The Princess in the Opal Mask (8 page)

Vendors call out to passersby, begging them to buy their wares. A plump man carrying a stack of colorful fans jumps in front of me. He holds up one made of peacock feathers and white lace and shouts, “Official birthday ball fans! Cover your eyes and protect yourself from the curse of the Masked Princess! Only five worthings!”

Everyone, it seems, is trying to capitalize on the prin-cess’s birthday. One vendor parades a cart of costume masks up the street, calling out that it would honor the Masked Princess if women wore them. Another sells hair ribbons in shades of milky lavender or iridescent powder blue, calling out “Get your hair ribbons in the official colors of the House of Andewyn!”

All around me noblewomen are feverishly snatching up the trinkets. And I can’t help but wonder if any of them know how many families in Tulan will go hungry tonight.

Mister Blackwell arranged for us to stay at a place called the Fountain Inn, named for its proximity to the King’s Fountain, where water sprays out of the mouth of a stone statue of King Fennrick.

By the time I catch up to the carriage, Mistress Ogden has already checked in at the inn.

“Elara, get the trunks,” she commands. “Our rooms are on the second floor. Mister Blackwell only reserved three, so you’ll have to sleep on the floor in Serena’s room.”

“I’ll get the trunks,” Cordon says, hopping down from the carriage. “They’re heavy and then Elara can—”

“Nonsense,” says Mistress Ogden, “Go inside and rest up with Harold. Elara’s strong as an ox, and not much prettier.”

“Better strong as an ox than dumb as a donkey,” I retort, reaching into the carriage and yanking out my satchel. “Go on in,” I say to Cordon, shooing his hands away, “I don’t need your help.”

“You never need my help,” he answers. With a sigh he leaves, and a seething Mistress Ogden follows behind.

M
y opportunity to go to the prison comes a day later, when over a dinner of rabbit stew and cheese, Serena complains that she wants a decorative fan for the birthday ball.

“The entire city is already sold out of them,” she pouts. “We should have bought one when we first arrived. I don’t want to be the only girl who doesn’t have one.”

“Really? That’s odd,” I say, thinking fast. “I heard a couple of Allegrian women talking today—noblewomen, by the look of them—saying they were sending their servants across town to a shop that still had them.”

I stare down at my stew. I’m planting a seed, letting them believe their next thoughts will be their own.

“Elara will go for you in the morning, darling,” Mister Ogden says, drowsy from his third mug of ale. “The king is giving an address tomorrow in Eleanor Square; you won’t want to miss it.”

I ignore Cordon, who is looking at me suspiciously, and steal a quick glance over at Mistress Ogden. I’ve spent my whole life studying her. If I give any indication that I actually
want
to get sent on an errand, she’ll see to it that I spend the rest of the trip staring at the walls of the inn.

“But that shop was on the other side of the city!” I protest. “It will take me all morning to—”

“You will do exactly as we say and fetch that fan,” Mistress snaps. “Serena asks one small thing, as she is quite within her right to do, and you turn up your nose and sniff, just as you’ve done all your life—” She stops suddenly, realizing that several tables around us have fallen silent.

I give a grunt of frustration and mumble my assent to Mistress Ogden. Nothing on my face shows the triumph I feel.

Later, as I’m turning in for the night, Cordon meets me at the foot of the stairs. “What are you planning for tomorrow?” he whispers.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now the Ogdens think it was their brilliant idea to give you free rein in the city tomorrow.”

“It wasn’t
my
idea that I spend all morning looking for some blasted fan to satisfy Serena’s latest whim.”

Cordon grins, and his gray eyes twinkle. “It was, actually. And I don’t think you have any intention of helping Serena tomorrow. You’ve got something else planned entirely. I just want to know what it is.”

“I’ve just got a few things I need to take care of,” I say.

Cordon’s grin vanishes, as though I’ve let him down. “When will you learn to trust those who care about you, enough to tell them the truth?”

I look away. “I do trust you, Cordon.”

I leave him standing at the foot of the stairs, aware I’m telling a lie neither of us believe.

W
hen I wake up the next morning, I quietly pull on my boots and grab my satchel, careful not to disturb Serena, who is still sleeping. Downstairs, I’m just about to step outside when Marinda, the innkeeper’s wife, asks me to follow her into the kitchen, where a man in a black cloak waits.

“This is Gunther from the Royal Orphanage. He is here to see how you’re getting on.”

Gunther nods. He has a pale, pockmarked face and aloof brown eyes which travel dispassionately up and down my body. “Is your stay in Allegria going well?” he asks once his gaze finally lands on my face.

“It is, thank you.”

Gunther continues to study me, his eyes moving over my features, and Marinda and I glance uneasily at each other.

“Perhaps you’d like to stay for breakfast?” Marinda asks, gesturing to a pot of porridge bubbling over the hearth.

Gunther finally tears his gaze away from me. “No, thank you,” he says to Marinda. And with another nod of his head he departs, leaving us to stare after him.

Marinda frowns. “That was odd.”

“Yes, it was,” I agree, “but Mister Blackwell, the orphanage director, is a bit odd too.”

“That’s the thing of it,” Marinda says. “I don’t understand this business with the orphanage sending you here. I’ve never met Mister Blackwell. I had never heard of him before he sent us his letter and the payment for your rooms. But I’ve seen the outside of the orphanage, and I just don’t see how they can afford to sponsor a trip for you to visit Allegria.”

I hesitate, unsure how to respond. I still don’t understand why Mister Blackwell pretended to know nothing about Mister Travers. But after all these years, experience has taught me he won’t answer any questions he doesn’t want to.

Before I can answer, I hear the stairs creaking and the Ogdens’ bickering voices.

