Petunia smacked his upper arm. “So what are you doing here, other than spying on us in our underthings?”
“I came to warn you,” he said, trying to stand up straight and appear trustworthy.
Both princesses immediately looked wary, exchanging glances. “Warn us of what?” Petunia asked. She studied him with those blue, blue eyes and Oliver wondered all over again what he was doing here.
“The Nine Daughters of Russaka,” he blurted out at last, before he lost his nerve.
Petunia blinked, but she didn’t say anything.
“The grand duchess is one of the Nine Daughters of Russaka,” he continued. “And they … their sons that they had in the tower … were the sons of the King Under Stone.”
“We know about the grand duchess,” Petunia said. “Though I still don’t believe it entirely. And who told you about the King Under Stone?” There was a crease between Petunia’s brows.
“Princess Poppy,” he replied. “It was in a book that she gave me, while I was in Bruch. So I guessed that … that you and your sisters, you were entrapped by the King Under Stone all those years ago, and that’s why your dancing shoes wore out every night. Now that you’re here as her guests, I thought you should know about the connection between them. Also, I found something in the hothouse where I saw the shadows coming up out of the floor, and I wondered if Crown Prince Galen had had a chance to look at the floor there.”
The princesses seemed slightly stunned by all the words that had come out of Oliver’s mouth, and neither of them said anything for minute. Then Pansy took a tentative step toward the door, and Petunia stopped her with a hand on her older sister’s arm.
“Are you accusing the grand duchess of being in league with the King Under Stone?” Petunia didn’t look shocked, but her face had gone hard, and Oliver’s heart sank a little.
“Yes?” He wished that it didn’t sound like a question. “I mean, I don’t know. But I do know … or, er, I believe that she did have one of the King Under Stone’s sons. Did you know he had twelve? All with noblewomen?”
“Yes,” Petunia said, and now her voice was wintry. “I knew.”
“Oh,” Oliver said. He suddenly felt extremely foolish. “So, I just, was worried that you might not be safe,” he said lamely.
Oliver could feel his ears burning. Why had he come? They probably knew much more than he did. Princess Poppy had probably just given him the books because he was bored and she had them at hand, and not in some roundabout plea for help.
“You saw shadows in the garden?” Petunia asked.
“Yes,” Oliver said. “The first night that you were here. They looked like men, or the shadows of men, and they ran through the garden toward your window,” he told her, hoping that at least this bit of information would be useful.
Petunia looked toward the window, thoughtful. “You say they came out of one of the hothouses? And you found something there? What?”
Before he could answer, though, Pansy spoke up. “If you won’t let me get Rose and Galen,” she complained, “at least let me lock the door, Pet.”
Petunia let go of her sister, who hurried to lock the door.
“Keep one ear to the door, please,” Petunia told her. “Olga never lets me out of her sight for very long. And she has her own key.” She sighed heavily.
“I found wax, clear wax all over the floor leading to the door of the hothouse,” Oliver said, before he put his boot in his mouth by saying that Olga sounded more like a jailer than a maid. “It looks like someone has written something in the wax, but I can’t make it out.”
Petunia rose up on her toes, seemingly excited. “So you’ve seen Kestilan and his brothers, and you think you know how they get into the gardens here?”
“Kestilan?” There was that name again. Oliver fought down an irrational surge of jealousy for this mysterious being who took up so much of Petunia’s attention.
“That’s the name of the youngest prince,” Petunia clarified.
“Yes, then, I suppose I did see him,” Oliver told her. “I didn’t really know what he—they—were.”
“They are the sons of the King Under Stone,” Petunia said. “But they aren’t supposed to be here, in this world. They’re supposed to be shut up in the prison that was created to hold their father.”
“Someone’s coming,” Pansy whispered.
Oliver slung the cloak over his shoulders and fastened the clasp.
“Get back under the bed,” Petunia murmured. “And listen.”
“All right.” Oliver crawled back under the bed and lay still, trying to keep his breathing as quiet as possible.
“We all took a tour of the gardens this afternoon at Galen’s insistence,” Petunia said, speaking in a quick, low voice. “Grigori led us around, though, and I guess he just thought that Galen was interested because he used to be a gardener. But Grigori said the hothouses were boring, and we didn’t go anywhere near them. So we’ll have to try tomorrow—”
The doorknob rattled.
“My princesses, it is time for dinner,” called the maid through the door. “Why have you locked the door? Open, please.”
Oliver bit back a laugh as Petunia said something under her breath that was not fit language for either a princess or indeed a young lady of any rank. He settled in for another nap, and wished he’d asked her to bring him something from dinner. It was going to be a very long night.
Prayer
At dinner, Petunia could not stop thinking about how much Prince Grigori looked like the princes Under Stone. She had never thought about it before, but with his pale skin and black hair, he could easily be one of them. But did that mean that he was part of some larger plot? Was he helping the princes? How could she find out? She caught herself staring at him, eyes narrowed, and tried to concentrate on the food instead.
“Pet is always a bit out of sorts in the winter,” Pansy suddenly said, in a lighthearted tone that made everyone turn their attention to her. “It’s because she’s so devoted to Mother’s gardens, you know. Anytime she can’t be out digging in the dirt she becomes restless.” Then she blushed. “Not that she likes being dirty, or rooting around in the mud,” she clarified.
“Really, Petunia? I knew that you were fond of gardens, but I didn’t know that you liked gardening itself!” Prince Grigori smiled at her, and Petunia gritted her teeth over the indulgent look on his face. He probably thought she liked picking flowers for table arrangements or some other ladylike pursuit.
“Yes,” she said, slicing a sprout in half with unnecessary vigor. “I have been working with my father and our head gardener for several years in the hot houses, perfecting my father’s hybrid roses. We’re trying to create a yellow rose that blushes pink in the center.”
To her satisfaction, this did appear to impress the prince.
“You are creating new roses?”
She liked that he did not seem surprised that she was the one creating the roses, but more that such a thing was possible. She nodded her head graciously at him.
“Yes, we are. It’s quite exciting, really.”
Orchid made a face. “It’s really not, unless you’re also obsessed with roses,” she said.
Petunia glared at her.
“It’s quite complicated,” Rose put in. “And I do think my father is a little disappointed that the only one of us with a gift for gardening is Petunia. I think he hoped for three or four who would enjoy talking about grafting and cross-pollination.”
“I have never heard either of those terms,” Prince Grigori admitted.
“Then you should certainly have Petunia take you to the hot houses tomorrow afternoon and explain them,” Pansy said with an excessive amount of enthusiasm. “And Galen and Heinrich should go with you; they’ve both worked in the gardens as well.”