Authors: Jenny Lundquist
Stefan leans back in his chair and nods, seemingly too tired to pursue the matter further.
“Do you have a story for me tonight?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. “Tell me more about your time with the Kyrenican navy.”
Stefan shakes his head and grins. “Nope, I’ve shared enough
about my travels. Tell me one of your stories about Tulan.”
During our nights by the fire, we pass the time telling tales. He tells me of his adventures on the Lonesome Sea. In return, I tell him of my own life in Tulan. Of course, I pretend they’re just ramblings I heard from a maid who served me in the Opal Palace.
Tonight I tell him of a day when I was still quite young, and Cordon and I came upon a tree that had fallen across the Eleanor River.
“And then he dared Elara to walk across the tree and cross over, despite the fact that the rapids were fierce. . . .” Stefan’s eyes have closed, his hand is propped under his chin, and I wonder if tonight he’ll finally get the rest he deserves.
I know it’s dangerous using my own name, but it slipped out one night. The night Stefan first said
I love you
. Not,
I intend to love you
, but simply,
I love you
. In return, though he will never know it, I offered him my own name, and my own life, disguised as a story.
Stefan’s eyes pop open. “And did she do it? Did she cross?”
“Of course. She was quite spirited and never one to refuse a dare.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.” He grins.
I pause, and wonder if he’s becoming suspicious. But I see only a weary playfulness in his eyes and continue.
“Halfway across she fell in. Her foot became wedged
between some stones, and Cordon had to jump in to save her. Her dress had torn, though, and when she returned to the lady of the manor, she was crying and said, ‘
I’m sorry, Mama. . . .
’” My throat swells as I remember. “And . . . and the lady replied, ‘
Mama? I’m not your mama, you filthy brat. I’m your mistress.
’”
I stop there. I don’t want to finish the story; it ends with a beating and a warning to never, ever call Mistress
Mama
ever again. Up until then, I had always believed I was her daughter. A less-loved, harder-worked daughter than her precious Serena. But a daughter, nevertheless.
A sleepy page enters the kitchen and startles us both. He hands Stefan a small roll of parchment. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. We have just received an important message for the king. But when I brought it to His Highness’s chambers he was sleeping. The queen was at his bedside and asked that I deliver it to you.”
“Thank you.” Stefan begins reading. “It’s from Sir Reinhold.”
“It would be nice if it was good news for a change,” I say, turning to the fire. Ever since Sir Reinhold, Kyrenica’s ambassador to Galandria, returned to Allegria, he’s sent several messages of the growing unrest in the capitol. I bear little love for my homeland, but I still can’t fathom how the glimmering, opal-flecked city of Allegria can be declining so fast.
“Wilha?”
I look away from the flames. Stefan’s face is ashen.
“What’s wrong? It’s more bad news?”
“It seems the whole world is going mad.” He turns and addresses the page. “Please rouse my father’s advisors and tell them I wish to meet in the great hall. Tell them it’s urgent.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
After the boy bows himself from the room, Stefan reaches for my hand and reads the letter aloud.
And I understand that the news I’ve just heard has the power to change everything.
Chapter
Elara
“S
he’s in shock,” Milly says.
“Wilha.” Stefan raises his voice slightly, as though I’m a child. “Come and sit by the fire.”
I let him lead me to an armchair. I’m only vaguely aware that Stefan has brought me back to my chambers and awoken Milly, my maid, who promptly burst into tears upon hearing the news.
“I’ll see to the princess,” Milly is saying to Stefan.
Stefan kneels before me. “I have to meet with my father’s advisors.” He takes my hands in his. “But as soon as I can, I will return.” He frowns and turns away. I hear Milly telling him that I’m mute with grief.
In truth, I am not in shock, nor do I feel any grief. I feel . . . nothing. My mind is racing ahead, calculating what’s required of me.
I arrive at this conclusion: Wilha must be told. As soon as possible.
8
T
he next morning, Stefan is still in meetings. After a solitary breakfast, I hasten back to my room and remove a crimson-colored gown with silver embroidery from my wardrobe. I take my dagger and dig at the shiny stitches until they tear and unravel.
“Milly,” I call. “Please have a carriage prepared. I want to visit the city.”
Milly appears in the doorway. “It’s freezing outside.”
I command my chin to tremble and my eyes to water as I hold out my dress. “I’ve been needing to get this fixed. Rather than having a maid attend to it I thought . . .” I let my tears spill onto my cheeks. “I thought I would take care of it myself.”
Sad kindness fills Milly’s eyes—and shame tugs at my belly, but I quickly push it away. The lie is necessary. Wilha must be told.
“A jaunt into the city may do you well,” she says,
and leaves.
When Milly returns with word that the carriage is ready, I leave my chambers. I pass a scullery maid, who looks at me
with knowing eyes. A guard offers me his deepest regrets. Word has already gotten out, then. I pick up my pace; I want Wilha to hear the news firsthand, before the servants’ chatter spreads through the city.
I tell the driver where I wish to go, and he urges the horses onward. The streets are mostly deserted and covered in an icy slush from the snow last night, making it difficult for the carriage to move forward over the slippery cobblestones. The tall wooden buildings in Korynth bottleneck into a chimney; smoke spirals from each one we pass. Between the woodsmoke and the morning fog blanketing the city it’s difficult to see more than a few feet ahead.
The carriage comes to a halt outside the dress shop. The guards alert the staff to our arrival. The seamstresses walk outside and curtsy in my direction, but not before I see their expressions, irritated that I’m forcing them to stand outside in the bitter cold. It’s necessary, though. Wilha and I have both agreed that we cannot be seen standing next to each other, even though I’m wearing the mask. It’s too much of a risk, and we need time to speak privately, without fear of being overheard.
