Petunia finally saw what Pansy was doing and tried to kick her under the table but it was too wide. Pansy’s voice was so bright it sounded strained. Petunia dropped her knife with a clatter.
“Clumsy!” she exclaimed, and snatched it up again. “I would be delighted to have a tour of the hot houses tomorrow, Grigori. But don’t worry, I shan’t think less of you if you aren’t interested.” She gave a tinkling laugh that was just as false as Pansy’s bright tones, then quickly changed the topic. “Violet, would you like to play for us after dinner? The grand duchess’s pianoforte is very fine.”
“It is of Romansch make,” the grand duchess said, as Violet and her husband, Frederick, exchanged eager looks. “My granddaughter Nastasya plays, but since she went back to Russaka, there has been no one to play for me.”
“I would be thrilled to play,” Violet said, and squeezed her husband’s hand.
“I would love to play a duet with you,” Frederick said, giving Violet a smoldering look.
“Oo-ooh,” said Poppy, and winked at them.
“Poppy!” Daisy poked her twin in the side.
“And perhaps you could play for us while we have a little dancing?” the grand duchess asked. “There are not enough gentlemen to go around, but then, dear Petunia does not dance.”
Petunia looked down at her plate and sighed.
“Petunia loves to dance,” Lilac told the grand duchess. “For quite some time, she was the only one of us who did.”
“But did your father not send a letter, Petunia, when you were at court stating that you were not to dance?” The grand duchess’s green eyes studied Petunia’s still-red face.
“Petunia had been ill, we all had, but the effects hadn’t lingered,” Hyacinth said quickly. “Our father was rather overprotective of us, the way that fathers can be.”
“I certainly know how overprotective fathers can be,” the grand duchess said, her voice dry. “So if that is all it is, I would love to see Petunia dance with my Grigori later.”
Just when she thought her blush couldn’t get any hotter, Petunia felt her face absolutely burning. And it didn’t help that she could not stop thinking of Oliver lying underneath her bed upstairs. Suddenly her made-over gown felt awkward, and the lace at the décolletage was scratching her.
“Are you all right?” Heinrich murmured.
“I’ll be fine,” Petunia said under her breath. She smiled brightly down the table at the grand duchess, who was also watching her. “Shall we have the dancing now, Your Grace?”
“Of course, dear Petunia,” the grand duchess said with a chuckle. She rose and led the way into the drawing room.
Dancing with Prince Grigori was somewhat difficult. He was so tall that she had to either crane her neck to see his face or converse with his coat buttons. It was easier to dance with Galen or Heinrich, who were tall but not freakishly so. Heinrich, despite the old injury to his leg, was a steady, reliable partner, and Galen was quite skilled. Violet’s Frederick was the shortest gentleman present, but he liked to add little flourishes when he danced.
Daisy took a turn at the pianoforte twice, to let Violet dance with her husband, and Petunia even gave in to the grand duchess’s urging and played a valse, the only dance music she knew.
“Now look at my Petunia,” the grand duchess said. “She dances, plays music, gardens, and knits! Such an accomplished girl on top of all her beauty!”
Petunia didn’t have to fake an embarrassed smile, fanning herself to cover her warm cheeks—would the blushing never stop this eve ning? Looking at Iris’s face, Petunia could see that she was preparing some biting comment and frowned at her sister.
The grand duchess held out a slender hand, elegantly gloved in gray silk. “Dear Petunia, please help me to my room. I will retire for the night.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Petunia said at once.
They all made their bows and curtsies, and then Petunia took the fine-boned hand and helped the grand dame to rise. They went out of the drawing room and past the stairs to the long hallway that led past the ballroom and the portrait gallery to the grand duchess’s apartments. As she rang for the grand duchess’s maid, Petunia tried to assume a casual air.
“Do you spend a great deal of time looking out at the gardens?” she asked as the grand duchess sank down on a sofa near the windows.
Petunia couldn’t help but notice that, while the curtains were open, the windows were not. She was sure that the windows of her own bedchamber were wide open, letting in the icy air. And Kestilan.
“Not during the winter,” the grand duchess said with a chuckle. “At least, not during the Westfalian winter. So bleak! Russakan winters, you remember, are a fantasia of snow and ice. But this?” She shrugged one silk-covered shoulder at the window. “I don’t know why my maid hasn’t drawn the curtains to night.”
There was a faint scratch at the door, and her maid entered. The woman gave a dismayed shriek when she saw her mistress sitting before the uncovered windows and rushed to release the heavy velvet curtains from their embroidered ties.
“Still and all,” the grand duchess said, ignoring her fussing maid, “these old bones do wish for a place where there is no snow or ice. Where there are only gentle winds to stir the branches of the trees and the sand along the shore of the lake.”
“What lake it that?” Petunia asked, frowning. She had a sudden image of the black lake in the silver wood, but cast it aside. “Is that where you lived as a child?”
“Nowhere I’ve been,” the grand duchess said, shaking her head. “Just a place I wish existed.”
“Oh,” Petunia said. Again she rejected a vision of the Kingdom Under Stone. The maid was now making motions about removing her mistress’s gloves and jewels. “Well, good night, Your Grace.”
“Good night, my dear Petunia,” said the grand duchess. Her green eyes fixed sharply on the maid at last. “Good heavens, Ilenya, have you always been this incompetent?”
Petunia, forgotten, backed away. The grand duchess’s sharp tone and the flash in her green eyes made Petunia feel distinctly uncomfortable, but she couldn’t think why. They reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t recall who. Grigori’s eyes were brown.
Petunia hurried up to her own bedchamber, where Pansy was already being undressed by Olga. Thinking that Oliver probably had not eaten all day, Petunia rang the bell and ordered the footman to bring a plate of something. The entire time, she was intensely aware of Oliver lying under her bed as Olga helped her and Pansy undress. Petunia forced herself to nibble one of the small sandwiches the footman brought, and Pansy took another, then they both protested loudly at the idea of having the plate taken away, though neither of them was touching the rest of the food. Petunia wondered how she would get the food to Oliver, or talk to him, if Olga insisted on sitting in the room, sewing all night, as she sometimes did.
Inspiration struck as Pansy knelt by the side of the bed to say her prayers. Petunia was not much for praying, personally, though she had had religious instruction by Bishop Schelker alongside her sisters. Still, she knelt beside Pansy and ignored her sister’s startled look.
“I’m so tired, I think I will pray aloud to night so that I don’t drift off,” Petunia announced.
“All right, but don’t take too long about it,” Pansy grumbled as she climbed into bed.
Petunia ignored Pansy and Olga, who was hovering nearby, and bowed her head over her folded hands. She took a moment to order her thoughts, and then plunged in.
“Dear God,” she said loudly. “Please protect my sisters and their husbands and their husbands-to-be. Please bless my father, and Dr. Kelling, and Bishop Schelker. Please watch over all of us here at the estate, especially the grand duchess, because she is innocent and frail. Please watch over Prince Grigori, that he will not be tempted to do evil, and Olga, that she will also be good.” Petunia shifted on her knees, feeling Olga’s eyes boring into the back of her head. “Please guide Galen and Heinrich in their studies, since they do not know where to direct their attention at this time, and please help them find a way to guard us all from our nightmares. Amen.”