The Princess in the Opal Mask (21 page)

“I did not think you would be so bold. In the report Sir Reinhold sent us he said you were proper above all else.”

“Really?” At this, my stomach tightens. “What else did the report say?”

“Only what is expected when considering a betrothal. Was a similar report not given to you of my brother?”

“If such a report exists, I wasn’t allowed to read it,” I say carefully. “But I am curious to know what yours said of me.”
Tell me everything,
I want to say.
Everything you might know about Wilha that I don’t.

Leandra’s lips suppress a grin. “It said you hate potatoes.”

“Yes, I do,” I reply automatically, surprised that Wilha and I actually have something in common. Mistress Ogden made me peel so many, I’ve lost my taste for them.

Leandra looks troubled. “But I was merely poking fun. The report actually said you complimented the potato stew you ate in the ambassador’s presence. He suggested we serve it here in the castle.” She shrugs. “I only thought it was funny he mentioned it.”

I force a laugh. “Of course. I was merely joking as well.”

Leandra nods, yet from the way she stares, I’m not quite sure she believes me.

I rush ahead to break some of the tension and join Ruby, who leads me out on a balcony overlooking the city. “Father says crowds will gather outside the castle gates to see you tomorrow night. Can I go out with you Wilha, please?”

Leandra catches up to us and says we must move along or we’ll be late. As we make another turn, two men wearing scarlet robes are exiting a room halfway down the corridor. With a start, I realize I recognize this hallway, and that door. It’s the one with the gargoyle door handle. The same door the squire caught me trying to open two nights ago.

“The plans are coming along,” the first one says.

“I agree,” says the second man, shutting the door behind him. “I will tell the king—”

Upon seeing us, both men quickly stop talking. “I hardly think the northern wing is fit for foreigners,” the first man says to Leandra, with a pointed glance at me.

“Of course.” Leandra, flushing, grabs my arm and hurries me away. When we have turned the corner I ask, “Those men are your father’s advisors, aren’t they? What were they discussing?” But she just shakes her head and replies that we mustn’t keep her mother waiting.

She moves ahead, but I can’t help look back and wonder what was in that room that Ezebo’s advisors—and the squire—don’t want me to see.

We turn down a few more corridors. Voices carry from the room Leandra marks as Queen Genevieve’s chambers.

“I don’t know why Ezebo thought he needed to fetch a wife for my grandson from the most barbaric kingdom in the world,” comes an unpleasant female voice.

“Eudora, hush. She will arrive any minute,” answers another voice, which I recognize as belonging to Queen Genevieve. She says something else but I don’t hear what. Eudora, Ezebo’s mother, the dowager queen, has pleaded a headache the last two days, so I have yet to meet her. But I heard quite a bit about her from Arianne, who referred to her as the Great Viper.

We arrive at the door and Leandra hesitates before walking in, looking at me with a horrified expression. I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her. I want to hear this. And I want to catch them off guard.

“She cannot help being an Andewyn anymore than we can help being Strassburgs,” Genevieve says.

“You are not a Strassburg by birth, Genevieve,” Eudora snaps.

“Of course,” Genevieve says. “But if we are to truly accept her into the family, we must see past her origins.”

“Humph. Never trust a Galandrian. They will dazzle you with their wealth and then stab you in the back when you’re not looking. As far as I am concerned they are all a bunch of—”

“Good afternoon,” I say as I step inside. Next to me, Leandra’s shoulders slump and Ruby skips ahead of us to give her mother a hug.

Genevieve gives me an apologetic look as she reaches down to Ruby. But Eudora, the dowager queen, looks at me with unkind and appraising blue eyes that see out of a small wrinkled face.

An awkward silence descends as we all look at each other. The only sound in the room comes from the crackling of the fire. The walls of the room are covered in red tapestries. Behind Genevieve and Eudora is a dining table made of dark cherry wood.

