Princess Juniper of the Hourglass

by Ammi-Joan Paquette

  Without awaiting a reply, she swept her skirts around, cocked her head at Erick, and dashed down the hallway. She didn’t stop until she’d rounded a corner, chest heaving inside her tightly laced bodice.

  “Your Highness?” Erick said from behind her, obviously still unsure what was going on.

  “I just had to get away from that man,” Juniper gasped. “You saved the day.”

  Erick looked surprised. Then he grinned at her, and Juniper wanted to shimmy in place. That was twice! In one day! She considered the boy in front of her: tall, lanky, straight-nosed, and warm-eyed. His father was the captain of the guard, but Erick himself seemed fully content in his official role of boy-of-all-trades around the palace. Obviously this fit well with his need to have a book with him at all times. In fact, Juniper didn’t think she’d ever seen him without at least one dusty old tome in his hand.

  “Well, it’s my pleasure,” he said. “Do you need an escort to the ballroom?”

  Juniper waved a hand. “I’ll be fine.” There was a question on his face, though, so she waited a moment, then finally asked, “What? You’re wondering something?”

  Erick scuffed at the marble floor. “It’s only—this is your thirteenth Nameday, right? A big deal.”

  “The biggest,” she agreed. Thirteen meant fully grown in Torr, the skip-step from child to adult, the time for choosing an apprenticeship or profession. For Juniper, that meant taking her place as crown princess, fully able to inherit the throne of Torr upon her father’s passing. Which wouldn’t be for a very long while, of course. But still.

  She studied Erick, considered his wrinkled shirt and patched-up pants. “You’re not going to the ball, are you?” He shook his head, and she glanced at the volumes in his arms. “But you’ve read all the histories and”—she paused—“are fascinated by the ceremony?” He grinned sheepishly. Juniper tilted her head. “I’ve just had an idea. Would you like to see something?”

  It was the quickest of detours: Right before the ballroom, a door opened into a lush coatroom. Off the coatroom was a smaller hat closet. In the hat closet was an alcove hung with shelves and hooks and bars. It was so tiny that Juniper’s billowy skirts filled nearly the entire space. “No one ever uses this room,” she whispered. “I discovered it years ago when I used to come here and play house.” She bent down, grabbed one of the waist-high hooks, and twisted. It swung up to reveal . . . a peephole. From its other side, they could hear the buzz of ballroom music and the chatter of guests.

  Erick’s mouth dropped open. “But you—but I—I couldn’t—”

  “Tosh,” said Juniper. “Why shouldn’t you? If it were up to me, this is where I’d spend the evening. All the fun of observing without having to play the role. What could be better?” She jogged him on the shoulder. “Enjoy the ball!”

  • • •

  At the heavy doors of the ballroom, Juniper paused as the herald called out her name to announce her arrival. All movement stopped for a heartbeat, each face turning in her direction, before the room erupted into a hearty applause.

  Juniper felt her cheeks warm as she inclined her head in the proper three-quarter dip. The crowd was even larger than she’d expected. The sliding walls on either side of the long, narrow Throne Room were gone, tripling the space in the hall and turning it into a Grand Ballroom. This vast room was packed with guests. Juniper knew only a handful of them on sight, but their official costumes told her a lot—there were nobles and dignitaries from all the main cities of Torr, as well as dozens of representatives from Gaulia, their neighbor to the north. Juniper didn’t see anyone from Monsia, their much-larger neighbor to the west, but that wasn’t surprising. The Monsians were rude and ill-mannered, and the frequent butt of tales ranging from the colorful to the mildly alarming. Juniper was glad they weren’t at her party.

  The crowd parted as Juniper glided down the center of the room toward the carved dais. In a gap between swishing skirts, she caught sight of Erick’s eye at the barely visible peephole and suppressed a grin. Up ahead, her father sat on his tall, ornate throne, with her mother’s slightly smaller throne empty, as usual, to his right. But at the base of the marble stairs, she paused, uncertain. The fancy cushioned stool that always rested to her father’s left—her seat whenever she attended royal functions—was nowhere to be seen.

