“Aww,” she cooed. “Are you saying you’d miss me? How sweet.”
She grinned, the tiny gap between her two front teeth making her smile seem whimsical and cute, as always. And oblivious.
Doesn’t she understand the danger of leaving? I wondered. The way she’d lose power being away for weeks, just when the rest of us are forming alliances, jockeying for position . . .
It had been one week since our coronation. Already we’d signed the ceasefire and hammered out details of a peace treaty that Jed assured us the Fridesian royal family would be willing to agree to. The thirteen of us had approved it unanimously.
But I still couldn’t shake my feeling of impending doom.
Was this the first true sign of trouble? Would the ministers and advisers and counselors who might be plotting against us see this as their opportunity? Not that it would be that much easier to strike against twelve princesses than thirteen, but . . . this was Cecilia. For all her whimsy, she was the most formidable of the new princesses.
Wouldn’t our enemies see that?
I swallowed hard, barely managing to keep the action from sounding like a gulp.
“I only meant . . . regardless of my fondness for you, of course, Cecilia . . . the problem is that while you are in Fridesia, that will leave only twelve of us on the Princesses Council,” I said. I hoped my solemn tone conveyed that I was back to speaking thoughtfully.
Several of the other girls kept staring blankly. But Lydia nodded knowingly.
“We can’t have an even number on our council, because that could lead to tie votes,” she agreed. “Desmia is correct.”
I could tell that she wanted to sound solemn and thoughtful and learned too. But Lydia had a faceful of freckles, which gave her a comical air. She always tried too hard to be taken seriously. It usually backfired.
I heard giggles around me.
Cecilia just waved away the complaints.
“Well, that’s an easy problem to solve,” she said, shrugging. (Did I have to mention that royalty should never ever shrug?) “I could have one other princess go with me. Or three or five . . . Heck, in this kingdom, we could have ten princesses off signing treaties, and still have more rulers left behind to govern than in any other kingdom around us!”
I expected her to grin again and let someone else take up the argument. Instead, Cecilia hit me in the shoulder once more—this time with a playful fist—and asked, “So, Desmia, how about it? Want to come?”
I froze. I could feel the counselors and ministers and advisers behind me watching even more intently. They probably didn’t actually narrow their eyes—they were too crafty to be so blatant—but they’d undoubtedly narrowed their focus. They were probably already doing calculations in their head: With both Cecilia and Desmia gone . . .
I couldn’t go to Fridesia. Not now. Probably not ever.
“No, thank you,” I said. I was trying for my kindest princess voice—letting Cecilia down gently. But like Lydia, I was a little off. Even to my own ears I sounded too stiff and prim.
Cecilia shrugged again. But the motion wasn’t so carefree this time.
Is she actually . . . hurt? I wondered. Offended? Did she truly want me along?
“Your loss,” she said. “I was thinking we could time the trip so we sign the treaty and go to Jed and Ella’s wedding. You know they’ve invited us all. Come on, girls—a wedding! Who wouldn’t want to go to that? Who’s with me? Desmia, don’t you want to reconsider?”
I was the first to shake my head and gently murmur, “Sorry.” But the other eleven girls did the same, one after the other.
Do they understand after all? I wondered, glancing around. Are they plotting now too?
All eleven of them were shame-faced and peering down at the table. And then I remembered how Cecilia was different from all the other sister-princesses. Back before any of us knew the truth about ourselves, Cecilia had come to the palace to find me and meet her fate on her own—or, actually, with her friend, Harper—but still, without any adults.
The other eleven had been captured and imprisoned by Lord Throckmorton’s forces. They’d spent time in the dungeon. They’d had to rely on their knights—and, indirectly, Cecilia and Ella and me—to rescue them.
They were all terrified of going to Fridesia. They were terrified of stepping foot in a kingdom whose subjects had been killing Sualans for longer than any of us had been alive.
Did Cecilia think I was just being a coward like all the others?
Was I?
Cecilia’s gaze swept the room.