“Tell the guards I wish to treat the women to a hot meal.” I hand the driver a fistful of klarents. “I may require more time than usual today.”
Wilha waits inside, her face wary as she curtsies, and I wonder if she’s thinking of our earlier disagreement. I hand her the dress and she paints a smile on her face as she accepts it. This too is necessary, in case any of the guards are watching through the windows.
“I have news.”
Instantly, she tenses up. “What is it? Has someone discovered—”
“No, it’s not that. But we must come away from the window.”
Wilha nods and sweeps her hand wide, as though she’s inviting me deeper into the room. I look around at the full-length mirror, the overstuffed couch, and the shelves that are tightly packed with rolls of fabric, spools of thread, and dresses in various stages of alteration. I try to think of the best way to tell her.
I decide it’s best to be direct. “I came here,” I say, “because King Fennrick is dead.”
Chapter 4
Wilha
“D
ead?” The panic that someone has finally discovered our deception leaks away, and is replaced by shock. “Our father is dead?”
“
Your
father is dead.” Elara wears a tailored black cloak over a dark purple gown embroidered with black stitching. Her mask is black, with milky lavender opals dripping down the cheeks. Dressed this way, she almost looks to be in mourning. Yet Elara’s feelings about our father are quite clear. For all I know, underneath her painted mask she rejoices at his death.
“What happened?” I say, sinking down on a couch.
“What do you mean?” She frowns. “He’s dead.”
“
How
did he die, Elara? Was there an accident? Did he fall ill? Or did someone . . .” I imagine last year inside the Galandria Courthouse, watching him writhe in pain, an arrow lodged in his cheek.
“Oh,” Elara says. “It was bad meat. According to the message Stefan received, several fell ill in the Opal Palace. Fennrick seemed to be getting better, but took a turn for the worse. The cook has been hanged.”
I lean back against the couch and close my eyes. I said good-bye to my father—in my heart, if not in person—when I left Galandria last year. Yet still, that is a vastly different good-bye than death.
“What is the protocol for when a Galandrian king dies?” Elara asks.
“A new king will immediately be proclaimed—Andrei,” I say slowly. “He will be under the protection of the Guardian Council until he comes of age.” My heart lurches at the thought of Andrei alone, with no one to guide him except our father’s advisors. “Plans will be made for his coronation. It will be in the summer most likely, when the weather is better.”
“Will I be required to attend?”
I read the anxiety in Elara’s eyes and finally understand the true purpose of her visit. She cares not that the man who gave her life is dead. First and foremost she wants to understand what these events will mean for
her
.
“I think not.” I blink hard at the pressure building behind my eyes. I pick up a needle and set about repairing the stitches in her dress, trying to calm myself. “Andrei and I were mostly kept separate as children; we are strangers more than siblings, so I do not think he will extend an invitation. But you will want to send a message offering him your support.”
Elara exhales loudly. “I had wondered if Andrei would be able to tell the difference if I went back to Galandria.” She looks into the mirror as she speaks, gazing at her own masked reflection, and I have to tamp down a flood of irritation. Does she spare no thought whatsoever for our father?
Elara glances at me in the mirror and our gazes hold. “All he was to me,” she says sharply, as though she has read my mind, “was the man who sentenced me to life with the Ogdens.”
“He could just as easily had you slaughtered in your cradle,” I burst out, tears spilling down my cheeks. “Many men would have and not spared it a second thought. His efforts were—”
“His efforts were far from sufficient,” she says. “So wipe the disgust off your face.”
“But do you not feel any—”
“There’s nothing wrong with how I feel! And who are you to lecture me? Fennrick was dead to you the moment you decided you no longer wished to be Wilhamina Andewyn. That was a choice
you
made, not me.”
My tears continue to fall and I nod miserably, for I know she’s right.
Elara sighs, picks up a small embroidered handkerchief, and hands it to me. “Here.”
While I wipe my eyes, she reaches out and touches my shoulder awkwardly, and I know she’s trying to be a sister—something that doesn’t come easily to either of us.
“Thank you,” I say.
She smiles sadly, and I wonder if she’s thinking, as I am,
what it would have been like if we’d been allowed a whole childhood of small moments like these.
I return to my stitching, repairing the damage Elara has done to her own dress.
“Apparently you had a stable full of your own horses,” Elara says, breaking the silence. “What breeds of horses did you own? And what was the name of your favorite horse?”
“Thoroughbreds, mostly. And her name was Hadley.” I yank out a stitch that looks a bit crooked. I had hoped we could avoid this part of our visit today.
It galls me that Elara—while staunchly refusing to claim any kinship with the Andewyns—simultaneously feels she has a right to every detail of my life in Galandria, and has quizzed me exhaustively on my likes and dislikes, my memories, and what occurred on the days I attended court. She’s asked me many questions about Andrei (though since we were raised separately, I can rarely answer them). Once she even went so far as to inquire about Patric and the exact nature of our relationship.
It was the only time I refused her an answer.
“What about the last time you saw Andrei?” she says. “When I pretended to be you, that last night in the Opal Palace, he did not attend your farewell dinner or come to say good-bye. If I need to write him a letter, I want to know how you parted.”
A memory surfaces of the last time I saw Andrei. The impassive look on his face as he watched our father writhe in pain.
“If Father dies, does that mean I get to be king?”
“I do not remember the last time I spoke to him,” I say, concentrating on my stitching. “The memory escapes me.”
“Have you given any thought to our last conversation?”
“Must we speak of this now?” I finish stitching and thrust the dress back at her. “Here.”
“You didn’t want to speak of it a few weeks ago. You know we can’t both continue living in Korynth. It’s dangerous, and if we’re not careful, we’ll get caught. One of us needs to leave the city.”