The Princess in the Opal Mask

by Jenny Lundquist

  “I’m—I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Really?” His voice drips venom. “Or are you now about to tell me that you stole that bracelet from the princess?”

  “I didn’t steal anything,” I say, realizing my last chance to flee the castle is fading. “I saw the bracelet lying on the floor, and I picked it up. I intended to give it back, I did.”

  “Every word out of your mouth is a lie.” He practically spits the words.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I am sure you do not. Shall we go to the Masked Princess’s room, then, and you can tell her yourself. . . . You do not look so eager to go. Why is that? Perhaps because we both know we shall find the room empty?”

  “Stefan, I can explain,” I say, dropping my bubbly voice. “I’m sorry, I just—”

  “You’re sorry? For what? For being a liar and a traitor? Your lost servant girl act was quite convincing the other night. So much so I actually found myself wondering . . . that is to say, I fell for it completely.”

  “Stefan, I’m sorry. In all honesty I—”

  “Honesty?” He scoffs. “Do you even know the word? You stand here, before a forbidden door, dressed in traveling clothes.” He grabs my arm, and in the dim light I see the fury in his eyes. “Who were you going to meet?”

  “What? I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

  “After you got whatever information you think is inside that room, what were you going to do? Pay someone to take it back to your father the king? Or were you going to flee back to Galandria entirely? Did the Andewyns ever have any intention of honoring the treaty, or are you only just now deciding that I do not suit you?”

  “Please Stefan I—”

  “Here, I’ll show you.” He removes a key, and unlocks the door. Then he wrenches it open and gestures me inside.

  The room is strangely empty, save for a long wooden table in the middle. Stefan yanks me forward. “If you are so curious, look for yourself.”

  Strewn across the table are large parchments. I stare at them, trying to make sense of all the sketches I see. They seem to be plans for a building of some sort.

  I look up. “I don’t understand.”

  Stefan won’t return my gaze. He stares at the table; the fight seems to have left him. “My father and I have been secretly meeting with our masons. Ground was just broken on a new castle—a new palace. It will be several years before it’s completed, of course. But one day”—he grimaces—“one day you and I will live there together as husband and wife. My father has long wanted to build a palace in the countryside to show Kyrenica’s emerging strength.” He drops his voice, until it’s no more than a whisper. “And we knew, after living so long in the Opal Palace, you would find our castle sandy and impoverished in comparison.” He runs a hand through his hair and his eyes seem tired. “We had hoped to surprise you with the plans at the masquerade. That is why we tried to keep you from the northern wing.”

  He stares dejectedly at the plans, and I’m tempted to drop the pretense completely and tell him that this “sandy and impoverished” castle is the grandest place I’ve ever been. And that it’s certainly better than the Opal Palace, where I was treated as little more than a piece of Andewyn property.

  Before I can speak, he seizes my arm. “There, you have seen it.” He ushers me toward the door.

  “Stefan I—”

  “Enough! Or I shall call the guards and tell them I suspect you of treason.” He pulls me along after him down the corridor and swears when he discovers the guards outside my door are sleeping. “Up!” He yells at them. “My family does not pay you to sleep.” They awaken and jump to their feet, their apologies fading as Stefan shoves me inside and closes the door behind us.

  He stalks into the room, and blanches when he sees the mask sitting on an armchair. He picks it up and stares, as if enchanted.

  “And to think,” he murmurs softly, “I believed the rumors. I thought the mask was because you were not beautiful to look at . . . but why, then?” He stares at the mask a moment longer before shoving it into my hands. “Wear it at all times. For I do not wish to see your face ever again.”

  CHAPTER 41

  ELARA

  The next morning, after Milly escorts me to a small dining room near the kitchen, Cook pushes a covered plate in front of me. “The crown prince sends his regards, and wishes me to tell you he will be unable to join you this morning. Though he does hope you will enjoy your breakfast.”

  She lifts the lid, revealing a plate piled high with tuna eyes.

  “His Highness told us this is your favorite Kyrenican dish and that you would quite like to have them for breakfast. We made sure to make extra.”

