The Thirteenth Princess (16 page)

Taika sank almost to her knees, her power weakened
by her love for Father. But before she came entirely down, she remembered herself and reared up again, her own anger mounting.

“You will not have me, after all?” she cried, and her voice rose to a shriek. “I am not good enough for you? Then no one shall ever have you!” She moved her arms in a wild pattern and spoke strange words, and Babette let out a cry. I heard the same terrible crash that had so frightened us in the castle below the lake, and when I looked upward I saw cracks appear in the ceiling and felt a light rain of plaster on my hair. My sisters screamed. The walls seemed to shake. From belowstairs I heard shouts of terror from the servants.

“Come!” Milek called at the door of the bedchamber. “Hurry!”

Breckin ran to me and grabbed my hand, but I turned to my father, thinking to beg him to escape with us. I could see no fear in his face as he watched Taika work her magic, only a calm resolve, and I heard him say, very clearly, “My dear, my dearest dust; I come, I come.” They were the words from the poem I had read, about the lover who longed to join his beloved in death. He was speaking to my mother, and I feared that there was no hope for him. Then he turned to us and said, “Go, daughters. Now! I cannot hold her off for long.” He started toward the witch and grasped her hands,
trying to stop whatever destruction she was trying to wreak as she wove her spells in the air.

My sisters protested, sobbing and calling out to him, but his mouth, no longer twisted, was set in a firm line, and his resolve too was firm. Again he said only, “Go!” And so we went, rushing from the room, leaving my father and Taika facing each other as he gripped her arms and she struggled to escape, speaking dreadful words in an unknown language. Down the hallway—once again its usual length—we raced, and down the stairs, now their usual height. At each door we gathered together servants and Father's councillors, all terrified, all fleeing from some horror we could not name. At the entrance to the land bridge we stood—Breckin, Milek, my sisters, and I—making sure everyone—serving girls and footmen, Cook and Chiara and the weaselly Burle—got across safely before we stepped on. The servants watched in horror as the lake beneath us began to heave, and we struggled to stay upright.

The bridge swayed and cracked, and I looked around wildly for Babette. Then I saw her, staggering down the marble staircase. She was so pale, I feared she would faint.

“Where is Father?” Aurelia cried.

“You cannot help him, my dear,” Babette told her. “Come, we must get across the bridge. Hurry!”

We began to cross, but the lake heaved again, and the bridge was submerged. We had to retreat back into the palace. “The boats!” I cried. “To the boats!” We ran down into the lower level to a small door that opened directly onto the water. Tied up there were the little rowboats that my sisters took out on occasion to paddle around the lake. We scrambled into them as the walls and towers shivered above us. I climbed into the last boat, and Milek, who had handed me in, climbed in after me.

We set out across the lake, a flock of pastel-colored boats like so many ducks in a line. Partway across, the wind picked up, and waves began to slap beneath us. A terrible noise sounded behind me. With my sisters, I turned to look back at the palace. I saw the waters of the lake behind us rise straight upward in a waterspout, and the wind caught it and whirled it around and around. Suddenly I remembered the dream I'd once had, on the day I'd met Breckin, of my sisters caught on the lake, and the terrible storm, and the waterspout that threatened to carry them off. I cringed in fear.

But this was not my dream. The water rose up and up, washing over the palace, through the open windows of even my sisters' high tower room, where my father and Taika remained. Then, with a roar, the lake water came straight down again, and the wind died, and
everything was quiet. We cried out, all of us, to see that the lake itself was gone now, and only a wide, sparkling stream remained. It wound around the marble supports that held the palace up, and the smell of it, clean and fresh, made me realize how thick and stagnant the lake had been.

Fearful of what we might find, we rowed back, moving swiftly with the current that now ran past the palace, and climbed through the door back inside. What we saw stunned us. There was nothing left. The water had swept through, taking with it chairs and tables and wall hangings, ovens and carpets and paintings. The mold that had rimed the walls too was gone. The whole palace was washed clean, as if it had just been built.

Leaving the others to marvel over this, Aurelia and I clasped hands and began to climb the staircase up to the bedchamber. We both knew, I think, what we would see, but it was a shock nevertheless to push open the door and find…nothing. My sisters' hairbrushes and mirrors, their little tubs of creams and bottles of perfume, their jewel boxes—all had vanished. Not a dress in the closet, not one of the twelve beds that had lined the walls was left. And no sign, no sign at all, of Nurse, or of our father.

