Princess of the Silver Woods

by Jessica Day George

The door closed behind the maid, and Petunia stuck her head under the edge of the bed.

  “Oliver, is that you?”

  “Petunia! What are you doing?” Pansy sounded startled.

  “I can hear you breathing under there,” Petunia announced. “And I smelled evergreen sap.”

  She frowned, her blue eyes searching in the darkness under the bed, and Oliver remembered that he was still wearing the cloak.

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said.

  Pansy let out a small scream, and Petunia shushed her.

  “I’ll come out, I’ve got Prince Galen’s cloak on.”

  Petunia stepped back as Oliver crawled out from under the bed. Once he was on his feet, he took off the cloak and folded it over his arm. Pansy gasped again as he became visible but didn’t scream.

  “What are you doing here?” Petunia demanded.

  Pansy had a more pressing question, however. “Did you watch us undress?”

  Oliver felt himself turning red. “Just … just your feet,” he stammered. “I mean, I only saw your feet. I wasn’t trying to look, I swear!”

  Pansy looked scandalized, and she actually bent her knees a little so that the hem of her gown concealed her feet even more. He must have been born under an unlucky moon, he thought ruefully.

  Petunia smacked his upper arm. “So what are you doing here, other than spying on us in our underthings?”

  “I came to warn you,” he said, trying to stand up straight and appear trustworthy.

  Both princesses immediately looked wary, exchanging glances. “Warn us of what?” Petunia asked. She studied him with those blue, blue eyes and Oliver wondered all over again what he was doing here.

  “The Nine Daughters of Russaka,” he blurted out at last, before he lost his nerve.

  Petunia blinked, but she didn’t say anything.

  “The grand duchess is one of the Nine Daughters of Russaka,” he continued. “And they … their sons that they had in the tower … were the sons of the King Under Stone.”

  “We know about the grand duchess,” Petunia said. “Though I still don’t believe it entirely. And who told you about the King Under Stone?” There was a crease between Petunia’s brows.

  “Princess Poppy,” he replied. “It was in a book that she gave me, while I was in Bruch. So I guessed that … that you and your sisters, you were entrapped by the King Under Stone all those years ago, and that’s why your dancing shoes wore out every night. Now that you’re here as her guests, I thought you should know about the connection between them. Also, I found something in the hothouse where I saw the shadows coming up out of the floor, and I wondered if Crown Prince Galen had had a chance to look at the floor there.”

  The princesses seemed slightly stunned by all the words that had come out of Oliver’s mouth, and neither of them said anything for minute. Then Pansy took a tentative step toward the door, and Petunia stopped her with a hand on her older sister’s arm.

  “Are you accusing the grand duchess of being in league with the King Under Stone?” Petunia didn’t look shocked, but her face had gone hard, and Oliver’s heart sank a little.

  “Yes?” He wished that it didn’t sound like a question. “I mean, I don’t know. But I do know … or, er, I believe that she did have one of the King Under Stone’s sons. Did you know he had twelve? All with noblewomen?”

  “Yes,” Petunia said, and now her voice was wintry. “I knew.”

  “Oh,” Oliver said. He suddenly felt extremely foolish. “So, I just, was worried that you might not be safe,” he said lamely.

  Oliver could feel his ears burning. Why had he come? They probably knew much more than he did. Princess Poppy had probably just given him the books because he was bored and she had them at hand, and not in some roundabout plea for help.

  “You saw shadows in the garden?” Petunia asked.

  “Yes,” Oliver said. “The first night that you were here. They looked like men, or the shadows of men, and they ran through the garden toward your window,” he told her, hoping that at least this bit of information would be useful.

  Petunia looked toward the window, thoughtful. “You say they came out of one of the hothouses? And you found something there? What?”

  Before he could answer, though, Pansy spoke up. “If you won’t let me get Rose and Galen,” she complained, “at least let me lock the door, Pet.”

  Petunia let go of her sister, who hurried to lock the door.

  “Keep one ear to the door, please,” Petunia told her. “Olga never lets me out of her sight for very long. And she has her own key.” She sighed heavily.

