Princess Juniper of the Hourglass

by Ammi-Joan Paquette

  Juniper felt Erick’s shoulder bump her gently from behind. She’d done it.

  They had seven days to plan their escape.

  “I will have your promised crown,” Cyril went on, and Juniper froze. “And one thing more. At this week’s end, I will be crowned in this throne, by your own hands. And you will bend the knee and acknowledge me as your king.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, THE DOOR TO THE CELL swung open with the sun. Juniper had been up and waiting for hours, and now leaped out like a goat released from its pen.

  Root stepped behind her to block the opening. “Hold up there,” he said to the others.

  Juniper turned around. “What now? We’re to plan a feast. You heard Cyril.” She bit her lip to keep from adding several other unpleasant embellishments to his stupid name.

  But Root shook his head. “Your Royal Highness—er, Juniper, that is—you’re the one who is to plan the event. These groaks have to stay here. Cyril’s orders.” Was it her imagination, or did he sound faintly apologetic? It shocked Juniper to realize that she hadn’t ever really considered Root apart from Cyril. He always seemed such an extension of the other boy’s dastardly plans, but for the first time, it occurred to her that there could be a separate mind and will behind that beef-­witted face.

  Still, this wasn’t the time for musing. She had a plan to execute, and Erick and Alta were an important part of it.

  “They have to come,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I can’t plan a ball on my own. It’s meant to be grand, and that’s more than any one person can do. Even me,” she deadpanned, catching his eye.

  Something flickered across Root’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. He shook his head firmly and pulled her by the arm. “Sorry. I’ve got my orders.”

  Juniper was powerless to keep from being tugged out of the way. The door was shut behind her, leaving the other two standing alone in the cell. Filbert swung the lock into place. Juniper craned her neck to see Erick standing at the window, hands on the bars. His look was guarded, but he was mouthing something to her. Root gave another tug and her head snapped around. What had Erick been trying to say? She stumbled on a rock and nearly toppled over. Her breath came in a sharp burst.

  Tippy. That was it.

  Cyril might split them up, but Juniper could still carry on her plan—using their silent-footed spy to link up the two sides of this new rebellion.

  The plan was still on.

  • • •

  Juniper spent the first day watching and planning. The end goal was clear: overthrow Cyril’s rule, save Queen’s Basin, reclaim her throne. How she would accomplish all that was quite another matter. All she could think of at this point was to scout for weakness and look for any way she might delay Cyril’s plans.

  At first, Root stuck to Juniper like a burr, following her from one end of the Basin to the other. While determined to shake him off as soon as possible, Juniper also decided to take advantage of the extra labor while she had it. The first thing she turned her mind to was giving the camp a much-needed deep cleaning. How had so much muck accumulated in two days? Hitching her skirts and rolling up her sleeves, Juniper set to work collecting dirty dishes and stacking them high in Root’s arms as he followed dutifully behind her like the world’s first walking dish cabinet. It took her the better part of the day: ferrying skirtfuls of spoiled food scraps to the midden heap on the edge of the vegetable gardens; laying the fresh-scrubbed dishes out on the grass to sun-dry; dusting off the string-bough broom and giving the whole dining area a sound thrashing. By late afternoon, her shoulders ached and her skirt gave off a rank, spoiled odor. But Queen’s Basin looked like itself again. From the quick furtive glances she caught in passing, she thought a few others might be appreciating the change, too.

  As for Cyril, he had made a big show of demanding that she deliver the Argentine Circlet to him in advance, but Juniper held firm. She would hand over the treasure at the ball and not a moment before.

  “I doubt you even have the thing,” Cyril scoffed, but Juniper just swung around and went back to work. The greedy gleam in his eye was as strong as ever, and he wasn’t willing to antagonize her and risk losing that coveted crown. Plus, he had to know the Torrence motto: My word is all. Whatever scorn he had for the ruling family, they were well known to speak promises that were iron-clad.

