Princess of Glass (9 page)

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"A hit!" The fencing master clapped his hands. "Very nice, Your Highness!"

Grimacing, Dickon shook his head when Christian offered another round. "You'll only win again," he said glumly. "Give Roger a good drubbing, why don't you?"

Christian wiped his face on the towel that a servant offered him, and turned to look inquiringly at the older Thwaite brother. It was the day after the Thwaites' dinner party, when Christian had found an instant rapport with the oldest brother, Roger. Taller and more sophisticated than his younger brother, Roger was already sighed after by a number of women, despite only being home a week.

"Shall we?" Christian flourished his rapier.

"With pleasure." Roger picked up his own weapon and came forward to the center of the floor, where the polished boards had been dusted with powdered resin to prevent the combatants from slipping. "But be warned: I have learned a few things in my travels."

"I like a challenge." Christian grinned, and lunged.

"Is that why you are courting Princess Poppy?" Roger easily parried and made conversation as though they sat at tea.

Christian nearly dropped his foil, and only just managed to skip out of the way of Roger's next attack. "Courting Poppy? We're friends," he said weakly. Sweat was pouring down his face, but that was from fencing. Of course.

"Ah."

"Roger has daring tastes in women as well," Dickon said

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from the side of the room. "That's why he went to the Far East."

Roger looked irritated. "Actually, I went on the king's request, as part of the new ambassador's entourage," he said icily. He wasn't even slightly out of breath, while Christian thought he might have to forfeit before he collapsed.

"What was it really like?"

At dinner the night before, most of the conversation had been about the inconvenience of travel, and the general strangeness of foreigners, as viewed by Lady Thwaites mother. Poppy and Christian were apparently not considered foreign, since they spoke Bretoner and wore clothes, which the elderly lady seemed to think foreign peoples eschewed.

"Fascinating," Roger said, and then he struck Christian, pressing the capped tip directly into the center of the Dane prince's sternum.

"A hit," the fencing master said, and clapped to end the bout. "Very nice, Lord Roger."

"Thank you." Roger handed his foil off to a servant, took a towel, and then turned back to Christian. "The Far East is steeped in magic in a way our side of the world hasn't been in centuries," he said. "When I returned and heard about Princess Poppy and her sisters, and the strange deaths that surrounded them a few years back, well, let me just say that I am not as prone to scoffing over such stories as some people are."

Still gripping his weapon, Christian felt his face harden. "What do you mean?" If Roger was insulting Poppy...

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"I simply mean that if any more strange doings erupt around the Westfalian princesses, I recommend that you pay heed to even the most bizarre rumors about their past."

"Like Princess Rose stabbing someone with a darning needle?" Dickon had sidled over to eavesdrop, and now he laughed. "What kind of damage could that do?"

"From what I have heard," Roger said, giving his brother a quelling look, "Rose's husband, Galen, used a knitting needle to kill a creature that was nothing that I should like to face."

Christian wanted to know more, much more, without it seeming that his interest was as a prospective suitor. Fortunately, he had already accepted an invitation from Dickon for tea at the Thwaites' manor after their fencing excursion.

He had decided to accept any and all invitations he received in order to get as far from Tuckington Palace as possible. Princess Emmeline had decided quite abruptly that morning that she was heartbroken over Christian, and was trailing about the palace in a drab gown with her hair in a tangle, sighing and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief until she made the skin around them quite red. Christian suspected it had more to do with the Analousian novel he had seen her reading the day before than any fondness for him personally. In addition to that, King Rupert kept popping out of his study at random times to bark questions at Christian, demanding to know whether the prince preferred plump or slim women, dark or fair.

It was all too uncomfortable for words, and Christian counted himself lucky to have found so many friends so

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quickly in Breton. He was always welcome at the Thwaites or Seadowns, and other invitations came often. Of course, the latter came from households with eligible young ladies, but anything was better than the palace.

It was quite easy to ply Roger for information about the Westfalian princesses over tea. Although not someone who enjoyed gossiping, Roger clearly believed this to be more a matter of sharing possibly vital knowledge. Most of what he knew was hardly a secret, however. The princesses had worn out their dancing shoes in some mysterious fashion nearly every night, and the princes who tried to uncover their secret died afterward, but never on Westfalian soil.

What Christian and Dickon had never heard before, though, was that a dark sorcerer had been involved, and that Rose's husband Galen had been working with some benevolent magicians to end the princesses' curse.

"How do you know this?" Christian stirred his tea but didn't drink, too engrossed--almost sickened--by the story.

"An herbalist from the Silk Road region of the East was with the ambassador for a time, just before I came home. His Lordship suffers terribly from the headache," Roger explained. He added sugar to his tea and sipped it in his elegant way. Really, he was one of the most self-contained, even graceful, men that Christian had ever seen. "Lon Qui knew the white magicians who aided this Galen Werner."

"What did you say about Galen?"

The parlor door had just opened, and Poppy and Marianne stood there. Marianne's mouth was open in surprise, but Poppy

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looked murderous. She clutched at her reticule as though it contained a weapon. Realizing that it probably held some very sharp knitting needles, Christian reflected that it did.

"Ah, Your Highness!" Roger actually seemed nonplussed. He got to his feet hastily, his napkin falling from his knee to the floor. Christian and Dickon rose as well, but all they could do was stand there looking guilty.

"What did you just say about Galen?" Poppy demanded an answer when none of the gentlemen would offer one.

"We were merely, ah, talking," Roger said evasively.

