The Thirteenth Princess (5 page)

Babette laughed. “Don't be sorry,” she said. “It's true. But that doesn't tell me who you are. You are Zita, but who is she?”

“The patron saint of servants,” I muttered, embarrassed.

“Yes, that's so,” Babette acknowledged. “The name has other meanings, too, did you know?”

“It does?” I had never heard this. All I knew was that I'd been named as a curse.

“Oh yes,” Babette assured me. “
Zita
means ‘little rose' as well. And it means ‘seeker.'”

“Seeker,” I repeated. “One who seeks? Seeks what?”

“That is what you will have to decide,” Babette said. “It is a good name, an excellent name. Just right for you.”

I thought about it as I chewed shortbread. I was pleased. It was much better to be a seeker than a servant. Exciting, even.

“Ma'am—Babette, ma'am,” Breckin started, and I sprayed out crumbs as I giggled at his discomfort over calling her by name. He glared at me and continued, “Why are you still here, when witches are forbidden? Isn't it dangerous? Shouldn't you cross the border, go someplace you would be more welcome?”

“Why, child, I'm not in danger,” Babette assured him. “They've stopped hunting witches long since. Even if they were looking, I've protected myself well. And this is my home, you know. I'd lived here a very long time when the king decided to forbid witchcraft. I couldn't leave, nor did I want to. Besides, I have work to do here.”

“Work?” I asked, intrigued. “You mean witch work? Spells and the like?”

“It may come to that,” she replied comfortably. “I don't know, exactly. I just know I'll be needed.”

“By whom?” Breckin asked.

Babette smiled, her bright eyes nearly disappearing in the wrinkled creases of her face. “Well, we shall have to see, won't we? Maybe by you, my lad!” She laughed, and Breckin laughed with her, but I looked at her long and hard. Was she a good witch, or a bad one? The
stories were full of bad witches, casting spells to turn people into this and that or enchant them into endless sleeps or poison them with perfect fruits. Who could say what kind of witch Babette was, appearing as she did out of nowhere, in her ruined cottage?

Again she seemed to read my mind. “You don't have to fear me, my love,” she said reassuringly to me. “I will never do you any harm. I knew your mother, you see.”

I gasped. “You knew her? When? How? Oh, please—tell me!”

“We met while she was gathering herbs one afternoon. She had just married your father. She loved to wander in the woods—like you, my dear. She was very like you.”

“Like me?” I protested. “No! She was beautiful. She was…magical. How can you say she was like me?”

Babette laughed. “She was beautiful indeed. She had your sisters' lovely hair, their vivid eyes and pale skin. But she had your liveliness, your spirit. Before…”

“Before…,” I repeated.

“When she began to have children, and your father's disappointment and sadness began to crush her, that spirit disappeared. It was terrible to watch.”

“Couldn't you have helped her?” I asked.

“After your father banished magic, she did not come to see me anymore. She wanted so much to please him—
it was her undoing. And I could not have helped her, even if she had come.”

“Why not?” I demanded. “You're a witch. You could have worked magic to help her—to give her a son!”

“Witches shouldn't interfere with childbearing. That is a more powerful magic than any we work. There are very few of us who could have an effect on that—make a pregnancy give forth a girl or boy, make a woman fertile who is not. It is too strong a magic for us. It could only end badly. I longed to help her, but I could not.” Babette sighed, and I echoed her inwardly. My eyes were filled with tears. My poor mother!

“Don't cry, child,” Babette said softly. “I could not help her, but I can help you, if you should ever need it. You can always find me here.”

“How can we find you?” Breckin asked. “It was only by accident that we came across your house—I don't think we could ever find it again.”

Babette rose and went to the front window. “Look out,” she said to us. We followed her and peered outside. We saw a tidy front yard, with fall flowers lining a straight walkway that led up to the front door.

“If you come into the woods and picture this path, it will be there. As long as you see it straight and true in your mind's eye, you will be able to walk it up to my door. Don't let the illusion confuse you. The house is
here, as you see it now. The path is here. You will be here too, if you keep your mind focused and clear.”

The shadows were long—it was getting late. I thought suddenly about Cook, waiting for our truffles. What would she do if we did not come home before dark? I could imagine soldiers and servants trampling through the woods, coming upon the cottage, shouldering their way inside. “We have to go!” I said, panicked.