“All right, then,” she said, and I could tell she was trying to sound nonchalant and unaffected. “All of you will be missing out. Don’t worry—I’ll sign the treaty with my fanciest script. No blots! I’ll make us all proud. And I’ll write down what everyone is wearing at the wedding. I’ll even try to draw sketches of Ella’s dress.” This was directed at Porfinia, the sister-princess who was both the best at drawing and also the most interested in fashion. If she had her way, all of our proclamations would be about clothes.
“But . . . it wouldn’t be proper for you to travel all that way by yourself,” Florencia said, sounding shocked. “You’re a young maiden, and now a princess, too. . . . It simply isn’t done. And it’s not as though we have dozens of extra servants on retainer we could afford to send along with you. Remember, even the palace budget has its limits. . . .”
Florencia was the prissiest of the sister-princesses. She was also obsessed with the palace budget.
“Don’t worry,” Cecilia said, brushing aside Florencia’s concerns. “I’ll only need to take a few servants with me. And Harper’s going too. I’ve already asked him.”
She said this almost defiantly, as if daring Florencia to object. Florencia’s face did go pale, but she didn’t get a chance to declare how scandalized she was that Cecilia would take along a boy—and a commoner at that—of uncertain relationship. Sophia spoke up first.
“You and Harper walked most of the way across Suala on your own, before. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” she said, as if trying to butter up Cecilia with her praise. “But the notion of tie votes in your absence is a concern. Is there one of us you’d like to designate as your proxy while you’re away? That is, someone you would trust to vote on your behalf?”
She fluttered her eyelashes in a way that I’m sure she thought was engaging.
“Good idea!” Cecilia agreed. “I want my—what’s it called? Proxy?—to be . . . Desmia.”
Sophia’s face fell. Clearly she’d thought it would be her, since it had been her idea. Everyone turned to me again. I could count the number of disgruntled expressions around me: Eleven, just among the princesses. I couldn’t see all the advisers and counselors without turning around—which I wasn’t going to do—but the mirrors on the wall before me showed that at least several of them looked disturbed too.
Was Cecilia trying to make the others hate me, giving me two votes to everyone else’s one?
Or was she maybe . . . possibly . . . conceivably . . . treating me like a friend?
2
I drifted along the edge of the ballroom. We’d decided to throw Cecilia a farewell party—over Florencia’s objections that it was too much expense after we’d just thrown a similar good-bye banquet and ball for Jed and Ella and the other Fridesians only the week before.
“Why couldn’t we have planned ahead and just said good-bye to everyone at once?” Florencia had argued.
“Because . . . not everyone is leaving at once?” Sophia argued back. “And would you want to make Cecilia feel like she’s just an afterthought to Fridesians?”
Sophia evidently planned to keep lobbying for Cecilia’s proxy vote right up until the moment Cecilia left. Either that, or she was trying to stir up animosity again toward the Fridesians.
Is there any reason she’d want us to go back to war? I wondered. Are there any sword makers or armor makers paying her off, or . . . is there some other reason I’m not even
thinking of?
I couldn’t be sure. I’d been ruling with the other girls for a full month now, and still the only one I was even close to trusting was Cecilia.
Is there any way I could convince her not to go? I wondered.
I’d felt melancholy at the good-bye party for Ella and the other Fridesians. Tonight was even worse. Tomorrow I’d be without Ella, Jed, Cecilia, and Harper. I might as well be alone.
You were alone for fourteen years, I told myself. You can handle it.
That didn’t help. Something was gnawing at me tonight, something that went beyond missing Ella or bracing myself to miss Cecilia. Some instinct, some intuition, some . . . fear. I found myself watching the dancers before me with the same kind of anxiety I’d always associated with standing on the palace balcony hoping that the palace mathematicians had calculated correctly, and no archer’s arrow really could soar high enough to pierce my heart.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . It was hard to keep track with all the whirling and spinning and leaping, but I thought I saw twelve tiara-style crowns gleaming out in the midst of the dancing. So all the other princesses were out there. All of them had already paired off.
