The Princess in the Opal Mask

by Jenny Lundquist

  The maid complies. When I raise the cup to my lips, I smell cinnamon and peppery spices. As I sip, I feel myself growing warm all over. “This is the best tea I’ve ever had in my life,” I say honestly.

  As we make small talk and dine, I find that eating while wearing the mask is tricky, just as it was last night. When Genevieve or Eudora asks me a question, I try to think of what Wilha would say and give soft, demure answers. This seems to go well until Genevieve asks me what subject I most enjoyed studying with my tutors.

  “History is my favorite,” I answer truthfully, because I have no idea what Wilha’s answer would be.

  “Is it?” Eudora says. “You are aware that my late husband was the grandson of King Bronson the Liberator? Oh, but I forget,” she adds with a wicked smile after I nod, “Galand-rians have another name for him, do they not? Tell me, what is it?”

  Her eyebrows rise as though daring me. Maybe I should take Arianne’s advice, which suddenly comes back to me in full force. Be pleasant at all times. Smile, even in the face of unkindness, for you are to be above it all. Feign ignorance if you must.

  But I can’t do that, no matter how much Arianne’s words nag at me. I won’t declare myself ignorant of my own history, not when there were so many days I had to beg Mistress Ogden to let me attend school.

  “Bronson the Butcher,” I proclaim. “So named because of all the Galandrians he slaughtered.”

  “Hold your tongue, girl,” Eudora snaps, seemingly shocked that I dared to speak the truth. “In this country, Bronson Strassburg is considered a war hero, not to mention our founding king.”

  “Interesting,” I say coolly. “Because in my country he’s considered a murderer.”

  Shortly after this the tea ends, and I am escorted back to my room by an unsmiling Leandra.

  She is careful, I notice, to avoid the northern wing.

  CHAPTER 37

  WILHA

  Since I received the job yesterday in the dress shop, I have been comforted by the sound of rustling silk and the rhythmic, methodical puncture of needle through fabric. It is the first thing that has seemed familiar since our procession reached Korynth, and slowly, some of the knots in my stomach have begun to untie.

  Yet not all of them. As I have stitched in the dress shop, not attempting to return to the castle, I have wondered at the goings on inside the castle. While I hide, what has become of Elara?

  Word that the Masked Princess has arrived in Korynth officially reaches the dress shop late afternoon via a noblewoman named Alvirah who needs alterations to the gown she intends to wear to the masquerade. She stands in front of a mirror while Kyra kneels before her, pinning her dress. “We dined with her and the royal family the night before last. Really, you would think that—ouch!” Alvirah looks down at Kyra, “Watch it.”

  My hands go still at her words. So instead of telling the soldiers I fled, Elara is still in the castle and pretending to be me.

  Kyra stares up at Alvirah in awe, as though she herself were royalty. “You met the Masked Princess? What was she like?”

  “Clumsy and dim-witted. She knocked over a wine glass and used the wrong fork at dinner. Really, why the world is so enamored of her I just don’t understand.” She plucks at her dress and frowns. “Anyway, the king has decided she will appear on the balcony every night at sunset. Why anyone would want to see her, when she is probably wretched-looking under that mask, is beyond me.”

  “But there are so many rumors,” Kyra says. “Maybe it’s not that she is ugly, maybe it’s that she’s beautiful.”

  “Ridiculous,” Alvirah scoffs. “How can she be beautiful? She’s a Galandrian.”

  “Did it seem like . . . she was being treated well?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Alvirah says. “The Strassburgs threw a feast for her, did they not? And the princesses Leandra and Ruby seem quite taken with her.” She plucks at her dress again. “Galina, this hem is crooked, can you look at this? Your girls are not yet as precise as you are. . . .”

  Galina bends down, and while they all examine Alvirah’s dress I turn away, pretending to concentrate on the sapphire-colored gown I have been working on. Listening to them speak of the Masked Princess makes me feel oddly invisible, like I am a ghost haunting the room long after my death. But hearing that Elara is well, that no harm has come to her as a result of my disappearance, revives me. She is the reason why no soldiers have come for me. She must truly be the great pretender she boasted to be.