  An attendant materialized at her side. “Your Highness,” he murmured, offering an arm to guide her up the stairs. Pointing the way to her mother’s throne.

  Juniper looked up and met her father’s gaze. He smiled. “Happy Nameday, Junebug.”

  Feeling quite giddy, Juniper let herself be guided up the dais. She lowered herself onto her mother’s throne.

  Or . . . she tried to. Instead, to her mortification she found that trying to sit down made her lacy skirts balloon up in every direction. She wobbled and would have fallen if the attendant hadn’t caught her. Aware of every head turned in her direction, Juniper took a deep breath, mashed the back of her gown, and tried again. She caught herself this time on the velvet armrest.

  There was a mild cough behind her. “May I?”

  Face flaming, she looked up and saw her father standing next to her, holding out an arm. The court musicians had launched into “Belle and the Moon,” one of her favorite songs, and Juniper gratefully let herself be swept onto the dance floor.

  “That is some gown,” her father whispered, and she socked him on his meaty royal arm.

  Keeping her head up, back straight, and feet light as her Dancing Master had taught her, Juniper kept her gaze on the twinkle in her father’s eye. How did he do it? He was every bit the ruler, playing his role for the critical masses that lined the room. Yet some tilt of his chin, some roguish look in his eye that perhaps only she could see told her that he took all of this only so seriously. This may have had something to do with her own bouffant dress, which wobbled between them like a third partner. Still, the many years he’d been doing this had clearly taught him a thing or two.

  After the song ended, her father put an arm at the small of her back and propelled her toward the central pillars. “There’s someone here you’ll want to see,” he said into her ear.

  The bystanders parted around them, and Juniper saw her father’s chief adviser, Rupert Lefarge, bow low in greeting. A small cluster of others standing with Lefarge sank into bows and curtseys as well. Including a skinny beanpole of a boy with slicked-back hair and a sardonic smirk.

  “You remember your cousin Cyril?” the king boomed. “He’s back on a visit from the academy. Isn’t that grand?”

  Juniper remembered Cyril, all right, though grand wasn’t the word she’d use. Two years her elder, Cyril was her cousin in only the most distant sense of the word, someone she had to tolerate because of his father’s position in court. One of her earliest memories was of Cyril dropping her headfirst into the fountain, and things hadn’t improved from there. The day Cyril had left for the academy, five years before, had been a high point of her life.

  Still, a person could change a lot in five years.

  “Your Royal Highness Princess Juniper,” Cyril said smoothly, sinking into a bow so low it was almost an acrobatic feat.

  “Cyril Lefarge.” Juniper curtseyed in return, accepted his outstretched hand, and let him sweep her onto the dance floor.

  No sooner had they spun out of the adults’ earshot than Cyril’s nose lifted visibly. “Quaint old Torr,” he sniffed. “So darling and antiquated. One does have to readjust one’s expectations simply to get by . . . but one does what one must.”

  Apparently five years was not long enough after all. Juniper fought the urge to bash her forehead into Cyril’s snotty upraised nose.

  “Of course,” he went on breezily, spinning her out and then back toward his tasseled suit coat, “I shouldn’t expect my gormless little cousin to be aware of these things. You did have so very much heritage to overcome. Quite
admirable you can get by, really.”

  Juniper narrowed her eyes. The jibe did not hit her in the chest, as Cyril clearly intended. Instead, it hit her in the gut, sharpening her senses. It made her mad. Her mother had not been a Torrean noble, nor any kind of a royal member of the continental dynasty. She’d been the daughter of a chieftain of the Anju, a roving tribe of obscure origin and uncertain habitation. Tribal representatives had come to the palace requesting talks of an alliance; they had left two months later, one daughter short and hopping mad. The whirlwind courtship had left all of Torr in shock. It wasn’t entirely clear why the Anju had taken such offense to the match, but the tribe had never been seen in Torr again. Any desired negotiations were completely set aside. Queen Alaina, for her part, had integrated well into her new role; her dubious bloodline and lack of pedigree were well known by all but referred to by none.

