by Allison Tebo
“I have absolutely no idea what’s going on, but I’ve never, ever officiated at a wedding quite like this before!” the magistrate exclaimed to Colin as the prince staggered past him with a guard in a headlock. By all appearances, Valyns seemed to be enjoying himself mightily.
The screeching catfight between Lucinda, Poppy, and Prudence had finally subsided as Poppy and the actress subdued the howling Lucinda.
“Use this to tie her up!” Prudence told Poppy and handed over her belt and scarf. She then sat on Lucinda’s head, effectively muffling the lady-in-waiting’s protestations. “What an improvement!” Prudence smiled.
They trussed Lucinda in seconds and rolled her onto her back. Lucinda was too busy spitting out grass to curse at Poppy.
“Get her out of here!” Colin shouted to Prudence as he ran past. “Stow her away! We don’t want her escaping!”
“I’ll stick her in my wagon,” Prudence declared, heaving Lucinda to her feet. “That lock is always sticking, and no one can ever get it open.” She gave Lucinda a sharp shake as the girl tried to kick her. “Oh, don’t fight me, darling, or I’ll have Dusan and Dalasar use you in their human-cannonball act.”
Burndee finally disentangled himself from the guard he was lying on top of, and stumbled to his feet. He rushed to snatch up his sword just as two guards plunged towards him. He raised the weapon and engaged both of them at once. They appeared astonished at the dexterity that belied his aged face and the stooped shoulders that had been created with small cushions.
“Poppy, go with Prudence!” Burndee ordered sharply, parrying a blow.
“No, this is my fight!” Poppy called, picking up a spear a guard had dropped, and rushing to help Raoul.
“Poppy, be careful!” Colin yelled, fighting his way towards the princess.
Meck—crouching in dismay in the cage that had fetched up against a chair during the free-for-all—wailed in alarm as his princess, heedless to warnings, plunged into the fray.
Poppy raced up to a guard about to attack the floundering Raoul. Pale but determined, Poppy spun the spear like a baton and expertly clipped the guard in the back. He roared in pain and spun to face her. Still twirling the spear, Poppy slammed one end into his sword arm, sending the weapon spinning through the air—Burndee caught it—then brought the other end crashing into the guard’s jaw.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Colin yelled over the din, grinning from ear to ear as he and Poppy found themselves standing back to back, panting and on guard.
“Sheep herding,” said Poppy. “And fighting off wild hogs!”
“Look out! There’s another one right behind you—and that’s an ugly hog if I ever saw one!” Colin warned as a guard lumbered towards her.
Meck’s cage was still being shunted around the fighting grounds like a shooter in a lively game of marbles. The guard charging Poppy passed it, and, squealing another warning to his mistress, Meck reached through the bars of his cage, grabbed the guard’s ankle, and pushed his muzzle between the bars far enough to get a good, long bite. The guard howled and chopped savagely at the cage with his sword. Meck swiftly retracted his paws into the cage. The bars cracked ominously, and a second blow from the sword sent the cage rolling across the pavement again, like an oversized croquet ball.
Meck’s cage crashed into a planter, and the wooden base of his cage cracked in half. Meck slumped in the wreckage, kicked his feet vaguely, and rolled into a sitting position, blinking and sneezing before pushing determinedly at the weakened bars to force his way out.
“Horace, get your father and get inside!” Colin commanded.
“I’m not going—” Horace began, about to display an unusual amount of grit, but, true to form, he never got to articulate his manly declaration.
Armand, Dusan, and Dalasar had finally fought their way free from the stage curtain and, roaring fiercely, threw themselves into the fight. Armand drew back his arm to punch a guard in the face and inadvertently drove his elbow into Horace’s cheek, interrupting the duke’s defiant speech. Horace sank to the pavement without another murmur.
“Horace!” Windslow squealed in a fair imitation of a teapot shrieking for relief from a hot stove. He stumbled towards Horace, tripped over his son’s boots, and fell on top of him.
“Somebody get those two out of here!” Colin called, but the tide was already beginning to turn.
