A Royal Masquerade

by Allison Tebo

  Conrad’s face contorted, and he made an odd choking sound as if he had swallowed his tongue.

  Colin grinned at Burndee and made a suppressed gesture of applause.

  Conrad audibly ground his teeth; he would have to start spitting out broken molars if he continued much longer. “I beg your pardon, milord,” he said in a voice so tight he sounded as if he might explode. “I merely meant to say we have a royal performance to prepare for, and since I know you must be looking forward to it, of course you’ll not want to distract the troupe. Poppy’s mind wanders at times, and she just needs someone to remind her of her place, that’s all.” His eyes darted swiftly to Poppy, and she flushed and looked at the ground. Conrad jerked a bow towards Burndee and looked as if he would like to shrivel up with aggravation at having to show such a sign of respect.

  Burndee was just about to tell Conrad to go hold up a birdbath, but Colin said quickly, “Well, we don’t want to distract the young lady, of course.”

  Feeling like he was taking orders from two pesky flies, Burndee took his cue and bowed to the girl as if he had been the one that had spoken. “Please keep him . . . out of sight.” He gestured to Colin, then fixed the prince with a menacing grimace. “And don’t talk until I get back.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” Colin said in a tone that was offended and naughty at the same time.

  “No,” Burndee snapped.

  The girl laughed and managed to clap gently with Colin still sitting on one arm.

  Colin winked at Burndee and gave the girl a low bow, flicking his tail with a flourish.

  Burndee wanted to throw himself down on the ground and groan, but he managed to summon up a smile for the girl, who stopped laughing when Conrad kept glaring at her.

  Conrad looked back and forth between Colin and Burndee and tugged at the coarse brown beard that hung from his thick chin like dirty cotton.

  Burndee gave him an icy look as he passed, and when the dwarf’s gaze evaded his and bounced to Colin, the prince waggled his paw in a cheeky wave.

  Conrad did a double-take, but the gesture had only lasted for a split second. Colin wore no expression at all as Poppy hurried off with the prince propped on her shoulder.

  Burndee turned and walked rapidly away, hoping that, for once in his life, Colin would keep his mouth shut.

  Right. That was almost as unlikely as a talking skunk.

  5

  B urndee had to admit that Radorrian table manners were most definitely not up to Ambian standards.

  He had wondered if staring at Penelope would make her self-conscious enough to check her ravenous and less-than-ladylike full-frontal attack on her plate, but she didn’t seem to notice. When she did catch his eye, she glared at him, and that encouraged Burndee to glare right back. It was a good thing they were seated so far away from each other; otherwise, they would be kicking one another.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the row of guards standing against the wall in silent observation. What the blazes were they so afraid of, anyway? An assassination attempt? Burndee supposed, with a shrew like Penelope, someone killing her could be a real threat.

  He poked at a scone on his plate. Windslow was trying to starve him. It was sheer torture trying to eat these ill-made concoctions. He thought wistfully of his flaky pastries and heavy slabs of gingerbread. A slice of Ella’s homemade bread, spread with her fresh butter and gooseberry jam, would not be unwelcome.

  Moreover, he wished Ella herself were here.

  His thoughts instantly darted to what he loved more than baking. He didn’t understand the ache that came over him at being separated from her, even for half a day. Nor could he comprehend the feeling that he had lost some vital part of himself. Several months ago, he had felt invincible—not needing anyone else. This dependence frightened him, yet he didn’t want it to change.

  “Ah.” Windslow leaned back in his chair. If he were any rounder from indulging his own substantial appetite, it was difficult to tell. “Delicious. I hope the tea revived you, Your Highness?”

  Penelope paused in mid-motion of shoveling a spoonful of clotted cream into her mouth. “Yes—satisfactory,” she managed through a mouthful.

  “A most delightful tea, Sir Windslow,” Valyns volunteered with another gentle smile as he patted his mouth with his napkin. Burndee had noticed the magistrate sneaking curiously polite glances in his direction—which Burndee had studiously ignored by focusing on the shapes he was making with his lemon curd.