I should have warned them, I thought. Do they all understand that a dance with a princess is never just a dance? Do they know that they need to be on guard for entreaties and double-talk and deviousness even between dance steps? Do they know that their choice of dance partners is never just a girl’s whim, but a decision the rest of the court will be discussing and dissecting and probably disdaining the rest of their lives?
My gaze swept over the dance floor again, giving me a quick glimpse of Lydia’s freckled face, beaming; Porfinia’s lovely green eyes, glowing with excitement; and Adoriana’s exquisitely tiny hand, cupped over her mouth as she laughed and laughed and laughed.
Even if I trusted all my sister-princesses enough to speak to them with complete honesty, how could I destroy all that joy? How could I ruin their innocence, their happiness like, like…
Like Lord Throckmorton ruined yours? my brain offered.
“Don’t tell me you of all people don’t know how to dance the galliard!” a voice exclaimed behind me.
I spun around, the broad bell of my skirt twisting a little too vigorously before settling back into place.
“Cecilia!” I cried. “Never mind me—why aren’t you dancing at your own ball?”
I tried to hide the panic I felt at finding out I’d miscounted the number of princesses dancing.
Hardly a disastrous mistake, I counseled myself. Don’t look out and count again. Focus on Cecilia. It’s all right for the two of you to be seen speaking together.
“What, you want me to start the trip to Fridesia with a broken leg?” Cecilia joked. “That’s how all that leaping would end for me.”
“It’s just the cinq pas—five steps—then a cadence, the leap, and then the posture, the landing,” I said, narrating as the dancers before us swept through each motion. I refrained from adding, It’s easy.
“Easier said than done, I’m sure,” Cecilia said, almost as if she knew what I had been thinking. But Cecilia also flashed me a grin that wasn’t dignified enough to be fake. Or particularly regal. It was too wide, too open, too . . . happy.
I was strangely tempted to blurt out, Why did you give me your proxy vote? Do you consider me a friend? Will you miss me in Fridesia? Whom should I trust while you’re gone?
But of course I couldn’t say any of that. Fourteen years of palace life had taught me the importance of being circumspect.
Like all the other princesses, Cecilia had also gotten fourteen years of royal training. But it was all at night, in secret—the rest of the time Cecilia had to pretend to be an ordinary peasant girl. I couldn’t figure out if Sir Stephen, Cecilia’s royal tutor, wasn’t a particularly effective teacher, or if Cecilia was just too good at pretending to be a peasant.
If you didn’t count servants, I’d never actually met any peasants, so how would I know?
Cecilia started giggling.
“Can you imagine if Sir Stephen had tried to teach me court dancing, rather than just showing me pictures?” she asked, gesticulating so wildly that she hit me in the arm. Again—very nonroyal. And yet . . . endearing.
“Perhaps he intended to,” I murmured diplomatically.
“With his arthritic gait?” Cecilia gave a very un-princess-like snort. “And perhaps with Nanny Gratine helping?” Cecilia’s nanny, who had also raised her, was just as ancient as the former knight Sir Stephen. “I would have thought the dance properly went like . . .”
Cecilia began a shuffling imitation of the steps of the galliard. In place of the leap, she lifted her shoulders and grimaced and looked down at her feet as if she couldn’t understand why they hadn’t flown up from the floor.
Cecilia had just as much of a talent as Lydia did for being comical, and she didn’t mind showing it. Two or three people standing nearby began to chuckle. Out on the dance floor, the six couples closest to us began dancing exactly as Cecilia had: just as stiffly, just as humorously. I was sure I’d see this version of the galliard in the court jester’s act soon—and probably in ballrooms the rest of my life.
Do you not see how everything we do is watched and imitated? How nothing is private? I wanted to snarl at Cecilia. Do you not understand how completely this is the Palace of Mirrors?
But scolding Cecilia would be like kicking a puppy. My only experience with dogs was one time when a maid smuggled a spaniel puppy into the palace, just to let me see. It was one of those rare moments in my childhood when someone tried to be kind. But the maid was caught, and Lord Throckmorton had . . .