  Which was certainly true, Juniper told herself with satisfaction, as she scribbled off the end of a piece of parchment with a flourish. She hadn’t told Cyril—or Root—a single falsehood. She had every intention of carrying off the planned Coronation Ball.

  Only with a few fresh twists of her own.

  “Here,” she said, stuffing her charcoal stylus back into her waist-pouch and handing Root the finished list. “Take this to Leena. It’s got the menu of items to be prepared for the dinner feast.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Root said.

  “Why don’t you take it?”

  “I’ve got my orders,” Root said stubbornly. “You’re not to leave my sight.”

  Juniper sighed. “Look, I’m going to ask Cyril tonight at dinner—is there really any use in you following me around like a palfrey? Not that I don’t like your company, mind. But what exactly is he worried about? He can’t think I will escape, since leaving here is not my goal. And my friends—my only friends, apparently—are under full guard.” She infused a careful throb into her voice, though she stopped short of dabbing at her eyes. That would have been too much for even Root to swallow. “Wouldn’t it be simpler for you to do what you need to without having to watch me all day long? Far more efficient, too.”

  Root looked uncertain.

  “Look at the state of me. I’m in sore need of a spell in the Beauty Chamber. You can wait for me out here, or you can deliver this list to Leena. As you wish. Or go yourself to tell Cyril about my plan. I bet you’ll find that he thinks it a good one.”

  It only took another minute or two of persuasion to send Root reluctantly on his way, saying he would go first to clear things with Cyril. Juniper had no worry on that count. What she had noticed about her nemesis was this: Cyril was a boy of action. He believed in what he could touch and see. He was smart, but he thought in a straight line; he made a plan and executed it. If she was lucky, this sideways maneuver of hers would slip right under his nose.

  Meanwhile, she had important things to tend to. She did need to change her clothes, of course. But first, the next stage of her plan.

  Juniper let the Beauty Chamber’s door swing shut behind her and cast her eyes across the room. Gowns and shawls and cloaks and petticoats hung in neat, careful rows all along one wall, while shelves groaned with slippers and dainty pointed shoes in the latest fashion. Another table was busy with hair ribbons and jeweled pins, with beeswax creams and crystal bottles of flowery elixir.

  Then a thought occurred to her. This was a tiny fraction of the items that filled her suite back at the palace—but that’s all there was in the room. Everything in here was hers. Where were Leena’s beauty supplies and gowns, or Sussi’s, or Alta’s, or any of the others?

  As soon as she’d thought the question, Juniper knew the answer, and she was ashamed for not realizing it earlier. Of course the other girls had no fancy gowns, no jewels or face powders. Why should they? When would hardworking Alta ever need to curl her hair and rouge her cheeks for a ball?

  Juniper looked down at her stiff, gravy-splattered skirt, at the newly unraveling hem, the clusters of mushed green peas adorning it like rotten gems. What if this were the only dress she owned? Her eyes scanned the room’s bounty again.

  These shall no longer be my items alone, Juniper promised herself. They are now the property of Queen’s Basin, and anyone may freely make use of them. And in this light, the wide-open room packed with gowns and trinkets and potions took on a color and brightness they’d never had before. She couldn’t wait to tell
the others.

  Which brought her back to the matter at hand. Undressing quickly, she wadded her soiled skirts into a ball and stuffed them in the laundry corner before pulling an identical dress off the wall. She was glad that she’d brought doubles of her favorites.

  She was craning her arms over her head to fasten the last eyehook when she heard a scuffle at the window, then a hard thump. She spun around. “Tippy? Is that you?”

  The little girl erupted from a heap of ball gowns. “Oh, Your Princessness! I am all agog to see you. And without those horrid ropes on your alabaster arms!” Tippy flung herself across the room and wrapped Juniper in a bony hug. Juniper squeezed her right back.

  Simple acceptance, she mused. What a joy it was.

  She untangled herself from Tippy’s arms and dropped onto the floor next to her. “We need to hurry,” she said. “I don’t know how long Root will stay away, and someone else might wander in at any time. What have you learned?”

