Oliver started to protest, but the bishop held up a hand to stop him.
“I understand why,” Schelker said. “Of course I do! What man can say he wants to be executed? And you wish to protect a beautiful princess, with whom you have fallen in love. But do you understand how dire the situation is? Her life and the lives of her sisters are hanging in the balance. You yourself risk death if you choose this path.”
“I don’t care,” Oliver said. He stood up and faced the bishop. “I don’t care! I love Petunia, and this is what I’m choosing, right here and now.”
“I like this boy, Michael,” said a voice from behind Oliver. “He knows when to hold his tongue and when to speak. A valuable quality in the young.”
Oliver lurched to his feet and spun around. The bishop’s house keeper was standing in the doorway of the study. She was dressed in a ragged blue gown with a blue shawl around her thin shoulders and looked like she was nearly a hundred years old. She smiled toothlessly at Oliver, but then her sharp eyes saw the purple cape on the chair.
“My cloak!” She stepped around Oliver with much greater speed than he would have given her credit for and snatched up the cloak, inspecting it with narrow eyes. “Still in good condition, I see, despite having been who-knows-where.”
Oliver’s fingers itched to snatch the cloak back from the old woman, but he didn’t want to antagonize her. If she sent word to the palace, Oliver would be dead by noon.
“Thank you for coming, good frau,” said the bishop with a slight bow.
Oliver wondered if he were always so formal with his house keeper. She was still clutching the cloak, but now she was raking Oliver with her dark-eyed gaze.
“I didn’t know it was yours, good frau,” Oliver said, feeling dazed. “If the crown prince had told me that Bishop Schelker’s house keeper was such a resourceful—”
“His house keeper? His house keeper?” The old woman made a noise of disgust and flapped her hand at Bishop Schelker. “Hardly! Perhaps this boy isn’t as clever as he seems.”
“I believe he is quite clever enough,” the bishop said mildly. He turned to Oliver. “But no, the good frau is most assuredly not my house keeper.”
“Oh!” Oliver blushed. “I’m so sorry, good frau.”
She grabbed his jaw and studied his face closely. “Very handsome. But then, the princesses do have such fine taste in young men,” she said with a cackle of laughter. “I nearly kept Galen for myself, you know.” She winked saucily at Oliver, who felt his jaw sag in reply.
“I am more concerned about the moral character of their suitors,” Bishop Schelker said in a rather pained voice.
“You would be,” the old woman said rather rudely.
“Where is Herr Vogel, good frau?” Bishop Schelker changed the subject. “Did he not come with you?”
“He’s visiting his gardens,” she said, waving a gnarled hand at the window. She shoved the purple cloak up beneath her shawl, making her look like a hunchback. “Like my shawl, do you?” She turned around so that Oliver could admire it. It was blue, with ruffled edges. “One of the girls made it for me. I don’t know which one. All those foolish flower names are impossible to keep straight!” Another cackle of laughter.
“Walter Vogel, the gardener?” Oliver remembered the name his mother had given him, the name of the gardener she thought could help.
“Is there any other?” The old woman crowed.
“We had better arm ourselves and be going,” Bishop Schelker said. “Young Oliver will need the cloak until we are out of Bruch, good frau.”
“I will?” Oliver’s voice rose embarrassingly on the second word. His blood pounded at the bishop’s words: “until we are out of Bruch.”
“Yes, yes,” the old woman said. “He can have it when he needs it.”
“So, you mean that I will be going with you? To help? You trust me?” Oliver looked from the bishop to the old woman and back again. Galen had said Oliver would join them, but until that moment he had been afraid that Schelker or one of the others would decide to dismiss him.
“Here,” the bishop said by way of an answer. He handed Oliver one of the small bags. What ever it held crackled and released a scent of cooking herbs. “Wear it around your neck, under your shirt. And take a box of bullets; we’ll get you a pistol in a moment.”