  “Wonderful,” Windslow boomed as he looked away to give Penelope some privacy in swallowing her sizable bite. “Now, I’m sure you and Horace would enjoy having an hour or so to become better acquainted.” He made a noise that could not be described as anything less than a giggle, and Burndee’s back stiffened.

  “What a novel concept,” Burndee couldn’t refrain from mumbling.

  Windslow shot him a murderous look before pasting on his customary smile again. “Perhaps a stroll in the garden.” He glanced down the table at Horace, who was trying to avoid his father’s disapproving head wagging that he had been receiving ever since he arrived late for tea, due to having to change his soiled clothes. His new ensemble was—regrettably—almost identical to the one he had been wearing earlier.

  “Horace?” Windslow’s voice rose a notch.

  Horace looked up at the sound of his name, seemed to slowly process Windslow’s suggestion of a stroll, and then stood up and bobbed a bow of invitation to Penelope.

  Penelope wiped her mouth and stood up. “Yes, I’d like to look at . . . everything. Since I’m going to be living here.” She bestowed a wide smile on Horace and Windslow.

  “Excellent!” Windslow beamed at Penelope. “Lord Burndee will be your chaperone, of course.”

  I will? Burndee ate his scone—not because he wanted it, but because he needed something to stuff inside his mouth to keep from speaking.

  “And why don’t you take your darling dumovai with you?” Windslow suggested. “He could probably use a walk. I’ve heard that dumovai aren’t very good travelers.”

  Penelope’s face went blank. “Take him . . . in the garden?”

  “Yes, I’m sure the little fellow would enjoy the sunshine too.”

  “Well, I think he’s tired . . . and cranky.” Penelope said vaguely.

  Rather like his owner, Burndee thought.

  Windslow’s beaming smile was forcefully persistent. “What better way to cheer him up!”

  Penelope looked strangely agitated for a moment, then she nodded reluctantly.

  Burndee wondered idly why Windslow was strangely fixated on the dumovai and then he snorted as a thought presented itself. He rather suspected that Windslow was enamored with the idea of importing dumovai to Ambia. The old greedy guts probably wanted to have an entire house full of magical creatures that provided for his every whim, and, of course, he could always say he had the dumovai around to make his new daughter-in-law feel more at home. It wasn’t a bad idea, but it made Burndee all the more disgusted with Sir Richard. Although, he had to admit it was quite a feat to get Princess Penelope to do something she didn’t want to do.

  Princess Penelope’s dumovai seemed to have an obsession with flowers.

  The walk in the gardens with Horace and Penelope was doing nothing to settle the uncomfortable lump that sour scones had created in Burndee’s stomach. He had dropped behind the young couple to try to snatch at some privacy, but his fragile peace kept being interrupted by Penelope’s dumovai. The creature brought Burndee one flower after another, dropping them at Burndee’s feet . . . after casting decidedly furtive glances at Penelope.

  Burndee wasn’t sure what the flowers meant, just as he didn’t understand the dumovai’s nervousness. Either the dumovai simply didn’t want the princess to see him digging up flowers, or they were some kind of tribute—his way of telling Burndee that he liked him more than he did his mistress, which Burndee could hardly take as a compliment.

  Meck propped yet another poppy at B
urndee’s feet and gazed up at him with wistful eyes.

  Burndee wasn’t exactly sure what the dumovai wanted him to do with it, but he had been awkwardly ignoring the other offerings and he frankly didn’t want another injured look sent his way. Perhaps the dumovai wanted to play fetch. He picked up the poppy and threw it as hard as he could, but it merely landed two feet away with a sad plop.

  Meck glanced at the poppy and gave Burndee an offended look.

  Burndee shrugged. Apparently, Meck thought twenty-four inches was beneath his fetching ability.

  “I hate to see grass poking up through pavement,” Penelope declared, interrupting her own previous monologue about the benefits of the new steam vehicles versus horse-drawn carriages. “It reminds me of servants and know-nothings trying to act like their betters and be more important than they really are.” Penelope’s face twisted with an expression that was an odd mixture of anger and amusement. “Servants and peasants should never be seen, don’t you agree?” But the question was obviously as rhetorical as all her previous questions had been.

