The Princess in the Opal Mask

by Jenny Lundquist

  “I’ll tell you what’s happened, my love!” Mister Ogden picks up a worthing and brandishes it like a sword. “I’ve just won at the Draughts of Life! Don’t need creepy Mister Blackwell coming into my house telling me what’s what. Am I not Ogden of Ogden Manor?” He spreads his hands wide, as though Ogden Manor is a grand palace, instead of the rotting dump it actually is.

  Mistress and I glance at each other. She may despise me, but when she really needs something done, it’s to me—and not to Serena—that she looks.

  “Come Mister Ogden,” I say in my most humble voice. “Dinner will be soon and I feel you should be dressed in a manner befitting your station. After all, you are the lord of Ogden Manor, are you not?”

  Serena stands up. “Don’t you dare talk to him like he’s a fool.”

  “Serena!” Mistress Ogden snaps. “Accompany your father upstairs and help him clean up.”

  Serena lowers her voice so only I can hear. “I don’t know how you can claim to hate her so much, when you’re exactly like her.”

  She stalks from the kitchen, practically dragging Mister Ogden away by the arm, and I grab on to the counter, fighting the urge to vomit. I am nothing like Mistress Ogden. I stop and take a deep breath, and imagine myself feeding Serena’s words to the starved kitten.

  “Set the table,” Mistress Ogden commands. When I don’t move she says, “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  “When the orphanage brought me to you, did they give you anything from my mother?” I ask. “A keepsake, something to remember her by?” I don’t mention the book, or Mister Travers, as I wouldn’t put it past her to steal the book a second time.

  She removes a vase from a shelf. “Your mother was probably nothing but a dirty whore who abandoned you the first chance she got. You really think she’d leave you something?”

  “Please,” I say, forcing the anger from my voice. “Did she leave me anything?”

  “I haven’t got time for your nonsense.” She begins polishing the vase. “Mister Blackwell will be here in just a matter of—”

  “Tell me the truth!” I move to grab her arm. My aim lands low, and my hand knocks the vase from her hands. Glass shatters on the stone floor.

  Mistress Ogden stands very still. “You will pick that up immediately, or—”

  “Or what?” I interrupt. “You’ll beat me? Deny me more meals? Lock me in the barn again? If you’re going to do something, you’d better make sure it doesn’t leave any marks, otherwise Mister Blackwell may decide not to pay you tonight.”

  “I don’t wish to play your games.” She fetches a broom and holds it out to me.

  I grab the broom and then hurl it across the room. It smacks the wall and clatters to the ground. I step closer to her, and for the first time ever, I see a shadow of fear flicker across her face. “And maybe I don’t wish to play your games. Maybe it would be worth it to me to tell Mister Blackwell who you really are.”

  Mistress Ogden reaches out. Her long nails sink into my bare forearm, piercing my skin, and I gasp in pain. “Mister Blackwell will come tonight,” she hisses. “And you will play your role, do you understand?” She rakes her nails down my arm, leaving small red rivers in their wake. “And if you do not, you will find yourself chained up like a common thief, as I’ll have to tell the sheriff how you’ve been stealing from us.”

  “I’ve never stolen anything from you!”

  She bends low and whispers into my ear, “It would be my word against yours. Do you think anyone would ever believe you over me?” Her nails dig deeper. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” I gasp in relief when she finally releases me.

  “Now,” she says, smoothing her skirts, “you will clean this mess up. You will scrape the grime off yourself. And you will make an effort to look like a respectable girl.”

  She turns around to leave, but turns back. “And Elara?” Her gaze flicks to my bleeding forearm. “Make sure you wear long sleeves.”

  CHAPTER 6

  ELARA

  When it comes to deception, attention to detail is everything.

  The table is set with silver bowls and goblets (the ones Mistress Ogden keeps locked up so Mister Ogden can’t sell them). White candles are placed before each setting and their flames flicker in the drafty dining room. It looks as though we’re about to sit down to a nice family meal, instead of a performance carefully crafted by Mistress Ogden.