  Or perhaps not, I think, shoving my needle through sapphire satin. Perhaps the Guardians could have stuck a mask on any girl’s face and the Strassburgs would have been fooled. King Ezebo wanted his son to marry the Masked Princess, not necessarily Wilhamina Andewyn.

  “Willie,” Kyra says, “we should go tonight and stand outside the castle gates and wait for sunset to see the Masked Princess.”

  “Me?” I say, surprised. “You want me to go with you?”

  “Of course.” Kyra laughs. “Why not?”

  “I—no reason,” I reply. I can’t tell her I’m not used to people enjoying my company.

  “It will be cold tonight,” Kyra continues, glancing at my thinner traveling dress. “Didn’t you bring any other clothes with you to the city? Or a heavier cloak?”

  I don’t answer right away. I’m thinking of all the trunks that accompanied me to Korynth, but Kyra mistakes my hesitation for something else.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” she says. “Many people arrive in the city with very little.” She turns to Galina. “Please, can we give her some dresses from the castoffs?” she asks, and Galina nods.

  “Castoffs?” I ask.

  “We have several cast aside dresses here—orders that were never claimed or dresses that were donated so we could practice our stitching.” Kyra leads me to a back room and selects a couple of plain dresses in shades of black and gray. “These should be a fit.” Both of the dresses are made of wool, much warmer than what I am wearing now.

  “Thank you,” I say and accept the dresses from Kyra gratefully. Perhaps I, and everyone else in my father’s court, have been wrong about the Kyrenicans.

  “Tonight after supper you must meet me at the Broken Statue. We’ll go together to see the Masked Princess.” Kyra smiles. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, smiling back. “I will.”

  It is not until later, during dinner with Victor and James, that it occurs to me I do not know where the Broken Statue is.

  “It’s near the castle,” Victor answers, pushing away his plate of salmon. He stares hard at me and crosses his arms across his chest. “You just arrived in the city. You shouldn’t be wandering around the streets like you were a couple days ago.”

  “Victor,” James says lightly. “I don’t think Willie appreciates you ordering her around.”

  The inn is busy tonight. Servers dash about the tables, bringing out food and refilling goblets. A man plays a lute while several ladies look on, gazing at him adoringly. Near the fireplace, two men are playing cards. And at the table next to them are Anton and Jaromil, who are surrounded by a group of rough-looking men. All of them are staring intently at Anton, who is talking.

  All through dinner, I have wondered what they were discussing, and if it has anything to do with the masquerade. Or, my mouth goes dry, with the Masked Princess. Whatever job someone hired Anton and Jaromil to do, it is clear they have found others to help them.

  My father is still recovering from the attack in Eleanor Square. But the men who tried to assassinate him—whoever they are—did they sit around an inn just like this, plotting while everyone around them went about their business?

  “I’m just saying,” Victor says, undeterred. “You young people think—”

  He is interrupted by shouting. The men playing cards are accusing each other of cheating. One of them stands up and hurls his plate at the wall. It shatters and the pieces land on the ground, very close to Anton and Jaromil.

  “They’re going to brawl,” James s
ays, standing quickly.

  “Not in my inn, they’re not,” Victor says, also standing.

  “I’ll fetch a broom and see to the broken plate,” I say suddenly.

  Anton, Jaromil, and their companions are deep in conversation as I come over and sweep near them, but their voices are lowered, making it impossible to hear what they are saying in the noisy inn. I edge closer.

  “Why would we do such a thing?” says one man.

  “Why not? I’d sell my own soul for the kind of money he says his master is offering.”

  “You already have sold your soul, Jaromil,” says a third man, and the table erupts into loud guffaws.

  “We’ll need help at the docks that night. We’ll need to recruit more men,” Anton says once they’ve quieted down again. “If there’s enough of us, we can get it done fast, before anyone can stop us. And we’ll also—” He breaks off suddenly.

