At the end of the path she found the silver gate, set with pearls, that even after all these years was as familiar to her as her own bedposts. Wrapped around the gate was the chain of boiled wool links that Galen had used to seal it shut, the knot pinned by a silver knitting needle.
She reached out and fingered the scratchy, boiled wool of the chain. She remembered watching Galen knit it at dinner, the night before the old king had forced them to stay Under Stone. At the time she’d thought he was only amusing her and her sisters, the way he had earlier by giving Pansy a red yarn puffball when she was crying. It wasn’t until later that she understood what he was doing, his calloused fingers working away with the yarn that was so much more than just wool.
Petunia’s mouth went dry. She whirled, grateful that her sweeping cloak hid the chain from the two princes. Their faces were white and strained, as though it hurt them to be so close to the gate, and she felt a small surge of triumph even as she brushed past them, hurrying back along the path and hoping that they would follow. She snapped her fingers to speed them along.
The chain was knotted and pinned on the inside of the gate now.
Halfway down the path she noticed something else that she did not want the princes to see. Someone had chopped a branch off one of the trees. The scar on the trunk was plain to her eyes, glittering slightly. The shimmering black soil was swirled and scuffed as though several people had been there. She immediately went to the other side of the path and began testing the branches, moving with light steps.
“Don’t go into the trees,” Kestilan said.
“Stop her,” Telinros ordered his brother.
Petunia looked back and saw them both standing at the edge of the path, their faces twisted with pain. Kestilan took one step off the path, between two arching silver trees, and hissed. He glared at Petunia.
“Come here.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll come when I’ve finished gathering twigs.”
“Gather them from the path,” he snarled.
“No.”
She kept walking deeper into the woods. She heard slow steps behind her: Kestilan braving the blessed silver. She hoped the pain was excruciating.
“Petunia, come back here!”
“No!”
“Haven’t you learned not to wander into the woods?”
That brought her up short.
It was true that she was in the Kingdom Under Stone because she had been picking flowers that any sane person would have known signaled a trap. But how could she get into any more trouble? And now she was walking in her mother’s silver wood, perhaps the safest place in this realm.
She went forward and came through the trees into a clearing. In the middle of the clearing was a beautiful little house, like an Analousian chalet with a sloping roof and ornately carved wooden balconies. It was all in black, and there was none of the traditional paintings on the walls, but otherwise it looked precisely like a chalet from the southeastern mountains.
“Petunia! Come back at once!”
She stepped into the clearing with Kestilan’s voice growing fainter behind her. Despite her reasoning, she still wished she had her pistol or a silver dagger or something. She gave the top of her bodice a little pat, feeling the matches there. At least she had them.
The door of the chalet swung open and someone strolled out onto the porch. Someone tall and slim, dressed in black, and Petunia froze, thinking it was Rionin. How had he gotten through the wood?
“My Petal! Welcome!”
It was Prince Grigori. Petunia felt as though a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head, and she nearly did run right back to Kestilan then. But anger got the better of her.
“You! What are you doing here?” Petunia demanded. “What is all this?”
He gave her a broad smile of delight. “Have you come to see my grandmother? She has been pining to see you!”
“Your … grandmother?” Petunia’s knees went weak. The grand duchess was here? In the prison of the Kingdom Under Stone?
“She came right after you did,” Grigori said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He came down the steps, holding out his hand. “I am sorry that I tricked you into coming here,” he said. “But it was necessary. Here is where you belong, and so do my grandmother and I. In order to get us here, I had to send you first.”
Petunia wanted to slap him. How could he bring the grand duchess to this place? She would be trapped here in the middle of the woods forever!
“Your poor grandmother! Take me to her at once,” Petunia ordered, even as her stomach tied itself in a knot. Escaping had just gotten even more complicated. She pushed past him and started up the steps.
Looking startled at her vehemence, but nevertheless pleased, Prince Grigori hurried forward to lead her into the chalet. It was all silver and black with violet upholstery, not unlike the Palace Under Stone, but without the seediness and rot that crept around the corners. Prince Grigori led her down the hall and knocked on a tall door inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“Grandmother? Our Petunia is here,” he called through the door.
“Bring her in, bring her in,” came the grand duchess’s reply before Petunia could protest that she was not his Petunia.
Grigori opened the door on a beautifully appointed bedroom. The black furniture was draped in lacy white. There were white curtains over the windows, a white-canopied bed piled with white cushions, and white lace shawls and antimacassars on every surface.
The grand duchess, sitting up in a froth of lace and pillows on the bed, was also completely in white. She wore a white lace cap over her white hair, and a ruffled white bed jacket. She looked older, and yet strangely more alert than usual, and Petunia wondered wildly if this were the real grand duchess. But who else could she be?
Petunia covered her distraction by dropping a curtsy. “Your Grace, it’s such a surprise to see you here!”
“But why shouldn’t I be here? Here is where I belong!” The grand duchess smiled at her, and Petunia felt a chill run down her spine. The old lady fingered the coverlet with evident satisfaction.
“I— I don’t understand,” Petunia stammered. “This is the prison of the King Under Stone! None of us should be here.”
“Prison? Only temporarily,” the grand duchess said as if it were no great matter. “My only regret is that I was not able to join my beloved years ago, to be his queen before he was cruelly murdered.”
“What?” Petunia blinked stupidly at the grand duchess. Was she really saying that the first King Under Stone would have been … was her … Petunia just shuddered, remembering that horrible, bone-white creature on his throne.
Petunia drew her cloak around herself and studied the old woman in the bed. Was this the grand duchess or had Rionin found some woman of the court to disguise? But to what purpose?
“Now, my Petunia,” the grand duchess teased. “Why do you look at me so? Come here and sit on the bed with me, and Grigori will bring us something hot to drink.”
“Have your eyes always been green?” Petunia could not remember.
“Of course they have! What other color would they have been? There have been sonnets written about my emerald green eyes! And they remain as sharp today as they were in my youth—I can see farther than many a young girl!” The grand duchess laughed, showing two rows of very fine white teeth.
Had they always been so fine and white? Petunia could not remember that either, and could not shake the feeling that she was looking at something … other … something that did indeed belong here in the Kingdom Under Stone and not the world above.
“Come, sit here by me, my dear Petunia!” the grand duchess urged her, patting a small space on the cushion-covered bed beside her. “Let me explain it all to you. It’s not quite as horrible as you’ve been led to believe.”
Petunia didn’t move.
“Oh, come now!” The grand duchess laughed again. “Do you think I bite? Come here, girl, and let me talk to you comfortably!”