“The time for slumber is upon us,” Rosamund said, her voice as gentle as a lullaby. “Before we retire, we wish to toast you and your land. ’Tis our custom for visitors.” She held out a goblet to Donovan. “Come stand with us by the fire.”
He stood and took the goblet warily. “How thoughtful.”
Rosamund looped her arm into his and led him toward the fireplace where the other princesses were waiting. Philippa handed me my glass and we followed. Madam Saxton still sat on the couch, her knitting in her lap and a goblet in her hand. I supposed her drink had sleeping potion in it as well as Donovan’s.
The room was warmer near the fire, brighter, and yet it still felt like the room was cloaked in shadows. Rosamund held up her drink to get everyone’s attention. “To Prince Donovan.”
The princesses lifted their cups. “To Prince Donovan,” they repeated and sipped their drinks.
I took a sip as well. A spicy apple cider slid over my tongue. It was room temperature and not as sweet as the apple cider from my century, but still, it was the best food I’d had all day.
Donovan raised his goblet to his lips and seemed to swallow, although I imagined when he lowered his glass, it would still be full.
“To the land of Hamilton-Ohio,” Philippa called, and we drank a second toast, this one with entreaties that Donovan tell a story about his land.
“But not until we’re done toasting,” Beatrix added.
“To Capenzia,” Kayla chimed. Everyone repeated the country’s name, Madam Saxton the loudest.
After the murmurs of patriotism died down, Donovan raised his glass. “Allow me to make a toast.” He smiled, and it had a challenging tilt to it. “To secrets and the curiosity that drives us to figure them out.”
Rosamund laughed, a light giddy sound. “I know not if we should toast that. Haven’t you heard the saying, curiosity killed the cat?” The look she gave him verged on feline satisfaction. “We wouldn’t want that.”
Donovan clinked his glass into hers anyway. “Fortunately, I’m not a cat.” He took a step away from her and stumbled, sloshing some of his drink onto the floor. “Oops, sorry about that.” He pulled a handkerchief from the bag on his belt, and bent down to wipe up the mess. As he leaned over, more drink sloshed from his cup onto the floor. “Oops again.” He chuckled at himself. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My balance is off.”
Or he was trying to dump his entire drink on the floor.
Rosamund took the glass from his hand before he could. “Here, let me refill this for you.”
Strike one for him.
Donovan wiped up as much of the mess as his handkerchief could absorb, then straightened and tossed the handkerchief onto one of the chairs. “What were we toasting again? Cats, was it?”
He took his glass from Rosamund and lifted it. “To cats. Without them . . . the world . . . would have more mice.”
“Perhaps you should sit down,” Rosamund suggested.
“Perhaps.” He headed toward a chair that stood by a planter. In the fairy tale, the soldier had dumped his drink there.
Rosamund looped her arm through his and led him past it. “You’ll find one of these chairs more comfortable.”
Philippa, taking her cue from Rosamund, quickly sat in the seat by the planter so Donovan couldn’t make an excuse to return to it.
Strike two.
He turned from the chair Rosamund suggested and walked to the couch where Madam Saxton sat. No planters stood nearby, so Rosamund didn’t protest the change.
Madam Saxton lifted her glass to Donovan as he sat beside her. “To less mice,” she slurred. The sleeping potion must work fast. “They’re nasty little vermin and they never clean up after themselves.”
Donovan clinked his glass into hers. “But you’ve got to admit,” he slurred back at her, “Mickey’s got one fine theme park.”
“What’s a theme park?” she asked.
“Whatever a theme is driving at the time.” Donovan tilted his head back, laughed, then raised his glass to his lips again.
Rosamund sent me a superior look, one that proclaimed, “See, he’s drinking the potion.”
I wasn’t convinced. I watched Donovan for another moment, studied his too broad smile and half shut eyes.
Rosamund handed me a spare handkerchief. “Clean up the rest of the mess and hide the handkerchiefs with our soiled laundry. We mustn’t leave any evidence father might find.”
While I cleaned, the princesses talked demurely. A few took off their caps and undid their braids. Donovan hummed the theme song from the Pirates of the Caribbean. Madam Saxton laughed like a school girl, encouraging him to hum the tune again. She tried to join in. By the time I’d finished hiding the handkerchiefs, they were both silent. Madam Saxton’s chin rested against her chest, eyes closed. Donovan’s head lolled back against the couch and his breaths became deep and slow. The firelight made his features look warm, vulnerable somehow.
Rosamund strolled to the couch to check on them. “Prince Donovan, let me take your goblets from you.”
Neither responded. She snapped her fingers near Donovan’s face. Still no response. He seemed like the perfect picture of sleep.
Rosamund picked up the cup from Madam Saxton’s lap. It had tipped over and a few drops spilled onto her dress, but beside that the goblet was empty. Next Rosamund took the cup from Donovan’s loose grip. She looked inside, smiled, then tipped the glass upside down to show us it was empty.
“Well,” Rosamund said, carrying the glasses to the nearest table. “That’s done. Time to dress.”
I still didn’t believe he’d drunk it. Not when Jade Blossom had warned him not to. I padded to the couch to search for proof he’d dumped it out. I scanned the cushions for wet spots, the floor for puddles, then leaned over him and looked behind the couch. Nothing.
Donovan’s breathing changed. He held his breath for a moment, then breathed in deeper as though wanting to move closer to me. I glanced at his face.
It was absent of any expression. His sandy blond bangs fell across his forehead, untouched. The lips that had so often twisted into a smirk were slightly open, relaxed. His dark eyelashes were closed, resting against his cheeks.
Perhaps his uneven breathing had been coincidence. Sometimes people breathed oddly when they slept. I kept leaning over him, checking for any twitch in his muscles that would reveal he knew I was there. “Can you hear me?” I whispered.
No response.
It felt odd to be this close to him, close enough I could smell a lingering scent of spices that clung to him. Close enough I could have easily run a finger across his cheek.
He didn’t move. He kept breathing deep. Perhaps this was strike three and he really was out.
Chapter 12
Penny came up behind me. “Come on. If you make us late, Rosamund will totally flip out.”
Kayla smirked as she walked by us. “Looks like Sadie can’t take her eyes off Prince Donovan.”
I straightened, moved away from the couch, and headed to the back room with the other princesses. “The king isn’t really going to kill him after three nights, is he?”
“Of course he is,” Clementia said with a laugh. “And then he’s going to sell us to gypsies.”
We went to the wardrobe rooms and helped each other get back into our gowns. I was especially slow. I’d never tied sleeves onto a bodice or laced a corset before.
We did our own hair. The others not only rolled and braided their hair into flawless coils, they managed to weave ribbons throughout them. I tried, failed, tried again, and finally managed to pin up a lopsided bun. It looked like a small animal was desperately clinging to my head.
When we finished getting ready, Rosamund lifted the edge of a tapestry by the window. A small silver key dangled from a hook on the underside. She inserted the key into a notch on the hearth, and the whole thing slid sideways, fire, smoke and all. The fireplace just stood there crookedly, apparently unaware of the change.
Impossible. No, not impossible, magic. The fairy queen wanted us to come, so she’d provided the portal.