by Bridget Zinn
They pointed at another girl and shouted, “You’ve got the scariest costume ever!”
“Oh my God, it’s soooo creepy!”
Kyra leaned out the window for a better look at this Beltane horror and gasped.
The little girl they were pointing at was dressed in black from head to toe, with long curly black hair, and her face made up into a grimace. Eerie green potion bottles dangled from her wrist and belt. “Watch out!” the girl in black shouted. “The Princess Killer is going to get you!” She lunged at her friends and they ran off screaming.
Kyra’s stomach twisted.
The horror was her.
She sat down hard on the soft bed. She’d become a scary costume.
Not exactly how she had expected her life to turn out.
Wherever he was, Fred must be seeing the same thing. Was there any possible way he could miss the connection between the Princess Killer costumes and Kyra?
Right then, more than anything, she just wanted to run away from it all.
But she couldn’t. She didn’t have time to even entertain the fantasy of running away. What she needed was to go get Rosie and pick up the hunt again.
First, she had to find something that truly belonged to the princess. Luckily, Kyra had a good idea of exactly where she could track down such a thing. The tailor’s.
But she’d have to wait until nightfall, when all the shops were closed up tight.
Kyra reapplied her wholesome dairymaid glamour and went out.
The crowds had grown but were mostly subdued, lining the sides of the streets and waiting for the yearly processional of the straw-stuffed Winter King and the Cherry Blossom Princess, a local girl chosen for the role. An honor guard of drunken men and saucy ladies-in-waiting would make its slow way through the city, collecting revelers in its wake, until reaching a fir tree–encircled clearing at the city’s outskirts. There, the Cherry Blossom Princess would light the Beltane bonfire and her guard would throw in the figure of the Winter King.
Kyra found the perfect spot: a seat in a cozy pub near the parade route. Through the wide-open double doors was a view of the main street.
She sat at the end of the bar, ordered dinner and a mug of hot cider, and settled down for an evening of people-watching. Steaming plates of food appeared in front of her, and the heady aroma of parsley butter wafting off the peas and mashed potatoes almost made her swoon face-forward into her meal.
And then she saw something that did make her duck down: right outside the window was Hal.
This was ridiculous. She was wearing a glamour. It didn’t matter who saw her.
Still, she kept an eye on Hal and was relieved when he finally walked away.
By the time Kyra finished eating, CLOSED signs had appeared in shop windows up and down the street.
She worked her way through the throngs of people waiting for the Beltane Eve parade, and took a left down a side alley.
Unless memory failed her, this was the way to the tailor’s secret back-door entrance.
It was, in fact, the only way Kyra—or Ariana—had ever gone inside.
Ariana and Kyra’s adventures outside the palace had taken a toll on their clothes. But it would not do for the princess—or the princess’s best friend—to be seen entering a tailor’s with a stack of ripped and muddied dresses and trousers. And though Ariana had a coterie of dressmakers and seamstresses at the palace, they would all make a fuss about any damage to her clothes. How on earth could she have gotten those stains when she was supposed to have been in the palace studying with Kyra all afternoon?
So Kyra and Ariana had found someone to help them out.
The tailor at Gabrielle’s Fine Dresses had no problem taking up their cause. Or their coin. Within a few months, Ariana was given her own locked closet, under the name Choizie Laurent.
The princess had never stopped using Gabrielle’s. Even when the “cosmetics lessons” from Kyra ended, and their adventures became fewer and further between, Ariana had always needed someone she could trust outside the palace to repair the questionable damage that always seemed to befall her clothes.
Kyra just hoped that Ari had left something behind for Rosie’s basket. Gabrielle’s would definitely be easier to break into than the palace.
In the darkened alley, Kyra came upon the dress store’s back entrance.
She blew Release powder into the lock. She heard something give way inside, but when she tried the door it held firm. Strange.
Taking a quill from her holster coated with a strong dose of Melt elixir, she slipped it into the crack between the doors and ran it up and down in a steady line over the bolt. The metal softened beneath the quill until finally her needle snapped through in a clean break. She pushed again and the door opened.