Eudora shoos away Ruby, who tries to hug her. “Your dress is stained,” she snaps, and Ruby’s face falls. “Genevieve, how many times do I have to tell you to take a firmer hand with your daughter?” Eudora looks me up and down, staring everywhere but in my eyes. “She has small hips,” she remarks to Genevieve, as though I’m not in the room. “It is a good thing we were able to secure so much from the Galandrian treasury. With hips like those, I doubt my grandson will be able to get any sons from her.”

Eudora’s leering stare feels dirtier than any I’ve ever received from men at the Draughts. Great Viper, indeed. For once, Arianne’s assessment seems to have been right on target.

“Have the barbarians in Galandria taught you nothing?” she snaps, her eyes taking in my dress distastefully. “You don’t wear your finest gown to afternoon tea.”

“This is hardly my finest gown.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. It’s only then that I notice Genevieve and Eudora, as well as Leandra and Ruby, are wearing dresses in muted shades.

Eudora’s cheeks seem to swell. “How dare you—”

“Eudora, I don’t think she meant anything by it—” Genevieve begins.

“Nonsense, Genevieve. I know when I am being insulted, and I won’t have it. Not in my own home. And certainly not by a barbarian.”

I open my mouth, but quickly bite back the tart reply rising to my lips. And though I’m clenching my hands so hard my nails bite into my palms, I force myself to say, “I’m sorry,” in a demure, soft voice. “I wasn’t quite sure what the Kyre-nican expectations were for afternoon tea.”

“Apology accepted,” Genevieve cuts in before Eudora can speak. “Shall we sit down?” she says with forced pleasantness, and everyone makes their way to the table.

I had thought “tea” meant sitting down for, well, a cup of tea and maybe a few slices of bread. That is what passed for tea at the Ogdens. But apparently royalty has a different standard. Platters of fruit, cheeses, olives, and bread are spread out on the table before us. Several forks and knives frame either side of the plate in front of me. Really, why do the wealthy require so many utensils just to eat a single meal?

Probably because they never have to wash their own dishes.

Genevieve and everyone else seem to be staring at me expectantly. I’m not sure what to do, so I say, “What smells so good?”

“Ah,” Genevieve says approvingly, “that is the scarlet tea. It is a Kyrenican specialty. I believe I may have fallen in love with it before I did with the king.” She smiles at me, ignoring a sharp look from Eudora, and signals to a maid hovering in the corner. “Please pour the princess a cup of scarlet tea.”

The maid complies. When I raise the cup to my lips, I smell cinnamon and peppery spices. As I sip, I feel myself growing warm all over. “This is the best tea I’ve ever had in my life,” I say honestly.

As we make small talk and dine, I find that eating while wearing the mask is tricky, just as it was last night. When Genevieve or Eudora asks me a question, I try to think of what Wilha would say and give soft, demure answers. This seems to go well until Genevieve asks me what subject I most enjoyed studying with my tutors.

“History is my favorite,” I answer truthfully, because I have no idea what Wilha’s answer would be.

“Is it?” Eudora says. “You are aware that my late husband was the grandson of King Bronson the Liberator? Oh, but I forget,” she adds with a wicked smile after I nod, “Galand-rians have another name for him, do they not? Tell me, what is it?”

Her eyebrows rise as though daring me. Maybe I should take Arianne’s advice, which suddenly comes back to me in full force.
Be pleasant at all times. Smile, even in the face of unkindness, for you are to be above it all. Feign ignorance if you must.

But I can’t do that, no matter how much Arianne’s words nag at me. I won’t declare myself ignorant of my own history, not when there were so many days I had to beg Mistress Ogden to let me attend school.

“Bronson the Butcher,” I proclaim. “So named because of all the Galandrians he slaughtered.”

“Hold your tongue, girl,” Eudora snaps, seemingly shocked that I dared to speak the truth. “In this country, Bronson Strassburg is considered a war hero, not to mention our founding king.”

“Interesting,” I say coolly. “Because in
my
country he’s considered a murderer.”

Shortly after this the tea ends, and I am escorted back to my room by an unsmiling Leandra.

