by Allison Tebo
“She . . . made it a joke to humiliate me.” Poppy lowered her head and stared at her hands. “It wasn’t enough that I would be her servant. She . . . wanted me to be part of the entertainment for her wedding to the man I was supposed to marry.”
“The . . . villainess!” Raoul growled. He turned to Burndee and Colin. “When my troupe encountered the princess—I mean, Lucinda—on the road, she told us that she and her guards had rescued Conrad and his ward, Poppy, from a bandit raid. Conrad then asked me for a place in the troupe.” Raoul was in such frenzy of explanation he was pulling at the trailing lace of his sleeves. There was a distinct ripping sound.
“And that’s all,” Poppy said at last, swiping at her face again with the back of her hand. “Now I’ve told you.”
Burndee folded his arms. “Lucinda’s been lucky—but while she’s stupid, she wouldn’t be so stupid as to let you live. She has to kill you eventually. Probably right after the ceremony.”
Poppy went pale, and Colin punched Burndee in the knee.
“It’s true,” Burndee insisted, glaring down at Colin. “And don’t worry about your guards. Now that you have friends helping you, we can move quickly enough to ensure that no message is sent to have your men harmed. But hiding you wouldn’t be good enough. Of course we want you safe, but Lucinda and the marriage ceremony must be stopped, and the only way to do that is to convince Sir Windslow that you are the true princess of Radorria and that Lucinda is an imposter.”
Colin suddenly gave a little hop into the air. “Oh, I have an idea for how to do that!”
“You’re just always full of plans,” Burndee grumbled, remembering a certain glass slipper.
Colin allowed himself a brief smirk of saintly superiority before continuing. “In fact, this might even be fun.” He glanced at Poppy. “I beg your pardon. Er . . . you know what I mean.”
“Who does know what you mean?” Burndee said tartly.
“Well, if you’ll listen, I’ll tell you. Yes, the look on Lucinda’s face will be priceless! But first, you’ll have to turn me back into a skunk.”
A tingle of alarm flared up inside Burndee. “I can’t use my magic much—”
“Don’t be silly; of course you can! What could one more time hurt? And you will save your magic with one aspect of this scheme, because Raoul is going to do some of his magic for us. Won’t you, Raoul?”
.
7
B urndee resisted the urge to scratch his face as he trailed after Kreek. Raoul, Armand, Dusan, and Dalasar followed him, some in armor, others dressed in servants’ livery. Raoul had helped inform the rest of the troupe of the truth of Poppy’s identity, and they had all eagerly agreed to help with Burndee’s scheme.
Burndee had been worried that Kreek might still recognize the troupe members, in spite of their costumes, but the butler had been so distracted—and so stunned—by Burndee’s supposed identity that he had seemed to be barely aware of anyone but Burndee. Kreek walked ahead of them like a man in an uncomfortable trance. As for Burndee, he kept forgetting to hunch like a not-very-active and elderly man.
The stage the traveling players were to perform on had been erected in front of a large, paved square. The square had several vine-covered trellises and stone planters brimming over with flowers, but it was mostly occupied by the benches the troupe had set up earlier.
As Burndee’s party moved along the garden path and across the grass towards the paved area and the stage, Burndee had a good, long look at the tableau before them.
Prudence and Poppy were standing on the stage. Prudence was bedecked in glittering raiment and had a crown perched on her head, while Poppy was still barefoot and in her old, dull dress.
They were performing a two-woman skit that Raoul had hastily conceived while working on Burndee’s makeup. The skit was about a young princess whose treacherous friend took her place and threatened to kill the princess if she revealed the truth.
Apparently, the evening’s entertainment was proceeding even without Colin and Burndee in attendance. Windslow, Valyns, Horace, Lucinda, and Meck were in the front row of seating. Several rows back sat Lucinda’s guards, trying to doze.
Valyns was surreptitiously trying to read a book. Windslow perched on the edge of his cushion, watching attentively and applauding at all the wrong moments. Horace was mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. He was either overcome by the performance or hot—probably the latter. Meck was crumpled in a furry lump in his cage, gazing with longing at Poppy as she walked across the stage. Burndee noted that the dumovai’s cage had been placed near Horace instead of by Lucinda. The young duke seemed to rather like the dumovai. As for Lucinda, she was sitting rigidly in her chair and turning an extraordinary shade of scarlet.
