The Thirteenth Princess (11 page)

I
must have slept for a few hours, for when I woke the room streamed with sunlight. My sisters slept on, their forms still beneath their covers, their faces pale and quiet. I crept out of bed, careful not to disturb Asmita, and pulled my dirty, wrinkled clothing from beneath the bed. I dressed quickly and stumbled toward the closet, then changed my mind when I determined that it was late enough for the kitchen to be bustling with activity. I could not take the dumbwaiter down; I would have to chance the stairs. I opened the door cautiously and peered out. The guard sat tiredly in his chair, ignorant
of all that had happened in the night. And just outside the door were my sisters' shoes, lined up two by two, tattered and worn. I stared at the shoes, then turned back and quickly tiptoed to the closet. The pile of dresses was gone, all brushed and hung neatly. Was this more magic? Was even their clothing enchanted?

Just before I closed the bedchamber door, I remembered the sponge full of chocolate I had tossed under Ariadne's bed. I dashed back and retrieved it and then snuck down the stairs, turning myself into a piece of statuary for a moment when Chiara approached with a dustcloth on the second floor, and ran into the kitchen breathlessly, ready to face Cook's wrath.

“So the slugabed has decided to join us!” Cook said, taking in my rumpled, stained appearance. “Child, you look terrible. Are you ill? And did you sleep in your clothes?”

I nodded meekly. “I was so weary, Cook. I fell asleep without undressing, and I slept late—I'm sorry.”

She harrumphed. “You don't look at all rested, Zita. Are you sure you're not spoiling for an ague? A little castor oil—”

“No indeed!” I interrupted. “I feel fine. Very good, in fact. All that sleep has given me plenty of energy. I thought perhaps I could go mushrooming—it's been so damp lately.”

Cook pursed her lips, frowning. “Mushrooms—this late in the year? I don't think so.”

“I've seen them,” I said eagerly. “Just inside the forest. A group of puffballs, and some morels, too.”

“Venison with mushrooms,” Cook mused. “Oh, that would be a treat. Perhaps the princesses would eat some. Very well, you go—but don't be long. And wear a warm cloak!”

“Yes, ma'am,” I promised, hurrying to the cloakroom. I pulled my warmest woolen cloak off a peg and reached for a basket, reminding myself that I must somehow find mushrooms before I returned. In a moment I was over the bridge and running for the woods and Babette.

I arrived at her cottage panting and disheveled and hammered on the door wildly. She was there in an instant, opening the door so suddenly that I fell across the doorstep and sprawled in a heap on the floor.

“Zita! Child, are you all right?” Babette bent to help me up and I gripped her arms so tightly that she winced. “Come, come, sit down, my dear,” she murmured soothingly as I got to my feet and stumbled to the table. A cup of tea sat steaming there, and Babette commanded me, “Drink.” I lowered my head to the cup, breathing in the steam, and gradually my heart slowed a little and I could sip the hot tea without my hands trembling.

Babette closed the front door and joined me at the table. She placed her warm, wrinkled hands around mine as they clasped the teacup.

“What have you seen to frighten you so?” she asked me in a calm voice. “Tell me all that happened.”

I took a deep breath. “It was as you said,” I told her. “The chocolate was drugged, so I poured mine into a sponge. I didn't sleep. I saw it all.” I told her of my sisters dressing, taking the dumbwaiter down and down, following them along the path, through the silver and golden and diamond trees with the wall of water coming up behind us. I described the palace and the ballroom, the food and the orchestra, the princes and the dances that whirled my sisters to exhaustion and beyond. I told her of racing back to the dumbwaiter, of my sisters' disrobing, of the clothes cleaned and pressed and hung by morning and the tattered shoes lined up two by two in the hallway. When I was finished, I laid my head down on my folded arms on the table and closed my eyes. All I wanted to do was sleep.

Babette was silent for a long time. Then she said, “It is a very strong enchantment. I wish I could learn
why
. If we knew why, we could perhaps figure out how, and then we could find out how to stop it. But I cannot think of why. Your father is not at war; no one wants his descendants dead. That is not to say that there aren't many
who would like to see him suffer—your father makes enemies much more easily than he makes friends. But I have not heard of any great enmity borne by one powerful enough to do this. I can't imagine….”