  When Mister Blackwell arrives and Mistress Ogden shows him into the dining room, I feel a cold, cutting pain. Like a jagged piece of ice has wedged itself in my chest.

  “Good evening, Elara,” Mister Blackwell extends his hand, which I take.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  He raises my hand to his lips, and it’s all I can do not to snatch my arm away. Something about Mister Blackwell repulses me. He is thin. Skeletal, almost. His long black hair hangs down his back and his eyes are dark, unreadable orbs.

  We take our places around the table. Mistress and I sit next to each other. She fills our goblets and nods in my direction. It’s a slight, almost imperceptible incline of her head, and like an apprentice taking orders from his master, I understand. It’s time to begin.

  “How are things in Allegria?” I ask Mister Blackwell. I force myself to take a small, controlled bite of stew, not letting on how hungry I am.

  “Well,” Mister Blackwell replies. “The city is preoccupied with preparations for the princess’s masquerade ball.”

  “Yes, I admit I have been thinking of nothing else myself,” I say, affecting a breathless voice that sounds nothing like my own.

  “Oh yes, the ball is coming up isn’t it?” Mistress Ogden says, as though the thought has only just occurred to her. “Do you know that when she was little, Elara used to pretend she was the Masked Princess? She cut up one of her dresses—a really nice one, mind you—and tied it like a silk mask to her face.”

  “You did?” At this, Mister Blackwell looks at me. For once, his grim manner has vanished and he seems amused.

  “Yes, sir,” I lie. And for good measure I add, “I also used to stand at the top of the stairs and wave, like it was a balcony.” I mimic a grand wave with a smile. Serena rolls her eyes but says nothing.

  “I used to live in Allegria very briefly.” Mistress gets a wistful look on her face. “I performed with the Royal Theatre Company. Once upon a time, I was quite the actress.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Mister Blackwell casts an unreadable look at Mistress Ogden. And for a moment, I wonder if he knows we’re all just a bunch of pathetic liars.

  “I tell the girls all the time that Allegria’s the most beautiful city in the world. Though it is difficult to describe to someone who has never been there.” Mistress Ogden sighs. “I have so wanted to show the girls the Royal Opera House and Eleanor Square, and take them to see the Opal Palace.”

  “Do you intend to visit Allegria soon, then?” Mister Black-well asks.

  Mistress Ogden shakes her head. “We’ve had a tough few months. And a trip to Allegria costs money. Though it would be a good lesson for the girls, a bit of living history, don’t you think? Something a schoolteacher just can’t explain.” Mis-tress leans back in her chair, looking utterly defeated. Her gaze finds Mister Blackwell, and I know she is gearing up for her grand finale. “I don’t suppose—”

  “As it happens, Elara and I saw the girls’ teacher today.” Mister Ogden, who, up until now has seemed content to silently drain his goblet, suddenly rouses himself.

  “What?” Mistress Ogden frowns, caught off guard and clearly not happy he has changed the subject. But she doesn’t let it phase her. “You mean Mister Travers?” she asks, feigning interest. “However is he?”

  “Well, it was quite strange,” Mister Ogden begins, and relates what happened at the Draughts of Life.

  “Where do you suppose they were taking him?” Serena asks once he’s finished.

  “Perhaps he was a convict,” Mister Blackwell speaks up. “Man
y criminals flee Allegria, hoping that the farther they get from the Crown, the surer they will be able to evade the justice that is due to them.”

  “A criminal?” Serena says. “I wouldn’t have taken Mister Travers for a criminal. But then he didn’t grow up in Tulan. I wonder why he chose to settle here?”

  Outwardly I give no sign that the conversation troubles me. But inwardly I feel faint and my stomach churns. A possibility I hadn’t considered earlier enters my mind. Why would an outsider choose to settle in Tulan, a small, insignificant village, unless he had a very good reason for doing so? To what lengths would a hunted man go to protect his family? If he’d had a daughter, would he hide her? Would he have gone so far to deliver her to an orphanage, only to find her later when he thought he would be safe now?

  Is Mister Travers my father?