If only she would actually explode, it would make the situation much easier, Burndee thought, entertaining himself with the morbidly delightful thought of Lucinda bursting like a pie that hadn’t been poked with a knife before being put into an oven.
Poppy was certainly no actress, and Prudence was trying to act for both of them by spreading her bombastic skill across the stage as thickly as possible, as if hoping she could smooth over the bumps in the performance by sheer volume and enthusiasm.
Poppy became more convincing as she launched into a soliloquy. She began to shake with nerves, and her cheeks glistened with real tears of outrage. Burndee had to admit that if he had been a sentimental human being, he might have been quite moved. Even Horace seemed to be paying more attention for once and was watching Poppy intently.
Kreek stopped at the edge of the paved square and turned to bow to Burndee. “If you would allow me to announce you, Your Majesty,” he offered, his voice quavering with anxiety.
Burndee gave the miserable butler a nod of assent and raised a hand to indicate his entourage to wait with him in the shadows of a large arbor. Kreek, pale and faint, wheeled away with another hasty bow to creep towards Windslow to interrupt the performance.
“Surely this treason will not go unpunished,” Poppy declared from the stage, turning towards the audience. “Surely justice will not be denied. Can no one free me or help me? Oh, if only the one that I love were here, he would truly see beyond my filthy garments and recognize that it is I who am the true princess.” Poppy’s eyes traveled to the audience, her voice lowering. “And not the wretch that, even now, mocks me from the shadows.”
“Stop the play!” Lucinda shouted, springing to her feet in a whirlwind of lace and silk.
Horace gave her a surprised look. Windslow peered at her in astonishment. “But, my dear princess . . .”
The very ruff of Lucinda’s gown seemed to tremble with agitation as she snapped her fan open and closed again and again. “It’s stupid—I hate it. I’ve never heard such an absurd story.”
Windslow made a distressed clucking sound. “But the entertainment was chosen especially for your benefit, Penelope.”
“And it’s just a story,” Horace put in mildly.
Lucinda stamped her foot. “I. Don’t. Care. I hate cheap performers, and this is the worst troupe I’ve ever seen in my life.” She turned her ire on the miserable Windslow. “I have no idea why you hired such a pitiful group. I thought Ambia could do better than this.”
Windslow looked as if death would be preferable to this round of humiliation.
Horace roused himself. It was like watching a butterfly attempting to scrape up the courage to face down a crazed mountain lion. “Now wait a minute. I mean . . . please, Penelope—er, Your Highness. That’s hardly fair to Father—”
“Nobody asked you!” Lucinda threw her fan at him, sending him retreating into his seat with amazing rapidity. “This is my wedding, and we’ll do what I like!”
Kreek, looking as if he were taking his life in his hands, dared to clear his throat. “Excuse me, Your Grace, Sir Windslow, Your Highness . . . but—but . . . King Gustav has asked me to announce him.”
“My . . . father?” Lucinda’s voice petered out and drift
ed away like a brittle leaf in a hard breeze.
“Her father?” Windslow jumped to his feet, deathly pale. “But—but, we had no word—we weren’t prepared! Kreek, don’t just stand there like a fool! Do something!”
“It’s impossible,” Lucinda said with an icy laugh that dwindled into a strained cough. “My father would have traveled with my party if he had had any intention of attending the wedding. It must be a mistake.”
Poor Kreek looked as if he were barely clinging to his calm reserve. Madame Prudence’s audacious winks from the stage weren’t helping.
Burndee thought he had waited long enough, and he stepped out from under the arbor with the others strutting after him.
Burndee had to admit that Raoul had done a fair job with his case of theatrical makeup and Poppy’s small locket portrait of her father for reference. Burndee had actually jumped when he had seen his reflection in the mirror, and Colin had made a snide comment about Burndee getting some of his own transformative medicine.
