Princess of the Midnight Ball

by Jessica Day George

  After those who were well enough had gone to dinner, Rose closed her eyes and took a nap. She slept better than she had in weeks, months even, with the bouquet of roses propped up on the pillows near her cheek. Like Poppy, she liked the little knitted cord that held the flowers together, fingering it as she drifted off.

  When she woke, Prince Bastien was leaning into her bedroom, leering at her. Startled, she clutched at the bouquet too hard, and pricked her finger on a thorn. Most of them had been stripped away, but Galen had missed one.

  “Ouch!” Rose sucked at her finger, then sneezed into a handkerchief.

  “Oh, poor princess,” Prince Bastien said from the doorway. “You are still the sick?”

  “Yes, I am still the sick,” Rose retorted, irritated. She blew her nose, hard, not caring if it wasn’t attractive or ladylike. She was in her nightgown; what was he doing leaning into her bedroom and staring at her like that?

  “Prince Bastien?” The ever-conscientious Lily appeared at his elbow, an apologetic look in her eyes for Rose’s benefit. “Why don’t you show us that card game you spoke of at dinner?”

  “Will not the Rose join us?”

  “No, I’m afraid the Ro—my older sister is too tired,” Lily said.

  Lily artfully guided Prince Bastien away, and Rose spent the remainder of the evening listening to the merriment through the open door of her bedroom. At ten o’clock, their maids readied them all for bed and prepared a cot for Prince Bastien in the sitting room. At a quarter to eleven, the maids and the Belgique prince were all fast asleep.

  They would not wake until dawn, no matter what sounds the girls made. The hounds of Hell could run baying through the sitting room, but the sleep that had come over Bastien and the servants could not be disturbed.

  Leaning on Lily’s arm, Rose looked down at Prince Bastien as she passed him. With his mouth hanging open and a line of drool trickling onto the satin pillow, he was not as handsome as she had thought earlier. She shook her head and sniffed her flowers as Lily opened the secret passage and they went to the Midnight Ball.

  Three days later, Prince Bastien left in disgust.

  Hothouse

  I’m not sure how many more princes they can find,” Walter said. He and Galen were in the tropical hothouse, pruning exotic fruit trees that were too delicate to grow outside in Westfalin during any season. “We’ve gone through, what, six now?”

  “Seven,” Galen said.

  He had been keeping careful count. Poppy, and some of the younger princesses who were feeling better, had occasionally stopped in the gardens to whisper their unflattering opinions of the princes to Galen. Rose had not come out, though Galen often saw her at the windows. She looked so pale, with her golden-brown hair crowning her wan face. He had wanted to send more bouquets, but there were rather too many princesses for such a thing to go unnoticed, and it wouldn’t be proper for Galen to be sending flowers to Rose alone. He had excused his first gift by saying that they were the flowers from the hothouse that needed to be thinned out anyway.

  “And every one of them arrogant and self-serving,” Walter said, clucking his tongue. “Without a care for the princesses beyond getting the throne.”

  And all seven had left without solving the mystery of the worn-out dancing slippers. The king could be heard shouting at all hours of the day and night to anyone who would listen. Relations were even more strained with their neighbor nations than they had been before. If King Gregor had thought that a contest to win his throne would bring the countries of Ionia closer together, he had been wrong.

  “It’s been three months,” Galen said suddenly.

  Walter just grunted.

  “Princess Rose has been ill for three months.”

  “She’s on the mend,” Walter assured him. “Pneumonia is never easy, even on the young.” Walter patted Galen’s arm. “You’re a good lad to worry about them, Galen. A very good lad.”

  Just then the door at the far end of the hothouse opened, and a pair of figures came through. They were heavily bundled against the cold, and all Galen could say for sure was that they were female. The two figures divested themselves of their bonnets and cloaks, steaming in the sudden heat, and Galen saw that it was Princess Rose herself, leaning on the arm of the musically inclined princess—Violet, he thought her name was.