  Well. Almost none.

  Juniper knew better than to risk making a scene here, in the very center of the ballroom, with all eyes fixed on her and her partner. If she opened her mouth even a crack at this point, she would lose control entirely. So she concentrated on ignoring Cyril’s taunts and avoiding his heavy stamping boots, which seemed dead set on connecting with her slippered toes.

  Unending though the dance seemed, finally it was over. After that, the party improved greatly. Juniper put Cyril firmly out of her mind, was swept up by another partner, and spent the next two hours spinning and twirling across the mosaic tiled floor. She loved the swing of the beat and the swell of the notes. She even managed to get her dress to behave, for the most part. Her partners—young and eligible noblemen, visiting dignitaries, and other carefully selected candidates—were suave and skillful, and each dance step was perfectly executed. Everything was the same as always: elegant and polished and just right.

  But Cyril’s needling had raised in her a sort of ghostly nostalgia that only grew with the passing hours. For the first time in years, she missed her mother keenly. Suddenly, nothing around her seemed quite enough. Tonight of all nights, her thirteenth Nameday celebration . . . she was officially an adult, the future ruler of Torr. But it was almost as if something was missing. She kept catching herself scanning the crowd as though seeking something just out of reach, lifting an ear as though to catch some strain of wild music.

  And then . . . suddenly, she did.

  It was a single sustained note, caught between the end of one dance and the beginning of the next. It didn’t last. No sooner had she heard it than it vanished, and then the next dance began and swallowed up all other sound. But Juniper’s interest was piqued. She curtseyed formally to her partner, made excuses to the next waiting noble, and, fanning herself extravagantly, moved across the hall to the far balcony.

  Stepping outside, Juniper pulled the door shut behind her and moved to the railing, placing both hands on its polished top. She closed her eyes and let the breeze cool her overheated cheeks. And then she heard the sound again. It was music, barely audible over the lively and polished gambol from the ballroom. The new melody came from somewhere down below.

  If she went back into the ballroom, she would be ambushed immediately by eager partners seeking favor. It was only to be expected as part of the official duties of her Nameday celebration.

  But . . . what if she didn’t go back inside? Juniper didn’t think her presence had been missed yet. And there was still a full hour before the speeches and formal Nameday ceremonies were set to begin. This daring impulse—sneaking off alone, in the dark, boldly shirking her duty—both thrilled and terrified her.

  And still the foreign music called.

  Juniper made up her mind. She pulled her skirts in as tightly as she could and hurried down the long, narrow balcony. Peering through the glass to make sure she hadn’t been spotted, she slipped down the curving staircase that led to the ground floor.

  The rough music grew more distinct the farther she got from the ballroom. It was coming from the far end of the palace. Juniper let her ear guide her until she turned a corner.

  Eyes widening, she ducked behind a pillar.

  There was another party going on, right in the lower patio off the kitchens. Far from the stiff, formal elegance of the Grand Ballroom, this was a motley crew of servants, palace workers, and village kids. Yes, kids! Some were older teenagers, and some were visibly younger, but most looked right around Juniper’s age. In the far corner, Toby the stable boy puffed away on a battered trumpet, while a roundish girl Juniper recognized from the laundry rooms twanged at a rusted harp. Three or four others kept time on various pieces of musically appropriated dishware. Patched skirts were swishing and mud-crusted boots were kicking and faces were red and out of breath. The air crackled with life and pulsed with energy.

  Despite herself, Juniper could feel her toes tapping to the rhythm. She didn’t dare show herself, though. She knew what would happen if she did: That musical magic would go out like the snuffed flame of a candle as everyone returned to their proper formal roles, following the unbreakable behavior rules of Torr.

  Was it like this in other countries? Did there have to be these kinds of boundaries?

  Juniper scooted farther back into the shadows. And as she looked around at this all-kids gathering, suddenly she knew exactly what she wanted for her Nameday gift.