  I look at her hopeful face. “Thank you,” I say. “Please be sure to convey my utmost gratitude to the crown prince and tell him that his, um, kindness won’t be easily forgotten.”

  I pick up my fork and cut into the tuna eye, although I imagine it’s Stefan’s eye I’m gouging. I take a quick bite and force it down. “It’s delicious,” I say, ignoring my stom-ach’s protests.

  A servant enters the room. “Your Highness, His Majesty the king asks me to inform you that your father’s advisors have arrived and are eager to see you. King Ezebo waits with them in the great hall.”

  He bows himself from the room, and I apologize to Cook that I won’t be able to continue the meal.

  “Of course, Princess. Don’t you worry, you shall have another plate of the delicacy tomorrow morning,” she promises.

  On the way to the great hall, my mind races. I had forgotten that the Guardians were due to arrive in Korynth today. By now they will have heard of the missing maid. If I’m supposed to be “proving my loyalty” by posing as Wilha, what will they say if I confess in private I’m not Wilha, but Elara? Will they really believe that shy Wilha, who seemed to be scared of her own shadow, actually plucked up the courage to escape the castle on her own? Or will they believe I’m the threat they have always suspected me to be? Another Aislinn Andewyn, willing to harm her sister to gain her own ends?

  Inside the great hall, Ezebo and Genevieve are seated on their thrones. Stefan stands next to his mother. Lord Quinlan and Lord Royce are poised before them and they bow when I enter.

  Lord Quinlan steps forward. He is wearing more rings and necklaces than all the Strassburgs combined. “Ah, Princess Wilhamina, what a pleasure it is to see you again. I was just telling King Ezebo here what a fine little room this is.” He gestures vaguely about the great hall.

  Next to Lord Quinlan, Lord Royce’s weathered face is strained, as though he’s trying not to roll his eyes. Ezebo is red-faced, and Stefan stares at Lord Quinlan with open hostility. Yet Lord Quinlan, who doesn’t seem bothered by the effect his words are having on his hosts, continues, “I have always thought that Galandrians, used to so much grandeur, are a little too ornate when it comes to palace design.”

  “Ornate would be one way to describe it,” Lord Royce speaks up. “Gallingly tacky would be another.” Lord Royce’s face is as impassive as ever when he turns to look at me. And yet I can’t help but think he is giving me a message: Fix this.

  “I am inclined to agree with Lord Royce,” I say quickly. “I find this hall to be one of the most elegant I have ever seen, though of course you’re not to be faulted, Lord Quinlan, as I believe it is only those with the most discerning of taste who can recognize it.” I turn away from Lord Quinlan, and though I’ve never done so before, drop to my knees before Ezebo. “You sent for me, Your Majesty?”

  Ezebo and Genevieve beam at me, and even Stefan manages a smirk.

  “Princess Wilhamina, please rise,” Ezebo says, his eyes twinkling. “Truly, your presence delights us all. I am sorry to intrude on your breakfast, and to keep Stefan from you but—”

  “How was your breakfast?” Stefan interrupts, showing every one of his white teeth.

  “Pungent,” I answer. “And wonderfully quiet.”
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  “Yes, well,” Ezebo continues, shooting a confused look between me and Stefan, “at any rate, the queen, the crown prince, and I have had the, er . . . pleasure, of meeting with your father’s advisors for the last hour and they have wonderful news for you.”

  Lord Quinlan bows and steps forward. “I am happy to report that your father is greatly improving. His physician is hopeful that he will soon be back to his old self.”

  “This is good news for us all,” I say demurely, though I’m sorely tempted to ask Lord Quinlan why, if the king is supposedly feeling so much better, he hasn’t bothered to write as he promised?

  The doors open then, and Lord Murcendor and Sir Reinhold enter. Instantly, I regret my earlier brashness. Of everyone, Lord Murcendor—the only person who has known both Wilha and me—is the most likely to discover I’m not Wilha.

  Lord Murcendor bows deeply. “Your Highness. It is a pleasure to see you again.” He looks at me with bright eyes. But it’s not a look of admiration.