She snuck inside, closing the door behind her. The dark room smelled like clothes pressed with wood-fired irons, fabric glue, and raw silk.
There was something creepy about Gabrielle’s Fine Dresses at night. The wooden mannequins stared at Kyra with their blank painted eyes, and shadows and light from the paradegoers’ torches outside rippled and pooled in the bolts of fabric lying across the worktables. Everything seemed to be constantly moving and changing.
Kyra went through the curtain into the back room, where the row of closets for special customers was located. The only light now came from Hal’s necklace around her neck.
The tiny glow was enough to shed a soft light on the closet-lined room. The half-open door to the side led to a storeroom, where a pile of mannequins lay stacked on the floor like bodies. Kyra shivered. They looked even creepier than when they were dressed and on display in the store.
Hastily, she turned to the row of closets and found the one with CHOIZIE LAURENT printed in small cursive lettering above it.
Inside hung a green wedding dress.
It had been ripped to shreds.
ARIANA’S WEDDING DRESS. For her arranged marriage to a man she’d never met and was certain to hate.
Ariana did not want to marry at all.
“Where would I be if I hadn’t married, Ariana?” her mother had insisted. “Do you think I could run both the country and the King’s Army? The country needs two rulers. That’s the way it is.”
Ariana argued that she could rule alone with trusted advisers at her side, and that even if she did marry, she wanted to choose the man. Anyway, there was absolutely no reason why some stranger should be king just because he was married to her.
But the queen had only shaken her head. “This idea that you might not get married at all? Nonsense. You’re a royal; the land requires your marriage. The Nuptial Bond ceremony binds a ruler not only to her partner but to the land itself. A marriage contract is powerful magic, Ariana. It means you belong to someone.”
Exactly what Ariana didn’t want.
Which was why the plaintive letter from Ariana a month before her coming-of-age birthday was such a surprise.
My dearest Kitty,
The end of the world has come: my hand is being taken in marriage—against my will! But not until June. There is still time to make mother see reason. Please hasten to the palace to help me persuade her.
And to celebrate my birthday—possibly my last as a single woman.
I remain
Stubbornly yours,
Ariana
Kyra had dropped everything and rushed to Wexford. The horse couldn’t go fast enough over the ice-covered roads.
When Kyra arrived, she’d found the palace bustling with wedding preparations, even though the wedding itself wasn’t for months. Workmen with ladders and seamstresses carrying large bolts of fabric dashed through the halls in every direction, barely dodging one another.
Kyra ducked off the main halls and into the kitchens.
As soon as she walked through the heavy swinging doors, she was enveloped in the rich scents of simmering stew and cinnamon apples baking. Her stomach growled.
“Kyra!” shouted out the head cook. She wiped her hands
on her apron, then reached up to kiss Kyra’s cheeks. “Thank God!”
“It’s nice to see you too, Sofie.” Kyra hugged the cook, one of her favorite people at the castle. Sofie had the red-cheeked, breathless, jovial manner of someone who cooked and ate for a living, but she was rail thin and bony—the skinniest fat person Kyra had ever met. “I got a note from Ari. She sounds desperate.”
“Insufferable, more like.” The cook shook her head. “Haven’t heard howling and carrying on like this since back before, when they locked her up ‘for her health’! Pfft.” Sofie blew through her lips. “Kid was so healthy she managed to destroy her entire bedroom. Twice. I think back then the Little Highness just needed to get rid of some extra energy.” Sofie folded her arms over the front of her apron.
“Well, try to see it from Ariana’s perspective,” Kyra said. “It’s like being locked up in her bedroom again, isn’t it? They’re forcing her into something against her will. She’s suffocating.”
“It could be worse,” Sofie said, pushing a tray of the princess’s favorite raspberry-jam cookies into Kyra’s hands. “I hear the prince they chose is from Lantana, and everyone says he’s a nice guy. It could have been Prince Pompous from Lexeter.”