“Yes,” Babette agreed. “Go straight back. But come again. Come, if anything strange or frightening should happen. Or if you just want tea and cookies, come.”

We took our leave of the witch, submitting to her warm hug. I breathed in deeply of the vanilla smell that rose from her clothing, and felt her soft hair against my cheek. It seemed a little like hugging my mother, hugging someone who had known her and loved her. I carried that feeling home with me, using it to ward off my fear of the dark underbrush and looming trees as we trekked through the forest. Night had fallen when we burst out of the woods in sight of the lake and the palace, and I said a quick good-bye to Breckin. He ran off to the stables, on the shore near the land bridge, and I sped over the bridge and into the kitchen to face the wrath of Cook.

T
hat evening we were found out, and I was desolate. From an upstairs window, Chiara had seen me parting from Breckin and had told Cook. Cook was furious, and nothing I said could sway her.

“You cannot be gallivanting around with a stableboy! You are a princess, and if you don't care about your position, you are also a girl who is in my charge! The things that could happen…”

“What could happen?” I asked innocently, though in fact I was not quite so innocent. I'd seen the trysts that maids and footmen arranged and carried out in the
darker corners of the palace. I'd seen the girls who left the palace weeping, pale and swollen, never to return—and the men who left jauntily, whistling gaily but unable to meet anyone's eyes. Cook was not distracted by my question, though.

“Never you mind, Zita! That's neither here nor there. You may not see that boy again, and if you do, he shall be dismissed. Do you hear me?” She waved her rolling pin threateningly.

“Oh, Cook,” I pleaded. “He is my friend. I have so little fun, except when I am with him. Please don't make us stop.” I bent my head in supplication, but looked up from under my lashes to see the effect of my words.

True to form, Cook was moved, and I could see her frown and shake her head. “Poor child,” she said. “But I cannot allow it. What if your father knew? He'd have me out of here before you could say ‘pie.' And where would I go?”

“Father? Why would he care?” I was startled by her words.

“Oh, he keeps an eye on you,” Cook informed me. “Every so often he asks. Other times I see him watching you.”

I was both intrigued and unnerved by the idea of Father watching me. I spent a great deal of my time avoiding him—hiding in broom closets or behind statuary
in the hallway as he passed, dashing down the stairs if I heard him above me, sending others to do work in rooms where I thought he might be. I knew I could not expect his appreciation of my baking to affect his feelings for me much, so I thought it best to keep out of his way. I was used to believing that he did not notice me. But perhaps Cook told the truth. Perhaps he thought of me, wondered what I was doing, watched me. If Cook was right about that, though, then she was right about Breckin. I could not see him again without endangering his position. Father would surely let him go if we were seen together.

“All right, Cook,” I said unhappily. “But can I let him know, so he doesn't seek me out? Can I send him a note?”

Cook was aghast. “A note! Put words on paper addressed to a stableboy? And what if someone else sees that note? Child, what are you thinking? I'll tell him myself, don't you worry. He won't go looking for you, you can be sure.”

I could imagine just what Cook might say to Breckin, and I apologized to him for it in my mind. But there was nothing I could do.

It was several days before my path and Breckin's crossed again. I was sent to gather eggs in the henhouse, a job I despised. I thought chickens were the stupidest creatures
on earth, always panicking over nothing, or sitting still when real danger threatened. Often I entered the henhouse to find birds lying headless and covered in blood, victims of a weasel or fox they'd been too dim-witted to call out against. When I lifted the hens to remove the eggs from beneath them, they pecked at me, leaving marks on my hands and arms, and I longed to wring their necks. I didn't even like eating chicken, for remembering their beady eyes and idiotic cackling.

Breckin was taking Allegra's horse, Bounty, back to the stables after she'd ridden her out, and we walked in parallel for a moment.

“I'm sorry we can't meet,” he said in a low voice, not looking at me. Anyone who peered at us from the palace windows would see us just walking near each other, not communicating in any way.

“I hope Cook did not take a rolling pin to you,” I said, trying not to move my mouth too much. He snorted with suppressed laughter.

“My ears were blistered, but my backside was spared,” he said, and I blushed. “Listen, Zita, why don't we meet at the witch's house? Next Saturday, at noon if you can?”