Burndee was nearly knocked flat by a guard that Valyns had launched into the air with another one of his flying kicks. The guard was surprisingly dexterous and managed to land on his feet, but he landed right in front of Burndee.
With a flick of his wrist, Burndee disarmed the man with his sword.
“Too easy,” he said, punching the man in the face.
Colin caught the guard as he toppled over backwards. “Now, Burndee! You should really be more careful where you leave clutter like this.” He laid the man down on the ground and gave him a tidy pat on the head.
Burndee snorted and turned slowly, surveying the grounds and realizing that the skirmish was over. The guards were either restrained or unconscious, while the victors stood, slightly battered, in a panting circle.
Colin sheathed his sword and said, “I think we’re done here.”
Then, Poppy screamed. “Meck!”
Burndee spun and spotted Conrad fleeing towards the Hall. Horror skittered through Burndee’s bones as he realized that they had utterly forgotten about the dwarf. The dwarf had snatched Meck by the neck, muffling the dumovai’s cries with a brutal grip, and was racing away across the grounds.
“Burndee, stop him!” Colin bellowed.
Burndee snapped his fingers at Conrad’s retreating figure, mercilessly planning to turn Conrad into one of the geese he so feared.
Nothing happened.
Conrad ran on, unhindered.
The restraining spell! Burndee thought desperately.
Burndee had used his reserve magic one too many times. He found himself cursing the temper that had landed him here as he broke into a run.
Colin’s words burned through his head. One of these days, you’re going to really hurt someone with that temper of yours. One of his own kind, a magical being, was going to pay the price for Burndee’s lack of control. He had to catch them.
He was aware of several others running after him, but Burndee soon left them behind. The only person Burndee knew that could run faster than him was Ella.
He gained ground quickly and was just gathering himself to tackle Conrad when the dwarf shouted over his shoulder, “Touch me, and the dumovai dies!”
Burndee stopped himself from springing forward, but he kept up his inexorable chase, pacing himself to Conrad’s slowing stride, much to the dwarf’s apparent agitation.
They wove their way through the grounds, ripping through hedges, stomping through flowerbeds, and creating immeasurable damage. Burndee leaped over a gate in hot pursuit, and, for an instant, his line of vision went through the arch that separated the west wing from the main hall, giving him a fleeting glimpse of the front courtyard.
Cynthia and Ella had arrived at Windslake Hall and were sitting in a parked carriage, gazing opened-mouthed at him and the fleeing figure of Conrad.
Burndee barely had time to throw up a hand in greeting before he moved on and they were out of sight again.
He ran into a low-hanging cherry tree, which unleashed a flood of spring pollen into his eyes and nostrils. It wasn’t easy to run and sneeze uncontrollably at the same time, but he managed. But he was so distracted by racking sneezes, he failed to realize that he had followed Conrad to the front of the hall until, through a haze of coughing, he saw Conrad crash headlong into Cynthia and Ella, who had just descended from their coach.
“Stand back!” Conrad snarled, stepping away from them and drawing a knife, pressing it against Meck’s throat. The dumovai gave a choked cry.
Ella, in odd contrast to her wedding rehearsal finery, was carrying a large, woven basket. She gaped at Conrad, noted th
e knife, and turned red with indignation.
“What are you doing to that poor, little creature?” she cried. Then, she upended her basket of bread on Conrad’s head.
Conrad was instantly deluged in a shower of dinner rolls and biscuits that bounced off his face and shoulders like soft, fist-sized hail. He swung his free arm to ward them off, more from bewilderment than anything else, and his foot came down on a crusty pretzel roll, causing him to stumble. His knife arm went wild.
Despite her delicate state of pregnancy, Cynthia gamely seized his hand by the wrist and slammed his arm backwards against her knee. He gasped and nearly dropped his weapon, but he retained his grip on it with an angry curse.
As he struggled for balance, Ella lunged forward and whisked Meck away from him. Conrad howled and swung his knife to slash at her, giving Cynthia the perfect opportunity to grab him by the beard, spin him around, and plant a punch firmly on his jaw.
Conrad gave a strange, puzzled, “Oh!” and tumbled to the pavement in a sorry and thoroughly unconscious little lump.