“Prince Pompadou?” Kyra asked as she mounted the servants’ stair. “The one who came sniffing around last spring?”
“Pompadou, Pompous Arse—whatever he goes by.”
Kyra laughed.
What in the world could she do to make things better? She knew how stubborn Ariana could be. It didn’t matter if it was a nice prince or a puffed-up dunderhead—Ariana knew her own mind. Kyra was pretty sure that cookies weren’t going to change it.
Kyra was right to be worried.
She opened the door to find the princess pacing angrily, ripping up a piece of paper and throwing it on the floor. The mass of frizzy hair that had replaced the ringlets of her childhood bounced around Ariana’s face as she stomped back and forth across the room.
Ariana had grown up to become a strong young woman. She was athletic and tough and such crazy-unpredictable fun that the stable boys all vied to be her escort when she went riding. It hurt Kyra to see her like this—angry and disheveled with tear tracks down her cheeks.
“Kitten, you came!” Kyra was swept up in a hug almost before she could set the tray on a small table inside the door. She caught a glimpse of the words CORDIALLY INVITED on one of the scraps of paper.
The princess pulled away and sat on her bed with a thump. “This is so awful, Kitty. I swore I would NOT let them do this to me. And somehow they have. My life is over.”
“Ari, it might not be as bad as you think.” This prompted an icy blue-eyed glare, so Kyra quickly added, “Or it might. But, Ari”—Kyra brushed her friend’s hair back over her shoulders and tried for a wry smile—“never forget that your best friend is one of the world’s experts in poison. There’s not a man who can stand in your way. Not for long, anyway.”
Ariana’s cheeks lifted in a smile. “That’s exactly why I wanted you to come.”
“Wait, what? You want me to kill this guy?”
Ariana rolled her eyes. “No. Because you can make me laugh even as my life is ending.”
“Well, good. It’s nice to know I’m useful for more than just offing people.” Kyra sat beside her on the bed. “Have you considered that getting married might be sort of fun? I was a bit doubtful at first too, but I’m starting to look forward to it.”
“That’s different. You got to choose who you’re going to marry. If I hear one more time about how important my marriage is for the kingdom, or the words ‘Nuptial Bond,’ I’m going to scream.” The princess’s voice turned small. “What if he’s all proper and everything? I might never get to go outside again. Lots of royal people NEVER leave the castle except a few times a year in a carriage. Kitty, I seriously couldn’t take it.”
“I know, Ari.” Kyra knew how lucky she was to be marrying a man she loved. “We’ll just have to figure out a way—”
“A way for me not to get married?”
Just then, a knock came at the door, and at Ari’s response, in walked two dressmaker’s apprentices. They swept by the girls, curtsying as they went, hung up what they were carrying, and silently departed.
It was a dress, truly one of the most beautiful wedding dresses Kyra had ever seen.
It was obvious that it had been made with love—and with this particular princess in mind. The dress didn’t have a single puffy ornamental bit on it. It was a long and silky green, with a small pinecone clasp holding the material together at one shoulder. Slits were shaped into each side, as though the dressmakers had anticipated the bride’s need to be free and unrestricted, able to run and move easily. The long, flowy shape was a perfect complement to Ariana’s athletic frame.
It was a dress fit for the Goddess of the Hunt, running barefoot in the moonlight.
“I love it,” Kyra said, before she could stop herself.
There was a horrible look on Ariana’s face. She quietly nibbled and swallowed a bite of cookie. “Need tea,” she mumbled.
Kyra’s trip downstairs to the kitchen for a teapot took only moments.
But it was long enough: when she got back to the room the dress had been ripped to shreds.
And now here it was hanging in tatters at Gabrielle’s.
Kyra had always assumed it had been thrown out. Yet Ariana must have brought it here thinking it could be salvaged. Or looking to hide the evidence of her tantrum. Kyra lifted one of the torn bits of silk hanging off the dress and drew a line with the same needle coated in Melt elixir that she’d used on the door. The tightly woven fibers relaxed their grip and unraveled, and the strip of fabric came away.