  Burndee nearly exploded as his mind rushed to Ella—a girl who was once a servant. Ignored and unseen. Mistreated by bullies and twits, just like this girl. Through the pounding in his skull he heard himself emit a strangled sound.

  Penelope scowled to herself, deliberately stepped on a patch of grass poking through the pavement. “No offense, Horace,” she said in the most offensive tone possible, “but this place really needs some renovations.” She raised a hand to stop the protests that Horace was not giving; he seemed half asleep. “Don’t worry. I’ll bet you thought your new princess might be a bit of a spendthrift, but I have ideas on how to raise money so it won’t be entirely out of pocket. Your flowers, for instance . . .” Her lips curved, and she visibly preened as she looked at Horace expectantly, waiting for him to prompt her to reveal her genius.

  Horace seemed to have blocked out Penelope’s twattling completely and was gazing at the stables across the garden with a wistful expression. He was probably thinking about horseback riding, one of the few things Burndee had heard he was good at.

  Penelope’s face tightened and reddened at an alarming rate. “Don’t you want to hear my ideas?”

  Horace twitched slightly as if vaguely aware of a pause in the flow of words beside him, made a listening noise, and checked his watch.

  Say something, you nitwit, Burndee thought.

  Penelope looked as if she were going to lose her temper in an eruption of wrath so powerful Ella would be able hear it from Thornwild.

  Burndee leaned forward and slapped Horace smartly across the face.

  Burndee had never seen Horace look so awake in his life. The face that swerved towards Burndee was full of shock, astonishment, and even a bit of honest outrage.

  “Mosquito,” said Burndee. “I do beg your pardon. Oh, and I believe Princess Penelope asked you something about flowers.”

  Horace turned his gaze upon Penelope, who looked every bit as disgruntled as he did. She tapped her foot on the pavement while he rubbed his cheek.

  “The flowers, Your Highness?” he asked slowly, darting a final squint at Burndee.

  “Yes,” she said with a huff. “I see you have poppies. I read that poppies are selling for buckets of gold in Amaretha—it’s the latest craze. What do you say we rip these sweeties up and export them, Hory?”

  Horace blinked. “I . . . think those are a different kind of poppies.”

  “There is more than one?” Penelope scrunched her mouth. “And you didn’t plant the most expensive kind? What an oversight. Your father could use some help in business investment, couldn’t he?”

  “I think you might have been reading an old book, Your Highness. Poppies are no longer—”

  “Oh, for the love of stuffed mushrooms, call me Penelope!”

  Horace looked a little taken aback by her tone, and Penelope seemed to check herself. She offered him a sugary smile and touched him flirtatiously on the arm with her fan. “I mean, we are going to be married soon, after all.”

  Horace didn’t seem to know where to look, and they both ended up looking over the grounds in opposite directions, allowing Burndee a glimpse of their unguarded expressions. Neither of them appeared thrilled at the idea of holy matrimony to their respective lummox.

  Plop.

  Burndee looked down to find Meck gazing up at him, and then he glanced at the poppy Meck had dropped on his shoes.

  This time, Burndee threw the flower a good six feet. “There you go. Is that far enough for you?”

  Meck gave him a look of utter exasperation and disgust.

  “Whaaaat?” Burndee demanded under his breath.

  “Naughty, naughty beast—tearing up the flowerbeds!” Penelope suddenly swooped past Burndee like a screeching bird of prey and snatched at Meck before he could act on what appeared to be his immediate impulse of hiding between Burndee’s legs. She rapped Meck sharply between the ears—far more heartily then was necessary, especially considering that he was not a dog but a sentient creature.

  Meck yelped in fear and pain and ran towards the flowerbeds, then covered his head with his paws as he tried to hide from her shadow as she loomed over him.

  Burndee couldn’t contain himself. Even though Meck wasn’t a fairy and was more beast than human, Burndee felt all the resentment of the mistreatment of magical beings rise up inside of him in a blazing wrath. “How would you like to get rapped between the ears?”