  I hazard a glance over to the table, and see the men are looking at me.

  “Taking you an awful long time to sweep up,” Anton drawls. His hand shoots out and grabs my arm. “Hear anything useful?”

  “What? No,” I say, conscious that my voice sounds high-pitched.

  Anton pulls me closer and whispers, “Want to know what my father said I should do with nosy girls?”

  I don’t answer. My breath is coming in ragged gasps; my heart feels ready to escape my chest.

  “Take your hands off of her.” James appears at the table with a determined look on his face.

  “You going to make me, James?” Anton says and tightens his grip on my arm.

  “If I have to.” James stares at him, until finally Anton curses and releases my arm, sending me to the ground. “You and your friends need to leave,” James says after he has helped me to my feet.

  Anton scowls. For a moment I think he is going to punch James. But instead he finishes the rest of his ale and spits. “Fine. But tell your girl to mind her own business.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper to James after they leave. I take a few deep breaths, and James escorts me back to our table, my heart still hammering; my cheeks warm at being called James’s girl. I glance over at him. Does he have a girl? If so, I have not seen her.

  “Nicely handled,” Victor tells James after we sit down. To me, he says, “You need to be careful, Willie. Anton and Jaromil are regulars here, and are rarely up to any good.”

  “I overheard them talking,” I say hesitantly. “Something about a job at the docks? On the night of the masquerade—something that a Galandrian needed help with,” I say, careful, as I have been the last two days, to shorten my vowels, and sound more Kyrenican.

  Victor considers this. “Could be working with a Galandrian trader.”

  “But I thought Kyrenica and Galandria do not trade with each other?” I say, surprised.

  “Not officially, no—though that will soon change, with the new treaty. But a lot of illegal trading still occurs. It’s a profitable business, for those willing to risk it.”

  I nod, and wonder if Lord Royce—the Guardian of Trade—is aware of this. I relax a little. I suppose it makes sense; perhaps Anton and Jaromil and their companions intend to trade goods on the night of the masquerade, while the city is preoccupied.

  Victor gestures about the noisy inn and resumes the earlier conversation. “The Masked Princess has just arrived in the city and already it’s a circus. I’m surprised Galina didn’t talk more sense into you girls. Go meet Kyra, if you must. You can watch the princess wave from the balcony, and then you come immediately back here.”

  James laughs. “Victor, Willie is your tenant, not your—” He breaks off, and the color drains from his face. “I mean”—he stammers—“I only meant that—”

  “It’s all right,” Victor replies gruffly with a wave of his hand.

  I look between the two of them, unsure what is going on. “I appreciate your concern,” I say to Victor.

  Victor nods. “James is right, though. I can’t tell you what to do. But”—he looks pointedly at James—“as my employee, I can tell you to do whatever I want. If Willie is determined to see the princess then you will accompany her there and back.”

  I expect James to protest, but instead, he smiles at me and says, “I’d like that. Very much.”

  Outside the inn, the streets are festive and several groups of people laugh and jest as they head toward the castle. The city smells of fish, and a chilly, briny wind blows up the street.

  “What was going on between you and Victor earlier?” I ask James as we walk. “Did you offend him somehow?”

  James’s smile fades. “No, but I’m a fool.” He rakes his hand through his messy hair and continues. “Victor was a general for King Ezebo once, and as fierce as they come. Stories are still told about him to this day. But about ten years ago he returned from a border skirmish to find his wife and four girls dead. They’d gotten sick with the fever, see? That kind of loss, it changes a man, to lose his wife and daughters.”

  I nod, though I want to tell him that some men are not nearly so attached to their family. Some men choose to lose their daughters.

  “And now, whenever he sees a girl by herself he tries to help her. He’s gotten a bit of a reputation in the city for having a soft heart. It drives Galina and some of the other merchants mad.”