Destroying the dress? That was just Ariana being Ariana. A tantrum.
No, what had bothered Kyra was what happened in the days that followed. Ariana changed. She’d thrown herself into the wedding preparations and avoided Kyra, refusing to talk to her. Eventually, she banished Kyra from her company altogether.
And then, a few weeks later, Kyra was brought to her knees by the second vision she’d ever had in her life.
The princess stood at the top of the castle parapet—newly married, in a hideous pink wedding gown. As she raised her arms, the gown turned a deep burnt charcoal, all of the frills burning off and crumpling to the ground, her blue eyes changing to deepest black. The darkness that was coiled inside of her spread out, cloaking the land in night.
Evergreen trees withered and died, flowers melted, grapes fell from the vine, and a blackness shrouded the buildings of the city so thickly that they cracked under the weight. And then the vision jumbled and leaped ahead to a bleak future: Prison cells filled to bursting, slaves in chains at the Saturday market. Famine sweeping the land, wars raging, and the rivers swelling with the blood of the dying.
Color had left the Kingdom of Mohr, and with it all hope and beauty.
Through the Nuptial Bond—the magical connection that bound Ariana to the land on her wedding day—she would poison the kingdom.
That was why Kyra had to kill her before her wedding.
AS KYRA MADE HER way to get Rosie from Fred’s hotel through the dark, winding, crowded streets of Wexford, she eavesdropped on the people around her.
They talked nonstop in the way of folks who’ve had too much drink. There were mean jibes about a huge band of magic-working Gypsies who’d been driven out of the city—“Gypsy rabble,” one man called them—and gossip that the Princess Killer was hiding somewhere in the city. “They’re going to turn out every bed in the city to find that murderous scamp!” a woman brayed. And everywhere was talk of the wedding—how it was going to be the biggest celebration the kingdom had seen in decades. “Something so grand it’ll make this festival look like a sparkler on a cupcake.”
So intent was Kyra on listening to the crowd that she wasn’t aware of the Cherry Blossom Princess processional until it was right behind her.
Kyra and everyone
else were pushed up against the sides of the street to let the parade pass. They watched in awe.
The floats were beautiful and represented different elements of the holiday—from a giant mock springberry pie, to a bonfire made of shiny colored paper, to a straw-stuffed body that represented the dead King of Winter. The paradegoers held their torches high, flickering light dancing across their faces. Last of all was the Cherry Blossom Princess, with her guard of local boys dressed in solemn uniforms, and the local girl herself all decked out in over-the-top finery like a blossom of springtime.
As Kyra watched them go by, she caught sight of Dartagn just across the road from her. Next to him, like a loyal dog, was Hal. They were talking.
Then Hal’s head came up. And looked right at Kyra.
He stared for a moment, then went back to his discussion with Dartagn.
Kyra’s heart pounded. I’m wearing a glamour, I’m wearing a glamour, I’m wearing a glamour.
But she wasn’t going to take any risks. While the captain and Hal were looking away, she joined the parade. She grabbed a torch from an older, plump man. Shock crossed his face, but then he shrugged. The uniformed float-handler beside him nodded to her as she lifted the torch.
At the first alley entrance, Kyra thrust the torch back into the plump man’s hands and elbowed her way through the line of parade watchers. She took the most direct route she could to Fred’s inn.
Once inside the Thorny Rose, Kyra used Release powder on the door to Fred’s room. She’d expected to find him gone but was still relieved the room was empty.
Or nearly so. There on a pillow was the tiny pink pig, all curled up.
Rosie.
Something inside Kyra lit up at the sight of her. She tried to push the feeling away, but it engulfed her and made her eyes sting with unshed tears.
She’d missed the little pig.
Kyra scooped up the sleeping Rosie, anxious to leave as quickly as possible. The room bore signs of Fred everywhere—there was a wedge of cheese sitting out, half the loaf of bread she’d seen him buy earlier, the olive oil from the night of the campfire.