“If I can,” I said, delighted, and veered away to the henhouse. This time, when the hens clucked and pecked, I was so happy that I playfully clucked back at
them and moved my head as if to peck as well. Startled, they fluttered their wings and jumped off the nests, and I picked out the eggs more easily than usual.

That Sunday night I found myself in the unusual position of having to keep a secret from my sisters. I never had done so before, partly because I knew no secrets of consequence, and partly because any little secrets I did know—which maid loved which servant, whether the underbutler and Chiara were feuding—I presented to my sisters as the price of entry to their bedchamber. They loved to hear my little scandals, sequestered as they were by their position as royal princesses. Nothing ever happened to them, they complained, and so they were thrilled to hear about lovers' triangles and arguments and petty thefts. And when I had met Breckin and got to know him, I'd told them all. In fact, my stories of my rambles with the stableboy were the highlight of the evening, most Sundays, my sisters hanging breathlessly on my descriptions of our treks through the forest and our conversations. But I did not tell them about the witch. I felt guilty, keeping such a big and juicy secret. Still, it was my very own to keep. I did not wish to share it with anyone.

My sisters gathered around to hear about my outing with Breckin for truffles, but I left out the discovery of the cottage and what was inside. To make up for
my secrecy, I repeated as much of our discussions as I could recall, and they listened avidly. As I described the way Breckin's funny freckles danced on his face when he smiled, I heard a sigh and saw Asmita looking dreamily at the fire.

“Do you think he will kiss you?” she asked.

I was shocked. “Kiss me! I should think not!” In fact, it had never dawned on me that he might. It was a very peculiar thought and made me feel quite warm and uncomfortable.

“Of course he will kiss you,” Aurelia said. Her voice was low and unhappy. “You will be kissed before I ever am, though you are not even half my age.”

I jumped down off Anisa's bed and ran to Aurelia, where she sat on the edge of her mattress. “I won't do it, I promise,” I said to her earnestly, holding both her hands in mine. “You shall be kissed first of all of us. It's only fair!”

Aurelia smiled at me, but the little crease between her eyebrows remained, and I realized that it was there all the time now. I reached up to smooth it with my fingers but caught myself and pulled back. I looked at my other older sisters—Alanna, Ariadne, Althea—and I could see a worry and a discontent on each of their brows. They had been waiting for so long. I shook my head, angry all at once at my poor sisters' fate. I meant
what I said. I would not be kissed first. If they could not, I would not.

At the end of that week, my father tried once more to introduce suitors to his daughters. We all watched at a third-floor window as the princes Bazyli and Ade, brothers from Tem, rode up to the palace on very fine steeds, though the princes themselves were, my sisters felt, of the second tier. Bazyli was rather plump—“But he has a kind face!” Althea was quick to point out. And Ade's complexion was quite bad. We all tried to think of something nice to say about his pockmarked cheeks, but the best we could do was Anisa's “Well, he must have been very brave, suffering through the pox.”

The five eldest girls—Adena was now permitted to attend—were to dine with the princes. “You must speak!” I urged them, adjusting their trains and straightening their tiaras. “Don't be shy.”

“It isn't shyness,” Althea said disconsolately. “It's just—I don't know. When they talk to me, I feel that my tongue will not work. It almost seems to swell in my mouth and keep the words from coming. I want to speak, but I just cannot.”

“Nor I,” said Alanna. “But I will surely try!”

They kissed me and hurried down the stairs to the princes. The other princesses and I watched from the upper stair as Father introduced Bazyli and Ade. My
sisters dipped in their most graceful curtsies, extending their hands, but they did not speak, and still silent, they went in to dinner.

Afterward, Cook and I, and Nurse, who had come to get the evening chocolate, were in the kitchen, and we could not help overhearing Father's fury as he stormed up and down the hallway above us.

“Why
do you not speak?” he shouted. “Were the princes not to your liking? Have you so many suitors that you can offend all who come here?”

“I am sorry, Father,” I heard Aurelia say sadly. “Truly, I wanted to talk. But everything I thought to say seemed so silly—I could not get the words out.”

“You are spoiled, every one of you!” Father roared. “I have indulged you overmuch. Too many dresses, too much finery. What need have you of tutors or dance masters—or a nurse, for that matter? You are too old for a nurse! You are spinsters now, not children. I will dismiss them all!”