  “I’ve learned that Mister Cyril is a pig,” Tippy said scornfully. She pulled off her clogs and started to rub her dirty feet, as if to emphasize all the effort she’d put into scouting over the past few days. “His camp’s a sorry mess. Rotten food all over, big piles of stinky eggs dumped willy-nilly and a sour milky smell everywhere. Ugh! It took all my effort to stay and finish my investigating, let me tell you.”

  That description didn’t surprise Juniper at all, given the quick havoc Cyril had made of the rest of the Basin. But she made encouraging noises, and Tippy went on.

  “There wasn’t much else, I am sorry to say. But I did find something. I’m not sure how important it be, unless you go by its hiding spot: right at the bottom of one very smelly bag of smallclothes.” Tippy turned up her nose and let her eyes go loopy, illustrating the depths of devotion that had kept her to this particular search.

  “You are positively the best,” Juniper whispered heartily. “Do tell me more!”

  Tippy nodded, then reached into her bodice and pulled out a stack of parchment pages. She thrust them at Juniper. “Cyril ain’t half bad with a pencil. I don’t know what any of this means, but I thought you might.”

  Juniper leafed through the pages. “They’re maps,” she mused. “But it doesn’t look like . . . Wait! These aren’t maps of Torr—they’re maps of Monsia. And these . . . figures, numbers, movements . . . these are troop lists. This is a chronicle of the Monsian army!”

  “Monsian?” Tippy echoed.

  Juniper’s hands felt suddenly cold. What did this mean? She thought back to when Cyril had confronted her. He’d known an awful lot about what was going on with the invasion—but how had he gotten that information? She and Erick were the only ones who’d read the letter from her father, and clearly Erick had not betrayed her. Not only that: Cyril seemed to know even more than she did. His words rang in her mind: The king has been taken hostage. Was Cyril just blowing smoke? Or did he somehow know what had happened to her father in the attack? And here he was hiding maps of Torr’s sworn enemy. The enemy that was even now putting their country to the sword.

  Could Cyril be working in secret for her father, in some capacity she had not been told about? Juniper shuffled through the papers again. But . . . this army! This was no skittering, tentative Monsian invasion. No. This was a giant force, easily as big as Torr’s own ranks. Bigger, maybe. And from the list of exercises and movements, they were strong and fierce and well trained.

  Torrence Castle was impregnable—it always had been. Dozens of armies over the centuries had thrown themselves at the gates, only to be defeated and turned around within days—even hours. And her father had been fully confident of this outcome when they last spoke.

  So what had changed in those few hours between Juniper’s departure and the king’s desperate realization that the battle was lost? The castle couldn’t be breached from the outside . . .

  But what about an attack from within?

  Her father could not have had access to this information of Cyril’s. Otherwise, the king would not have so quickly dismissed the raiding party at the palace gates as weak and small and useless. There was only one answer, and suddenly it was frighteningly clear.

  Who else was well connected enough, who had sufficient knowledge of Torr’s secrets, who else could motivate Cyril to such lengths in his betrayal? If history had turned out differently . . . my father might well be the one now sitting on the throne of Torr, Cyril had said.

  Well. Juniper had found the true traitor. Cyril’s father had joined forces with the Monsians to bring down Torr.

  And Cyril was working with him.

  No wonder Cyril was trying to lead the settlers back to the palace! In so doing, he would deliver not only this ragtag group, but also the crown princess of Torr—right into Monsia’s waiting hands. She knew what a prize she would be to the enemy. Her father had wanted to guard against this possibility; that was why he had sent her to hide in this secret spot until the trouble blew over. Only he hadn’t accounted for the traitor in their midst. Nor for his daughter so quickly losing her kingdom.

  As the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place, Juniper felt her resolve harden within her. She was not one to give up on a plan once she set her mind to it. She would not be cowed. Circum­stances were wildly set against her, but she was far from beaten.

  Juniper needed to stop stalling and planning.

  It was time to crush Cyril into the ground.