  The streets become more packed as we make our way toward the castle. When we push through a particularly crowded section, James places his hand on the small of my back and I flinch.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, removing his hand. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” I answer just as quickly. “I only—”

  I stop, because how can I explain? Except for the few times Patric and I held hands, few people have ever willingly touched me.

  I am searching for something to say to ease the awkwardness that has sprung up between us, when James says, “Look, the broken statue is up there.”

  I follow his gaze and gasp. I had assumed “the Broken Statue” was an inn or a tavern. But now I see Kyra had been speaking literally.

  Standing in the middle of the street rising up over the passersby is a white stone statue of my great-great-grandmother Rowan, much like the one that stands in the Queen’s Garden in the Opal Palace. Except this statue is indeed broken. Queen Rowan’s head lies on the ground before the rest of the statue’s body, as though someone beheaded her.

  “Willie? Are you okay?” James says.

  I nod. I suppose to everyone else, the broken statue is just a monument, or a meeting place. But to me, it’s a reminder of the bad blood between the Strassburgs and the Andewyns.

  “Hi, Willie!” Kyra appears. Her eyes stray to James. “Have you bought candles yet?”

  “Not yet,” James answers. He turns to me. “I’ll go and get ours.” He points to a nearby vendor and leaves.

  “Candles? For what?” I ask Kyra.

  “To light at the castle gates, of course.” She grins slyly. “So, you and James?”

  I blink. “Me and James . . . what?”

  Kyra rolls her eyes. “He walked you here and he’s buying you candles? He likes you, Willie.”

  “No, you misunderstand,” I say, although I can feel my cheeks coloring. “Victor told him to accompany me. He said he didn’t want me walking alone.”

  “Yeah,” Kyra says, a smile pulling at her lips. “I’m sure Victor had to twist his arm.”

  James returns and we set off. A large crowd has already gathered in front of the castle. James lights our candles from a woman standing nearby and soon the street glows with light.

  Everywhere people are crying out, appealing to King Ezebo to let them see the Masked Princess.

  “Look!” Kyra cries. “The doors to the balcony are opening.”

  Several guards bearing torches step out onto the balcony. After a moment—where it seems the whole world is holding its breath, the door opens again, and the Masked Princess—Elara—emerges.

  I gasp. It’s like looking at an
image of the girl I once was. Can that really be only a few days ago? She wears a golden gown and one of my newer masks, the gilded one with the fire opals, which glows with streaks of red, orange, and yellow. With the torchlight glinting off her jewels and the sun setting behind the castle, dusting the sky in bright shades of orange and pink, she truly does seem unearthly.

  So this is what it’s like, I think, listening to the excited shouts of the people around me. This is what it’s like to be on the other side of the balcony.

  My eyes stray to the front of the gates, and that’s when I see him:

  Garwyn.

  He is not watching Elara like everyone else; his eyes are sweeping over the crowd. Now that I look, so are two of the other guards I traveled with, though I have forgotten their names. Garwyn and his men are wearing street clothes, which seems odd. I distinctly remember hearing Lord Quinlan say they were to remain at the castle serving King Ezebo for as long as he saw fit, and then return immediately to Galandria.

  Just then, a younger girl joins Elara on the balcony.

  “Look, it’s Princess Ruby,” Kyra says.

  The smaller girl steps in front of Elara and begins blowing kisses, and the crowd laughs and applauds.

  “The Masked Princess seems to be getting on well with the royal family,” Kyra remarks.

  “Very well,” I answer. Whatever Elara has said or done these last few days seems to have endeared her to the Strassburgs. She certainly doesn’t look as though she is merely enduring pretending to be me.

  A chill slides down my back and I shudder. What if she is doing more than just pretending and waiting for me to return? I know she wanted to find a new life. What if, in fleeing the castle, I handed her the opportunity she was looking for?

  I glance at Garwyn. If I went to him proclaiming myself as the true Masked Princess, would he believe me? Or would Elara tell him she was the Masked Princess, and I was the decoy?