Oliver slipped the cord of the little bag around his neck and took the pasteboard box of bullets before he could tuck the bag out of sight. Judging from the weight and the noise the box made, it did indeed contain bullets, which he assumed were silver as the crown prince had requested.
“It seems you passed muster, lad,” said a gentle voice as another person came into the room, making the small study rather crowded.
“You’re late, Walter,” the crone snapped.
The newcomer was an old man with a peg leg and the weathered face of someone who spent his days in the sun. “We need all the help that we can get,” he said.
“When we’re in the palace, we will have great need,” agreed the crone.
Captive
When Kestilan brought Petunia to the Palace Under Stone, she was taken to the very bedroom that she had dreamed about the night when she had tried to shoot Rionin in her sleep. She laid the bunch of yellow roses on the black-lacquered dressing table with shaking fingers. Kestilan left, to her relief, but then the ladies of the court came flooding into her room.
There were few servants in the Kingdom Under Stone, mostly silent musicians and footmen at the Midnight Balls, and the sisters had long suspected they were magical constructions: shadows brought to life. It was the courtiers, the immortal followers of the first King Under Stone who shared his exile, who had waited upon the sisters. The court ladies had taken away the princesses’ clothes that terrible night they had spent in the castle before Galen had helped them escape. And it was the court ladies who came now, screeching with triumphant laughter, and stripped Petunia of her clothing.
They dressed her in a midnight-blue gown laced with dull silver and put silver slippers on her feet. Then they scraped her curly hair up into a coiffure so rigid that she felt like she could lower her head and run one of them through like an angry bull. They gave her a necklace and earrings of sapphires that looked faded with age, set in tarnished silver, and then they gathered up her old clothes.
Petunia had no particular fondness for her riding habit, but when one white-faced gloating woman tried to fold up her scarlet cloak, Petunia snatched the heavy velvet out of her hands. The woman actually hissed at her, like a cat, but Petunia would not let go.
“I will kill you if you touch it again,” she snarled at the woman.
Her heart was racing, not just because she wanted to keep her cloak, but also because she didn’t want them to feel the heavy lump in the inside pocket. The pistol-shaped lump. They’d taken her silver dagger with clear distaste, but they had left her specially knitted garters, which seemed to irritate their fingers as they changed her stockings. So the garters had worked a bit, at least, even if they hadn’t prevented her from being brought here.
“There are some who would give a great deal to join us here,” the woman said with a sneer. She seemed to be the leader of the ladies, a tall creature with unnaturally red hair and eyes like chips of ice.
“Name one,” Petunia snapped.
“That maid,” the woman said. “Olga.”
Petunia’s head jerked at the news. She wasn’t all that surprised, just startled at having her suspicions confirmed.
“It will be so nice to have a maid again,” sighed one of the women, a shrill little creature who reminded Petunia of a rat.
“Olga is really that eager to leave the grand duchess and be a maid here?” Petunia could hardly credit such a thing. What sort of appeal did a world without sunlight have for Olga? Especially since she would be the only maid, with more than two dozen cruel mistresses to order her around.
“Well,” the tall leader of the ladies said in an artful voice, toying with the ta
ttered lace of her sleeve. “She may have gotten the wrong impression about the offer. She may have thought she was to be a lady … even a princess.”
Screams of laughter pummeled Petunia’s ears, and she took an involuntary step back, bumping into one of the ladies behind. The woman growled and pushed her back, and Petunia stepped on the hem of her own gown and almost tripped. The leader watched Petunia right herself with hooded eyes.
“You’re very short, aren’t you?” She smirked at Petunia.
“And you’ve got a nose like a stoat,” Petunia replied. “But I can always have my gowns altered.”
“Dinner is in an hour,” one of the other women told her while their leader swelled with anger. “You will eat with the princes.” She gave Petunia a spiteful look, as though angry that Petunia should be so honored.
“And to night there will be a ball, of course,” their tall leader added, now that she had recovered herself.
“Am I expected to dance with all the princes?” Petunia couldn’t resist asking.