Windslow took one look at Burndee and nearly fainted. “Your Highness! What an unexpected surprise and honor! We had absolutely no idea—”
“Penelope!” Burndee declared in a voice like a lightning crack as he looked at the goose girl standing on the stage. “What on earth are you doing in those rags?” Following Poppy’s direction and Raoul’s coaching, Burndee spoke in a peculiarly reedy tone, which Poppy had pronounced a reasonable facsimile for her father’s voice. He glared at Lucinda, who gaped at him. “And why are you dressed like that?”
“Sire!” Windslow said wildly. “It’s your daughter, Princess—”
“That is not my daughter,” Burndee declared, stepping forward to prod Windslow in the chest with a forefinger. “That is my daughter’s lady-in-waiting, Lucinda Henry. I demand to know what is going on here.”
Everyone stood and stared, frozen. Then, with an animal-like cry of rage, Lucinda drew a knife from her sleeve and threw herself at Burndee, aiming straight for his heart.
There was a sharp rustle in the bushes, and Colin, once again a skunk, sprang out from under the shadow of the drooping laurels. “Burndee, get out of the way!”
For once obeying Colin’s orders without question, Burndee dodged aside and gave Colin a clear shot at Lucinda’s twisted face.
Colin turned his back to the treacherous lady-in-waiting and, judging from the grin on his muzzle, did what he had been wanting to do ever since his original transformation.
Lucinda let out an ear-ringing shriek that Burndee was certain he’d remember all his days, as the foul-smelling scent struck her full in the face.
Everyone was in such confusion—running from the skunk, gaping at the screaming Lucinda, and drawing their respective swords—that Burndee took that opportunity to snap his fingers at Colin.
There was a sudden blazing flare that hurt his eyes. The prince seemed to spin in place, and then Colin was standing before them, a human again, his crown magically returned to his head, his cloak whirling as he turned to Burndee with a look of surprise.
“I knew you’d do it,” he said, with a grin.
In spite of the distractions, his fear, and his temper, Burndee had undone his worst mistake and restored Colin. Burndee felt some of his shame and failure lift from his chest like a bird startled into flight.
Colin flashed Burndee a thumbs-up before turning to the astounded onlookers. “I am Prince Colin of Ambia. I command all of you in the pay of Lucinda Henry to surrender to me immediately!”
Lucinda’s twelve guards answered by drawing their weapons and charging.
“No one ever listens to me,” Colin sighed, picking up a chair and flinging it at a guard. The chair fell short and caught the man in the legs. He pitched over it and was airborne for several seconds before landing in Windslow’s lap. The two of them hugged one another by instinct but tumbled over backwards with a fearful crash despite their wild efforts to balance themselves.
“Kill them!” Lucinda managed to scream. “Kill Windslow and the aristocrats, but leave Horace and the magistrate alive!”
Armand, Dusan, and Dalasar leaped up onto the stage, apparently with the intent to use the extra height to their advantage. But one of Lucinda’s guards sprang onto the stage and slammed the blade of his sword against the rope that held up the curtains. Prudence and Poppy managed to escape by jumping clear of the stage, but the falling curtain enveloped Armand, Dusan, and Dalasar in a sea of velvet. There were several tortured screams as the sizable Armand staggered under the weight of the curtain and trod on his smaller compatriots. The guard who had cut the curtain prepared to stab the helpless players through the curtain.
Burndee snatched up a sword a guard had dropped after Colin disarmed the man with a sharp blow, and then he bounded up onto the stage, slid forward on one knee, and inserted his sword between the guard’s weapon and Armand’s back. The swords grated as they made contact. Burndee strained under the guard’s savage pressure and then slipped sideways so the guard was put off balance. The guard dropped to his knees, and Burndee slammed the pommel of his sword into the man’s skull.
Prudence and Poppy crawled away from the stage and floundered to their feet. Poppy looked around and went straight for Lucinda.
Lucinda had staggered to her feet, still bawling and squinting at her surroundings. She appeared to get one clear look at Poppy racing towards her before the true princess reached her.
Poppy tackled Lucinda with such force that both of them slammed into the pavement. Poppy was on top of Lucinda in an instant, pinning her to the ground and rolling her onto her stomach so she could twist Lucinda’s hands behind her back.
