Princess of the Midnight Ball (14 page)

It was as they had thought: no more masses, marriages, or christenings. Any bodies buried would have to be buried in unblessed ground, and the last rites could not be delivered. A trusted member of the archbishop’s staff was stationed at the palace, to counsel with King Gregor and his daughters.

“And all because of some shoes,” Galen murmured as they hurried away.

“What?” Ulrike had to trot to keep up with him.

“This all began because of their shoes being worn out night after night,” he said. He had fallen into an easy quick-march
pace. He put an arm around his cousin’s waist to help her along. “If someone could just figure out what they do every night.” He shook his head in frustration. “I’ve tried, but I haven’t seen a thing.”

Ulrike looked at him in shock. “You have? How?”

Galen glanced down at her. “I have permission from the king to roam the gardens at night. I’ve been sneaking around for days now, but as far as I can tell the princesses aren’t leaving the palace.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “I’ve even tried setting traps for them.”

“Traps? What kind of traps?”

“Hanging bells in the ivy on the palace walls in case they’re using it to climb down, sprinkling flour outside the doors and windows, so that they’ll leave tracks. They’d have to fly off the roof like owls to get out of the palace at night without me knowing.”

“But think of how many others have tried to find out their secret,” Ulrike huffed. “Tried and died. You should be more careful.”

“Don’t worry—I have an advantage,” Galen said, as they arrived on the Orm doorstep.

“What?” Ulrike pressed a hand to her side, panting.

Galen smiled at her and laid a finger to his lips. “It’s a secret.”

Galen’s relations clearly thought him to be mad, but he would not be deterred. He washed and dressed in his best clothes. They were actually a shirt and suit of his late cousin Heinrich’s that Tante Liesel had altered to fit Galen’s slimmer frame, but it was all fairly new and he thought them quite fine. His short hair wasn’t long enough to comb, but he tried it anyway, and he polished his boots. All the while Tante Liesel and Ulrike stood in the hallway outside his room and begged him to see reason.

Ulrike sobbed. “You’re going to die!”

He opened the door just as Tante Liesel, wringing her hands, was about to say something in the same vein. She stopped when she saw him, however.

“You do look very handsome.” She sniffled and brushed at his lapel. “The color suits you. Heinrich looks—looked—well in dark colors too.”

The suit was a very dark blue, nearly black. Galen gave her
a smile and a kiss on the cheek, then kissed Ulrike for good measure. In a leather satchel he had the dull purple cloak the old woman had given him. He hadn’t showed it to anyone, even though he had been tempted to alleviate his aunt’s fears. He knew enough about magic to know that one shouldn’t reveal its secrets to others lightly.

At the bottom of the stairs, Uncle Reiner waited.

“What’s all this, then?” Reiner’s face was haggard and his breath smelled of wine.

“I am going to the palace to speak with King Gregor,” Galen said lightly. He didn’t really feel as brave or as confident as he acted, but the war had taught him to fake both very well.

“You’re getting above your place, lad,” Uncle Reiner said. “All this talking in corners with the princesses … I should have put a stop to it at once.”

“I think I can help them,” Galen said quietly.

“You’ll not bother them in their time of trouble,” Reiner said, putting a restraining hand on Galen’s shoulder. “We’ll go back to work tomorrow morning as if nothing were amiss, and if I see you so much as look at one of the princesses, I’ll have you shoveling manure till doomsday.” He squeezed Galen’s shoulder, hard. “Understand?”

Galen clenched his jaw. He disliked being manhandled. With a deft twist, he freed himself of Uncle Reiner’s grip and moved past the older man to the door. “Good-bye.”

As he walked down the street, he heard his uncle shouting about him not being welcome in their house again, but he ignored it. If he wasn’t able to solve this puzzle, he would
soon die. And if he was … well, perhaps that would help to change Uncle Reiner’s mind. Galen did not expect to be extended the same offer that the princes had been given. King Gregor would not want an under-gardener as a son-in-law, and would certainly never designate him his heir.

