The Princess in the Opal Mask (2 page)

I remove my hand. “Wooden spoons leave marks, remember?”

She slowly lowers the spoon. With Mister Blackwell visiting she must appear to love me, and a black eye or a bruised cheek won’t fit with the image she wants to project. And tonight she intends to wrangle not just the worthings from Mister Blackwell, but also get tickets to the birthday masquerade for Princess Wilhamina Andewyn, Galandria’s “Masked Princess.”

“Mister Ogden took most of the money,” I continue. “He had a debt to pay at the Draughts of Life. . . .” I break off, because there is nothing more to be said. If Mister Ogden didn’t visit the village tavern, partaking in cards and drinking ale so frequently (and Mistress didn’t love expensive things), the Ogdens wouldn’t need to depend so heavily on the stipend they receive from the orphanage. Ogden Manor might not have fallen into disrepair, and they wouldn’t have had to let go of their servants one by one, until there was only me. The only servant they are actually paid to keep.

“Forget about the apple tart then,” she says. “Go to the Draughts and fetch Harold. You are to return with him immediately and start on the stew.”

“Yes, Mistress. Your every wish is my most desperate command.” I bow sarcastically in her direction. Then I leave the kitchen, before I decide to grab a wooden spoon of my own.

W
hile I’m pulling on my cloak, Serena hollers for me to come to her bedroom.

When I arrive, she is scrutinizing herself in front of a mirror. She has Mistress Ogden’s silvery-blond hair. She’s plump and apple-cheeked from a lifetime of being given the best the Ogdens could afford. Today she is wearing the green silk dress Mistress bought the day after Mister Blackwell last visited.

She holds up first a powder blue frock and then a lavender one, the colors of the Andewyn family crest. “Which do you think the Masked Princess will prefer?”

“She has a name,” I snap. “And I don’t think she’ll care two figs what you’re wearing. You don’t even know if Mister Blackwell can get Mistress tickets yet.”

Serena frowns at her reflection. “Mother will find a way. She always does.” She holds up the lavender gown again and turns her head side to side. “Yes, I think lavender will do quite nicely. I’ll need you to wash it and return it to my room when you’re finished.”

“It’ll have to wait. Your mother has sent me to the Draughts again.”

“Later then,” she says, pursing her lips. “And say hello to Cordon for me.”

I stare blankly back at her. Cordon is the son of Sylvia, the woman who owns the Draughts of Life. He is also my best friend. He has been since I can remember, though lately we don’t talk as much as we used to. And ever since we were children, Cordon and Serena have never gotten along well.

“I will if I have time,” I snap. “Between you and your mother I have quite enough to do already.”

Serena’s expression softens. “Things would go so much easier if you didn’t antagonize her all the time,” she says, and I know she must have heard us in the kitchen.

“Really, you think so?” I say. “You think if I was all sweetness and smiles she’d ask someone else to do the cooking and the cleaning?”

Serena stiffens and her expression of concern vanishes. “You are her servant. What she asks is nothing more than what is proper.”

“Servant,” I scoff. “Most families aren’t paid sixteen hundred worthings a year to house a servant.”

“You’re lucky to be here at all,” she replies coolly, and holds out the lavender dress. “After all, if my family hadn’t taken you in what would have become of you?”

I pluck the dress from her outstretched hand. The word
family
twists in my stomach like a cruel vice.

W
hen I finally step outside, I pull my cloak tight against the rain and wind. My boots squelch through mud as I make my way from Ogden Manor down the narrow path through the woods leading into town. Overhead, a canopy of almond tree branches blooms with tiny white and pink blossoms. Despite the rain, winter is finally giving way to spring.

I kick a muddy stone as I walk. There was a time when I believed Mistress Ogden was my mother and I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I would have said anything, done anything, to have her smile at me. But over time I realized her smiles—like her love—would never be given to me, and that instead of trying to earn her favor, I needed to learn how to survive her wrath.

And now, all these years later, I have other concerns. One day those bags of worthings from the orphanage will stop coming. And when they do, what is to keep her from tossing me out of Ogden Manor? I don’t know exactly when my birthday is, but I think I turn seventeen sometime this year. I doubt the orphanage will continue paying the Ogdens after I’ve come of age.

One winter when I was very young, the appointed night for Mister Blackwell’s visit came and went and he never appeared. Mistress said she refused to provide a place for me if the orphanage wasn’t going to pay for it, so she threw me out of the manor. I spent the night shivering in the Ogdens’ barn, hoping I wouldn’t freeze to death.

Mister Blackwell arrived early the next morning. A tree had fallen across the road, delaying his carriage. Like the great performer she is, Mistress immediately transformed into a loving and concerned mother. Mindful of how cold it had been in the barn, I played along. After Mister Blackwell left, we never spoke of that night. But the message was loud and clear:

No worthings, no home.

Sometimes when Mistress Ogden has sent me into town to buy food or supplies, I’ve wondered what would happen if I just kept walking? If I walked through the entire village of Tulan and continued beyond it, walking away from one life to find another.

Necessity stops me every time, though. Without a way to provide for myself, where would I go?

The snap of a twig and the sound of something, or   someone, shuffling through a bush makes me stop and turn around. I shield my eyes against the rain but see nothing except for a couple of squirrels chasing each other up a tree.