  And she had a feeling that her mother would have approved.

  THE NEXT DAY CRAWLED BY. JUNIPER’S PLAN took shape slowly in her mind, growing more defined with each passing hour. Everything hinged on the all-important first step: her request—and its answer.

  Her father had invited her to dine with him that night, just the two of them. “I’ve started to forget the shape of your face,” he’d grumbled playfully, then had instructed Lefarge, “Have a buffet set up for the rest of the court. I’ve got a date with my daughter.”

  It was a rare treat, and Juniper enjoyed it to the fullest. She also kept a sharp lookout for the right moment to ask her question.

  Sitting across the long mahogany table from her father, she waited out the cheese puffs, and the aubergine bisque, and the crispy oven-roasted root vegetables with thin-sliced pheasant breast in a mulled wine sauce. Her father should be comfortably full, she decided, before receiving any unexpected requests. And hers was as unexpected as they came. Finally, after the second helping of pheasant and roots but before the fig pudding, the gleam in her father’s eye as he stretched back in his seat told her that the time was right.

  Juniper clasped her hands under the table. “Papa,” she said. “I have been thinking about my Nameday gift.”

  “Ah, excellent,” he said. “It is one of the great pleasures of my year, and I have been awaiting this request with particular interest. It is your thirteenth, after all!”

  Juniper nodded. “It is an important year. And so I wondered . . .” She just had to come out with it. “May I have a country for my Nameday?”

  “A country?” King Regis lowered his fork and studied his daughter with concern.

  “Yes! A very small country, but one that’s all my own. I could find subjects to settle it, other kids probably, and I should rule it all myself. To practice being queen, don’t you see? I’ll get to make up my own rules and such.”

  Juniper’s heart hammered out a galloping beat, but she kept her face smooth and focused on sawing the pheasant breast with her ivory-handled game knife, the very picture of a calm, unruffled royal daughter.

  “A very small country,” her father mused.

  “Oh—well, yes! If you have any to spare, that is.”

  “Just sort of lying around.”

  “That’s it exactly!” Juniper opened her mouth to say more, to tell him of her wishes and longings. Then she stopped. How could she put any of that into words, here in the formal dining room, over rutabagas and roast? She settled for a tentative smile. “I could set up court there over the summer. Think of all the time you’ve spent
instructing me in rulership! This could make a grand sort of test, to see how well I’ve taken to it.”

  Sensing she’d given her father enough to think about, Juniper picked up her gold-hemmed napkin and dabbed at her lips. She glanced around. Three staff members stood at attention on the edges of the room, ready to leap to any dinner-related assistance. The first two looked suitably blank and disinterested. The third was a tall, wispy girl with a turned-up nose and bright, smart eyes. This girl’s eyes were wide with excitement, and her fingers, when she refilled Juniper’s goblet, trembled just a little. The king’s attention seemed to have been equally captured by her request; Juniper soon realized that she wouldn’t get much more conversation out of him this evening.

  “If I may be excused, Papa dear?” she murmured, and he nodded absently. This was the time to give him plenty of thinking space. She’d planted the idea seed and now he would go about watering, pruning, and harvesting it into a perfectly executable plan. Or so she hoped, anyway.

  Meanwhile, she had her own planning to do. A great deal of it.

  • • •

  When Juniper entered the dining room the next morning, she started with surprise. “Why, Papa dear!” she cried.

  King Regis was bent over the table, still wearing his outfit from the night before, only crumpled around the middle and with a suspicious dark stain at his elbow. His graying hair stood up in more than one place. Juniper was earlier than usual—breakfast was her favorite meal of the day, and watching the empty table pile high with food was nearly the best part—but she had never seen a morning table like this one. No food was in sight; no dishes or silverware, even. The surface was fully strewn with papers.

  Her father looked up and beamed. “Ah, Junebug! There you are. I’ve been waiting for you to be along. I believe I have found the very spot for your little adventure!”