  Violet helped Rose to a little bench beneath a banana tree, and then wandered off to look at some flowering vines. Galen put down his pruning shears. Walter raised an eyebrow, and Galen grinned. He picked an orange from a nearby tree, winked at Walter, and strolled down the aisle to the bench.

  Now that he had spent more time working around the palace, running into princesses and ministers of state, ambassadors, and the occasional prince, his manners were much more refined. “Good morning, Princess Rose,” he said gallantly, and offered her the orange with a flourish.

  In truth, he was a little shocked by her appearance. At her window she appeared romantically pale and slender, but up close she was too thin and hollow cheeked, with dark circles under her eyes. Her thick golden-brown hair was pulled back tightly in a simple braid, which emphasized the taut whiteness of her skin against the dark-colored dress she wore.

  Still, Galen did not let his smile slip. She was even more beautiful now, he thought, with an otherworldly quality to her and a maturity that had not been there before.

  “Allow me to give you this orange, Your Highness, along with my wishes for a swift recovery.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Master Galen,” she replied, a faint light kindling in her eyes, “especially since they are my family’s oranges.” She took it from him, rolling it between her palms. “And considering that my illness is most likely a result of falling into the fountain the day we met.”

  Galen winced. He had known she would remember that, but he had hoped she wouldn’t hold it against him. Although, judging by the faint smile on her pale lips, she didn’t mean it in earnest.

  “Well, Your Highness, I know that I am indeed handsome, but I can hardly be blamed if my good looks overcame you so strongly that you fainted,” he said, striking a pose. He had butterflies in his stomach, wondering if he was taking the teasing too far.

  But he was rewarded: Rose laughed, a high, clear sound, and lobbed the orange at him. He caught it deftly, but when her laughter turned to a cough, he dropped the orange and bent over her, not sure if he dared to pat her back or take her hand. “Your Highness, forgive me. Are you unwell?”

  Violet heard the coughing and came running back. She sank down on the bench beside Rose, putting her arm around the older girl and holding a handkerchief to Rose’s lips. “What happened?” she asked Galen, her tone just shy of being accusatory.

  “I am so sorry, Your Highness,” Galen said, backing away. “I made her laugh, and—”

  “You made her laugh?” Violet’s eyes widened. “She hasn’t laughed in weeks!” She smiled at Galen and gave Rose’s shoulders a little squeeze.

  “Oh, dear,” Rose gasped, her coughing finished. “I’m sorry,” she said to Galen.

  “No, please, Your Highness, the fault was all mine.” He cleared his throat. “Did you … did you like the bouquet? The bouquets, I mean? A month or so ago? I sent … ” He trailed off, feeling foolish.

  “Oh, yes!” Rose smiled warmly at him. “They were beautiful.”

  “I still have mine,” Violet piped up. “I dried it, and it’s in a little vase on my pianoforte.”

  “I’m glad,” Galen told her, but his eyes were on Rose. “I hoped that you would like them.” Rose thought the bouquet he made for her had been beautiful.

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Rose fished in the pocket of her cloak and brought out the cord Galen had used to tie her bouquet. “Would you like this back? I’m sure it will come in handy.”

  “No, no! You must keep it, Princess Rose,” Galen said. “The old soldier who taught me how to knit always said that a knitted cord made with black wool can ward off evil. I thought perhaps—�
�� He stopped, embarrassed. He had given them the bouquets wrapped with black wool cord to stave off their illness, but he knew that it was not his place.

  “Well, thank you,” Rose said, apparently not noticing his hesitation. She coiled the little cord and put it back in her pocket.

  Then there was nothing else to say, and Galen stood before the two princesses, looking awkward. “Well.” He rocked on his heels, thinking that he had better get back to work before Reiner came by and berated him. “Since I’m sure you are enjoying the many royal suitors who have come to gaze upon your beauty, I suppose I had better take myself off.” He bowed. “I would hate to be challenged to a duel.”

  Galen grinned and winked as he said this, but was shocked by their responses. Rose closed her eyes and looked pained, and Violet actually crossed herself and muttered a prayer.

  There was a noise behind him, and Galen turned to see two of the middle princesses, with the youngest in tow. They were all staring at him with appalled expressions.

  “Is he talking about the princes who died?” Petunia asked. She frowned at Galen. “We’re not supposed to talk about them,” she said in a loud whisper.

  “Who … died?” Galen’s voice faltered.

  “Ssshh!” Petunia was dragged away by the two sisters holding her hands. “Sssssh!” she said over her shoulder, still glaring at Galen.

  “Rose, we should go back to our rooms. You should rest,” Violet said stiffly, not meeting Galen’s eyes. Only moments before she had been beaming at him for making her eldest sister smile. Galen’s heart sank.

  “No,” Rose said, shaking her off. “He has a right to know. Everyone does.”

  “But, Rose,” Violet protested. “He’s a gardener. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  Anger flashed through Galen, and he fought it down. “She’s right,” Galen said, turning away. “I’m just a gardener.” He didn’t want to cause Rose any more embarrassment.

  “They say you were once a soldier,” Rose called after him. “That you fought in the war.”

  He turned back slowly, straightening his shoulders. “That is true, Your Highness.”

  “Then do you know the roads to the south of Westfalin, that lead to Spania and to Analousia?”

  “Indeed I do, Your Highness. I traveled them, returning from the war.” He thought of the strange old woman he had met on his way, and the cloak she had given him. It was hidden in the chest in his room back at his uncle’s house. A cloak of invisibility was of little use to an under-gardener.

  “Are there many bandits on those roads? Were you in great danger?” Rose’s face was strange, as though she already knew the answer.

  “No, Your Highness.” Galen shook his head, puzzled. “There are few farms along those roads, but the people were kind to a weary soldier. Perhaps, since I returned, things have changed. But it has been only a few months. … ”

  She was already shaking her head. “Everyone says the same. There have never been thieves along those roads, or cause for concern. And yet, the Spanian prince who came courting, and tried to … to spy on us at night, was killed by brigands on his way home.”

  Galen drew back. “I am very sorry, Your Highnesses.” He recalled the foppish prince he had seen screeching at the porters in the courtyard. The prince’s sword had looked mostly ornamental and probably would not have deterred a professional highwayman. “But he had guards to …” Seeing their distressed faces, he stopped speculating. “I’m sorry that you are grieved at the loss of your friend, Your Highnesses.”

  Rose waved this aside. “He was hardly our friend,” she said, absently digging the toe of her low boot into the soft earth around the bench. “Neither were the princes of La Belge and Analousia. Otherwise we would be prostrate with grief, for they are dead too.”

  “What’s this?” Galen had come all the way back, and now stood directly before the two young women. Realizing that his jaw was hanging open, he shut it with a click.

  “They dueled,” Violet said shortly. “They met at the Belgique court a week after the Analousian prince failed. He accused the Belgique prince—I cannot remember their names, forgive me—of sabotage, claiming that the Belgique prince had left traps here, to ensure that the Analousian prince would fail and be humiliated. It wasn’t true, but they fought, and killed each other.”

  Speechless, Galen only stared at her.

  “The others are dead as well,” Rose added. “All the princes who have come here have died. A ship sank. A normally gentle horse spooked and threw his rider, breaking the poor prince’s neck.” She looked up at Galen. “We are cursed. That is why you deserve to know: our family is cursed. You should leave; find work elsewhere before something happens to you, too.”

  Galen rallied. “But, Princess Rose! You aren’t cursed. You’ve been ill, but surely that—”

  She cut him off with a sharp gesture of her hand and got to her feet with an effort. “We are cursed,” she said with finality. As she passed him, leaning on Violet’s arm, she touched Galen’s shoulder with a thin hand. “Leave this place,” she said softly.

  When Uncle Reiner found him some minutes later, Galen was still standing in the middle of the walkway. He was thinking furiously, staring at the bench where Rose and Violet had been sitting.

  “Galen! Don’t you have any work to do?” Reiner looked like he could easily find some for the young man, if he was at a loss. “And why is there an orange lying on the ground?”

  Galen looked up at him. “I’m going to solve the puzzle,” he said.

  “What are you babbling about?” Reiner held out a trowel and a packet of seeds, but Galen didn’t take them.

  “I must see the king,” he muttered under his breath, pushing past Reiner and going out of the hothouse. “Poor Rose. I must help her.”

  Dancer

  Rose’s days passed in a fog.

  Her pneumonia had given her a reprieve from her usual duties as hostess, and Lily or Jonquil stood in her place, depending on which of them was feeling better. Rose had always thought the state dinners and official receptions boring, but now that she did not attend them she realized how much of a diversion they had provided. Her schooling was done, and she did not have hobbies like Violet or Hyacinth did to keep her busy. She enjoyed reading, but her fever and exhaustion made it hard for her to concentrate. She had been working her way through the same Bretoner novel since the week before her illness began, and she still had not finished it.

  Now that she was well enough to leave her rooms for an hour or so at a time, it was too cold to go anywhere. She didn’t have friends outside the palace to visit, and the gardens were out of the question. It was Violet who had suggested the hothouse where the exotic fruits and rare orchids were grown, and had put aside her music to help Rose bundle up and walk there.

  The tropical hothouse where, on a bench beneath a banana tree, she had come face-to-face with Galen again.

  Rose was startled by how pleased she was to see him standing there in his brown gardening smock. After the parade of self-important princes that had gone by, since rendered faceless by her illness, she found Galen’s easy manners and warm, sincere smile refreshing. He had cropped his hair again, so short that you could see his scalp along the sides. His hair was wiry, and she had the urge to rub his head and feel it.

  She hadn’t meant to become so morbid with Galen, to tell him that they were cursed. It was how she felt, though. And the indignity of finding that her father was offering one of them as a prize in this contest combined with the horror of hearing about the princes’ deaths had added to her despair.

  It was not at all reassuring to find that Hyacinth shared her fears. “You are right,” she told Rose solemnly. “At first I thought we were innocent, and only Mother would be punished. But now, with the princes’ deaths on our heads, I’m certain of it.” She did not sound upset by this, merely resigned.

  Poppy mimed silencing Hyacinth by putting a pillow over the latter’s head, but Daisy pulled her twin
away. Annoyed, Poppy buried her own face in the pillow. “You can all be cursed if you want,” came her muffled voice, “but I prefer to think about the future.”

  “Which is?” Jonquil raised an eyebrow. The sisters were all in their sitting room. Some were sewing; the younger ones had a jigsaw puzzle spread across the floor. Rose reclined on a divan by the window, tired from her walk back from the hothouse.

  “Our time below will end, and we will be free,” Poppy said resolutely.

  “What are my princesses about this fine day?” Anne, their plump governess, came bustling into the room.

  Anne was Breton born and had come to Bruch as a companion and translator for Queen Maude. When Rose turned four, Anne had been persuaded to take up the position of royal governess, since her accomplishments included speaking Analousian, playing the pianoforte, and possessing a knowledge of history and the sciences, in addition to her fluency in both Bretoner and Westfalian. She was both a friend and a teacher to the girls, and Rose bitterly regretted that they could not tell Anne about the curse.

  Poppy opened her mouth to answer the governess, then closed it again, unable to speak. It was no use attempting to confide in their governess, or anyone else. Their voices would simply fade away or nonsense would come spewing out, and the princesses had long ago stopped trying.

  “Nothing,” Poppy muttered finally.

  “Since you are well enough to talk about ‘nothing,’ why don’t we talk about Westfalian history?” Anne looked from one sister to the other with bright black eyes. She reminded Rose of a large sparrow.

  The sisters who were still schooling age all groaned as they followed Anne into the schoolroom, leaving the older set behind.

  “Rose, we are not cursed,” Lily said. She crossed the room to her older sister and tucked an afghan around Rose’s knees. “Don’t dwell on it. A few more years …”

  “A few more years, and I’ll be dead,” Rose retorted, turning away from Lily. She stared out at the winter garden. She could see old Walter going along the path below with a barrow full of mulch and a trio of under-gardeners following him. Her heart skipped a beat, but when she saw that none of them was Galen, it subsided. She sighed.