I stole a glance at Nurse, who had gone very pale.

“Father, no!” Althea cried. “We will do better next time—I promise you!”

“Next time? There will be no next time. No prince will court the mute daughters of Aricin. You are a humiliation to me. Get out of my sight!” There was a flurry of slippers on stairs and the sound of stifled sobs as they
rushed to their room, and then a great quiet descended. Cook pursed her lips.

“Well,” she said, “those princes were not worthy, and our princesses knew it. I would not have spoken either!”

I laughed, but uncomfortably, as I handed Nurse the tray with its pot of chocolate and cups.

“He means nothing by it, Nurse,” I said, trying to comfort her. “I am sure he won't dismiss you. He is just angry. He'll get over it.”

Nurse shook her head. “Poor poppets,” she murmured. “I must tend to them,” and she hurried off upstairs.

When I walked into the forest the next morning for my meeting with Breckin at Babette's cottage, I was trying very hard not to think about the conversation I'd had with my sisters about kisses and kissing. It was difficult. Every time I did think of it, I became a little breathless, and I could feel how I flushed. If I should do that in front of Breckin, surely he would know what I was thinking. I would be humiliated. I would die.

Instead I tried to focus my attention on the path through the wood. At first I remembered just how Breckin and I had gone, but as the trees came thicker and closer, they began to look all alike. In no time I was completely lost.

I sat on a fallen log and tried to think. There had
been a stream, I recalled, and a waterfall. A big oak tree—or was that on the way back? Then I remembered the witch's words to us:
If you come into the woods and picture this path, it will be there. As long as you see it straight and true in your mind's eye, you will be able to walk it up to my door.
I strained, trying to imagine the path to the cottage. There—I could almost see it. Pretty white stones, edged with chrysanthemums, orange and yellow. I thought of it as hard as I could, then stood and began to walk forward. Under my feet I felt the soft carpet of pine needles, heard the crackle of the fall leaves, and then I felt the
crunch, crunch
of pebbles. Startled, I looked up. There was the cottage, trim and tidy, its window boxes overflowing with flowers, even in this cold autumn season.

I gave a shout of triumph and ran forward, up the stairs to the door. There was a knocker on it that hadn't been on the ruined door we'd seen the other time. I looked closely at it. It was carved in the shape of a frog, so cleverly that it almost looked alive. As I thought this, the frog extended one long leg and gave a smart rap at the door. I screamed in shock and stumbled backward, fell down the front steps onto the gravel path. As I sat picking gravel out of my palms, feeling extremely foolish, the front door opened and Babette looked out.

“Oh, my dear, whatever happened?” she cried worriedly. “Are you all right?”

I blushed. “I'm fine,” I said. “It was the knocker—it startled me.”

She frowned at the frog on the door, and it stuck its long tongue out at her. “You should be more careful,” she scolded it. “And more respectful!” Its tongue flicked out again, and I started to laugh.

“Is that an illusion too?” I asked, standing and brushing myself off.

“No, that's an enchantment. It's a real frog, turned into a door knocker. It hopped into my house when it rained the other night, so instead of putting it back out, I just—well, you see.”

“Poor thing,” I said, forgiving it for scaring me.

Babette gave me a look. “I suppose so,” she said thoughtfully. “I'm sure it would rather be on the bank of a pond somewhere. I'll let it go.” She murmured some words, and the frog, green now instead of wood brown, dropped to the top step. A little dazed, it took a moment to collect its wits, then hopped quickly down the stairs and off into the grass.

“You're welcome!” I called after it, and then followed Babette inside. Today she offered peach tea and lovely little cookies with walnuts, flavored with cardamom and butter and rolled in powdered sugar.

“I make these,” I told her, my voice muffled with sugar.

“Do you, dear? A princess who can cook? That's not usual.” She bustled around the kitchen as we spoke, arranging things, tidying up. I had begun to notice that she was rarely still. Even when she sat, her fingers were always moving items on the table, playing with her hair, stroking a cat that appeared from another room and wound itself around our ankles. Her constant movements made me more aware of myself when I moved, and I resolved to sit very still when I sat, just to see if I could.

“I'm not a usual princess,” I pointed out. “I live with the maids, downstairs. My father doesn't speak to me.”