“You will dance with your betrothed,” the woman snapped.
“But he isn’t here,” Petunia said, blinking at her innocently.
She knew that the ruse would mean little to Kestilan, since Rionin was not even deterred by Lily’s marriage to Heinrich. But she wanted to give them something to chew on. Kestilan wasn’t the only man interested in her, after all. There was Oliver, and Prince Grigori …
Prince Grigori, who had clearly led them into the forest for the sole purpose of sending Petunia to the Kingdom Under Stone. She had been right: he was in league with Rionin. But what had he been promised to make him do such a thing? Petunia had been certain that he truly liked her; why would he give her up to Kestilan? And why not capture Lily instead?
“This betrothed of yours, what is his name?” The freakishly tall lady asked.
Petunia opened her mouth to say Oliver’s name, and a face flashed before her eyes. Prince Alfred, their horsey-looking second cousin, who had come to solve the mystery of their worn-out slippers when she was just a little girl. Come to solve the mystery and died for his efforts, so that the first King Under Stone could show the sisters the power of his displeasure. Alfred’s face, blurred by time, was followed by other blurry images: a Belgique prince who had tried to spy on Rose while she was ill, a foppish Spanian with more luggage than all twelve sisters put together. All dead now, because of the King Under Stone. And, to be honest, because of Petunia and her sisters.
“I’m not going to tell you,” Petunia said, not caring if she sounded childish. “The king will probably try to kill him.”
“Probably?” The women all shrieked with laughter as their tall leader leaned over Petunia. “There is no ‘probably’ about it. You and all your sisters need to be taught a lesson about where you belong, and whom you belong to.” The woman’s long nose was almost touching Petunia’s now.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” Petunia said, gripping her cloak in both hands and resisting the urge to pull out her pistol and shoot the woman. “But if I do marry Kestilan, I shall order you flogged in the middle of the ballroom as a wedding gift.”
“Marrying one of the princes does not give you the right …”
“Are you completely sure of that?” Petunia raised one eyebrow at the woman. “I can hardly see the king objecting. Rionin strikes me as one who would enjoy that sort of thing.”
The woman’s face paled under her heavy powder, and Petunia knew she had struck a nerve. Petunia smiled at the woman, who was the one to take a step back this time.
“Dinner in an hour?” Petunia made a pretense of yawning. “You can go now.”
She shoved her way out of the ring of ladies and went to a chair, where she lovingly laid her cloak on the seat. Then she turned and watched them file out, her arms folded and one foot tapping. Their expressions were by turns horrified or enraged, but Petunia didn’t care. She was done with being bullied by tall people.
Dinner that night was awkward and silent. She was the only lady, and though Rionin didn’t join them—she got the impression that he didn’t need to eat anymore—the mood was oppressive. Even Kestilan had given up his usual insinuating banter and ate in silence. When she was done eating the flavorless, unidentifiable food, Petunia got up and left the table without a word. She found her way back to her room and barred the door with a chair, since it didn’t lock.
Petunia toyed with the idea of staying there all night, refusing to come out for the ball, but knew that it wouldn’t work. They would simply break down the door and drag her out by the hair.
She occupied her time by taking the bullets out of her pistol and using a long hairpin to scratch the names of the princes on them. The bullets weren’t silver, which were far too costly to carry all the time, but they would still kill the princes if she hit her mark. She didn’t need to use their names, either, but she didn’t care. It gave her something to do. Something other than just starting the palace on fire and walking away.
That thought gave Petunia pause. Would the twisted stones and slick wood of the Palace Under Stone burn? She had matches—she always had matches, considering them quite as essential as protective garters or a pistol—but did she dare set something alight?
No. Not just yet.
She went back to etching her bullets, occupying her hands again while she wondered, could she kill someone? Kestilan? The others? That horrible court lady? She just didn’t know. Poppy could shoot without hesitation, Petunia was sure, and Lily had already killed at least one of the princes. But Poppy and Lily were endlessly brave and the best shots in the family besides.