“Cynthia!” Ella gasped with a mixture of shock and admiration, then she realized she was holding a furry creature in her arms and squeaked. “Ugh—oh dear, oh no.” She hastily set Meck down on the ground and gave him an air-pat. Small, scurrying creatures of any kind still scared her. “Are you all right?” she asked him solicitously.
Cynthia put her hands on her hips. “What the blazes is going on here?” She spotted Burndee and said, “Who are you?”
Burndee, running towards the women and only vaguely remembering his theatrical makeup, blurted. “It’s me, silly!”
Cynthia, recognizing his voice instantly, said, “Burndee! I’ll bet you can explain.”
Ella looked up with an altogether different expression than her sister-in-law’s, and Cynthia was forced to snatch Meck out of the way of danger as Burndee stampeded forward a split second later to give his wife a relieved—and loving—greeting.
Colin and Poppy came flying around the corner of the Hall, brandishing their weapons. Meck raced towards Poppy with a glad cry, and Poppy dropped her spear and fell to her knees to scoop him into her arms.
Colin noted the unconscious Conrad, grinned at the embracing Ella and Burndee, blew an admiring kiss to his wife, and then turned to Poppy.
“Your Highness”—he gave a perfect bow that was no less gracious because of his rumpled appearance—“you’re safe.”
Poppy began to cry.
8
C olin, Cynthia, Burndee, Ella, Poppy, and Meck had retired to a private sitting room at Windslake Hall. Burndee tried to relax on the long, low settee he shared with Ella and Colin and deliberately studied the warm afternoon sunlight flowing like streamers through the windows to gild the pink carpet. Anything was better than looking at Poppy, who had been crying on and off since Colin had bowed to her.
“I really do prefer the name Poppy. Penelope always seemed too big and grand for me.” Poppy sniffed and gave a brief, self-deprecating smile, wrinkling her nose a little. Meck clambered into her lap, making a sound remarkably like a cat’s purr, and she cuddled him. “Radorria is a poor country, not much more than a few rocky mountains. Even the royal family herds goats and makes cheese—I used to help. I’m as much a servant as I am a princess.” She didn’t seem to mind her position at all; her voice was even slightly wistful. She lifted her hands in a shrug. “I really am nobody important.”
Burndee had to admit that Poppy made a rather sorry-looking bride-to-be. Her right hand was bandaged—Lucinda had bitten her hand during their fight—and her left arm was in a sling. As brave and dexterous as she was with a staff, that couldn’t discount the reality of pulled muscles. Although she was clean and wearing a dress befitting her station, her face and eyes were so swollen from crying and her hair so disheveled from her perpetual nervous tugging that it was difficult to appreciate the transformation. Not only that, she was a hardy crier and produced the most embarrassing-sounding gulps and sobs.
The prolonged weeping was not only unnerving, but it was also wearing. Burndee couldn’t remember the last time he had seen quite so many tears. He wanted to throw himself out the window, start running, and not stop until he reached Rose Hall and could lock himself into the tearless sanctum of his home.
His only solace was his petit fours. They had been made for tomorrow’s wedding banquet, but Cynthia, ever practical, thought they could all probably use some now, along with some good, strong tea.
Since the crying was so stressful to him, Burndee thought that he was fully justified in eating the lion’s share of the petit fours. Besides, he was the only one that truly appreciated his own baking skills.
“Poppy, darling, you don’t need to keep crying,” Cynthia said with a kind but firm smile.
“Yes, please,” Burndee mumbled, cramming another cake into his mouth.
Ella elbowed him.
Cynthia handed Poppy a cup of tea. “Here, drink that; it will do you more good than tears,” she said cheerfully. “Strong tea and taking action are much better solutions. Now then”—she folded her hands in her lap—“we have to decide what happens next. Do you want to marry Horace?” To her credit, Cynthia managed to say it with a straight face.
Poppy took a low, quick breath. “No. I don’t want to marry anyone yet. I’m just . . . not sure I want to marry at all.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Cynthia assured her.
