He was sure that the young women were two of Petunia’s sisters. They were enough like her to give him a little pang, particularly the one in front. She wore a plum-colored riding habit with a daring little hat pinned atop her black hair.
“Your Highness, I’m here on a very important matter,” Oliver blurted out.
“Don’t bother the princesses,” the guard snapped, stepping forward to take hold of Oliver’s arm. Behind him, Oliver heard Karl and one of the others moving closer.
“What’s the matter?”
The princess in the plum-colored gown had reined in her horse and was looking at him curiously. The other riders all reined in as well, and the young man at the front moved his horse around so that he was closer to Oliver, looking wary. The other princess, in blue, leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Poppy, don’t!”
“I need to speak with your father, Your Highness,” Oliver said. “It’s very urgent. It concerns Princess Petunia.”
Poppy’s black brows shot toward her rakish hat.
“You’d better come with us, then,” she said.
She signaled to the guards, who hurried to open the gates. Oliver and his men followed the four horses into the courtyard. The riders gave their mounts to the grooms, and then Poppy took the arm of her betrothed, a tall, blond young man who Oliver vaguely thought might be Norsker or possibly a Dane. A prince, either way, Oliver thought with a little bitterness. Not just a mere earl.
The other sister must be her twin, Daisy, he decided. She had slightly lighter hair and eyes, but their faces were very much alike (save for her suspicious expression), and her partner was a young man with black hair and swarthy skin. The heir to some southern principality, Oliver remembered. Venenzia? That seemed right. Even in the forest, they were able to glean a little royal gossip.
Poppy sashayed into the palace without looking back, taking off her gloves as she went. In the front hall, she asked the butler if her father was still in the council room, leading them all up a broad oak staircase without waiting for a reply.
“Your Highness,” the butler called out weakly. “His Majesty is with his ministers of state.”
“This young man has news of Petunia; they will surely want to hear it,” Poppy said airily.
But at the gallery at the top of the stairs, she turned to Oliver.
“Will they?” Her dark brows were drawn level, and her look could have skewered a braver man than Oliver.
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “It may be a … matter for the family only.”
“We shall see what Father thinks,” she said, continuing up the stairs. “He becomes irate when he is left out of things.” Then she stopped again. “Is Petunia all right?”
“I hope so,” he replied.
She nodded as though that were the correct answer, and led them all to a broad wooden door at the end of the gallery. She knocked twice but then swung open the door without waiting, sailing into a room that contained a long table, several tall chairs, some very startled gentlemen, and the king.
“Poppy!” The king’s face turned red in an instant, and he rose to his feet. “Who are these people?”
“I’m terribly sorry, Papa,” Poppy said, not sounding even slightly remorseful. “But this young man has an urgent message concerning Petunia.”
Oliver bowed to the king. Then he waited. He wasn’t sure what to do. He was fairly certain that he wasn’t supposed to speak first, but the king didn’t say anything. He was also afraid to rise without permission.
“Well?” The king’s roar made Oliver jerk upright out of his bow. “What is this message?”
“I— It’s— I—”
“Spit it out, boy!”
“You see, sire, my name is Oliver, and I—”
“Am I supposed to know you? What are you yammering about?”
Oliver panicked.
“I abducted Princess Petunia last week. I didn’t harm her; I delivered her to the Grand Duchess Volenskaya, but now she is in terrible danger,” he said.
Dreamer
Sometimes when Petunia slept, she was afraid that she was actually awake. If she was awake, that would mean that this was real life, and not a dream. She said as much to Lily, as they crossed hands and turned within the circle of the gentlemen, dancing a raucous Bretoner gigue, surrounded by their pale sisters and the sneering courtiers of the Kingdom Under Stone.
“No, it’s still a dream,” Lily said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. Even in the dream she was shockingly white, and her hands shook in Petunia’s grasp.
“Lilykins, are you all right?”
Petunia tried to stop the dance, but Lily’s partner snarled at her. He wasn’t one of the princes, but a courtier with a face like a fox and nasty ginger hair that wanted barbering. Petunia renewed her grip on Lily’s hands and kept spinning.
“You’re right; it’s just a dream,” she told her sister. “Just a dream, after all. Don’t listen to my silly talk.”
“It has to be a dream,” Lily said. “I can’t bear to think that it isn’t.”
“What?” Petunia did stop dancing, and when Lily’s partner snarled again, Petunia snapped her fingers at her own partner. “Kestilan, he’s bothering me,” she said.
Prince Kestilan grabbed Lily’s partner by the collar and hauled the unfortunate fox-faced man away. Petunia took Lily’s arm and led her to the side of the dance floor. Lily was staring at her in astonishment.
“Oh,” Petunia said, waving an airy hand as they sat in a pair of gilt chairs, “I’ve decided to start treating Kestilan like any other unwanted suitor. He behaves better that way.
“But I was just being silly about it being real life,” Petunia continued. “It must be a dream, it’s not like before: I didn’t walk here through the silver wood; I just went to sleep and whoosh.” She frowned down at the flimsy blue silk gown that she wore. “And I certainly never would have picked this gown myself; it looks like some sort of racy Analousian negligee.”
Lily tugged self-consciously at her own gown, which was lavender and trimmed with black velvet ribbons that made it look, if possible, even more tawdry than Petunia’s gown.
“I’m not sure I should tell you, Pet,” said Lily in her most evasive big-sister voice.
She looked around, seeking out the others, but none of the rest of their sisters could get free of the dance to help her explain. On the dais, the King Under Stone was sitting on his crumbling throne, watching them through hooded eyes. Somehow knowing he had once been a prince like his brothers made what he was now all the more frightening.
“I’m not six years old anymore, Lily,” Petunia said with impatience when she realized that her sister did not mean to continue. “It’s time you all stop treating me like I didn’t know what was happening. I knew. And I remember too.”
“Do you?” Lily looked startled. “Oh, Pet, I’m so sorry! We all thought that … well, we hoped that you were so young you wouldn’t—”
“Remember coming here every night? Remember Rionin leading an attack on the palace to force us to come, even though we were all so ill we could hardly walk? Things like that will stay with a person,” Petunia said, a bit more sharply than she meant to. “I’m sorry.” She put a hand on Lily’s, contrite. “But I’m sixteen now, and it’s all starting to happen again, isn’t it?”
Lily nodded her head, her face grief-stricken.
“We thought we had spared you, at least,” Lily murmured. “But you’re as old as Hya was back then.” Her gaze was drawn to Hyacinth, who danced on the far side of the room with her prince. Though normally quite graceful, Hyacinth looked like a dressmaker’s dummy, twirling woodenly in the arms of her sullen prince. Dancing next to her, Jonquil appeared to be held up entirely by her partner, a grim man with the manners of a much-abused schoolmaster.