“All right,” she said reluctantly.
Oliver dodged through the crowd to Hyacinth. She was looking around for her sisters, but her partner wouldn’t let go of her elbow. Oliver took her free hand in his, leaned close, and whispered. “It’s Oliver, come with me.”
“I have to find Violet; she hates loud noises,” Hyacinth babbled to her partner.
She yanked free of her prince, and then Oliver was leading her through the throng as swiftly as he could. They were in the main hall, and he saw tears streaking Hyacinth’s face, when they heard the cry.
“Our brides!”
“Run!” Hyacinth screamed.
She let go of Oliver’s hand and raced for the doors. Oliver stayed close on her heels. When they were through the enormous front doors, he barred them with a silver twig. It seemed foolish: so small and fragile, balanced between the two great latches. But when their pursuers rattled the doors, the silver glowed and no one came through.
“Hya! Hya!” Rose called.
“Come on,” Hyacinth said blindly to Oliver.
He unfastened the short purple cape and gathered up the longer cloak he wore beneath it, following her to where Rose and Lily were waiting in one of the two boats left. He pointed Hyacinth toward the empty boat, but Rose stopped him.
“Don’t,” she said, “Galen …”
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, stepping back.
Hyacinth climbed into the other boat with Rose and Lily, and Oliver pushed off, leaping into the bow at the last moment. Hyacinth and Rose were in the rower’s seat, and Lily was in the stern. In her hand she clutched two silver knitting needles, and her face was beautiful and strained.
The princes had broken the door to the palace open before their boat reached the other shore, the silver twig proving to be a temporary lock. The princes came down to the water, the courtiers following behind, and four of the princes jumped into the remaining boat.
There was no sign of Galen.
When their boat crunched onto the far shore, Oliver leaped out and dragged it farther up the sand. The three princesses climbed out and began to run up the path. Rose had tears streaming down her cheeks, but she didn’t look back.
“Are you wearing Petunia’s cloak?” Hyacinth said suddenly, slowing down a little to stare at him.
“Yes,” Oliver said, taking her arm and hurrying her along. “I knew she’d want it, and she left it in her room. I couldn’t think of how else to carry it.”
“You’re a good boy,” Hyacinth said.
They reached the gate at last, and the others were waiting. As soon as he saw Oliver, Heinrich opened the silver-and-pearl gate to reveal a golden staircase. Lily and Rose stayed back, and so did Petunia, but the others began disappearing up the shining stair.
Oliver took off both cloaks and helped Petunia into hers. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, and then Heinrich was telling her to hurry.
“I don’t think so,” said a voice, and there was the sound of a pistol cocking.
Oliver turned, one arm still around Petunia, and found Prince Grigori only a few paces away. He was holding a pistol and smiling. Behind him stood Olga, her face blotchy from crying.
“Petunia stays with me,” he said. “The rest of you must go back to the palace.”
Violet, on the lowest stair, called out. “I have a husband waiting for me!”
“Your husband is waiting for you back there,” Grigori said, jerking his head toward the Palace Under Stone. “When your children are grown they will break the king free of this prison and we will rule Ionia together!”
Poppy snorted. “I’m sure Rionin will be delighted to share his throne,” she muttered.
Petunia couldn’t take it anymore. “When will you stop?” She stepped forward, anger clear in every line of her body. “When will any of you stop?”
And on the last word, she threw her red cloak at Grigori. It went over his head and down over his upper body, covering the pistol. He struggled and fired a shot. The bullet tore through the velvet and went wild past Oliver’s shoulder.
“Run,” Oliver said.
But they never reached the stair. Crumpled on the black soil just inside the gate was Rose, her hands clutched to her left side. Heinrich knelt over her, and Lily held her head.
“Not Rose,” Petunia whispered, and her lower lip began to tremble.
“One less to plague me,” Prince Grigori said, freeing himself of the cloak.
Oliver didn’t hesitate. He drew his own pistol, aiming for the Russakan prince’s heart. But before he could fire, someone else did. The bullet found its mark and Grigori fell without a sound. Screaming, Olga threw herself on the fallen prince.
Oliver wheeled and saw Lily lower one of Heinrich’s pistols. Petunia knelt on Rose’s other side, sobbing in great gulps. Over the sound of her weeping, Oliver could hear booted feet stomping up the path toward them.
He met Heinrich’s gaze.
“Take them up the stairs,” Oliver ordered in a voice that was suddenly not his own. It was Karl’s and Johan’s, and even his father’s half-remembered bark. “Carry Pet if you have to.”
“But Rose—” Petunia began.
“More power for the spell if I stay,” Rose murmured.
“She’s right,” Oliver said. “Give the signal, Heinrich. We have to start now.”
Lily and Petunia kissed Rose as Heinrich pulled them away. When Petunia’s foot was on the bottom stair, Heinrich tookout a pistol and fired two quick shots in the air. Oliver knelt by Rose and raised her up to lean against his chest.
“You know what to do?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I helped Galen in his studies.”
Oliver began pulling things out of his pockets: a wand of silver, a bag of black soil mixed with powdered diamonds, an intricate knot of unbleached wool. He laid the knot on Rose’s lap and scattered the soil and diamond dust around them both. Then he helped her take a silver knitting needle out of her bodice. It was red and sticky.
“I never meant to leave Galen behind, anyway,” she whispered. “Not when he came back for me. He always comes back for me.” She gripped the bloody needle, looking like a sorceress from a story, all terrible beauty.
He took out a long silver branch of his own and held it up like a sword. He was ready.
The dark princes rounded the corner of the path and headed for Oliver and Rose, their faces twisted with rage, but it didn’t matter. There was a strange tug in Oliver’s chest, and then he heard a voice that boomed over the sound of the princes’ shouts, over the wails from Olga as she crouched over Grigori’s body, over the sound of Rose’s quiet tears.
The voice was that of the good frau, and yet it could not be the good frau, for it was so loud that it made Oliver’s ears hurt, and so beautiful that it brought tears to his eyes. It was old and young and beyond time itself. He loved the voice, and feared it too.
The voice went on and on for an age, and all the while Oliver forced himself to think, as he had been told, of a wall of silver without door or break, a wall that ran around the Kingdom Under Stone. He had no magic of his own, but Walter Vogel had told him it wouldn’t matter: the strength of his spirit, his conviction, would be enough.
Oliver thought so hard about this wall, and held so tightly to Rose, that when the wood began to burn he never noticed. His eyes were shut anyway, and the pulling in his chest was so strong that when hands began to drag him backward through the gate, he only held tighter to Rose. They must not be separated. Together they would let the good frau draw all the strength she needed from them, and then the silver wall would have no seam.
The voice stopped, and Oliver fell into darkness.
Cloaked
Petunia only paused long enough at the top of the stair to see that her sisters and Heinrich were safe. Then she picked up her skirts and started back down.