  “I found wax, clear wax all over the floor leading to the door of the hothouse,” Oliver said, before he put his boot in his mouth by saying that Olga sounded more like a jailer than a maid. “It looks like someone has written something in the wax, but I can’t make it out.”

  Petunia rose up on her toes, seemingly excited. “So you’ve seen Kestilan and his brothers, and you think you know how they get into the gardens here?”

  “Kestilan?” There was that name again. Oliver fought down an irrational surge of jealousy for this mysterious being who took up so much of Petunia’s attention.

  “That’s the name of the youngest prince,” Petunia clarified.

  “Yes, then, I suppose I did see him,” Oliver told her. “I didn’t really know what he—they—were.”

  “They are the sons of the King Under Stone,” Petunia said. “But they aren’t supposed to be here, in this world. They’re supposed to be shut up in the prison that was created to hold their father.”

  “Someone’s coming,” Pansy whispered.

  Oliver slung the cloak over his shoulders and fastened the clasp.

  “Get back under the bed,” Petunia murmured. “And listen.”

  “All right.” Oliver crawled back under the bed and lay still, trying to keep his breathing as quiet as possible.

  “We all took a tour of the gardens this afternoon at Galen’s insistence,” Petunia said, speaking in a quick, low voice. “Grigori led us around, though, and I guess he just thought that Galen was interested because he used to be a gardener. But Grigori said the hothouses were boring, and we didn’t go anywhere near them. So we’ll have to try tomorrow—”

  The doorknob rattled.

  “My princesses, it is time for dinner,” called the maid through the door. “Why have you locked the door? Open, please.”

  Oliver bit back a laugh as Petunia said something under her breath that was not fit language for either a princess or indeed a young lady of any rank. He settled in for another nap, and wished he’d asked her to bring him something from dinner. It was going to be a very long night.

  Prayer

  At dinner, Petunia could not stop thinking about how much Prince Grigori looked like the princes Under Stone. She had never thought about it before, but with his pale skin and black hair, he could easily be one of them. But did that mean that he was part of some larger plot? Was he helping the princes? How could she find out? She caught herself staring at him, eyes narrowed, and tried to concentrate on the food instead.

  “Pet is always a bit out of sorts in the winter,” Pansy suddenly said, in a lighthearted tone that made everyone turn their attention to her. “It’s because she’s so devoted to Mother’s gardens, you know. Anytime she can’t be out digging in the dirt she becomes restless.” Then she blushed. “Not that she likes being dirty, or rooting around in the mud,” she clarified.

  “Really, Petunia? I knew that you were fond of gardens, but I didn’t know that you liked gardening itself!” Prince Grigori smiled at her, and Petunia gritted her teeth over the indulgent look on his face. He probably thought she liked picking flowers for table arrangements or some other ladylike pursuit.

  “Yes,” she said, slicing a sprout in half with unnecessary vigor. “I have been working with my father and our head gardener for several years in the hot houses, perfecting my father’s hybrid roses. We’re trying to create a yellow rose
that blushes pink in the center.”

  To her satisfaction, this did appear to impress the prince.

  “You are creating new roses?”

  She liked that he did not seem surprised that she was the one creating the roses, but more that such a thing was possible. She nodded her head graciously at him.

  “Yes, we are. It’s quite exciting, really.”

  Orchid made a face. “It’s really not, unless you’re also obsessed with roses,” she said.

  Petunia glared at her.

  “It’s quite complicated,” Rose put in. “And I do think my father is a little disappointed that the only one of us with a gift for gardening is Petunia. I think he hoped for three or four who would enjoy talking about grafting and cross-pollination.”

  “I have never heard either of those terms,” Prince Grigori admitted.

  “Then you should certainly have Petunia take you to the hot houses tomorrow afternoon and explain them,” Pansy said with an excessive amount of enthusiasm. “And Galen and Heinrich should go with you; they’ve both worked in the gardens as well.”

  Petunia finally saw what Pansy was doing and tried to kick her under the table but it was too wide. Pansy’s voice was so bright it sounded strained. Petunia dropped her knife with a clatter.