"I am well aware of that, and you seem to be talking about my family." Poppy's voice was icy.

"Roger was just telling us that there was magic involved, when your brother-in-law ... the slippers ... and all that," Christian babbled. There was something in Poppy's face. She wasn't angry... she looked hurt. There was a great deal of gossip about her family, and he imagined that it never got any easier to walk into a room and find that you were the topic of discussion.

"And what does Roger know about it?"

"I am acquainted with an Eastern herbalist, Your Highness, who knew the magicians who assisted your brother-in-law." It didn't take long for Roger to regain his composure; Christian had to give him that.

"How nice for you," Poppy snapped. "Marianne? I'm leaving; do you wish to stay?"

"No," Marianne said. She flashed a confused look at

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Dickon, who could only open and close his mouth like a fish. "Good day, gentlemen."

Before Christian or his companions could react, Poppy and Marianne were gone again, a footman trailing in their wake and looking as embarrassed as Christian and the Thwaite brothers.

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***

Gown

I've changed my mind," Poppy said.

"What, again?" Lady Margaret's voice was amused and calm.

She was always calm. Poppy had to admit that she found herself behaving better in the face of Her Ladyship's sublime tranquility. Even now, refusing to go to the ball she had tentatively agreed to attend, Poppy was trying for serenity rather than fleeing the room and hiding.

"Just wait a moment before you decide," Lady Margaret said. "Wait until you see your new gown."

Taking Poppy by the hand, Lady Margaret led her over to the windows, where a dress form had been draped with a thin sheet of muslin. Letting go of Poppy's hand, Lady Margaret took hold of the sheet and drew it aside with a grand flourish.

Much to her embarrassment, Poppy had a completely

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girlish reaction: she gasped, and even clapped her hands. Then she blushed and would have fled, but the dress was too magnificent and she had to inspect it from every angle.

The dressmaker had agreed that white would be too plain for the pale-skinned princess. So the gown of heavy white silk was trimmed with poppy red, and her namesake flower was embroidered randomly across the skirt. It was gorgeous and daring and everything Poppy could want in a ball gown.

The only drawback was that if she wanted anyone to see her in it, she would have to attend a ball. Imagining Christians face when she walked into Tuckington Palace in that gown would be worth it, however.

"Christian
has
to see you in this," Marianne said breathily, echoing Poppy's thought.

Ducking her head so they couldn't see her face, Poppy fingered the neckline of the dress. It was low, and the red silk trim was wide and luxurious.

"It is a very fine gown," Poppy admitted. "Thank you, Cousin Margaret."

"You are quite welcome, my dear," Lady Margaret said, a knowing look on her face. "Does the prospect of wearing it entice you to attend at least the royal gala?"

"It does," Poppy agreed graciously.

"And that whatever it is you've been knitting is the same color," Marianne pointed out.

"It's a stole," Poppy reminded her.

She had, fortuitously, been knitting herself a stole out of

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a fine yarn the exact color of these poppies. It would look stunning hanging from her elbows over the skirt of this gown. Everyone always told her that shades of violet and blue were her best colors, but Poppy had a certain fondness for red that she never got to indulge quite enough.

Which, of course, Lady Margaret had figured out.

"And don't worry about dancing," Lady Margaret told her. "At a gala like this one, there will be a great deal to keep you occupied. No cards, but food and music and fireworks. Acrobats and fire-eaters in the garden as well."

Marianne twirled around in delight. "And scientific displays of strange machines, and poetry readings, and all kinds of things. When King Rupert hosts a gala, he spares no expense."

"Apparently," Poppy said.

She wondered, briefly, what it would have been like to be a princess growing up in the massive Tuckington Palace, with fire-eaters and gala balls. She herself had had to share a bedchamber and also a maid with two of her sisters. And until very recently, when Westfalin's economy finally took a turn for the better, she had only gotten new gowns for very special occasions like Rose's and Lily's weddings. After all, she had four older sisters to pass on their wardrobes.

Someone tapped at the door and came in. It was Ellen, and she had a pile of freshly washed and ironed linens. At least they probably had been freshly washed and ironed at some point, but now Poppy could see at least one scorch mark and something like fine soot dusted across on the white cloth. She sighed. Ellen always had soot on her these days, and would

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never say why. There was a streak of it on her forehead right now. Since their confrontation last week, Ellen had refused to even make eye contact with the princess, and her household skills had degenerated even further.

"Why are there cinders on Poppy's shifts?" Marianne blew across the pile as Ellen set her basket on a chair.

Another sigh, this one from Ellen.

Lady Margaret put a restraining hand on her daughter's arm. "Ellen," she said kindly, "did you still want to go to the royal balls?"

"Yes, Your Ladyship," Ellen said demurely, but Poppy could swear she saw a secretive look in the girl's eyes.

"There is still time for me to have Monsieur Delatour make a gown for you," Lady Margaret said. "Or you are much of a size with Poppy and Marianne. We could retrim one of theirs ..." Her voice trailed off as the young maid shook her head vehemently, shedding more black powder onto Poppy's clothes and the floor.

"No, thank you, my lady. I have a patroness who has provided me with gowns." Ellen's voice was wooden, and Poppy's eyes narrowed.

The other girl was hiding something: glee, disdain, some other emotion. And why? If there was someone willing to help her, why shouldn't she let the Seadowns know?

Lady Margaret had the same question.

"How lovely, my dear! Who is it?"

"She wishes to remain anonymous," Ellen said silkily. And then she turned and flounced out of the room.