The Princess in the Opal Mask (5 page)

“I would have you save lives. It seems that King Ezebo does not fear the rumors of your mask, and is eager to see you married to his son. He has asked for your immediate departure. You are to leave in three months.”

“Three months?” I repeat. “But I am not to marry until I am seventeen.”

“You will marry at seventeen. In a year.” He nods. “But we agreed that as a gesture of goodwill, I would send you sooner. And it will give you time to become acquainted with Kyrenica before the wedding.”

“But . . . I thought I had another year. . . .” I feel faint and I sink into the chair in front of his desk. Why is he so eager to get rid of me?

My father shuffles the parchments on his desk, and when he looks up at me he sighs. “Be a good girl, Wilha. A good princess. Kingdoms need someone to believe in. Let them believe in you.”

He stands then, as though the matter is settled. And I suppose it is.

“I will go,” I say, also standing. “You know I will. But give me one thing before I go.”

“A gift? Certainly. All the jewels and dresses—”

“No, not that. I want you to look at me. If the rumors are untrue, as you say they are, then please, look at me.” I move to untie my mask.

“Wilha, stop!” His voice is firm. “Don’t make this more difficult.”

“Don’t make what more difficult? You say that the rumors are rubbish. If that is true, then why will you not look at me?”

He does not answer. Instead, he exits the room without another word. And I am left alone with the sinking fear that has been my constant companion.

Because if my own father refuses to look at me, there must be something horribly wrong with me.

I
cannot breathe. I cannot speak. I can only stare blindly at the book.

This was my mother’s?

Before I can ask any of the thousand questions churning in my mind, the din in the tavern suddenly ceases and a loud voice calls out. “I’m looking for the man you all know as Travers.”

Mister Travers pales. He seizes me by the arm and shoves me into an alcove just off the kitchen where Sylvia keeps her supplies.

“But who wants—” I begin.

“Hush!” He grabs my shoulders and stares at me with an intensity I’ve never before seen in his eyes. “Stay in here until I’m gone, do you understand?” he whispers fiercely, gripping my shoulders tighter until I nod. “Tell no one we have spoken.”

“We saw him come in here,” the voice outside the kitchen continues. “We will reward anyone who can deliver him to us.”

“I saw him go into the kitchen,” calls another voice.

Quickly, Mister Travers strides to the door and opens it. With a grim determination he declares: “I am the one you are looking for.”

Once he disappears into the main room, I slip the book into my cloak, cross the kitchen, and crack the door open an inch.

The room is silent. A palace guard wearing a breastplate with the Andewyn coat of arms binds Mister Travers’s hands with chains. Several other guards stand nearby, eyeing the men warily, many of whom have risen from their seats and have their hands near their belt, as though they intend to grab their weapon.

“Our business is only with this man,” a guard calls out. “The rest of you can resume your activities.”

The guards usher Mister Travers out the door. Just before he leaves, the guard who bound Mister Travers’s hands holds up a large black velvet bag. He opens it and tosses a handful of worthings to the floor. “A present from King Fennrick.”

The hush that has fallen over the room breaks and the men are on the floor, scrambling over one another for the worthings. And though I haven’t forgotten Mister Travers’s words, the sight of the golden coins makes me plunge into the crowd, scratching, pulling, and kicking, until I’ve collected twelve worthings. I walk over and give eight of them to a watery-eyed Timothy.

“Take these,” I say, pulling him out the door quickly. “Take them and hide them in your pocket. Don’t show them to anyone, and run until you get home.”

After Timothy flees, I turn in the other direction and see a guard is pushing Mister Travers into a gilded carriage.

“That’s a royal carriage from Allegria,” Cordon says, joining me at the door.

The curtain in the carriage parts, and a pale hand adorned with a large opal ring holds out several worthings to the guard, who accepts them and bows.

“What could King Fennrick possibly want with Mister Travers?” Cordon asks. He turns to me, looking concerned. “When he went into the kitchen, did he say anything to you?”

My hand slides down my cloak. I feel the edge of the book, hidden in my pocket. I glance back at the carriage and make a decision. “Nothing. He said nothing at all.”

A
fter I finally pry Mister Ogden away from the Draughts and we begin our walk home, I wonder how Mister Travers came to be in possession of a book belonging to my mother. I consider every possibility I can think of until one of them fits.

Mister Ogden, though incapable of managing Ogden Manor, has been able to sustain a side business by systematically selling off the contents of the manor. He’s made some-what of a name for himself as an antiques dealer. Few of his customers realize it’s his own possessions he sells.

If my mother left a handful of items to be passed on to me, I have no doubt the Ogdens would see it as nothing more than their right to sell them. And I’m sure Mister Travers, being a schoolteacher fond of history, would have jumped at the chance to own such an expensive-looking book. Though how he could’ve found out the book was my mother’s, I don’t know. And if she left me a book, what else did she leave? Had there been other items that would have given me a clue to my family’s origins?

But that doesn’t explain why palace guards were after Mister Travers or his insistence that I not be seen with him. And the guard had said they were looking for
the man we know as Travers
. Is that not his real name?

“Harold, you’re drunk!” Mistress Ogden cries as I drag him into the kitchen.

“Not a bit, dearest,” Mister Ogden says and sways before sitting down heavily on the stool I pull out for him. “I’ve just had a wonderful run of the cards.” With a flourish, he produces several worthings. “And you’ll never guess what just happened at the Draughts—”

“I don’t care,” Mistress Ogden snaps. “You’re late. Mister Blackwell will be here soon.” She glares at me. “I had to start the potato stew myself.”

“Mister Blackwell, bah!” Mister Ogden says, belching. “Never liked the look of that man. Calculating, like a snake—though perhaps that’s why you like him so, dearest. Don’t like his sneaky black eyes glaring like he thinks he’s better than me.”