“Oh, Aurelia,” I said mournfully. “Is he gone, then?”

“I fear he is,” she replied softly. “Poor Father!”

“I think it is what he wanted, though,” I mused.

“Is it? How do you know?”

I reminded her of what Father had said at the last: “My dearest dust; I come, I come.”

“He wanted to be with Mother,” I explained. “He loved only her.”

Tears stood in Aurelia's eyes as she hugged me. “That is not so,” she said fiercely, giving me a little shake. “He loved her most—that is true. Perhaps he loved her too much. But he loved us all, in his way.”

“Even me?” I asked.

She looked down at me and smiled through her tears. “Silly Zita,” she said fondly. “Even you. You were the last of us he held. Could you not feel that he loved you? And although he longed for Mother, I do not think he wanted to die. He stayed and defied the witch so we could escape. How could he have loved us more?”

I thought of Father's arms around me, that first and last embrace, and I sensed that Aurelia was right. It was strange, and perhaps unseemly, but I felt a swell of happiness pass through me that I had never known before. I had lost my father, but I had also gained my father, and I knew I would never lose him completely again.

W
e mourned Father deeply for a time, dressing in black and then in muted colors with black armbands. We did not celebrate Christmas that year. But we were busy, too, for the gutted, soggy palace had to be thoroughly dried and completely refurbished, from bottom to top. Aurelia, now queen—though she chose not to have a coronation to disturb our mourning—oversaw the choice of all the fittings. The result was rooms of uncommon grace and beauty. All the work was local, from the tapestries woven on looms in nearby Walderen Town to the colored goblets blown at the Mirven glassworks near the
border with Blaire. The people were happy to have the work, and well paid for doing it, and their fondness for their queen seemed to grow daily.

My sisters and I now each had a private bedchamber, for Aurelia opened up all the unused rooms and furnished them anew. In my own room, however, I felt very lonely. Immediately I invited Anisa to share with me, and she must have felt as I did, for immediately she moved her things in. In short order my other sisters had done the same, and we had a veritable round-robin of sleeping arrangements, with sisters moving from room to room as the whim struck. It was glorious. At last I was truly a member of my own family.

My sisters quickly learned to love Babette, and we invited her to live with us in the palace. She laughed and refused. “I have lived my whole life in my own little cottage, and there I will stay,” she told us. But she removed the illusion of ruin from it, and my sisters and I soon wore a path from our palace to the cottage, where Babette always had a tray of sweets and pot of tea ready for us.

Aurelia and Milek were inseparable. They held hands as if their palms were sewn together, and they laughed and whispered together in a way that was lovely to see. None of us were the least surprised when, after several fortnights, Aurelia announced that she and Milek would marry.

“He does not want to be king,” she told us as we sat beside the kitchen fire, toasting chestnuts. The firelight flickered on her hair, and the joy in her face made her even more beautiful. “He will be prince consort, and I will rule with him by my side.”

As spring came on and the days lengthened, we spent our time in a blur of dress fittings for the wedding, consultations with bakers and chefs, dance lessons (for me—my sisters already danced perhaps too well), and hours spent with specialists in the beauty trade. I was slathered with lotions and unguents in an attempt to tame my wild hair, smooth my skin (roughened from years of scullery work), and fade my tanned and freckled face to pristine whiteness. It did no discernable good, but I felt much more like a princess. I threw myself into the whirlwind of preparations for the wedding, so busy that I did not have time to think of anything beyond whether Aurelia should have pearls woven through her braided hair or a diadem of sapphires to circle her head. We chose the pearls as being more youthful.

A week or so before the wedding, Breckin and Milek's mother came. I was nervous to meet her at first, but she was lively and kindhearted, and we got on at once. She wanted to see the kitchen, and I took her to the vast, cheerful space where Cook reigned. It was a far different place from the dank, smoky kitchen it had
once been. Bright copper pans hung from the ceiling, and the smell of baking bread made our mouths water. Melita, for that was Breckin's mother's name,
ooh
ed and
aah
ed in wonder, and Cook was more than pleased at her admiration.

The day of the wedding dawned bright and warm. It was early June, a perfect morning, with a cloudless sky and warm breezes. Except for Aurelia, we girls dressed together, rushing to the window every few minutes to see which guests had arrived and what they wore.

“Who are they?” Asmita asked, pointing as four handsome young men climbed out of a carriage, then handed out an older, white-haired woman whose lavender velvet dress fit her badly.