Never mind, I told myself, because it would not do for one of the thirteen princesses of Suala to be seen at a ball with tears welling in her eyes.
I turned slightly, to block Cecilia’s view of the dance floor, and to check the nearest mirror to make sure my troubled thoughts left no outward sign or blemish in my expression.
Cecilia jostled me just as she had at the coronation, just as she did so often at council meetings.
“Yes, silly, you still look absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful,” Cecilia teased. “Like always. And, no, you don’t have a single hair out of place, and neither your rouge nor your powder nor the balm on your lips has smudged . . . Don’t worry. You’re still perfect.”
“It is hard to glance anywhere in this palace without seeing a mirror,” I murmured, looking down.
“Perhaps you all should banish mirrors at the next council meeting,” Cecilia suggested. “So that when I come back, I won’t have to see that my hair is perpetually mussed, and my crown is always crooked . . . and right now it looks like I’m even sweating—no, perspiring, I mean—”
“And you still look stunning, no matter what,” Cecilia’s friend Harper said, coming up behind her. He handed her a crystal goblet of punch, and I understood that the only reason I’d had those few moments of talking to Cecilia alone was because he’d temporarily left her side to bring her something to drink.
I liked Harper. The way Cecilia told the story of their misguided journey to the palace to rescue me, Harper deserved far more credit than she did for worrying about me from the very start. But somehow, standing alongside the two of them tonight reminded me of an odd sort of math, where two plus one didn’t equal three, but stayed starkly separate: a couple and an outsider.
Cecilia put her free arm around Harper and drew him close, so both of them were leaning toward me.
“Can we tell you a secret?” Cecilia asked in a near-whisper. “We’re not going to announce anything as official as a betrothal yet, but… Harper and I are going to get married. Someday. Not too far into the future.”
“If she’ll have me,” Harper added, beaming. Clearly he was confident that she would.
“Congratulations!” I said. “Felicitations!”
I tried to smile sincerely. Shouldn’t I be happy for them? Not . . . feel lonelier?
I told myself my problem was just that I could hear in my head how Lord Throckmorton would assess the situation: Harper’s just a boy, and a common one at that. How could a princess marry him? He talks like a peasant and he thinks like a peasant and he acts like a peasant, and putting him in courtier’s clothing doesn’t change that . . .
The truth was, even in his formal waistcoat, Harper still looked like a peasant. He just looked like one who happened to be wearing a courtier’s clothing. He had even more freckles than Lydia, and his hair stuck up in a cowlick at the back of his head. And he’d pushed up his sleeves as if he were a common laborer in a cotton workshirt. Didn’t he know how easy it was to crush the pile of velvet?
Can’t you focus instead on how much they adore each other? I asked myself.
“It will be wonderful to have a wedding here in Suala,” I said. I decided to tease a bit. “Is that why you were so insistent on going to Jed and Ella’s wedding? To get ideas?”
“I would have wanted to go, regardless,” Cecilia said. “They’re my friends.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth, as if she’d suddenly realized that that could have been viewed as insulting. Ella and Jed were my friends too, and I wasn’t going.
“Anyhow, don’t tell anyone else our secret. It’s just between us.” Cecilia seemed to be hoping I hadn’t noticed her gaffe. She angled Harper toward the mirror, as if to let him admire himself. “Doesn’t Harper look handsome tonight?”
I nodded, even though it seemed that Cecilia and Harper were now too busy gazing at each other in the mirror to notice. This was not the time to say, I’ll miss you when you’re in Fridesia, or, Are you sure you have to go? Can’t you change your mind?
“Well, everyone should get an eyeful of me now if they want it, because I won’t wear anything like this on the road to Fridesia,” Harper said. “Five whole weeks with no monkey suits!”
“You will take your harp with you, though, won’t you?” I asked, to head off any debate about his attire once he reached the Fridesian court.