then, it was just a show for Dimit Yascherov. After all, South Britain couldn’t very well send a political envoy to the Nordlands with servants dressed in mismatched and ragged shirtsleeves. No, South Britain meant to flaunt their class system in the faces of those who had done away with it.

  George looked up from where he sat on a crate, carving slices out of an apple with a pocketknife. “Want a piece?” he asked.

  Henry’s eyes narrowed as he realized what had happened. “Did you get that apple from my bag?” he demanded.

  George shrugged and continued carving.

  “Don’t go through my things,” Henry said evenly.

  “Oho, th’ high an’ mighty Knightley servant’s givin’ me orders,” George mocked.

  “Listen, Knightley. George here’s in charge, an’ I think you owe ’im an apology,” said Jem.

  Henry folded his arms, his too tight waistcoat stretching uncomfortably across his back, and made no move to apologize.

  “Just do it, mate,” Adam whispered anxiously.

  “No,” Henry said.

  The train rattled noisily over the tracks, but if anything, the car seemed too quiet as Jem reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out a glittering knife. He advanced on Henry with a nasty grin, brandishing the blade. “Sure yeh don’ want to reconsider?” Jem whispered, pressing the dull side of the knife to Henry’s cheek in warning.

  Henry stiffened, realizing what a horrible mistake he’d made.

  “Jus’ drop it, Jem,” George warned. And then the door to their car banged open and Mr. Frist stood there gaping at the scene before him.

  Jem scowled and lowered the knife.

  “What’s going on?” Mr. Frist demanded sharply. “Nothin’, sir,” Henry answered before George could speak up. “Just cuttin’ a loose thread on my waistcoat.”

  George regarded Henry suspiciously, and Henry held back a smirk.

  “Got it,” Jem sneered, snapping his knife closed.

  “Give that ’ere, Jem,” George said, holding out his hand for the knife.

  Jem scowled but gave George the knife.

  “The train’s ready to depart,” Mr. Frist said, consulting his ever present notebook. He assigned each of the boys a car to serve. Adam was given Lord Priscus’s car; Jem got the two secret service knights, Sir Fletcher and Sir Alban; and George was assigned to someone called Lord Hugh.

  “And you, what’s your name?” Mr. Frist asked, pointing to Henry.

  “Henry, sir.”

  “Your waistcoat’s too small,” Mr. Frist snapped.

  “I know, sir. This one fit the best.”

  Mr. Frist frowned. “Very well. You’ll take the front car containing the Lord Minister Marchbanks, his secretary, and their valet.”

  Henry paled.

  “Is there a problem?” Mr. Frist snapped. “No, sir,” Henry said despairingly. It was just his luck to get stuck waiting on his friend’s father all weekend.

  When Mr. Frist left, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and Adam shot Henry a mournful look, as though he rather thought he’d gotten the worst of it, serving the former headmaster.

  “Why didn’t yeh turn me in?” Jem demanded.

  Henry shrugged. “Better friends than enemies?” Henry suggested.

  “Poncy Knightley servant.” Jem shook his head in disgust.

  * * *

  By midmorning the train was hurtling through the towns on the outskirts of the city, their buildings dense and their church spires competing to see which could stretch higher.

  Henry hobbled toward the train’s galley in his ridiculous buckled shoes that, just like his waistcoat, were half a size too small.

  Thankfully, Lord Marchbanks was too busy speaking with his secretary to pay much attention to Henry. Lord Priscus was another story, however. The retired headmaster kept Adam dashing about for extra cushions or hunting up a copy of the Royal Standard, which never printed stories about the Nordlands.

  As Henry took down a tea service and began to arrange it on the narrow counter, the door slid open to reveal a rather frustrated Adam.

  “How’s it going?” Henry asked, folding napkins.

  “That man is a nightmare,” Adam moaned. “And he’s half-deaf to top it off. Thinks my name is Autumn, like the bloody season.”

  Henry snickered.

  “Oi, it isn’t funny!” Adam protested. “He’s worse than Lord Havelock. And he keeps ordering cushions.”