Ariadne gave a cry. “Oh! That is Queen Eleanora and her sons! Remember them, Althea?” I recalled the story of King Damon and his dowdy queen and their four sons, and my father's fury after their visit, his desperate desire for a son of his own.

“I remember,” Althea said. “Oh, they have grown even more handsome. Have none of them married?”

“It seems not,” I said with a wicked grin. “I think they are ripe for the picking, sisters!”

My sisters were dizzy with the excitement of finally meeting men who might be suitors—and being able to speak to them. For days they had bathed in milk
to silken their skin, washed their hair in cold spring water to bring out its shine, and whitened their faces with lemon. Their satin dresses were all in shades of blue (though Alanna pouted that blue did not flatter her, as her eyes were nearer to gray). I was also in blue, but it was closer to green, like the sea in a place that is very warm. My earrings were drops of aquamarine, and looking at them in the mirror, I remembered when Aurelia had pierced my ears and told me that now I, too, was a real princess. In the big mirror I could see my jewel-festooned silver shoes peeping out from beneath my dress. They pinched a bit, accustomed as I was to leather boots, but they were beautiful, and they were just like my sisters', so I loved them.

When we were done admiring ourselves, we went in to Aurelia. She stood alone in the center of her room. Her gown was ivory satin, as pale and creamy as her skin, and it was woven through with pearls. The bodice was tight, buttoned up the back with a row of tiny pearl buttons, and its long sleeves, buttoned too with pearls, came to points over her hands. She had left her hair unbraided, and it cascaded simply down her back. A circlet of pearls rested on her brow, and her blue eyes shone.

We circled her, chattering away, and she stood quietly in the middle, every inch a queen.

“Happy is the bride the sun shines upon,” quoted Amina.

“Oh, I would be as happy if it were sleeting!” Aurelia said. She twirled around, showing us her gown, and then threw her arms around me.

“Thank you, Zita,” she whispered to me.

“For what?” I asked.

“For…oh, for everything. For helping us. For saving us. And most of all, for bringing me Milek.”

“Oh,” I said, nonplussed. “That. Well, you're welcome.”

She laughed, and I laughed with her, glad to see her blissful after so many years of quiet despair. Then a knock sounded at the door, and Anisa answered it. Babette came in, carrying a tissue-wrapped package.

“No, Babette,” Aurelia protested. “No gifts from you. You have given me so much already.”

“It is not really a gift, my dear,” Babette said, placing her hand gently on Aurelia's cheek. “And it is not really from me.” She unwrapped the package and pulled out a length of ivory lace, intricately woven with flowers and vines. It was exquisite.

“This was your mother's wedding veil,” Babette told Aurelia, and Aurelia gasped. “She gave it to me for safekeeping long, long ago—before you were born.”

“Oh, Babette,” Aurelia breathed. She held up the
lace, admiring it, and then turned so Babette could attach it to her pearl diadem. “Just fasten it in back,” Aurelia directed. “I want nothing hiding my face. I want to see everything today.”

The lace veil was perfect with Aurelia's gown, and the glitter of tears in her eyes as she admired it in the mirror only made her more beautiful. We were all silent now, looking at her and thinking how our mother must have looked when she was a bride herself. From the portraits and tapestries that once hung in the palace—all lost now—it had been clear to see that she had looked very much like Aurelia. I thought then of my father, and Aurelia must have been thinking the same thing, for she said, “How I wish Father were here to walk me down the aisle!”

Hesitantly, for I did not wish to spoil Aurelia's joy on her wedding day, I asked, “What is your earliest memory of Father?”

Aurelia was silent for a moment, thinking. Finally she spoke. “I was very, very little,” she said. “I think it is my first memory at all. Mother had gone riding, and I was trying to see her out the window. I was too little. Father had been out hunting, and when he noticed me, he picked me up and swung me around. I remember he smelled like spring. Like fresh air. He lifted me so I could see, and we watched Mother come out of the
stables on her horse. Father held me tight. He was so strong….” Aurelia closed her eyes.

Allegra spoke up. “I remember he gave me a gift once. A fur-trimmed muff. It was so tiny—just right to keep my hands warm. It must have been a name-day gift. He kissed the top of my head when he gave it to me.”

I felt my throat swell.

One by one, my sisters told their earliest memories of our father. Alima, then Amina, Akila, Asenka, Adena, Althea, Ariadne, Alanna, Asmita, Anisa. As they spoke, I held tight to the memory of Father handing the book of poetry to me, of Father's arms around me for the first and last time.