  Penelope’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t form a sound beyond a faint choking noise.

  Burndee was so infuriated he had to cross his arms to keep himself from employing his magic. He had already turned one person into a skunk today; a matched set would be fun.

  “Your dumovai does seem to be scared of you,” Horace observed with unusual insight—not to mention engagement—in what was going on around him.

  “Fiddlesticks!” Penelope blustered, pulling her furious gaze to him. “He’s just nervous because of his new surroundings, that’s all.”

  Horace, uncomfortable with being the object of anyone’s ire, looked away and cleared his throat, fumbling with the white handkerchief in his hand as if he were about to wave it over his head in a sign of surrender.

  “I told you earlier that he was feeling out of sorts,” Penelope emphasized, finally succeeding in scooping up the dumovai.

  Meck offered a feeble struggle and bit her finger—and then looked embarrassed and surprised that he had done such a thing.

  “You . . . wretch!” Penelope said between her teeth, glaring at her bloody finger. Burndee would have expected her to fly into a passion about her delicate sensibilities, but she merely wrestled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wrapped her finger. “You see? I told you he was cranky.” She forced a laugh, giving the dumovai the kind of look that suggested she might have him served up for the first course at her wedding feast.

  Feeling as if his brain was falling to pieces, Burndee wondered why on earth he didn’t invent an excuse and slip away. The truth was he couldn’t quite make himself do it, which was a real testament to just how unutterably bored he was. The couple held his interest in a kind of spellbound revulsion as he tried to contemplate these two horrors living together for the rest of their days.

  “Excuse me! Your . . . Highnesses. Milord.”

  Burndee turned and saw the young goose girl from Rambling Raoul’s Repertory Company standing a few feet away with Colin tucked up in her arms. Colin was munching on a scone and had another in his right forepaw, and his whiskers bore evidence of rich cream.

  It simply wasn’t fair that even in the form of a skunk, Colin was always treated like royalty.

  Poppy bobbed a stiff curtsy and snuck a peek at Burndee. “Please forgive me, sir—I think your skunk wants you.”

  Burndee had never dreamed that such a thing would be said to him in his life; trust Colin to ensure that it was.

  “Thank you,” he began—and then noticed that Poppy was go
ggling openly at Horace.

  Burndee raised his eyebrows. He didn’t see what there was to goggle at, unless it was Horace’s eye-popping wardrobe. But then, he wasn’t a silly young miss. If women found Horace attractive, he was rather sorry for them—and harbored serious doubts about their mental capacities.

  “What are you staring at?” Penelope screeched, stepping towards Poppy, her hand jerking as if she had to stop herself from slapping the girl.

  Horace jumped and tore his gaze from his fingernails. “Who . . . me?”

  “I wasn’t doing anything!” the goose girl protested with more feistiness than was advisable, considering the testy princess she was talking to, and then she ducked her head as Penelope glared at her.

  “She was assisting me,” Burndee snapped at Penelope. “I asked her to feed my pet skunk.”

  Penelope had been so incensed she hadn’t noticed her dreaded nemesis tucked under Poppy’s arm. She took one look and shrieked, darting behind Horace.

  “Ugh! A skunk! Get it away—wait a minute . . . is that a pet skunk?” The look she gave Burndee could have wilted the flowers her dumovai kept bringing him. Doubtless, she was remembering the debacle in the courtyard earlier today when she had made a spectacle of herself. “A pet?”

  Burndee offered her a mocking smile. “Yes, there are so many skunks around here, I decided to make one of them a pet.” He doubted she perceived the sly double meaning, but it did shut her up efficiently. “Excuse me,” he said sarcastically, with a disinterested bow.

  Leaving Horace to Penelope’s tender mercies, Burndee and Poppy walked down the pathway, gravel shifting and grumbling under their feet.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but your skunk seemed . . . agitated. He kept trying to wander away. I tried feeding him, and even though he ate everything I gave him, he still clearly wanted you.”

  “He’s difficult to please,” Burndee said honestly.

  Colin stopped eating his scone and gave him a look.

  “He probably just misses you, sir.”