“Could you at least make an attempt to look presentable while we’re here?” Mistress Ogden rants. “My father paid you a hefty dowry because he thought he was sending me into a proper noble family.”

“Or maybe he was just desperate to be rid of you, dearest. Did you ever think of that?”

I hastily bid Marinda a good day and leave before the Ogdens see me and change their mind about sending me on an errand.

Outside, I make my way toward Eleanor Square. Bright morning sunlight glints off the opals inlaid in the cobblestone streets, giving the day a hazy, rainbow-colored feel. The city is even more crowded today. Several men huddle together in groups, speculating about the king’s address and hoping he’ll have something to say about the rising price of grain and the rumors of a brewing war with Kyrenica. I pass a group of women wearing glittery costume masks who debate over what Princess Wilhamina will be wearing during the address.

Eleanor Square is a large open area bordered by the Galandrian Courthouse on the west and the Clock Tower on the east. The Allegrian Historical Library marks the north side and on the south is the Royal Opera House. The Opal Palace, a monolith of creamy stone and twisting turrets is visible from the Square, rising up on a hill over the southernmost section of Allegria.

I buy an apple tart from a vendor near the Clock Tower and ask him to point me toward the prison.

“It’s just over that way,” he answers. “Make a left at the next street, and you can’t miss it.”

The prison is several stories high, topped by a watch tower. I approach slowly, finishing off my apple tart and watching as a man and woman knock on the entrance gate, which is opened by a palace guard. They speak with him briefly before being shown inside.

This is it. If I’m ever going to find out what Mister Travers knows about me and my family—or if he
is
my    family, the time is now. I pound on the gate. When it opens, a guard with bristly black hair peers out at me.

“Yes,” I begin, “can you help me—”

“State your name and the name of the prisoner you wish to see,” he interrupts, leaning against the gate.

“My name is Elara, and I wish to visit Mister Travers.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “There is no one here under that name.”

He begins to close the gate, but I put my hand out to stop him. “He may have come in under a different name. He would have come from the village of Tulan, approximately two weeks ago.” I tilt my head and let my hair fall over my shoulder. Give him my most charming smile. “Surely there must be a way to find out if you’re holding someone of that description?”

It works. He returns my smile, revealing a mouthful of gray teeth. “Maybe. What’s it worth to you?”

I open my satchel and remove my four worthings. Wordlessly, he snatches them out of my hand. “Stay here,” he says, and shuts the gate.

While I wait, I imagine all the questions I will ask Mister Travers. Several minutes later, the gate opens and the guard emerges. “I spoke with the warden.”

“And? What did he say?”

He looks pointedly at my satchel, until I open it and hand him the three worthings Mistress Ogden gave me the night before. I tell myself I’ll think up a good excuse for why I came back without the money or the fan. “That’s everything I have. Now what did the warden say?”

He stuffs away the coins. “He said no prisoners from Tulan have been admitted in the last month.”

With that, he slams the gate shut.

His words settle over me like heavy chains. Chains that will keep me bound to the Ogdens. Blindly, I trudge back up the streets, pushing angrily against the crowd of people making their way to Eleanor Square. I drop onto a bench next to the fountain of King Fennrick, open my satchel and yank Mister Travers’s book from it. Of all the things my mother could have left me, there
has
to be some reason why she chose this dusty old history book.

I flip through the dog-eared pages. Just like I’ve done a hundred times in the last two weeks, whenever I was out of sight of the Ogdens. I’m searching. For what, I don’t know. A sign from my mother, maybe. Something to tell me who she was and who she might have been—who
I
might have been—if she hadn’t given me up. The only memory I have of my mother is a vague, hazy image of a kind-faced woman, her curly red hair tickling me as she sang a lullaby. Or at least, I’ve always assumed she was my mother.

I settle on a page and begin reading:

The Legend of the Split Opals weighed heavily on Eleanor in her final years. Indeed, she called for her physicians often and said she was haunted by nightmares. She claimed that in these dreams she saw who would eventually cause the Opal Split. “Me,” she was said to have confessed. “She looked just like me.”

I stop reading at the sound of Serena’s voice, coming from a nearby bench. A rose bush sits between the benches, shielding us from view of each other. I can barely make out her words. Something about a fan and a new dress, I think.

I slam the book shut. For Eleanor’s sake, what more could she possibly want? Slippers made of pure gold? Hair ribbons blessed by the Masked Princess herself?

“I don’t care about a silly fan,” she says.

“You could’ve fooled me,” comes Cordon’s teasing voice. “I think your mother’s not the only fine actress in the family.”

“Yes.” Serena laughs. “But worthings or not, Mother would never send her away, not as long as she thinks I have need of her.”

Their voices are drowned out by children splashing in the fountain. I lean into the rose bush—nearly getting stung on the ear by an irritated honeybee—and strain to hear them. My stomach tightens. Why are Serena and Cordon resting together on a bench?

“We’ll have to tell them soon,” Serena is saying. “We can’t wait forever.”

Cordon is silent for a moment. “You’re right. But let me tell Elara first.”

Fed up with being able to only hear half of what they’re saying, I stand up and step out from around the rose bush. “Tell me what?”

But when I see Cordon and Serena’s clasped hands, the meaning of their words becomes all too clear. Small details click into place: the growing distance between Cordon and me, his insistence that Serena has changed. . . .

I am a blind fool.

The shock in their faces mirrors my own. “You two? You’re . . .
together
? How long?” I sputter at them.

Cordon jumps up. “Not long, Elara. And I wanted to tell you—Serena told me from the beginning I needed to say something.”

Serena rises and nods. “Yes, Elara. I was unkind to you when we were children, and I’m sorry for that. But I swear I—”

“Do you love her?” I ask Cordon, ignoring Serena.