  “Sorry,” Henry said, wincing in sympathy.

  “Well, he wants tea now,” Adam whined.

  Wordlessly Henry pulled down a second tea service and began to arrange it.

  “Thanks, mate,” Adam said, reaching to help with the napkins as Henry positioned the teacups so their handles all faced in the same direction.

  “Give me that.” Henry grabbed the napkin. “You fold them in thirds. They aren’t socks.”

  “Lord Priscus wouldn’t notice if they were,” Adam muttered.

  Henry grinned, but then his expression turned serious. He took the tin of tea leaves from the hamper and drummed the lid nervously. “I’m worried,” he admitted.

  “What about?” Adam asked. “Jem and his bloody huge knife?”

  “No,” Henry said. “Although that’s certainly a problem. As is George’s fondness for rifling through our things. I meant the envoy. Derrick didn’t know his father was coming, and this can’t be good. The Lord Minister of Foreign Relations is really important.”

  “Well, so is Dimit Yascherov,” Adam said. “I looked him up, and he’s a right terror.”

  “You looked him up?” Henry asked skeptically, letting the tea steep.

  “Oi, don’t look so surprised. It was that night I stayed in the library writing Lord Havelock’s paper about revolutions. He was Chancellor Mors’s right-hand man even during the rise of the Draconian party. Rounded up and killed dozens of aristocrats—well, ordered them killed anyway.”

  Henry frowned. “And now he’s ordering household inspections to round up anyone who might challenge the chancellor,” he said half to himself, before remembering the tea. He finished with the two tea services and handed one to Adam.

  “I hope he thinks it’s a pillow and sits on it,” Adam muttered.

  Henry hefted his own serving tray with a grin. “Deliver your tray and then meet me in the servants’ car. We should find somewhere to stow our bags before George decides to go through them again.” They stepped out into the corridor and went in opposite directions, but as Henry neared Lord Marchbanks’s car, he caught sight of Jem lounging against the door.

  Jem saw Henry’s tea service and grinned. “I’ll take that.”

  “You will not,” Henry said, pushing past him.

  Jem grabbed Henry’s shoulder, and Henry flinched. “There’s somethin’ funny about you,” Jem hissed, his breath hot and rank on Henry’s cheek.

  “You’re imagining things,” Henry snapped.

  “Am I?”

  “Let me go, Jem. Unless you want to explain to Lord Minister Marchbanks why his tea is down the front of your uniform.”

  Jem released Henry’s shoulder. “Nice accent, Knightley,” he spat as Henry knocked.

  Adam was waiting for Henry in the servants’ car, holding both of their satchels. “Oi, what took you so long?” he asked.

  “Jem.” Henry sighed. “And Lord Marchbanks’s insufferable valet.”

  �
��Lord Priscus was asleep,” Adam said proudly. “I just dumped the tray and left. Hope he’s not dead.”

  “Suffocated by too many pillows?” Henry asked with a grin.

  “Passed on in his sleep, from a combination of old age and bitterness,” Adam returned.

  They shared a laugh.

  “I’ll be glad when we’re off this train,” Henry said, with his hand on the door to the next car. “Reckon they’ll look back here?”

  “What’s back there?”

  “Storage?” Henry shrugged and pushed open the door. The car was filled with crates and boxes, with loops of rope dangling overhead like vines. Henry picked up the corner of a tarp and stashed his satchel beneath it.

  “What did you bring, anyway?” Adam asked.

  “Some school books,” Henry admitted.

  “You’re joking,” Adam said.

  “We have reading due Monday, providing we aren’t expelled.”

  And then the tarp in the far corner moved. Adam stiffened. “Did you see that?” he whispered.

  “Probably mice,” Henry said. “Is there food in your bag?”

  “No,” Adam said nervously.

  The tarp moved again.

  “Maybe,” Adam admitted. “Blimey, that’s some mouse.”

  Henry held a finger to his lips. He crept toward the tarp and pulled back the layer of sheeting, hardly daring to breathe.