“He
is
better than you. He’s the one with the worthings.”

While they bicker, I quickly hide the book in the pantry and promise myself I’ll look through it later.

“Worthings? What did I just say—” Mister Ogden leans back—and promptly tumbles off the stool. His worthings scatter across the kitchen floor.

“Harold, get up this instant!” Mistress Ogden practically stamps her foot in frustration.

“The candles in the dining room are lit,” Serena says, glowering as she enters the kitchen. Upon seeing Mister Ogden on the floor she rushes to his side. “Father, what’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you what’s happened, my love!” Mister Ogden picks up a worthing and brandishes it like a sword. “I’ve just won at the Draughts of Life! Don’t need creepy Mister Blackwell coming into my house telling me what’s what. Am I not Ogden of Ogden Manor?” He spreads his hands wide, as though Ogden Manor is a grand palace, instead of the rotting dump it actually is.

Mistress and I glance at each other. She may despise me, but when she really needs something done, it’s to me—and not to Serena—that she looks.

“Come Mister Ogden,” I say in my most humble voice. “Dinner will be soon and I feel you should be dressed in a manner befitting your station. After all, you are the lord of Ogden Manor, are you not?”

Serena stands up. “Don’t you dare talk to him like he’s a fool.”

“Serena!” Mistress Ogden snaps. “Accompany your father upstairs and help him clean up.”

Serena lowers her voice so only I can hear. “I don’t know how you can claim to hate her so much, when you’re
exactly
like her.”

She stalks from the kitchen, practically dragging Mister Ogden away by the arm, and I grab on to the counter, fighting the urge to vomit. I am nothing like Mistress Ogden. I stop and take a deep breath, and imagine myself feeding Serena’s words to the starved kitten.

“Set the table,” Mistress Ogden commands. When I don’t move she says, “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“When the orphanage brought me to you, did they give you anything from my mother?” I ask. “A keepsake, something to remember her by?” I don’t mention the book, or Mister Travers, as I wouldn’t put it past her to steal the book a second time.

She removes a vase from a shelf. “Your mother was probably nothing but a dirty whore who abandoned you the first chance she got. You really think she’d leave you something?”

“Please,” I say, forcing the anger from my voice. “Did she leave me anything?”

“I haven’t got time for your nonsense.” She begins polishing the vase. “Mister Blackwell will be here in just a matter of—”

“Tell me the truth!” I move to grab her arm. My aim lands low, and my hand knocks the vase from her hands. Glass shatters on the stone floor.

Mistress Ogden stands very still. “You will pick that up immediately, or—”

“Or what?” I interrupt. “You’ll beat me? Deny me more meals? Lock me in the barn again? If you’re going to do something, you’d better make sure it doesn’t leave any marks, otherwise Mister Blackwell may decide not to pay you tonight.”

“I don’t wish to play your games.” She fetches a broom and holds it out to me.

I grab the broom and then hurl it across the room. It smacks the wall and clatters to the ground. I step closer to her, and for the first time ever, I see a shadow of fear flicker across her face. “And maybe I don’t wish to play
your
games. Maybe it would be worth it to me to tell Mister Blackwell who you
really
are.”

Mistress Ogden reaches out. Her long nails sink into my bare forearm, piercing my skin, and I gasp in pain. “Mister Blackwell will come tonight,” she hisses. “And you will play your role, do you understand?” She rakes her nails down my arm, leaving small red rivers in their wake. “And if you do not, you will find yourself chained up like a common thief, as I’ll have to tell the sheriff how you’ve been stealing from us.”

“I’ve never stolen anything from you!”

She bends low and whispers into my ear, “It would be my word against yours. Do you think anyone would ever believe you over me?” Her nails dig deeper. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” I gasp in relief when she finally releases me.

“Now,” she says, smoothing her skirts, “you will clean this mess up. You will scrape the grime off yourself. And you will make an effort to look like a respectable girl.”

She turns around to leave, but turns back. “And Elara?” Her gaze flicks to my bleeding forearm. “Make sure you wear long sleeves.”

W
hen it comes to deception, attention to detail is everything.

The table is set with silver bowls and goblets (the ones Mistress Ogden keeps locked up so Mister Ogden can’t sell them). White candles are placed before each setting and their flames flicker in the drafty dining room. It looks as though we’re about to sit down to a nice family meal, instead of a performance carefully crafted by Mistress Ogden.

When Mister Blackwell arrives and Mistress Ogden shows him into the dining room, I feel a cold, cutting pain. Like a jagged piece of ice has wedged itself in my chest.

“Good evening, Elara,” Mister Blackwell extends his hand, which I take.

“Good evening, sir.”

He raises my hand to his lips, and it’s all I can do not to snatch my arm away. Something about Mister Blackwell repulses me. He is thin. Skeletal, almost. His long black hair hangs down his back and his eyes are dark, unreadable orbs.

We take our places around the table. Mistress and I sit next to each other. She fills our goblets and nods in my direction. It’s a slight, almost imperceptible incline of her head, and like an apprentice taking orders from his master, I  understand. It’s time to begin.

“How are things in Allegria?” I ask Mister Blackwell. I force myself to take a small, controlled bite of stew, not letting on how hungry I am.

“Well,” Mister Blackwell replies. “The city is preoccupied with preparations for the princess’s masquerade ball.”

“Yes, I admit I have been thinking of nothing else myself,” I say, affecting a breathless voice that sounds nothing like my own.

“Oh yes, the ball is coming up isn’t it?” Mistress Ogden says, as though the thought has only just occurred to her. “Do you know that when she was little, Elara used to pretend she was the Masked Princess? She cut up one of her dresses—a really nice one, mind you—and tied it like a silk mask to her face.”