Princess Of The Silver Woods Part 5

"No, really I'm sure that I can find it in just a moment," said Petunia helplessly.

She was already out the door of her bedchamber and going down the corridor now, with Olga pus.h.i.+ng gently on the small of her back. Really, Petunia was starting to think that the maid didn't want her to write a letter at all, and why would Olga care about such a thing? Perhaps Olga was worried that she would be blamed if Petunia was late for breakfast, so Petunia let herself be pushed down the stairs and into the breakfast room.

The breakfast room was empty save for a footman laying out silverware. He bowed to Petunia and hastily set down the rest of the forks before bowing his way out. Petunia raised her eyebrows at Olga.

"Oh, good, you are early," Olga said. "I am sure that Her Grace and His Highness will join you shortly." Then she curtsied and left, leaving Petunia gaping at her.

"She's completely mad," Petunia grumbled to herself. "But very good with a needle."

With nothing better to do, Petunia took a plate and helped herself to rolls and soft cheese, preserves, and toast. The grand d.u.c.h.ess did not care for coffee but preferred the strong, dark Russakan tea, which Petunia also loved, so she poured herself a cup.

She had had a roll and was spreading marmalade on toast when Prince Grigori and his grandmother entered the room. Petunia dropped her toast and leaped to her feet to curtsy to the old lady, who looked her over with an approving eye.

"That gown suits you. You should keep it." The grand d.u.c.h.ess sank down into the chair that Prince Grigori held for her.

"Thank you, ma'am, I would love to," Petunia said with grat.i.tude. She sat at her own place, self-conscious about the crumbs on the white tablecloth that made it look as though she had eaten at least a half-dozen rolls instead of just one. "If Princess Nastasya doesn't mind, that is."

"She will never notice." Prince Grigori laughed. "My cousin has more clothes than any three young ladies put together!"

He filled a plate for his grandmother and himself and sat down opposite Petunia. He smiled at her and gave a subtle wink. To her embarra.s.sment, Petunia felt the color rising in her cheeks. She took a sip of tea, which was too hot and nearly choked her, and managed to recover without gasping or spitting the dark liquid onto the table.

"We cannot have you languis.h.i.+ng here in that beautiful gown," the grand d.u.c.h.ess declared, fortunately not noticing Petunia's moment of distress. She gave Prince Grigori a meaningful look, and Petunia thought he dipped his chin in a subtle nod. "After breakfast, Grigori must take you around the gardens. It is winter, but your work in your father's gardens is well known, and I'm sure mine will hold some small interest for you."

Did everyone here want her to catch her death of cold? Petunia wondered.

"That sounds lovely," she said.

"My Grigori, I know you feel you must go about your duties, but please be a gallant and keep dear Petunia entertained during her visit." The grand d.u.c.h.ess's voice sounded very studied, as though she were trying to sound spontaneous but had rehea.r.s.ed her words in advance. "I charge you with keeping her from boredom, Grigori. It is your new calling in life."

"It would be my pleasure," Prince Grigori said. He didn't sound quite as rehea.r.s.ed, but he was obviously not at all surprised by the request. "However, the small matter of my duty to the king will still remain," he added, making a face.

Petunia tried her best not to feel snubbed or to read too much into the strange playacting of both grandmother and grandson. She picked up her toast and continued to spread marmalade on it as calmly as she could.

"What duty to the king?"

"I have promised your royal father that I would hunt down these two-legged wolves," Prince Grigori said. "And as yet I have had no luck." He shook his head in self-deprecation.

Petunia felt a little sick. Had her father really ordered Grigori to hunt Oliver and his people, as though they were deer or foxes or ... actual wolves? And if Grigori caught them, what then? Was he supposed to bring them to Bruch, or had her father given Grigori the authority to mete out punishment on the spot?

"How long have you been hunting them?" she finally asked.

"Since King Philippe of a.n.a.lousia's brother was accosted in the autumn," Prince Grigori replied. "They took everything: gold, jewels, even his wife's fur cloak. The only things of value they left the poor lady were her wedding ring and a mourning brooch containing a lock of hair. Things of sentimental value, of no worth to the bandits."

"How kind," Petunia murmured.

Prince Grigori snorted his agreement, thinking that she was being facetious.

"Your men may continue the hunt," the grand d.u.c.h.ess said. "But I would like Petunia to not sit here all day, bored as a brick, dancing attendance on an old lady like me."

"I don't mind," Petunia protested.

"Don't be silly," the grand d.u.c.h.ess said, not taking her gaze from her grandson. Her face was hard. "Grigori can spare some time for you."

Petunia busied herself with her breakfast, and so did the prince. Petunia didn't know what to say. Prince Grigori clearly did not want to argue with his grandmother, and Petunia could hardly blame him. The grand d.u.c.h.ess was so very sharp, both in wits and speech, and there was an air about her as if she could not tolerate the weakness of those around her.

If there was any truth to the legend of the Nine Daughters of Russaka, Petunia thought suddenly, this is precisely what one of them would look like now. Beautiful and hard and full of secrets.

Once breakfast was finished, Petunia walked to the entrance hall with Prince Grigori, where they found Olga waiting with Petunia's cloak and some white mittens. Petunia wondered if her maid had been eavesdropping on the breakfast room conversation, or if she was such a good lady's maid that she simply knew these things through some sixth sense. Grigori's valet appeared mere seconds later with his overcoat, hat, and gloves.

As Petunia put on the mittens, she thought with a pang of the fingerless gloves she hadn't finished knitting. They would not be as warm, but they would look less childish. And she was accustomed to wearing knitwear with considerably more embellishment than this.

"Are you ready?" Grigori sounded impatient, but like he was trying to hold it in check.

"Of course," Petunia said, pulling away from Olga, who was attempting to retie her cloak with a more flattering bow.

Petunia gave the bow a tweak of her own, no doubt only making it crooked, but not really caring. The cloak was so glorious that it could hardly be marred by having a crooked bow. Even Grigori's hard eyes softened as he got a good look at Petunia with her black hair framed by the scarlet hood with its scrolls of silver embroidery. He held out his arm to her, and she took it, wis.h.i.+ng that there were not quite such a discrepancy in their heights. He had to hold his arm down low and she had to reach up a bit more than was comfortable. Still, by the time they had gone out to the path to the gardens, they had fallen into a kind of rhythm with their steps that felt quite natural.

But it soon became apparent that Prince Grigori knew next to nothing about gardens. Petunia had to stifle her giggles as he waved his free arm vaguely at "Some sort of trees. The hedges. A statue."

Petunia finally couldn't conceal her laughter. "That was a rosebush," she said when he looked at her questioningly.

"I beg your pardon?" He stopped and looked back at the rose, which had been trimmed into a small ornamental tree. "It is a very stunted tree, I believe."

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but I can a.s.sure you that it is a rosebush. It has been pruned into that shape."

She gently touched the bare branches with her mitten, wondering what color the rose was. If it was yellow, she might take a slip home, but she guessed that most of the roses in this garden would be white, pink, or red. They always were, in gardens where n.o.body truly cared about such matters. This garden was very clean: everything neatly pruned or wrapped for the winter, the gra.s.s short, the paths swept, but it was ... well, boring. She could almost predict the hedge maze that was sure to appear on their left, just past the large fountain shaped like a nymph pouring water.

"It's true," Prince Grigori admitted with a laugh. "I don't know much about these gardens. Well, can you forgive me? They are all your Westfalian trees and flowers!"

Petunia had to laugh too. But when she looked around to point out some of the better features of the common Westfalian garden in winter-such as they were-she realized that he was wrong. These weren't Westfalian trees and flowers; they were Bretoner.

Her laugh died on her lips as she realized that this was Lady Emily's garden. Oliver's father must have planted it for his new Bretoner bride just the way her father had planted the garden for Maude in Bruch. It was on a less grand scale, true, but all the signs were there that someone, here in the middle of the Westfalian Woods, had tried to make a small corner of Breton.

"What's the matter, princess?" Prince Grigori stopped, looking at her with concern. "Are you homesick already? Or tired from walking? Let me take you back to the house to rest."

"Oh, no, it's ..." She realized that she could hardly tell him what was the matter. She hesitated. "Well, perhaps I am still a little rattled by the accident with the coach."

She looked down at the ground so that he couldn't detect the lie in her eyes. No one but her sisters could ever understand that the possibility of Rionin and his brothers crawling into her bedroom was far more terrifying than being in a runaway carriage.

As she stared at the lawn around them, however, avoiding the prince's piercing eyes, she got another shock. This one nearly made her reel, and as she swayed just a little, Prince Grigori held her even closer.

"Are you faint? Are you ill?"

"No. Yes. Please take me inside," Petunia said, her voice shaking.

His black brows drawn together in concern, Prince Grigori put one arm around her waist and guided her swiftly back to the manor. He must have thought Petunia was nearly swooning because she could not seem to raise her head, she was so busy staring at the lawn.

The winter-dead gra.s.s, still lightly dusted with frost despite the weak sunlight, bore the tracks of a half-dozen men. The trail of footprints led directly from the far end of the gardens to the flowerbed beneath her bedroom window. Any doubt in her mind fled, and she knew that Kestilan and his brothers had slipped out of the Kingdom Under Stone and come after her.

Supplicant.

You're going to be executed; you know that, don't you?" Having said this, Simon lay back on Oliver's bed and watched him pack, not appearing all that concerned.

"Well, I have robbed a great many coaches," Oliver said philosophically. "I suppose that it's only fair that I pay the price for that. Since I cannot give back the money now."

"And Mother approves of this scheme?"

"I am the earl, and the head of this household," Oliver said, all attempt at humor gone.

Oliver was the earl. It was time that he started acting like one.

He finished packing. He didn't own that much: a few changes of clothing, including a suit that had been his father's and that his mother had tailored to fit him. He would save that for his audience with the king, of course. He had some books and a few other effects, but there was no sense in taking them. Simon could have them if Oliver didn't return.

"Karl says you're doing this for the princess," Simon said.

"I'm doing this for a lot of reasons," Oliver said. "And that's really all I'll say about it right now, if you don't mind."

"Fine," Simon retorted, and he rolled off Oliver's bed.

He grabbed his crutches and hobbled out the door in as high a dudgeon as he could manage. Oliver watched without saying a word. He knew that his brother was worried and didn't know how to express it. Oliver also suspected that Lady Emily had sent Simon to see how firmly Oliver was resolved to going to Bruch.

The answer was that Oliver had never been so committed to anything in his life. He had sat for an entire day and night in his room, thinking, and could not see any other path to take. It was partly to do with Petunia, it was true, but Petunia was merely the final straw, if anything. He wanted to tell King Gregor about the shadow creatures in the garden that night at the manor because he did not know who else could help her.

But in wondering how to help Petunia, Oliver had come to the realization that he could not be the one to help her because he could not even help himself. He was trapped. He could not continue thieving to support his people; he would be killed eventually, either by Prince Grigori or some traveler's guard. But beyond that, he and Simon would never be able to marry, would never be able to further their educations or travel, but would spend their lives doling out stolen gold to their people, who dwindled with every season.

The older folk, who followed Oliver for his father's sake, were dying off. And the young people were slipping away to find better lives. Oliver wished them nothing but luck, yet others spoke of them as traitors. So far as they could tell, no one had ever revealed a thing about the old hall or Oliver, though. Oliver used to entertain dreams of going too. Sneaking off in the night, making his way to Bruch or the a.n.a.lousian capital of Amide, and finding work as ... And here his imagination would fail him. Oliver knew how to do only one thing: rob coaches.

It had to stop. He was going to beg an audience with King Gregor, confess all, and seek help for his people as well as for Petunia. He was certain that he would not escape life in prison, that is, if the king didn't order him executed. But he hoped that by turning himself in, his men might earn clemency, though he had warned them to prepare to flee with their families, just in case. And he hoped that by going directly to the king and confessing his connection to Petunia, strange as it was, the king would see immediately to his youngest daughter's protection.

But Oliver was not planning on returning from this trip.

Karl appeared in the doorway of Oliver's room and found the young earl slumped on the bed. His bag was beside him, and the sun was already rising. Oliver had meant to start an hour earlier. And, he thought, eyeing the pack on Karl's back, alone.

"Where are you going? Taking your family away?" Oliver said halfheartedly. Karl's wolf mask was hanging from its strap at his shoulder.

Karl just grunted.

Knowing that it was useless to argue, and that Karl would only grunt in reply anyway, Oliver took up his bag and followed the big man downstairs. Outside the hall he found the rest of his Wolves waiting, all with packs, cloaks, and masks.

"You do understand that I'm going to give myself up?" Oliver looked each man carefully in the eyes. None of them seemed any more nervous than they did before a raid, which was either great folly or great courage on their part. He hoped for the latter.

"We're just as guilty. More so, since we're older and should know better," said Johan, a grizzled man who had been Oliver's father's captain of arms.

"I was hoping that if I turned myself in, I could plead for mercy for the rest of you," Oliver said.

"Lad, it's foolish to a.s.sume that the king will punish you and not us," Johan said. "Better if we all go. Besides which, it's a two-day walk, and you've no food in that little bundle." He shrugged the straps of his own pack, which was twice the size of Oliver's and had a large cast-iron frying pan tied to one side.

He knew if he ordered them to stay, they would just disobey.

"It would be nice to have a decent meal or two before I turn myself over to Gregor," Oliver admitted.

His mother was waiting at the outer gate. She kissed his cheek, her eyes bright but her face resolute and calm. He took her hands and squeezed them.

"I shall do my best," he said to her.

"You always have," she replied. She kissed his cheek again. "One piece of advice, my son. If you fail to get an audience, try to go into the gardens."

"Queen Maude's gardens?" He gave her a surprised look.

"Yes. There's a man who works there, an old man, named Walter Vogel. Tell him what's happening to the princess."

"How could he ... ? Why?"

"If you cannot find him, simply asking after him should direct you to someone who can help."

"Very well," Oliver promised, though he was still confused.

His confusion took his mind off what he would face in Bruch, though. While his mother and his people watched, Oliver led his men into the forest.

They were in Bruch and standing at the gates of the palace. The guards were watching them curiously, and Oliver knew that it was time. Their masks were hidden in their packs, they had stopped at a bathhouse to wash and put on their best suits, and Oliver had run out of excuses. He thought of Petunia, whom he had left three days before in that house with those creatures haunting her.

He gave one of the guards a cold look, pretending that he had not been gawping at the palace for the past few minutes.

"We wish to see King Gregor," Oliver said.

"Do you have an invitation?" The guard on the left looked past Oliver as though he already knew the answer.

"We ... do not have an invitation," Oliver said, doing his best not to sound sheepish. "But we will wait until the king can see us."

"You might be waiting a long time," said the guard. His face softened a little. "Send a servant with a letter stating your business. The king's secretary will arrange an audience."

"How long with that take?" Oliver felt like his heart was in his shoes. His people could wait, but he had a feeling that Petunia could not.

"No more than a month," said the guard.

"A month?" Oliver gaped at the guard.

What if he had urgent news for the king? No wonder Oliver's mother had given up trying to get an audience all those years ago. Save for the upcoming double wedding of two of Petunia's sisters, all was relatively quiet in Westfalin ... and it might still take a month to speak to the king!

"I don't think you understand, we have very important-" Oliver began.

There was a clatter of hooves on the cobbles of the square, and the guard's face became stern. He put out an arm as though to brush Oliver aside.