  Frankie sat there, rumpled and miserable, glaring up at them. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, and then she took in their ridiculous livery and snorted. “And what are you wearing?”

  “Us?” Henry retorted. “What about you?”

  Frankie stood up and brushed some of the wrinkles from her dress with a scowl. “What does it look like? I’m running away to the city,” she replied.

  “Er,” Henry said, exchanging an uneasy glance with Adam.

  “What?” Frankie demanded.

  “Diplomatic envoy,” Henry said. “This train is express to the Nordlands.”

  Frankie paled.

  “Didn’t you know?” Adam asked.

  “No,” Frankie said. “I was hiding from Father’s search party in a room at the Lance and saw this train come in from Hammersmith Cross. I figured it was heading back.”

  “So you stowed away?” Henry asked.

  “I’m not telling you about it,” Frankie snapped.

  Henry sighed. “Look, I know we were fighting back at school, but we have to get past that. In a few hours this train is crossing border inspection into the Nordlands.”

  “You weren’t joking?” Frankie asked, sitting down on a crate. “This train is really bound for the Nordlands?”

  Henry sat down on a crate across from Frankie and massaged his temples for a moment, trying to think. But Frankie wouldn’t let him.

  “Are you going to tell me why you’re here, then?” Frankie snapped. “Or why you’re dressed like fancy footmen?”

  Henry sighed and explained.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” Frankie said when Henry had finished.

  “What doesn’t make any sense?” Henry asked irritably.

  “There’s no way Father meant for you to go to the Nordlands. He’s terrified of Yascherov.”

  “If you hadn’t run off, you might have been able to tell us that befor e,” Henry said.

  “Ooh, my sincerest apologies if I’ve inconvenienced you, Mr. Grim,” Frankie shot back.

  “I thought we weren’t fighting,” Adam interrupted.

  Frankie scowled at him.

  “Adam’s right,” Henry said. “This isn’t the time or the place. And we have to figure out what you’re going to do. None of us has any Nordlandic money.”

  “Not to mention,” Frankie said, motioning toward her frock. Henry didn’t see the problem. Frankie sighed and clarified. “Women dress differently in the Nordlands. Honestly, don’t you read?”

  “Not fashion magazines.” Adam made a face.

  “Er, we should get back,” Henry said. “I don’t want Jem or George to come looking for us and, well …”

  “You’ll have to stay hidden here,” Adam said.

  “For how long?” Frankie asked.

  “Until tomorrow night.”

  “Absolutely not,” Frankie said, horrified.

  “What else can we do?” Henry put in. “Jem and George aren’t exactly the sort of boys who would go along with this.”

  “Not to mention,” Adam said, drawing a finger across his throat.

  Henry shot him a look.

  “What?” Frankie asked.

  “They carry knives,” Henry admitted. “Like pirates.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Frankie wailed.

  “You could read textbooks,” Adam suggested helpfully. “Henry has a few in his bag. And there should be an orange in mine if you’re hungry.”

  “Starving,” Frankie said dryly.

  “We’ll bring our luncheon back here if we can,” Henry promised. The boys stood up.

  “Don’t leave,” Frankie said, her voice trembling. For the first time Henry realized how scared she must be, despite all of her bluster. She’d been hiding on the train for hours, and being discovered as a stowaway bound for the city was one thing, but being a stowaway on a diplomatic envoy to the Nordlands was quite another.

  “Sorry, but we have to go,” Henry said. “We’re servants, remember?”

  “With those outfits, who could forget?” Frankie muttered.

  Henry bowed sarcastically. “Will yeh be requirin’ anythin’ else, miss?” he asked.

  Frankie shook her head and grinned in spite of herself.

  “Right, miss. We’ll be off, then,” Adam said, joining the pantomime.

  Still laughing, Henry and Adam returned to the servants’ car. But as soon as Henry closed the door, his smile faded. “This is awful,” he whispered. “What if Frankie’s caught during the border inspection? She’ll have us discovered as well.”

  “That would be a nightmare,” Adam said. And then he put on a rather poor imitation of Rohan. “Imagine the impropriety of us all running off together.”

  Henry shook his head. “It’s worse than that. It would look as though Knightley were purposefully sending spies to Partisan—as though it were Headmaster Winter’s doing—or Lord Havelock’s. We can’t be caught.”

  “I know, but at least now we know that Frankie’s all right,” Adam muttered.

  “True enough,” Henry said, tugging impatiently at his waistcoat. “It is nice that we got to see her again. I was worried she’d disappeared for good.”

  “What do you care?” Adam asked. “You’re not the one who likes her.”

  “How could I?” Henry retorted. “She’s completely insufferable.”

  Henry nervously stared out the window of the servants’ car as the train hurled through the northern reaches of the country. The train had veered inland long ago, racing beyond the remains of old military fortresses and rumbling past rocky, still frozen fields. Up ahead Henry spotted a squat gray building, the only building he’d seen for a long while.

  His heart hammering nervously, he slid open the door to the storage car. “Er, Frankie?” he called.

  “Let me guess,” she said, climbing back under the tarp. “Border inspection.”

  “Sorry,” Henry apologized.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said, her voice muffled. “Can you see me?”

  “No,” Henry said. “It should be all right.”

  He lost his balance for a moment as the train slowed. “Er, I should—,” Henry began.

  “Go,” Frankie called. “I’ll be fine.”

  Henry made sure the door to Frankie’s car was shut tightly, then decided that it looked suspicious, and left it ajar, but that looked wrong as well. Finally he closed the door firmly and raced to Lord Marchbanks’s compartment, angrily yanking at his waistcoat, which refused to fit.

  He knocked smartly.

  “Come in,” the lord minister called
.

  Henry opened the door to the compartment and bowed hastily. “Sorry to disturb you, my lord minister, but we’re just reaching the border inspection,” Henry said. He was worried about Frankie, and nervous that she’d be caught, and wasn’t really thinking. But he realized his mistake instantly. The knock, the bow, the phrasing, even his accent, were all wrong.

  Lord Marchbanks and his secretary, Withers, gawped at him. Thankfully the insufferable valet was off somewhere, being insufferable.

  Suddenly Lord Marchbanks’s face broke into a broad grin. “Oh, that was very good,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, sir?” Henry asked, his heart racing nervously.

  “Someone’s taught you to behave properly, boy, though I can’t fathom why you’ve chosen to play the part of a campagnard all morning.”

  Henry frowned as he considered the lord minister’s words. He realized the trap almost immediately. “Er, I don’t know that word,” Henry lied.

  Lord Marchbanks raised an eyebrow. “No? It means ‘an uneducated country lad.’ ”

  “Well, sir, it ain’t English,” Henry said.

  Lord Marchbanks waited patiently. “I mean, that wasn’t in English, my lord minister,” Henry corrected as the train screeched to a stop.

  “What do you think, Withers?” Lord Marchbanks asked.

  The secretary, who was preoccupied with a stack of papers, looked up and blinked owlishly.

  “Never mind,” Lord Marchbanks said with a sigh, and then turned his attention back to Henry. “Here is what I think.”

  Henry gulped, waiting for it. Because if Lord Marchbanks looked, he’d see that Henry’s hair, while mussed, was cut to school standard. That his left hand bore the unmistakable callus caused by too much writing, that his fingernails were square and even, that he did not appear to regularly miss meals.

  “I think,” Lord Marchbanks continued, “that you’ve been to school, boy.”

  Henry nodded. That answer was safe, at least.

  “Your accent is not regional but taught. Don’t look at me in surprise. I speak with foreigners nearly every day at the Ministerium who have learned English such as yours. A most curious puzzle.”

  Henry desperately grasped for a plausible story, and borrowed one he’d read in a detective story. “Please, sir, it’s not a puzzle at all. I was at school, my father died, and I had to take to working because of my younger brothers. The other boys get on me for the schooling, so I try to sound as though I haven’t any.”