Nevertheless, Poppy began to cry again. “I don’t know what to do. If I go back to my family, I shall disgrace them—and disappoint and embarrass all of Radorria.”
“That would make sense,” Burndee agreed. “They might even throw rocks at your carriage when you go home.”
“Burndee!” Ella reproved, scandalized.
This time, it was Colin that elbowed Burndee.
“Don’t worry, dear,” said Cynthia, putting a gentle arm around Poppy. “I believe I may be able to suggest a solution.
“You see, in a matter of months, His Highness, Prince Colin, will be crowned King of Ambia, and I shall become queen. I was studying to become a doctor before I married, and there is research I began in college I wish to continue when and where I can—and His Highness encourages me to. However, I will have many new royal duties, and I am in need of a lady-in-waiting. Several young ladies have been suggested, but I didn’t care for them. I do think you would suit me. You have your wits about you, you’re flexible and curious, yet you still know how to dress and carry yourself properly. We shall have to work out the details as we go, but what I really need is a kind of lady-in-waiting and assistant combined. Surely Radorria would not be too offended if their Princess Penelope remained in Ambia, not as a bride, but as lady-in-waiting—and assistant—to the queen?”
Burndee hadn’t thought of Poppy as being particularly attractive—although, since he used Ella as the measuring rod for all women, he wasn’t much of a judge—but in that moment, he found himself oddly touched by the beautiful, luminous smile spreading across the girl’s face.
Ella blew her nose audibly.
“Oh, Your Highness!” Poppy gasped. “Do you really mean it?” For a country like Radorria, becoming lady-in-waiting to the Princess of Ambia would still be an honor and prevent Poppy from disgracing herself and her country.
“Of course I mean it, Poppy,” Cynthia said cheerfully.
Poppy looked as if she wanted to throw her arms around Cynthia but didn’t dare. Cynthia gave her a reassuring hug, and Poppy relaxed.
“Oh, thank you, Your Highness, thank you!”
Colin beamed, his chest expanding visibly to the point where it seemed as if every button on his vest might sail across the room at any moment, and he leaned towards Burndee. “Isn’t Cynthia wonderful?” he said fervently into Burndee’s right ear.
“I told you Cynthia was sweet, didn’t I, Burndee?” Ella murmured into Burndee’s left ear at the same moment.
“Mmm,” Burndee said, answering them both at once. But in his h
eart, he agreed.
His sister-in-law was quite neat.
“Burndee? Are you all right? You look like something’s still wrong.”
Ella had pulled him aside as the others left the parlor, and they stood a moment in a tapestry-hung alcove. She stroked his cheek and stared at him with worried eyes.
Burndee turned his face towards her hand and kissed her palm, focusing on being with her and not on what had happened.
Ella tilted her head. “You look as if something is hurting you.”
“I’m all right, I promise,” he assured her, drawing her forward into a hug, trying to shove away that insidious fear that somehow he might lose her. “As long as you’re here, as long as we’re still the same. I mean—everything between us is still the same, right? So everything will be fine.”
He could hear her smiling. “Of course, everything is still the same. Don’t be silly, Burndee!” She paused a moment, and her head turned on his shoulder as she tried to look at his face. “Are you sure there isn’t anything wrong?”
So Fey hadn’t told Ella about the restraining spell. Burndee felt a sudden overwhelming gratitude towards his mentor for her unusual display of mercy. His relief effectively stifled the flicker of unease he felt in hiding the truth from Ella.
He managed to offer Ella a dismissive laugh and then kissed her quickly before leading her out of the room without answering. Though he wasn’t angry anymore about the restraining spell, he was still too embarrassed to tell her. It was enough, surely, that Fey knew. Ella had had so little to hold on to in her life; he couldn’t let her faith in him be crushed.
If Ella was changing, he couldn’t be left behind in failure. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t lose her.
Colin immediately dispatched a message to his father, notifying King Alfred of the plight of Poppy’s guards so that they could take the first step towards a rescue operation. Afterwards, Colin apologized handsomely to Valyns not only for the bother of his showing up to officiate a wedding that was no longer being held, but for having his life threatened.