  Mister Blackwell turns his dark gaze to me. “Did you see him in the tavern as well? Did he say anything to you?” His words seem casual enough, as though he’s just making po-lite conversation. I’m considering my answer, weighing each word carefully, when I notice something that makes my blood run cold.

  The large opal ring on Mister Blackwell’s pale hand. Exactly like the one the man in the carriage wore.

  Mister Blackwell is the man who had Mister Travers taken to Allegria? And yet just a few hours later he sits here, acting as though he’s only just arrived in Tulan, in the shabby carriage we’ve always greeted him in, not the royal one bearing the Andewyn coat of arms.

  “Did you see him?” Mister Blackwell repeats.

  My face becomes still. “I never noticed him until the guards arrived. I was talking to my friend Cordon the whole time. What will happen to him in Allegria?”

  Mister Blackwell’s face is a veil of shadows in the flickering candlelight. “If your schoolteacher is in some kind of trouble, he will be put in prison to await trial.”

  Mistress Ogden grabs my hand and squeezes it. Hard. I know I should drop it and steer the conversation back to what she really wants. But what I want is answers. Mister Travers knows something about my mother and somehow, I need to find him.

  And suddenly, it occurs to me that I can.

  “Well, I suppose there is no use talking about it anymore then,” I say with a wave of my hand. I turn to Mistress Ogden and give her such a look of sunny adoration that she seems momentarily confused by my sudden change in attitude. “I know things are difficult, Mother”—I force myself to choke out the word—“But isn’t there some way we could go to Allegria? I so want to see the Masked Princess.”

  The confusion on her face vanishes, and it’s replaced by a look of approval. I know she hates me. But I think a small part of her grudgingly respects me for learning to be somewhat of the performer she herself is.

  She shakes her head before smiling sadly. “I’m sorry, but tickets to the masquerade are just impossible to get.” She turns to Mister Blackwell. “Aren’t they?”

  “Actually,” Mister Blackwell says, “many of us in Allegria were given invitations. Perhaps the orphanage could sponsor your trip to Allegria, as well as provide you with tickets.”

  “Why Mister Blackwell, that would be just lovely.” Faster than I’ve ever seen her move, she reaches across the table and snatches the four tickets and bag of worthings Mister Black-well holds out. From the look in her eyes, I can tell she thinks she’s gotten the best of him.

  Yet as I listen to them speak, I’m not so sure. He knows more about Mister Travers than he is letting on. And he just happened to have exactly four tickets to a ball that’s supposed to be nearly impossible to get into? I look at Mister Blackwell, at his shadowed face, unreadable black eyes, and his opal ring glinting in the candlelight. I can’t help but wonder if it hadn’t been his plan for us to travel to Allegria all along.

  I don’t care about the Masked Princess, or her masquerade ball. But if Mr. Travers is still in Allegria by the time I arrive, somehow, I’m going to find him.

  CHAPTER 7

  WILHA

  The gardens surrounding the Opal Palace are famous for their beauty. My favorite has always been an apple orchard known as the Queen’s Garden. Off limits to everyone but the royal family, it is located on the southwestern end of the palace grounds. Interspersed between the trees are white stone statues of every ruling queen of Gal-andria, from Eleanor the Great to my mother, Queen Astrid. Next to my mother’s statue is an empty space, which is to be filled once a new queen is crowned.

  It is a place I come to when I need to be alone, away from the whispers and the rumors. A place where, except for the guards keeping watch along the garden’s wall, the only eyes that see me are made of stone.

  A weak spring sun shines upon my mother’s statue, and I try to find within her stone face some resemblance to myself. There is no law in Galandria, with its rich history of strong queens, decreeing the crown must pass to the firstborn son. No law saying that I, as the eldest, cannot be the crown princess of Galandria and one day have my own statue in this garden, right next to my mother’s. Yet I have always known, from the time such thoughts could enter my head, that my brother Andrei would one day rule Galandria. That the next statue to grace the Queen’s Garden will be of Andrei’s wife.

  A breeze stirs up, sending blossoms swirling from the apple trees, and for a moment it seems my mother’s statue weeps pink flower petals. Her lips are pressed together. Her hair is coiled on her head, her chin is raised, and her arms are at her sides. She looks strong, as though she could stare down an entire army by the sheer force of her will.