She is careful, I notice, to avoid the northern wing.

S
ince I received the job yesterday in the dress shop, I have been comforted by the sound of rustling silk and the rhythmic, methodical puncture of needle through fabric. It is the first thing that has seemed familiar since our procession reached Korynth, and slowly, some of the knots in my stomach have begun to untie.

Yet not all of them. As I have stitched in the dress shop, not attempting to return to the castle, I have wondered at the goings on inside the castle. While I hide, what has become of Elara?

Word that the Masked Princess has arrived in Korynth officially reaches the dress shop late afternoon via a noblewoman named Alvirah who needs alterations to the gown she intends to wear to the masquerade. She stands in front of a mirror while Kyra kneels before her, pinning her dress. “We dined with her and the royal family the night before last. Really, you would think that—ouch!” Alvirah looks down at Kyra, “Watch it.”

My hands go still at her words. So instead of telling the soldiers I fled, Elara is still in the castle and pretending to be me.

Kyra stares up at Alvirah in awe, as though she herself were royalty. “You met the Masked Princess? What was she like?”

“Clumsy and dim-witted. She knocked over a wine glass and used the wrong fork at dinner. Really, why the world is so enamored of her I just don’t understand.” She plucks at her dress and frowns. “Anyway, the king has decided she will appear on the balcony every night at sunset. Why anyone would want to see her, when she is probably wretched-looking under that mask, is beyond me.”

“But there are so many rumors,” Kyra says. “Maybe it’s not that she is ugly, maybe it’s that she’s beautiful.”

“Ridiculous,” Alvirah scoffs. “How can she be beautiful? She’s a Galandrian.”

“Did it seem like . . . she was being treated well?” I ask.

“Of course,” Alvirah says. “The Strassburgs threw a feast for her, did they not? And the princesses Leandra and Ruby seem quite taken with her.” She plucks at her dress again. “Galina, this hem is crooked, can you look at this? Your girls are not yet as precise as you are. . . .”

Galina bends down, and while they all examine Alvirah’s dress I turn away, pretending to concentrate on the sapphire-colored gown I have been working on. Listening to them speak of the Masked Princess makes me feel oddly invisible, like I am a ghost haunting the room long after my death. But hearing that Elara is well, that no harm has come to her as a result of my disappearance, revives me. She is the reason why no soldiers have come for me. She must truly be the great pretender she boasted to be.

Or perhaps not, I think, shoving my needle through sapphire satin. Perhaps the Guardians could have stuck a mask on any girl’s face and the Strassburgs would have been fooled. King Ezebo wanted his son to marry the Masked Princess, not necessarily Wilhamina Andewyn.

“Willie,” Kyra says, “we should go tonight and stand outside the castle gates and wait for sunset to see the Masked Princess.”

“Me?” I say, surprised. “You want me to go with you?”

“Of course.” Kyra laughs. “Why not?”

“I—no reason,” I reply. I can’t tell her I’m not used to people enjoying my company.

“It will be cold tonight,” Kyra continues, glancing at my thinner traveling dress. “Didn’t you bring any other clothes with you to the city? Or a heavier cloak?”

I don’t answer right away. I’m thinking of all the trunks that accompanied me to Korynth, but Kyra mistakes my hesitation for something else.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she says. “Many people arrive in the city with very little.” She turns to Galina. “Please, can we give her some dresses from the castoffs?” she asks, and Galina nods.

“Castoffs?” I ask.

“We have several cast aside dresses here—orders that were never claimed or dresses that were donated so we could practice our stitching.” Kyra leads me to a back room and selects a couple of plain dresses in shades of black and gray. “These should be a fit.” Both of the dresses are made of wool, much warmer than what I am wearing now.

“Thank you,” I say and accept the dresses from Kyra gratefully. Perhaps I, and everyone else in my father’s court, have been wrong about the Kyrenicans.

“Tonight after supper you must meet me at the Broken Statue. We’ll go together to see the Masked Princess.” Kyra smiles. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, smiling back. “I will.”