The gates were locked, and it was only after he had showed his letter from King Gregor to the guards that they let him inside. They sneered at his paltry title at the top of the letter:
Under-gardener Galen Werner
. By way of reply, Galen calmly pointed out to one guard that his powder horn was leaking. Clucking his tongue over this negligence, Galen went up the drive to the front doors of the palace, shrugging aside the guards’ shouts to go around the back to the servants’ entrance.

Before Galen could knock, he heard someone coming up the steps behind him and turned to see who it was. Walter Vogel stood there, one eyebrow arched as he took in Galen’s finery.

“Did you find out something last night?” the old man asked.

“No,” Galen said. “But I haven’t given up hope yet. I’m here to ask King Gregor if I can’t try to solve this from the inside.”

“As a potential suitor?”

“As a concerned … friend,” Galen said.

“Come with me first,” Walter said, and stumped off without waiting to see if Galen would follow.

He led Galen to the herb garden near the kitchens. Like all the gardens in the palace grounds, it was beautifully laid out, in a circular pattern with the various herbs planted in wedge-shaped
sections, and neatly raked paths in between. Most of the herbs were long harvested, but Walter moved confidently to the center of the circle and rooted around the base of some tall dill plants that still grew.

“Here you are, young Galen.”

Walter presented Galen with a sprig of surprisingly green leaves. A few pale green berries clung to the stem as well.

“What is that?” Galen leaned close and sniffed but couldn’t detect an odor.

“Nightshade,” Walter replied.

Galen drew back. “Why is it growing here?”

“It’s quite a common weed, actually,” Walter said. He looked at the little sprig as though he couldn’t understand Galen’s reaction to it.

“But it’s a poison!”

Walter shrugged. “So it is. I’m not proposing that you eat it. Pin a sprig of this under your collar, and it will protect you from enchantment.”

“It will?”

“Aye, it will indeed. That’s why I let it grow.” Walter produced a silver pin from his pocket, looking sly. “A weed, and a poison, but also a powerful help to have around.” He offered the sprig to Galen.

Still reluctant to touch it, Galen studied the little plant for a moment. It appeared harmless, but so did any poisonous plant. On the other hand, he trusted Walter. And it would certainly help if he were immune to whatever enchantment haunted the princesses. Not to mention their ill-fated suitors.

He took the nightshade.

Pinning it under his lapel, Galen walked with Walter back around to the front of the palace. There Walter shook Galen’s hand solemnly, saying, “Good luck, Galen.
You
are a worthy young man.” Then he stumped off on his own business.

Galen didn’t want to stand on the doorstep of the palace and ponder Walter’s odd remark, so he squared his shoulders and knocked loudly on the tall front door. Herr Fischer, the butler, once again tried to direct Galen around the back, but Galen just smiled and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” Galen told Herr Fischer, “but I’m here on very important business. I really must see the king.” He pushed past the short, fussy man and strode into the entrance hall. It was large and grand and scrupulously clean. He fought down the urge to check the soles of his boots and straighten his coat.

“The kitchens are that way,” Herr Fischer said, pointing down a narrow passage that led off to the right.

“I didn’t come to see the kitchens, thank you,” Galen said. “And I can wait as long as need be, but I must see the king.”

“Very well.” The butler stalked off.

Galen sat in a carved wooden chair at one side of the hall. He put his satchel down at his feet and pulled out a pair of needles and some yarn. He was making himself a stocking cap out of green and brown wool. His current hat was blue, to match his soldier’s uniform, and he was heartily sick of it. He began to knit.

A few maids passed him. Their eyes looked swollen, as if from crying, and one of them was clutching a little cross worn
on a chain around her neck. Galen nodded to them pleasantly, and they stared at him.

“Would you mind telling the king that Galen Werner is here to see him?” he called after the maids, knowing full well that Herr Fischer had conveniently “forgotten” his presence. The maids hurried on.

After an hour or so, a large man in purple bishop’s robes swept by with a younger, smaller priest trotting at his heels. Galen rose and bowed, but neither man even looked at him. The bishop’s eyes were narrow and cold, and a catlike smile played about his lips. Galen guessed him to be the archbishop’s emissary and the young priest his assistant.

Shortly afterward, Galen heard quiet voices and the patter of light steps on the gallery above his head. He jumped up and turned around. Princess Violet and Princess Iris walked along the gallery. Their faces, like the maids’, were blotchy from crying.

“Hello there, Your Highnesses,” Galen called out. When they looked at him, he saluted with his knitting needles.

“Are you here to see Rose?” Iris’s voice was tremulous, and she sniffed into a handkerchief.

“No, indeed, ladies. I’m here to speak to your father, King Gregor.”

“Why?” Curiosity wiped some of the sadness from Iris’s face.

Galen decided that, if he had risked his home and livelihood simply by coming here, he might as well throw everything in. “I’ve come to ask the king if I may try to solve the
mystery of your worn-out dancing shoes,” he called up to them. His voice echoed loudly in the high-ceilinged hall.

“I knew it!” Poppy came flying out of a room along the gallery, her dark curls bouncing and a handkerchief waving like a flag from one hand. “I knew it! You fancy Rose!”

Much to his embarrassment, Galen blushed. “Well, n-no, I just want to help,” he stammered. He felt the heat from his blush creeping up to his ears and down his neck to his collar.

“What is going on out here?” Lily came out of the room Poppy had just appeared from, a frown creasing her lovely brow. “Poppy, Iris, Violet! This is hardly the time for … May I help you?” She looked down at Galen with a surprised expression.

He realized how he must look, standing on the floor below the princesses, in his secondhand best suit and with a tangle of yarn trailing around his boots.

“I need to speak to your father, if I may, Your Highness,” Galen said, blushing even darker beneath his tan. “I—”

Rose appeared at the far end of the gallery. “What is all this to-do about?” she asked in a chiding voice. She saw Galen, stopped, and blushed.

Around her shoulders was the white shawl he had made for her. Galen felt a thrill of pleasure at seeing her wearing it. It looked lovely on her, as he had known it would, but more than that, the way she was holding the edges made him feel as if she were holding his hand.

She put up her chin. “May I help you, um, Galen?” Her voice started out dignified but squeaked on his name.

Catching himself grinning foolishly, Galen cleared his throat and asked again if he might see her father.

Rose’s eyes widened. “Why?”

Galen frowned. He didn’t think asking to see the king was all that shocking. He had in fact met the king twice in the hothouses.

“I wanted to ask if I could help try to solve the mystery of your worn-out dancing slippers.”

Rose flinched and Galen thought he saw a fearful look cross her face. “I’ll ask,” she said, and went back through the door behind her.

He gathered up his knitting and waited patiently, while the other princesses looked down at him from the gallery. Pansy came out of the door Galen suspected led to the princesses’ rooms and stood there looking at him and sucking her thumb for a moment before Lily noticed.

“Pansy! Stop that! You’re a big girl!” Lily pulled Pansy’s thumb away from her mouth and scrubbed it with a handkerchief. Pansy started to wail.

“Here!” Galen called up to her. “Would you like a ball?”

“No! I hate dancing!” Pansy sobbed.

“I meant a little ball to play with, Your Highness,” Galen amended. He was startled by her reaction but covered it by rummaging in his bag. He found some bright red yarn, much cheerier than the brown and green he had been working with, and held it up.

“That’s just a wad of yarn,” Poppy pointed out.

Galen winked at her. He swiftly wound the yarn around his
left hand a hundred times, cut it, and slipped it off. He tied it in the middle and then used his knife to snip the ends, making a fluffy sort of pom-pom.

“Catch!” He tossed it up to Pansy.

She caught it and looked at it curiously before rubbing the little puff of yarn against her face, her tears stopping. She gave him a watery smile. “Thank you, Herr Under-gardener,” she quavered.