“I need something to tie her hands with!” Poppy cried, wrestling wildly with the frantic Lucinda as the screeching girl tried to worm out from under the princess.
Burndee moved to help them but was seized and jerked backwards by a burly opponent.
Raoul shouted, “Help the princess!” and raced towards Poppy, only to bounce off a guard that moved to intercept him. The troupe master drew his rapier bravely, though he quailed when the guard brandished his own weapon. Raoul, accustomed to carefully-rehearsed stage-fencing, was woefully unprepared to face a maniacal swordsman.
The guard Burndee struggled with swept Burndee’s sword to one side with a clever move, abandoned his own sword, and dove in to seize Burndee by the neck.
No finesse at all, Burndee thought as his vision and breath began to abandon him. He was dimly aware of the guard who had fallen earlier on top of Windslow still trying to free himself of Windslow’s squalling, grasping mass. The guard managed to use Windslow’s stomach as a mattress and pushed off, staggering to his feet while Windslow kicked aimlessly at the sky, and gripped his stomach. The guard drew a knife, but Windslow remained staring up at the man, frozen and stupid as a dead fish.
Horace shouted, “Father!” and leaped to his feet. He accidentally kicked Meck’s cage as he came up, sending it rolling merrily across the courtyard, carrying a squealing Meck with it. The cage swept along the pavement with the effectiveness of a bowling ball, knocking friend and foe alike to the ground or into the bushes as they tripped over it.
Horace lunged awkwardly in front of Windslow to fend off the guard. The guard’s knife came slicing down at him. The knife tore through his sleeve and slashed his arm instead of plunging into his heart.
“Horace!” Windslow squawked.
“Somebody . . . do something,” Burndee managed to croak, still struggling with his own guard as the man pressed harder on Burndee’s throat.
Horace gaped at his arm in surprise, but when Colin called, “Duck, Cousin,” he scraped up the presence of mind to drop to the ground as Colin’s sword whisked over his head and came close to giving him an impromptu haircut.
The guard ducked as well, and Colin’s blow went wild. Before Colin could swing his arm back to catch the guard as he rose, another guard descended upon the prince and engaged him in a sharp struggle.
Springing upwards fro
m his squat like a frog and moving faster than he had ever moved in his life, Horace grabbed a silver pitcher off the table beside him and slammed it into the guard’s ribcage. The man doubled over with a groan. Horace slammed the pitcher into the guard’s wrist, causing him to drop his weapon, and then Horace struck the man a final time between the eyes.
Horace gaped in complete stupefaction at the body resting at his feet, and automatically turned the pitcher he held upside down to revive his victim with the liquid.
A dribble of lemonade splattered onto the man’s face, followed by a slice of lemon that hit him in the eye and slid down his chin. Most of the lemonade had already been tossed through the air when Horace had first grabbed the pitcher, and it decorated the shoulders of a now wet and lemon-scented Colin as he struggled determinedly with his own opponent.
No longer distracted by Horace and Windslow’s imminent danger, Burndee brought his knee up into his own guard’s stomach. The man’s hands loosened, and Burndee head-butted him. His eyes seemed to jangle in his head from the blow, and when the guard fell backwards and crashed into a bush, Burndee was partially dragged with him. He laid there for a moment, his vision dipping and spinning, and he glimpsed two of the less-courageous guards skirting the fighting to head towards the easy prey of Magistrate Valyns. Clearly, their intent was to hold the magistrate hostage and bring an end to the skirmish.
Valyns, gripping his book to his chest and gaping in surprise at the battle exploding around him, whipped his head around and blinked at the two guards approaching him. His eyes narrowed, and he set down his book carefully on a chair before leaping forward. He somersaulted in midair, flying towards the guards and screaming a war cry that stopped them in their tracks. Valyns sprang upright and spun, throwing out his right leg and slamming his boot into one man’s cheek, guiding him in a graceful sweep through the air and straight into a pricker bush.
The second guard managed to recover from his shock in time to rush Valyns, but the magistrate ducked smoothly, then swung the man over his back and pitched him head-first into a stone column with a sickening thud.