  “Clumsy!” she exclaimed, and snatched it up again. “I would be delighted to have a tour of the hot houses tomorrow, Grigori. But don’t worry, I shan’t think less of you if you aren’t interested.” She gave a tinkling laugh that was just as false as Pansy’s bright tones, then quickly changed the topic. “Violet, would you like to play for us after dinner? The grand duchess’s pianoforte is very fine.”

  “It is of Romansch make,” the grand duchess said, as Violet and her husband, Frederick, exchanged eager looks. “My granddaughter Nastasya plays, but since she went back to Russaka, there has been no one to play for me.”

  “I would be thrilled to play,” Violet said, and squeezed her husband’s hand.

  “I would love to play a duet with you,” Frederick said, giving Violet a smoldering look.

  “Oo-ooh,” said Poppy, and winked at them.

  “Poppy!” Daisy poked her twin in the side.

  “And perhaps you could play for us while we have a little dancing?” the grand duchess asked. “There are not enough gentlemen to go around, but then, dear Petunia does not dance.”

  Petunia looked down at her plate and sighed.

  “Petunia loves to dance,” Lilac told the grand duchess. “For quite some time, she was the only one of us who did.”

  “But did your father not send a letter, Petunia, when you were at court stating that you were not to dance?” The grand duchess’s green eyes studied Petunia’s still-red face.

  “Petunia had been ill, we all had, but the effects hadn’t lingered,” Hyacinth said quickly. “Our father was rather overprotective of us, the way that fathers can be.”

  “I certainly know how overprotective fathers can be,” the grand duchess said, her voice dry. “So if that is all it is, I would love to see Petunia dance with my Grigori later.”

  Just when she thought her blush couldn’t get any hotter, Petunia felt her face absolutely burning. And it didn’t help that she could not stop thinking of Oliver lying underneath her bed upstairs. Suddenly her made-over gown felt awkward, and the lace at the décolletage was scratching her.

  “Are you all right?” Heinrich murmured.

  “I’ll be fine,” Petunia said under her breath. She smiled brightly down the table at the grand duchess, who was also watching her. “Shall we have the dancing now, Your Grace?”

  “Of course, dear Petunia,” the grand duchess said with a chuckle. She rose and led the way into the drawing room.

  Dancing with Prince Grigori was somewhat difficult. He was so tall that she had to either crane her neck to see his face or converse with his coat buttons. It was easier to dance with Galen or Heinrich, who were tall but not freakishly so. Heinrich, despite the old injury to his leg, was a steady, reliable partner, and Galen was quite skilled. Violet’s Frederick was the shortest gentleman present, but he liked to add little flourishes when he danced.

  Daisy took a turn at the pianoforte twice, to let Violet dance with her husband, and Petunia even gave in to the grand duchess’s urging and played a valse, the only dance music she knew.

  “Now look at my Petunia,” the grand duchess said. “She dances, plays music, gardens, and knits! Such an accomplished girl on top of all her beauty!”

  Petunia didn’t have to fake an embarrassed smile, fanning herself to cover her warm cheeks—would the blushing never stop this eve ning? Looking at Iris’s face, Petunia could see that she was preparing some biting comment and frowned at her sister.

  The grand duchess held out a slender hand, elegantly gloved in gray silk. “Dear Petunia, please help me to my room. I will retire for the night.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Petunia said at once.

  They all made their bows and curtsies, and then Petunia took the fine-boned hand and helped the grand dame to rise. They went out of the drawing room and past the stairs to the long hallway that led past the ballroom and the portrait gallery to the grand duchess’s apartments. As she rang for the grand duchess’s maid, Petunia tried to assume a casual air.

  “Do you spend a great deal of time looking out at the gardens?” she asked as the grand duchess sank down on a sofa near the windows.

  Petunia couldn’t help but notice that, while the curtains were open, the windows were not. She was sure that the windows of her own bedchamber were wide open, letting in the icy air. And Kestilan.

  “Not during the winter,” the grand duchess said with a chuckle. “At least, not during the Westfalian winter. So bleak! Russakan winters, you remember, are a fantasia of snow and ice. But this?” She shrugged one silk-covered shoulder at the window. “I don’t know why my maid hasn’t drawn the curtains to night.”