I sighed wearily. “Then what are we to do?”

“We shall need help,” Babette said decisively. “A prince is the usual thing.”

I laughed shortly. “There is no prince willing to help us,” I said. “My sisters have frightened away any possible suitors with their muteness. No prince would come within a hundred leagues of us.”

“Even if the usual prize were offered?” Babette said.

“The usual prize?”

“You know—the hand of the eldest princess in marriage?”

I stared at her. “For one thing, Father would never offer Aurelia to anyone that way. And even if he would, to get him to do it, we'd have to tell him that there was an enchantment. Think of how he would react to that!”

Babette thought, and grimaced. “Yes, I can see you'd not want that,” she said. “But it may be unavoidable. He's going to figure it out sooner or later.”

“Later, then,” I said. “He is very certain that there is no magic in the kingdom. He's not likely to jump to that conclusion.” We thought for a few minutes.

“What of Breckin's brother, Milek?” I suggested at
last. “He is honorable, courageous—just right for the job. And I believe he has…feelings for Aurelia.”

“But you told me he is gone to help his mother,” Babette pointed out. “We cannot say when he will be back—and I do not think we have much time.”

“Then we must find a prince ourselves,” I said. “But how?”

Babette pursed her lips. “We shall write to their fathers, asking for the sons' help. A courteous king will not refuse us.”

“But…” I hesitated. “Why would they respond to a letter from us? A kitchen maid and a—” I didn't know quite what to call Babette.

“An old witch?” she suggested, smiling broadly. “No, they would not take us very seriously. We shall have to write as your father.”

“Oh dear,” I said, gulping.

“And that puts a lot of responsibility on you, my dear,” Babette went on. “You will have to get the stationery and write the letters—how is your hand?”

“Tolerable,” I said. I had practiced writing for my sisters until they approved my calligraphy.

“And you shall have to intercept the return letters so your father does not see them.”

“Oh dear,” I said again, faintly.

Together, we came up with a list of princes. There
were King Damon's four sons who had once danced with my sisters, the brothers Bazyli and Ade of Tem, Prince Regan from Blaire, Prince Kiros from Nara, and Prince Riane from Tybal, far to the east. They were the only names I knew, so they would have to do. We worked out a formula for my letter:

 

Dear [Name of Prince],

We are writing to request your help in breaking an enchantment that holds our daughters captive. The usual reward of a princess's hand in marriage is offered, though because the princesses are twelve in number, we shall allow the prince who succeeds to make his own choice of bride. We shall not describe the nature of the enchantment until you apply to us in person, but suffice it to say that there are no dragons involved. Please reply at your earliest convenience.

HRH (etc., etc., etc.)

 

Babette and I decided that I would bring the completed letters to her, and she would figure out how to get them to their intended audiences. I did not enquire whether she would use magic to do this or would rely on the regular horse post, but I did express my worry as to the timing.

“We must hurry,” I told her. “My sisters are worsening. Their exhaustion may kill them. Will the letters arrive in time? Will the princes come in time?”

To her credit, Babette did not lie to me. “I do not know, my dear,” she said softly. “We can only do our best.” I nodded and stood to leave, my letter draft clutched tightly in my hand.

“You were very brave,” Babette said as she hugged me. “It must have been frightening, down below the lake.”

“It was…strange,” I replied. “What was frightening was to see my sisters enchanted. The rest was—well, it was exciting. Wondrous. Beautiful and terrible both.” Then I remembered something. I put my hand into my skirt pocket and pulled out the silver leaf I had cut free. I laid it on the table. It was a remarkable thing: as pliable as a real, living leaf, with veins of darker silver.

Babette picked it up and looked at it closely. Then she sighed deeply. “That is magic. Beautiful and terrible. Some is more beautiful; some is more terrible. Your sisters are trapped in the terrible, and we will get them out. Do not despair!”

“I won't,” I promised, placing the leaf back in my pocket. “I won't!”

On my way back to the palace, I found a small grove with morel mushrooms still growing, poking out from the dusting of snow that covered the ground. I picked them hurriedly, and as I moved toward the lakeshore, I met Breckin, who was exercising Amina's horse. He
tumbled from the saddle and ran to me.