I resume walking and my hand closes over the dagger I keep hidden in the pocket of my cloak. Another twig snaps. I turn around again, hoping to find more squirrels. But this time I see a flash of deep green fabric disappear among the fog and almond trees.

I leave my hand on my dagger and sprint the rest of the way to the tavern.

T
he Draughts of Life sits at the edge of Tulan’s meager town square. Dusty and old, it reeks of ale and desperation, frequented by men who’ve watched the price of grain rise higher and higher while their wages sink lower and lower. It’s not a place that easily welcomes outsiders. But an unaccompanied young woman is another matter entirely, so I reach for my dagger again as I step inside.

But the first face I see isn’t that of a man in search of comfort. It’s the face of a child, one I know well.

“Timothy, what are you doing here?”

Timothy, a small boy of about eight, stares back at me with frightened eyes. He jumps slightly at the sound of a man loudly cursing. “Cordon said he’d try to find some leftovers for us.”

Last month Timothy’s father, a soldier, was recalled to Allegria, Galandria’s capital, amid fears that war with Kyrenica was imminent. Most days his family doesn’t have near enough to eat.

“All right. Stick near the wall and stay quiet.” I raise my voice in case anyone’s listening. “And if someone gives you any trouble, I want you to yell for me or Cordon.”

Sylvia waves me over. She is taking orders from a table of men who look as though they’ve had more than their fair share of ale. One of them smacks her on the rump. Sylvia’s eyes narrow and her lips thin, but she says nothing. Like everyone else in Tulan, she barely makes ends meet and can’t afford to lose customers, no matter how ill-mannered they are.

“Back again, sweetheart?” says a scruffy, unshaven man with oily blond hair, a Draughts regular. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” His arm slithers around my waist. “Care for a friend tonight?”

I pull out my dagger and point it at him. “I’ve got enough friends, thanks.”

That shuts him up and he turns away cursing. Sylvia bites back a smile and points to a table where Mister Ogden sits. “He happened upon a winning streak for once. Good luck bringing him home.”

Mister Ogden is short and squat with a nose the size of a pimply squash, which is flushed beet red. Even from here I can see the shiny gold worthings stacked near his elbows as he examines his cards.

“Are you all right?” Sylvia continues. “You look a bit pale.”

I hesitate before answering, mindful others are within earshot. I’m almost certain someone was following me, but I don’t want anyone in this tavern thinking I’m a scared little girl.

I turn and stare at the tavern entrance, as though I’m expecting a ghastly villain to appear. Instead, the door opens and Mister Travers, Tulan’s schoolteacher, steps inside.

I exhale.

“I’m fine,” I tell Sylvia. “I’m just hungry. We’ve run out of most of the supplies we stored for the winter, so we’ve been saving our food for Mister Blackwell’s visit tonight.” What I don’t say is that Mistress’s idea of “saving food” means forcing me to go hungry while she, Serena, and Mister Ogden eat smaller meals.

Sylvia nods and tells me that Cordon is in the kitchen if I want to see him, then leaves to deliver more ale. I decide I’ll wait to approach Mister Ogden until he’s lost most of his worthings, which shouldn’t take long, and head for the kitchen. On the way I pass two men slumped over mugs of ale, whispering.

“But do you suppose the rumors of the Masked Princess are true?” The man’s eyes dart around, as though he expects the king’s men to appear and pounce on him for the very thought.

“Which ones?” asks his companion. He hiccups and adds, “Took the wife to see the Masked Princess wave from her   balcony last year. You ask me, she looked like nothing more than a rich brat.”

Inside the kitchen, Cordon is filling a basket with stale bread and mushy apples. He smiles when he sees me. His eyes are as gray as the sky outside, and his unruly blond hair hangs in his face.

“Figured I’d see you in here sooner or later,” he says as he finishes up with the basket and moves on to stir a pot of bubbling stew. “I already tried to tell Mister Ogden to go home, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Thank you,” I say, stepping closer. The warmth of the hearth is a relief after walking in the rain, and the smell of the stew makes me lightheaded.

“Serena asked me to talk to him. Convince him to cut back on the ale.”

“How nice of her,” I say curtly, although I can’t remember when Serena and Cordon could have had that conversation. Serena is never required to bring her father home, as Mistress Ogden feels that the Draughts is too rough a place for her.

Cordon shoots me a wary look and changes the subject, “How did the cake turn out?”

“Crispy,” I answer. “Mistress tossed it out.”

“I told you I should have helped. I’m a much better cook than you are.” He gives me a sly grin and I smile in return, cheered for the first time all day.

“All right,” I say, laughing. “Next time you’re in charge of convincing Mistress not to toss me out.”

Cordon stops smiling. He looks down and begins stirring the stew with fast, efficient strokes. An awkward silence falls between us and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Ever since he came of age things have been strained between us, and I wonder if he remembers our childhood promise.

“Maybe you should talk to Serena,” he says finally.

“Serena?” I repeat, surprised. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Maybe you can work out a different arrangement with the Ogdens,” he says. “Serena would help you; I’m sure of it.”

“I doubt Her Royal Highness could be bothered to lift one lazy finger on my behalf.”

“She’s not lazy,” Cordon says, frowning. “She’s just used to being waited on. And she’s good with her mother. You should talk to her.”

“Right. And since when do you make it your business to know what Serena’s good at?”