  Princess Juniper’s Plan for How to Crush Your Enemy

  Step 1: Secure Your Allies

  Step 2: Determine Your Fortifications

  Step 3: Plan for Any and All Eventualities

  Step 4: Launch Your Attack

  Step 5: Overwhelm. Adapt. Overcome.

  “WELL, DON’T YOU LOOK A SIGHT,” SAID ROOT with some appreciation as Juniper flounced out of the dressing room. She’d spent over an hour in there and could easily have spent twice as long, but she wasn’t sure how long Root would wait, and she didn’t want to arouse his suspicion. Now she was glad she hadn’t lingered, for the pile of cracked hazelnut shells at his feet showed that he’d been there awhile.

  “I look like a princess,” said Juniper, with a toss of her head. She’d spent long minutes choosing just the right look, including a last-minute outfit change: Over a spotless cream muslin dress, Tippy had helped her into a long flounced overdress of an eye-popping peacock blue—one of her favorites, which laced up the back and tied in a massive, jaunty bow. Juniper’s hair had been plaited and twisted into an elaborate updo that towered over her head, except for two long curtains of hair that swept down both sides of her face, fastening securely behind her ears. She had to admit that the new look was a little hard to see around. But if it served its purpose, it would be worth it.

  Based on Root’s reaction, it was off to a good start.

  He shifted from foot to foot. “I talked to Cyril, just as you said.”

  “And?”

  “He said I ought to remain with you as he’d first ordered. He wasn’t too happy with me for asking.” Root scowled.

  Interesting. Juniper kept her expression carefully neutral. “Well, I don’t see him trekking around after me all day long. But I suppose I’m glad for your help. Party planning isn’t easy work, you know.” She clapped her hands together brightly. “Now. Shall we get to work?”

  • • •

  Step one in Juniper’s master plan consumed much of the next two days. Her new outfit made it hard for her to dig in to the real dirty work, but her example on the first day had made an impression. While many of the kids were obviously enjoying Cyril’s no-rules rule and could be seen wading up and down the river, gorging themselves on berries and lounging about from sunup to sundown, others began to quietly pick up after themselves or to launch several needed maintenance projects without any prompting at all. Aside from Erick, Alta, and Tippy, whose loyalties were unquestion
ed, over the course of the next day, Juniper discovered by signs and whispers that both Leena and Paul could be counted on to support her when the time came. That put six out of fourteen—nearly half the group—on her side, if Juniper counted herself, which she most certainly did. It was a good start, but not nearly enough. Even the majority, should she get it, would not be enough. She needed to get the whole group on her side, or as close to that as possible. And she needed to do so without raising suspicions, which meant she couldn’t openly ask anyone for support. She had to wait until they decided for themselves, until they came to her.

  “See if you can bring any of them up past Cyril’s camp,” Juniper told Tippy surreptitiously that evening.

  “His camp?” Tippy echoed, then shoved in a mouthful of beans and leaned away from Juniper as Cyril looked at them suspiciously.

  Juniper kept her gaze focused away from Tippy but, in the next moment, knocked her dish over, spilling the bean stew onto the ground. Cyril’s attention was elsewhere, but she knew they had to be careful. She leaned toward the mess and whispered quickly to Tippy, “It is lucky that our chickens have begun laying again so generously, isn’t it? After being so long unfertile. And the goats, too. It’s almost as though . . . some kind of blockage was removed, wouldn’t you say?”

  Tippy’s eyebrows shot up, then knit together in puzzlement. Juniper stared her down, and could see the moment when the realization broke. She looked at her dish, then toward the animal pens in the distance. The hens and goats had begun producing the moment Cyril came into power. Was he some sort of animal speaker, able to magically increase the beasts’ productivity?

  Hardly.

  Juniper knew Tippy’s thoughts were following her own track: remembering the state of Cyril’s camp, with rotten eggs and sour milk strewn from one end to another. He was a pig, of course. But more than that: It was almost as though . . . he had so much produce available that it couldn’t all be used before it spoiled.