  There was a faint scratch at the door, and her maid entered. The woman gave a dismayed shriek when she saw her mistress sitting before the uncovered windows and rushed to release the heavy velvet curtains from their embroidered ties.

  “Still and all,” the grand duchess said, ignoring her fussing maid, “these old bones do wish for a place where there is no snow or ice. Where there are only gentle winds to stir the branches of the trees and the sand along the shore of the lake.”

  “What lake it that?” Petunia asked, frowning. She had a sudden image of the black lake in the silver wood, but cast it aside. “Is that where you lived as a child?”

  “Nowhere I’ve been,” the grand duchess said, shaking her head. “Just a place I wish existed.”

  “Oh,” Petunia said. Again she rejected a vision of the Kingdom Under Stone. The maid was now making motions about removing her mistress’s gloves and jewels. “Well, good night, Your Grace.”

  “Good night, my dear Petunia,” said the grand duchess. Her green eyes fixed sharply on the maid at last. “Good heavens, Ilenya, have you always been this incompetent?”

  Petunia, forgotten, backed away. The grand duchess’s sharp tone and the flash in her green eyes made Petunia feel distinctly uncomfortable, but she couldn’t think why. They reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t recall who. Grigori’s eyes were brown.

  Petunia hurried up to her own bedchamber, where Pansy was already being undressed by Olga. Thinking that Oliver probably had not eaten all day, Petunia rang the bell and ordered the footman to bring a plate of something. The entire time, she was intensely aware of Oliver lying under her bed as Olga helped her and Pansy undress. Petunia forced herself to nibble one of the small sandwiches the footman brought, and Pansy took another, then they both protested loudly at the idea of having the plate taken away, though neither of them was touching the rest of the food. Petunia wondered how she would get the food to Oliver, or talk to him, if Olga insisted on sitting in the room, sewing all night, as she sometimes did.

  Inspiration struck as Pansy knelt
by the side of the bed to say her prayers. Petunia was not much for praying, personally, though she had had religious instruction by Bishop Schelker alongside her sisters. Still, she knelt beside Pansy and ignored her sister’s startled look.

  “I’m so tired, I think I will pray aloud to night so that I don’t drift off,” Petunia announced.

  “All right, but don’t take too long about it,” Pansy grumbled as she climbed into bed.

  Petunia ignored Pansy and Olga, who was hovering nearby, and bowed her head over her folded hands. She took a moment to order her thoughts, and then plunged in.

  “Dear God,” she said loudly. “Please protect my sisters and their husbands and their husbands-to-be. Please bless my father, and Dr. Kelling, and Bishop Schelker. Please watch over all of us here at the estate, especially the grand duchess, because she is innocent and frail. Please watch over Prince Grigori, that he will not be tempted to do evil, and Olga, that she will also be good.” Petunia shifted on her knees, feeling Olga’s eyes boring into the back of her head. “Please guide Galen and Heinrich in their studies, since they do not know where to direct their attention at this time, and please help them find a way to guard us all from our nightmares. Amen.”

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, but Westfalian prayers seem very odd,” Olga said, helping Petunia into bed.

  “I would imagine that they do,” was all Petunia answered. She could see by Pansy’s face that her sister had understood the purpose of her prayer.

  “If I may ask, Your Highness, what are the princes studying?” The maid’s brow was creased with confusion. “I thought that they were past the age of school.”

  “They’re studying magic,” Pansy said, before Petunia could think of an evasion.

  She looked at the maid quickly to see how Olga reacted. Olga snorted and rolled her eyes, as though Pansy were just being silly.

  “Now could you please turn out the light?” Pansy snapped. “And don’t you dare take those sandwiches, I might want one later!”

  Pansy rolled over and went to sleep, but Petunia stayed awake long after Olga left, and long after Oliver crawled out from under the bed, grabbed some sandwiches, and slipped out the door. She hoped that he was going to Galen and Rose’s room, and she hoped, too, that he hadn’t known she was awake when he had leaned over her and kissed her hair. She wanted to savor that touch forever.