“The time is coming for you to choose, my girl,” she scolded herself. “Are you always going to be little Petunia, who nearly burned down Papa’s hedge maze and likes having dirty hands, or are you going to stand up and be one of the brave ones?”
“She’s talking to herself and she’s only been here a few hours,” Poppy said from the doorway. “I’d worry, but I can hardly blame— Oof!”
Petunia flew across the room and embraced her older sister tightly. Poppy squeezed her right back, belying her joking words. Then Petunia felt other arms around her. Looking up from Poppy’s shoulder, she saw all her sisters gathered around, their faces variously white from strain or red from crying.
“What’s happened?” She drew back, looking at them all in horror. “Why are you all here? How did Grigori trick you all?”
Rose smiled, a slight expression that quickly passed. “He didn’t trick us; he told us the truth. And we chose to come here.”
Petunia felt like the floor was tilting and thought she might faint for a moment. Rose quickly helped her over to a chair, and the rest of her sisters crowded into the room. Hyacinth shut the door and stood ready to bar it with her slight frame if anyone should try to enter.
“You chose to come here?” Petunia choked on the words. “Why?”
“To find you,” Rose said simply. “But don’t feel guilty, dear, that’s not the only reason.”
“What are the other reasons?”
Petunia looked at her sisters with a growing feeling of despair. She didn’t know how long they had been here, but they were already gowned in the slippery, bleak gowns of the Kingdom Under Stone. Their hair, too, was scraped into high twists and topknots, and they wore cracked and dulled jewels. Petunia knew that their weapons were probably gone, and thought she had better give her pistol to Lily or Poppy before someone came for them.
“After you disappeared,” Rose said, “Prince Grigori told us that you were safely where you belonged in the Kingdom Under Stone.”
“At which point, I nearly killed him,” Poppy muttered, and Daisy shushed her.
“We disarmed his men, tied them up, and searched the entire area,” Rose continued, “but it was as though you had been swallowed up by the earth; there was no sign of any gate. Grigori seemed very pleased with himself. We were all a bit in shock as well, so at his urging we went on to his hunting lodge, as it was
only a few minutes away. He calmly informed us over refreshments that he had been working for Rionin for several years.”
“I will never get over him sipping his tea while Heinrich held a gun to his head,” Hyacinth said in a low voice. “He’s mad, or he has no soul.”
“Grigori— he— what?” Petunia could suddenly not take it all in.
“Grigori has been promised rewards beyond his wildest dreams if he helps bring us back here,” Rose said.
“Then why did you give in?” Petunia felt like crying. “Why did you come here?”
“To save our husbands,” Hyacinth said.
Petunia’s heart shuddered. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, no, no, he didn’t!”
“They’re well enough, for now,” Lily quickly assured her. “But we could either follow you, or the King Under Stone will kill our husbands and everyone else we love. Including Father.”
“He’s lying,” Petunia said, trying to swallow. “He’s lying! He doesn’t have the power! Why wouldn’t Rionin have killed Father years ago, then? And Galen and Heinrich?”
“He’s not lying,” Rose said, putting a slender hand on Petunia’s shoulder. “At least, Grigori isn’t. He truly believes that Rionin can do this. But it does make sense: why would Rionin waste his power killing our father or our husbands, if he didn’t have a way of bringing us here yet? He’s only just rediscovered how to make a gate.”
The rug in their sitting room had transformed into a stairway that led to the Kingdom Under Stone. It had been created for their mother by the first king, and she had taught them how to use it before her death. Galen had destroyed it after rescuing them ten years before.
“The first king had never taught his sons how to make such magic,” Rose explained. “But Rionin figured out how to do it at last. There was a temporary gate placed under the dead leaves around that rosebush you found. And a permanent one in Grigori’s hunting lodge. They thought that if you, the youngest, were taken first, it would inspire us all to follow and protect you.”