This caused a fair amount of head-shaking from the BPs, several attempts at instruction, and two predictions my prince would be embarrassed to carry any token I’d put my hand to.
I imagined when Jason saw me again, the state of my embroidery would be the least of his concerns. As I struggled with thread and needle, I made plans. If Jason and I worked together, we had a better chance of stealing the goblet. Perhaps he could distract the queen by serenading her. After all, he had that whole sultry, you-can’t-break-my-gaze thing going for him.
In between plotting theft, I listened to the princesses’ conversation, piecing together information about the country, our parents, and the princes. The more I knew, the easier I could pull off being a Capenzian princess. If the others realized I was clueless about everything, they’d undoubtedly realize something was wrong.
The war, I learned, started when Briardrake, one of Capenzia’s vassal lands, decided it didn’t want to be part of Capenzia anymore. They appointed their own king and led a revolt.
Fearing the loss of their own independence, Devanter and Salania, two nearby countries, joined with Briardrake’s army. The resulting war lasted five years. Capenzia won, retaking not only Briardrake, but adding Devanter and Salania to the empire.
The war, like most, came at a great cost. Thousands of people died. Crops were burned and trampled, livestock taken to feed the armies. During a siege in one of the outer provinces, King Rothschild’s brother and sister-in-law were killed, leaving their four daughters orphans—Catherine, Elizabeth, Isolde, and Mathilda.
King Rothschild adopted his nieces, which was why the king had eight blonde daughters around the same age. No explanation was given as to why the last four of us were also so close in age, or why we looked completely different.
After his brother’s death, King Rothschild swore he would make the rebelling countries pay. He was in the process of doing that now—issuing heavy taxes on the people and stripping the nobility of their lands and titles.
“He’s far too vengeful.” Elizabeth sighed and her china doll features settled into frown. “Those who survived the war didn’t start it.”
Catherine nodded, a hint of tragedy finding its way into her expression. “If we can forgive the lands responsible for our parents’ deaths, certainly King Rothschild should be able to.”
Rosamund patted Catherine’s hand soothingly. “Father’s strong temper will eventually run its course. We must exercise patience.”
“Love isn’t patient,” Catherine murmured sadly.
I didn’t comment. I wasn’t sure why the princesses were upset about the king’s foreign policy or what it had to do with love. And besides, I had serious doubts patience would do anything to change King Rothschild’s temper. It was one more reason to steal the goblet and get out of here as fast as I could.
Chapter 11
When the sun went down, we went to our bed chambers, although apartment would have been a more accurate term. The princesses had a sitting room complete with a fireplace, three couches, and more than enough chairs to seat us and several guests. I was relieved to see the room, as it meant Donovan and Madam Saxton wouldn’t be hovering by our beds, watching us breathe while we pretended to sleep.
A door in the back led to another large room, this one with twelve ornate carved canopy beds lined in two rows. Sheer curtains draped each bed, see-through enough that anyone glancing into the room could still check to see we were there. Twelve dressing tables sat in front of the beds, complete with a pitcher, wash basin, combs, pins, ribbons, and mirrors.
Four closet doors interspersed the rows of beds, each closet bigger than my bedroom back home. Wardrobe rooms, the princesses called them. Skirts, bodices, and sleeves of every color and hue hung there, along with hooped skirts, long slips, corsets, coats, riding habits, hats, stockings, and things I didn’t have a name for.
Honestly, how many layers of clothing did people in the Renaissance need to keep warm?
Lady’s maids came into the bedchamber and unlaced, unhooked, and basically extracted us from our dresses. I was glad for the help. My bodice laced up the back, making it impossible to get out of by myself.
Underneath my dress and corset, I wore a cotton chemise and a padded pillow that gave my skirt its overflowing look. As my maid took it off, she called it a bum roll, which I thought sounded like a dance move.
I hadn’t realized I wore a necklace until I was down to my chemise. Then I noticed the golden locket hanging at the bottom of my throat. I held it up, admired a tiny jeweled flower on the front, and flipped the locket open. A small painted portrait of Jason smiled back at me. He wore a yellow silk coat and an accordion-like white ruffled collar that pressed up against his chin.
I supposed Chrissy thought this necklace was one of the special little extras she provided as a godmother. I blushed and snapped the locket shut, worried Jason would see it. There is just something extra stalkerish about wearing a painted portrait of a guy you barely know.
I didn’t want to wear the locket, but if I took it off, one of the servants might find it and show it to the king. It was better to wear it, hidden underneath my clothes.
After getting into my nightgown, I sat at my dressing table where my maid unpinned my hair, brushed it out, and fastened it into a braid. The lanterns on the tables and the glow from a fireplace in the back of the bedroom did a poor job of lighting the room. Everything seemed shadowed and watchful. The maids became more squeamish the later it got, as though the dark magic of ruined slippers might jump out of a corner and grab them.
Finally King Rothschild ushered Donovan and Madam Saxton into the sitting room and called for us to come out and greet our guests. The lady’s maids left the room and the princesses spread out on the couches and chairs. Some talked with Madam Saxton or kissed their father goodnight.
Before the king left the room, he turned and surveyed us. “I expect the lot of you to behave and go to sleep like obedient daughters.”
“We will,” several princesses chorused back.
The king’s gaze turned to Donovan. “I expect you to . . . well, I expect you to fail like every other man who’s stepped into this room. See if you can prove me wrong.”
“I will,” Donovan said.
The king humphed, and shut the door with an authoritative bang. A moment later the outside bolt scraped against the door. We were locked in for the night. Rosamund went to the door and locked it from our side. The outside world was now locked out of the room as well. No one headed to the bedroom. Apparently it was our custom to socialize before sleeping.
I sat down in a chair that was a little farther than those around the fireplace. I didn’t want to stare at Donovan. Enough of the princesses were already doing that—eyeing him with subtle and not so subtle attention.
My gaze only kept wandering to him because he was the enemy. I needed to see what he was doing. The fact that he wore the whole Renaissance thing well—his slightly long hair fit right in with the time period—was secondary.
Madam Saxton walked to the fireplace and put another log on. She’d brought a cloth bag with her, and she pulled out a ball of yarn and sat on the couch by the fireplace. “I’ve some knitting to do while I sit watch,” she said with forced cheer. I imagined she wasn’t thrilled to pull an all-nighter.
Donovan strolled around the room, examining it like a crime scene that might offer up clues. “So, how were your slippers when you put them under your beds?”
Our maids had actually placed our slippers under our beds, but no one corrected him. Several BPs innocently glanced in the direction of the bedroom and shrugged.
“They seemed well enough,” Rosamund said.
Elizabeth adjusted the ribbon tied to the end of her braid. “Perhaps the cobbler made these pairs sturdier than our last.”