  It’s a look of undisguised longing.

  A shiver passes over me, and I tug at my mask. Arianne mentioned how good Lord Murcendor has been to Wilha. A father figure, it seems. But there is nothing parental in the way he stares at me now, and I wonder if Wilha hasn’t mistaken his intentions all these years.

  Maybe I’m not the only one who notices, because just as Lord Murcendor says, “Princess, I was wondering if I could have a word in private. . . ,” Stefan steps forward and interrupts, “Father, did you not say that once Sir Reinhold finished inspecting Galandria’s latest payment of opals, you wished Lord Murcendor to meet with your councilors to discuss the mining rights?”

  “Yes, I did.” Ezebo nods. “They are waiting even as we speak. Sir Reinhold, will you show Lord Murcendor the way?”

  Lord Murcendor looks poised to argue, but then bows and leaves again with Sir Reinhold. “Another time,” he says as he passes me. I nod, careful to keep my eyes down and my mouth shut.

  When I glance back at the dais my eyes meet Stefan’s and we share a look. He seems troubled as he glances from me to Lord Murcendor’s retreating figure. I nod slightly, and hope that, behind my mask, he sees my gratitude.

  Ezebo rises. “If you will excuse me, I have other matters I must see to.” He turns to Lord Quinlan and Lord Royce. “Rooms have been prepared for the both of you, and someone will show you the way.” He nods, clearly dismissing us.

  After the doors to the great hall close behind us, Lord Quinlan drops his smile and turns a scrutinizing eye upon me. “Wilha?” he guesses.

  I stare at him and decide I can’t drop the charade. I have nothing valuable to offer him, no information that would prove useful. As far as I can tell, Ezebo has every intention of honoring the peace treaty, news that may not be too welcome, as it’s seemed like Lord Quinlan may be a bit too eager for the treaty to break.

  “Yes, Lord Quinlan?”

  He frowns. “For a moment there I thought . . . but you . . . seem to be getting on well with those Kyrenicans?”

  I avert my eyes and soften my voice. “Father told me it was my duty to treat them as family.”

  “Yes, well, of course. You father is right, as always.” He resumes his confident air; clearly he has decided I must be Wilha. “Ezebo told me of the mishap with the guards. To tell you the truth, I am shocked by Moran’s behavior. I was also told of your chamber maid running off.” He glances around to make sure that no servants are in earshot and moves in closer. “Tell me truly, what happened?”

  I keep my eyes downcast. “Elara stole jewels from me and fled at the first opportunity she had. I have no idea of her whereabouts.”

  He nods. “That is what I suspected.” His brow furrows. “But this is a problem.”

  You’re telling me. “It is unfortunate, yes.”

  Lord Quinlan sighs heavily. “It is too bad your sister didn’t turn out to be more like you, Wilha.”

  At that, I have to stifle a snort. Lord Quinlan wishes I was more like Wilha? More easily controlled, is what he really means.

  For the first time, I ask myself which girl got the better end of the deal sixteen years ago. I got the Ogdens, and Wilha got the mask. But I also had Cordon. Did Wilha have anyone at all?

  “Ezebo has not heard from Garwyn, but I will send more of my men to search the city and see if we can locate her,” Lord Quinlan says.

  “Locate her, why?” I ask. “She escorted me here, and clearly the Strassburgs do not mean to harm me. It would seem that she has finished her duty and chosen to start a life somewhere else, rather than return to Galandria.” I keep my voice soft. I’m not challenging him; I’m a polite princess, making a polite inquiry.

  But this is what I’ve wondered: If I said thanks, but no thanks, to the Guardians’ offer of a new life in Allegria, what would they do? Would I be allowed to find a new life anywhere else?

  “Your father has ordered me to bring her back to the Opal Palace,” he answers. “It is his decision what becomes of her.”

  Exactly as I thought. And if Fennrick and the Guardians once contemplated sending me into seclusion—my sole offense being that I had the misfortune of being Wilha’s twin—what type of “new life” would they choose for me now, when they still suspect I may want to claim the opal crown for myself?

  No, Galandria is not safe for me, and never will be.

  “As you command,” I say sweetly.

  Lord Quinlan excuses himself, and I turn away to head back to my chambers.

  “There was one other thing.”

  I jump slightly at the sound of Lord Royce’s voice. I had nearly forgotten about him.

  “Yes?” Unease claws at my belly. His ice blue eyes are watchful, far from the impassive gaze he wore before Ezebo and Genevieve.

  “Your Father commissioned Master Welkin to design another one of his creations to congratulate you on your betrothal. He knows what a fan you are of his work. Lord Quinlan and I have brought it here to Korynth.”

  Master Welkin? Creations? The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Lord Royce watches me closely, a muscle twitching near his jaw. Was he not so easily convinced that I’m Wilha? Is it possible that he’s testing me?

  I curtsy. “If you write to my father the king, please tell him his gifts are always welcome.”

  I plead exhaustion then, and tell him I must return to my chambers. I don’t know if Lord Royce was simply delivering a message from his king or something else entirely. But I decide that the best thing I can do is avoid the Guardians as much as possible before the masquerade.

  CHAPTER 42

  WILHA

  Garwyn may be searching for me, but I am not ready to be found. If there is one thing I learned in the Opal Palace, it was how to content myself with a life lived behind walls. The walls of my room at the Sleeping Dragon may be far less grand than my chambers in the Opal Palace, but they serve my purpose, nevertheless.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the castle tonight?” Kyra says as we close up the dress shop.

  I nod. “And besides,” I hold up the bundle I carry, “I told Galina I would finish this dress tonight at home.”

  “Oh, come on, Willie. You’ve been sewing for Galina for the past few nights. It’s really not fair for her to give you so much work.” She glances over her shoulder, to make sure Galina, who is still in the back room, doesn’t hear us.

  “I volunteered to do it. I will stop once the masquerade is over.”

  After I leave the shop, I hurry up the street. When I arrive at the Sleeping Dragon, I find Victor and ask him, just as I have done the past few nights, if he could bring dinner to my room. Then I’m up the stairs and locking my door behind me. I place the bundle on my bed and step over to the window. In the building across the street, a woman is leaning out of her window and removing laundry from a clothesline. She waves at me. I wave back and look down at the street. Many Kyrenicans—most of them carrying candles—make their way west toward the castle.

  Garwy
n and Moran left the Sleeping Dragon the night after I heard them talking, presumably to try other inns in the area. But ever since, I have jumped at the sound of the bell in the dress shop, certain Garwyn had found me, certain he had finally realized I was not just “the barman’s nosy girlfriend.” My neck has prickled with the feeling of someone watching me. Each time I have whirled around, only to find no one there.

  Garwyn may not have seen me, but I have seen him. Two days ago, from the window of the dress shop I glimpsed him strolling up the street, his eyes intent on the passersby.

  And he is not the only Galandrian I have seen. Indeed, from the window yesterday I was certain I glimpsed one of Lord Quinlan’s men and wondered if the Guardians had arrived in Korynth. I received my answer today when I saw Lord Royce this morning, walking toward the docks with Sir Reinhold. Are they also searching for me? I think if I had seen Lord Murcendor on the street I would have declared myself to him, and he would have instructed me how to make things right. But I know little about Lord Royce, so I stayed hidden in the dress shop.

  A knock sounds at the door, but when I open it, it’s not Victor, but James standing in the doorway, holding a plate piled high with steamed clams. He places the tray on my desk and closes the door behind him.

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you, I’m sorry,” he blurts out, before I have the chance to say anything.

  “It was fine, really.” My voice sounds unconvincing, even to me.

  “It can’t be fine. You’ve been avoiding me all week.”

  “I have not.”

  “You leave early for Galina’s, and you’ve been staying there all hours. Then when you return, you spend all evening in your room, sewing.”

  “It cannot be avoided,” I insist. “The masquerade is nearly here. There is hardly enough time to fill the orders we already have, and more are still coming in.”

  “Then why are you asking Victor to bring your meals to you, when you could just as easily ask me? You’re avoiding me.”