“Have you been to see Babette?” he asked. “What did she say?”

I told him our idea, and he nodded. “We do need help,” he said. “I don't have the first idea what to do to break an enchantment.”

“But will the princes know?” I asked. “Are princes born knowing how to do that? Or do their fathers tell them when they reach eighteen? And will they even come? Surely they all know of my father. They'll be unlikely to want to brave his wrath.”

“But they will think it is he who wrote to them,” Breckin pointed out. “They will think the king would be grateful to them. I believe they will come.”

“I hope you are right,” I said fervently. We made a plan then: I would write out the letters and leave them in a packet in the stable, and Breckin would make sure they got to Babette. We clasped hands to say good-bye, and I ran across the bridge, swinging my basket full of mushrooms for Cook to make into a dish tempting enough to convince my sisters to eat.

That evening, when I was certain my father was dining well on venison and morels, I snuck into his private rooms. I tiptoed past the outer chamber and into his study. His long mahogany desk stood in shadows, covered with papers and quills. I crept up to it, my eyes
searching frantically for paper with the royal crest. There! I scooped up a sheaf of thick, cream-colored paper with Father's blue and gold crest on the top. Then I noticed the wax stick and the Great Seal, and my heart sank. I had forgotten that for a missive from Father to be official, it had to be sealed with wax with the impression of the Great Seal pressed into it.

Suddenly I heard a noise at the outer door. I turned frantically and saw the deep-blue velvet drapes at the long windows. They pooled on the floor, and I could tell that with their weight and length, I could hide behind them and not be seen. I pushed the sheaf of paper into my deep apron pocket and darted between drape and window, shivering when I felt the chill of the night beyond the window. For good measure, I used Babette's trick and tried to become the curtains. I heard footsteps enter the study, then proceed onward to the closet. Fearfully I peeked out and saw my father, shaking out a velvet jacket. I drew in a long, trembling breath: Father must have gotten chilly in the dining room and come in for a warm jacket. I tried not to move, but Father's ears were keen, and he stopped in his tracks.

“Who is there?” he called sharply.

I knew I was found out. “It is I, your Majesty,” I said, coming out from behind the drapes. “I am sorry. I didn't mean to trespass. I was”—my mind raced
frantically—“looking for a book.”

“A book?” Father's eyebrows drew together. “Do you read, then?”

“Well, yes,” I improvised. “I started on cookbooks, of course. But I have become very interested in”—I cast my eye quickly over the nearest bookcase—“in poetry.”

To my surprise, Father did not grow angry or dismiss me. Instead he walked over to the bookcase. He put his hand on a volume, bound in rich plum-colored leather, and gently pulled it free.

“Your mother loved poetry,” he said softly. “That is how I wooed her. I wrote her love poems cribbed from this book.”

“You mean you said the poems were yours?” I couldn't help myself; it was too strange and shocking.

He nodded, and I saw the ghost of a smile tremble at his lips. He seemed almost to be in a dream.

“She knew they were not mine, of course,” he said. “But she did not tell me until after we were wed. How she laughed at me!” His voice was filled with a terrible yearning, and I felt my heart contract with pity. I stepped forward.

“Oh, Father,” I said, and touched his arm.

My touch woke him from his reverie, and he turned to look at me, the familiar scowl back in place.

“You should be at your tasks, child, not dallying in here,” he reprimanded me, though his voice was not as harsh as usual. I scurried to the door, turning to curtsy.

“Wait,” he said. He came forward, and held out the book in his hand to me.

“It was her favorite,” he said roughly. For a moment I wasn't sure what to do. Then I realized he was giving me the book, and I reached out and took it, my hand shaking.

“Now go!” Father commanded, and I fled.

That night, before I began to write my pleading letters to the princes on the paper I had stolen, I looked through the book of poems. I had not really ever read poetry before. Poetry was not encouraged in my sisters' education, so they had not passed it on to me. At first I could hardly bear to open the volume, knowing my mother's hands had once held it. I stroked the smooth leather and looked at the title, embossed in gold.
Poems of Longing, Love, and Loss.
When I looked inside it at last, it fell open to one page, and I read: