The Princess in the Opal Mask (18 page)

“That bread smells wonderful.”

“We buy it from the bakery next door,” he says, flashing a crooked smile. “Would you like some?”

“Yes, please.” As I speak, I realize I am swaying.

He frowns. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll bring some out?”

Feeling lightheaded, I nod and find a seat near the fire. I stretch my hands out to warm myself, and then lean back into my chair, nearly dozing off to the low hum of nearby conversations. But my ears prick up when I hear someone mention Galandria.

“You’re sure, Anton?”

“Positive. He spoke with a Galandrian accent. Said he just arrived in town yesterday and needed men for a job. Jaromil—I think we should consider it.”

Cautiously, I turn my head and look over. Two men are sitting at a nearby table, holding goblets. The first one, whom I take to be Anton, is young and thin, while the second—Jaromil—is older with a belly so round he looks to be with child. Yet both of them have tanned faces and leathery skin, as though they’ve spent most of their lives outdoors. Are they sailors?

“I’m not working with a barbarian.”

“I told him as much at first—but he said his master would be willing to pay us more money than our scruples could possibly be worth.”

“To do what, exactly?”

“Not sure. Said his master had something planned for the masquerade ball for the Masked Princess.”

At this, I feel my hands growing numb again, despite the warmth from the fire.

“Is his master a Galandrian or a Kyrenican?”

“Didn’t say. Didn’t
want
to say, it seemed like. He just said King Ezebo—”

Jaromil curses. “King Ezebo is a traitor, to bring an Andewyn into our land. If I caught sight of the Masked Princess, you can bet I’d wring the little freak’s barbaric neck.” He spits onto the ground. “All right, I’ll hear the man out. Where did he say to meet?”

“Tomorrow morning, just after dawn, on the beach.”

“All right,” Jaromil says again. “And don’t worry, Anton. I never had that many scruples to begin with.” They laugh and clink goblets.

I stare into the fire, my heart racing, hoping they won’t realize their voices have carried. Of course I should have understood that, just as many Galandrians hate the Strass-burgs, so too, it must be that many Kyrenicans hate the Andewyns—hate
me
. I remind myself they could not possibly recognize me. Today, my own uncovered face is a mask.

It sounds like these two men, Anton and Jaromil, are being hired to do something, something that has to do with the masquerade. But what?

The boy returns with several slices of bread and a cup of water. “That’ll be two klarents, please.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I say, startled. I start to reach into Elara’s satchel, but freeze. I don’t have any klarents, the Kyrenican currency, only worthings and opals. And with Jaromil and Anton sitting so close, that is not something I want anyone discovering.

“I—I do not have any klarents.” I stand up to leave, though it is everything I can do not to snatch up the bread and water. “I will go. I am sorry to have bothered you,” I take care to shorten my vowels, as the Kyrenicans do, all too aware of my accent, and that Anton and Jaromil are staring at me with interest.

“No, no,” the boy says. “You don’t have to leave.” He calls over his shoulder. “Victor, can you come here?”

“What is it, James?” A burly and grizzled old man approaches. The boy James whispers something to Victor, who looks at me.

“I see,” Victor says when James finishes.

Victor takes a seat next to me and crosses his arms over his massive chest. “When was the last time you ate?” he says gruffly.

“Um, yesterday,” I say.

“You’ve only just arrived in Korynth, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I answer.

He nods, as though he expected this, and says, “I know who you are.”

W
hen I wake up the next morning, Wilha is still gone. The bed in the maid’s room is empty, and the covers are undisturbed. I had hoped she would return after I’d fallen asleep and decided to spend the night here.

The stone floor is cold on my bare feet. I’ve used up all my firewood, so I sink down into an armchair, grumbling to myself. Where could Wilha have gone, and more importantly, when will she be back? How dare she leave me here in this castle?

But you were going to leave her. Even though you’d promised to stay with her.

The voice comes from somewhere deep within, and I quickly dismiss it. I rise and pull a blue gown out from one of her trunks and set to work removing the opals stitched into the bodice. Since Wilha stole my satchel, I’m going to steal more of her jewels, and use them to get as far away from this dank place as I can.

I’m not wasting another night on a half-cocked search for Wilha. Tonight I’m leaving, whether or not she comes back.

Although, I smile in spite of myself. Last night wasn’t a complete waste.

When I’ve finished removing the jewels, I stuff the dress down at the bottom of the trunk where it won’t be found. I open another trunk filled with Wilha’s clothes and run my hands over the silken dresses, preparing myself to face the day as the Masked Princess. What does a princess wear when she is going to be received by her future in-laws? Arianne never instructed me on that.

After I’ve changed into a pastel green gown, which takes several minutes longer than it should, I open the velvet boxes and settle on a pale green mask encrusted with diamonds and pale-colored opals.

A soft knock sounds at my door. “Your Highness?” comes a timid female voice. “Is it safe to come in?”

Safe?

“Are you wearing your mask, Your Highness?” she clarifies.

“Oh, just a minute,” I say and quickly tie on the mask. I hate how it restricts my vision and remind myself not to fidget with it in front of anyone. “Okay, I’m decent,” I call out, but stop.
You are royalty speaking to a maid, you idiot. Act like it.
“I mean . . . you may come in.”

A girl carrying a tray of bread, berries, and cream enters with an apologetic look on her face.

“I am sorry, Your Highness,” she says, curtsying. “I was supposed to visit your chambers early this morning, so that when you woke up you would have food and a fire going in here, but”—she glances up at my mask before looking away quickly, and her cheeks flush—“that is . . . none of the servants were sure . . . I mean, we’ve been told you must wear the mask at all times, and we weren’t sure if you slept in one,” she finishes in a rush, clearly uncomfortable.

“Um . . .” I don’t have the first clue if Wilha wears a mask while she sleeps. “How about this?” I say. “When I have retired to my bedroom, I will shut the door to the sitting room. And you can enter in the morning without worrying.”

She nods, and when she continues to linger, looking uncomfortable, I ask, “Is everything all right?”

“The king will be calling for you later today and, well, I thought you may want to know the buttons on the back of your dress are crooked. If you want, I could fix them?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, realizing that of course Wilha must have had a maid to help her get dressed.

“King Ezebo is going to appoint another maid for you,” she says after fixing my dress. “And well, if you’ll have me I just wanted to tell you it would be an honor to serve you.” She flushes and looks down.

I’m tempted to tell her I don’t need a maid, that I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, but I doubt that’s something Wilha would have said. Instead I ask, “What is your name?”

“Milly,” she answers, still looking at the floor.

“Well then, Milly, I accept.”

Milly smiles and curtsies, and then brings in more wood to start a fire in the hearth. After she leaves I sit in an armchair to warm myself, but pretty soon I become aware of whispers and giggles in the corridor outside. I cross the room and lean my head against the door, and hear the hushed voice of a young girl.

“You knock.”

“No.
You
knock.”

“No, Leandra.
You.
”

“Ruby, you are the one who wanted to come here in the first place.”

The first girl’s voice lowers to barely a whisper. “Do you think she is really ugly?”

I open the door. Two young girls with surprised looks on their faces straighten up quickly and apologize. The older one has pensive, serious-looking green eyes, and the younger one has reddish-blonde hair and freckles. The bottom of her dress is torn.

“Hello,” says the younger one, “I am Princess Ruby.” She smiles, revealing two very large front teeth.

“We are sorry to disturb you,” says the older one. “I am Princess Leandra. I tried to stop Ruby from coming here, but she insisted.”

Ruby closes the door behind her. “We’re supposed to be in lessons,” she says conspiratorially. “But we’re not!”

“Really? Well, why don’t you come in and sit down?” I lead them deeper into the sitting room and motion to the armchairs. What did Arianne say about Leandra and Ruby, the crown prince’s two siblings?
Dogs in training,
that’s how she described them. At the time, I hadn’t given it much thought. Arianne, puckered prune that she is, didn’t seem to have a kind word for anyone. But staring at Leandra and Ruby now, her words seem particularly cruel. Ruby can’t be more than seven, and it seems unfair to label her or Leandra a dog, just because they are Kyrenican.

“We mustn’t stay long,” Leandra says with a frown, “or we will be in trouble.”

“We heard Father say you were the most glamorous lady in the world, and that if you married our brother, it would bring Kyrenica much glory,” Ruby exclaims as she plops onto a plushy velvet cushion.

“Ruby, hush!” Leandra scolds. “That is not all he said,” she assures me. “He said he was thrilled a peace agreement could be reached, and that your marriage to our brother would save countless lives.” She recites the words formally, as though she has memorized them by heart.

But they stop me cold, nevertheless. They remind me there’s a purpose to this betrothal, to avoid a war that many thought was inevitable. I am reminded, too, that I promised Lord Quinlan I would try to find out if Ezebo was serious about maintaining peace.

Something that just might play in my favor if it’s discovered that I’m not Wilha, and I have to appeal to the Guardians for help.

“Is your father happy with the peace treaty, then?” I ask Leandra carefully.

“Of course, why shouldn’t he be?” Leandra frowns.

Ruby and Leandra move to dismiss themselves, saying that their father should be calling for me soon.

After they leave, I take several deep breaths as I prepare myself to face a king.

V
ictor stares at me. Anton and Jaromil stare at me. Suddenly, I am more aware than ever that I am roaming around Korynth without any guards, without any protection whatsoever. If Kyrenican soldiers entered the inn now, I think I might run to them in relief.

“I know who you are,” Victor repeats.

“Who?” I grab Elara’s satchel, getting ready to run.

“One of them kids from the villages, thinking finding a job in the city will feed your family.”

Relief washes over me and I relax my grip. “Yes,” I answer, well aware that Anton and Jaromil are still listening. “I am from Tyran,” I add, more grateful than I have ever been for Lord Murcendor, and the fact that he insisted I study geography. Tyran is a village just on the Kyrenican side of the border. Like most Kyrenicans, the villagers in Tyran shorten their vowels, yet they speak slightly more formally, making their accent not quite Kyrenican, yet not quite Galandrian either.

“Most families are smart enough to send their sons,” Victor continues. “More jobs for sons.”

“Are there jobs for daughters?” I ask. I do not want to lie outright. Yet the truth obviously will not do.

“For tough ones there are.” He looks me up and down skeptically. “Are you strong enough to haul crates of fish?”

I shake my head.

“Can you bake loaves of bread? Mix potions? Make cheese or brew ale?” he says, as I continue shaking my head. “Well then, what can you do?” he asks in exasperation.

What can I do? After all these years of feeling useless as a princess, capable of nothing more than dazzling crowds, not because of any great wit or beauty I possess, but because of the mystique of the Masked Princess, it seems I am useless as a person, too. Have I learned anything worthwhile in the sixteen years of my life? Any skills others may find helpful besides sitting in a chair and—

“Embroidery,” I say suddenly. “I am really good at embroidery.”

“You mean that fancy kind of sewing all those noblegirls do?” He seems to consider this. “It’s not often we get someone with those talents down here.” He stands up. “Follow me.”

“I—” I almost tell him I am not looking for a job, but after another quick glance at Anton and Jaromil, I decide to play along. I follow him over to the bar, where he grabs a tarnished silver key off a peg board and hands it to me.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“My name is Will—” I stop abruptly, because I can’t very well tell him my real name.

“Will? That’s an odd name for a girl.”

“I think my father wished I was a boy,” I answer quickly. “Though, oftentimes he called me Willie.”

He nods. “Nice to meet you, Willie. I’m Victor.” He starts up a staircase behind the bar, and gestures for me to follow him.

“Where are we going?”

“I’ve got a room for you. Mind, you’ll pay me for it, once you get a job.” He stops at a door. “Before I show you in though, I want you to understand something. The streets are no place for a girl like yourself. But this inn ain’t no palace, either.”

He pauses for me to consider this, and I cannot help thinking that no matter how rough the inn is, I doubt I will be locked inside like a prisoner.

“Lots of questionable characters come in here,” he continues, “and you’re to be cautious. Understand?”