  I see nothing of myself in her.

  It is several minutes later, when I am staring at the empty space where a statue of me will never be, that I hear something behind me. I turn, and see Lord Murcendor approaching. He wears a thick emerald green robe identifying him as a member of the Guardian Council.

  Lord Murcendor’s appearance is oft-putting to many. His sleek dark hair, pale face, and grave manner make others uneasy. But they do not know him like I do. As the Guardian of the Opal Mines, and therefore the protector of Galandria’s wealth, the safety of the Andewyn family rests heavily upon his shoulders.

  “You called for me, Your Highness?”

  “Please do not call me that,” I say. “Not today.”

  “Very well, Wilha.” He pauses. “The last time I saw you, you were sitting here as well.”

  “I have a training session with Patric soon,” I reply, touching the lightweight red velvet mask I am allowed to wear during our lessons. “Besides,” I motion to my mother’s statue, “I wanted to look at her while I still could.”

  “I see.” Lord Murcendor settles himself on the bench next to me. “Your father told you then?”

  I nod, and the tears I have been holding back the last few days start escaping. Lord Murcendor waits patiently for me, as he always does. “Father says I serve Galandria by marrying the Kyrenican crown prince,” I say when I regain my composure.

  “The Kyrenicans are dogs,” he retorts, and I read the anger in his eyes. “Their rightful place is under Galandria’s boot.”

  I turn to him. “Please, can you not change his mind?”

  “You overestimate my influence, Wilha. It is Lord Royce who has your father’s ear on this matter, and as usual he will only tell the king what he wants to hear. And what your father wants to hear, like many kings, is that he is right. During our sessions in the Guardians’ Chambers, Lord Quinlan made an excellent case for declaring war and the wealth it could bring us. But your father is a fool. He is so keen to avoid a war—a war I believe we have every assurance of winning—because he and Lord Royce are too cowardly to risk going into battle. I alone argued your case and told him it was madness to hand you over to our enemy without any regard for your safety or happiness. You are the Glory of Galandria. It kills me to see so great a treasure as you pass into the hands of such despicable men.”

  I look away from his fiery gaze. I know he means well, but his words bring no comfort. The Glory of Galandria is t
he same thing as The Masked Princess. A nonperson.

  I swallow. “I have been dreaming again.”

  For years I have been plagued with nightmares. Right after Rinna died, I used to dream that all the boys and girls in Allegria would surround me. They would slap and grab at me, and when one of them would succeed in pulling off my mask, they all promptly fell to the ground, dead.

  Or I would dream that I was playing by the banks of the Eleanor River and slipped into the water. But when I tried to surface, I found I could not because my mask was too heavy. And no matter how much I thrashed about, it kept pulling me downward, until I could no longer see the sunlight.

  “What do you dream of this time?” he asks.

  “I dream that when the crown prince and I meet he decides the mask is not enough.” I close my eyes. “I dream that he decides to lock me away in a crypt, where I am hidden from others, unable to cause harm.” I breathe deeply and open my eyes. “Please, tell me what I should do.”

  “Do not give up so easily.” His voice is sharp. “There is still time.” His gaze strays to my lips and his voice lowers. “I will do everything in my power to prevent this. I will not let you go.”

  He continues staring, and then quickly stands up and straightens his robe. “I am afraid I must be going,” he says, calmness returning to his voice. “It seems your brother has been giving his new tutor trouble. Your father has asked that I speak with him.”

  “Of course,” I say, blinking rapidly. “Of course you must.”

  He leaves and I continue to sit on the bench, feeling more disoriented than before.

  I give myself a small shake, trying to clear not only the fog in my head, but the unease that has suddenly sprung up in my heart.

  CHAPTER 8

  WILHA

  The day I had my first training session with Patric, my arms shook from the weight of the sword and we had to end the lesson after only several minutes of practice. After that I swore to myself I would not be the weakling I am sure everyone believes me to be. Most nights I practice with my sword, trying to memorize the footwork and techniques Patric has taught me.