When all the girls had spoken, Aurelia stood and came over to me. She held out her hands, and I put mine in hers. “Do you know what else I remember?” she asked me. I shook my head.

“It was when you were about six. You were in the hallway, arguing with one of the fire boys that Cook always kept on hand. Father and I watched as you gave him the most wonderful tongue-lashing. I don't know what he'd done to you, but it must have been something quite terrible. You called him an addled fool and the son of a donkey and told him that if he were any more stupid, he'd set fire to his own head.”

My sisters snorted with laughter. I didn't remember
this, but it certainly sounded like something I'd do.

“Father was laughing and laughing. I couldn't tell you when I'd seen him laugh, before or since. He said, ‘She is a real firebrand! She reminds me of myself, that one.'”

The room was suddenly filled with the snifflings and gulpings that thirteen girls make when they are trying not to cry. In a moment, though, Babette clapped her hands, breaking the spell cast by the memory of our parents. “Princesses, are you ready?” she said. “I think it is nearly time.”

Aurelia adjusted her veil, and I bent and straightened her train.

“I am ready,” she said.

And so it happened that my eldest sister was married at last, in the chapel of our palace. She walked herself down the aisle, and her pace was steady and controlled, her smile a beacon. Milek waited for her in full dress uniform, his beard neatly trimmed, looking tremendously handsome. Beside him stood only Breckin, who had cleaned up very nicely. His hair had been cut and his hands, for the first time since I'd known him, were white and clean.

We girls lined up beside Aurelia, so the thirteen of us were in a row, and I knew then that for me, thirteen was the luckiest of numbers. Through a daze of happy tears I
heard the traditional marriage vows, heard Aurelia's firm “I do” and Milek's “Yes! I do!,” so enthusiastic that many in the chapel pews chuckled. When the priest pronounced them husband and wife, they kissed, and their faces when they turned to face the congregation were radiant. They practically ran back down the aisle, and we crowded after them cheering and throwing rose petals that fell like snow and scented the air deliciously.

After the ceremony, the guests repaired to the ballroom, its great door opened for the first time since before I was born. The floor of inlaid wood shone, and the room was adorned with new tapestries and lighted with silver candelabra, perfect for a party. An orchestra played lively tunes, and servants circulated with plates of delicacies and peach- and raspberry-flavored champagnes. I took a glass, and after I drank I could feel the bubbles rising up in me so that I felt I was nearly floating. I looked around for Breckin but did not see him, so I danced and danced with anyone who asked me, watching my sisters chattering away to the lords and princes who partnered them, able at last to talk and, apparently, making up quite well for lost time.

Suddenly my eyes were drawn toward the entrance of the ballroom, and I stopped dead in the middle of an intricate dance step. My partner stumbled, nearly crushing my toes, but I ignored his apologies, dropped
his hand, and skimmed across the floor to greet Breckin as he stood surveying the crowd, searching, I hoped, for me.

I stopped in front of him and curtsied, and he bowed. Then he looked me up and down. I was very glad I was dressed in satin and festooned with jewels, for his face lit up in appreciation and his smile pleased me greatly.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, bowing.

I grinned. “I would be honored, sir—if you think we can stop dancing at the end of the song!” Then I laughed, and joy bubbled up in me so strongly that I spun in a circle, making Breckin laugh as well. When I faced him again, I heard the musicians begin to play, a soft, slow measure. Breckin held out his hand.

My eyes on Breckin, and his on me, we stepped onto the dance floor. I placed my hand in his, and he put his arm around my waist. We waltzed together with a grace I would never have guessed we possessed. At the end of the dance we stopped, breathless, and I suddenly was overcome with shyness.

“And how is it, being a princess?” Breckin asked me as we made our way to the edge of the floor.

“Oh,” I said, my eyes downcast, “it is wonderful. And very strange—perhaps too strange.”

“Too strange?”

I took a deep breath and looked squarely at him. “I am still Zita, you know. I cannot stop being her, no matter how finely I am dressed or how many jewels are placed around my neck. I am still the serving maid, the baker, the cook's assistant, even though I am raised to my sisters' equal.” I remembered then something Babette had told me.
Zita means “little rose,”
she had said.
And it means “seeker.”
It was true at last. I was all those things. I was Zita the servant, the baker. I was Zita the rose, in my blue-green dress with my red hair. And I was Zita the seeker, who had sought and found her family and her future.