Princess of the Midnight Ball

by Jessica Day George

  “I understand that you have yet another young man sniffing at your skirts,” the cold king said.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Rose said stiffly. “Your Majesty.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Rose. I may be trapped down here, but I am not unaware of what goes on up there.” He pointed one skeletal finger skyward.

  “There is a young man at the palace right now,” Rose said reluctantly. “But he’s only a commoner.” Her voice became dismissive. “One of the gardeners, if you can believe it!” She laughed, and humiliation washed over Galen, but then he looked at her face and saw the rigidity of her expression and the hint of moisture in her eyes. She was sweating a little with the strain of maintaining the charade in front of the king.

  “But then, all of your daylight-dwelling suitors have been common, compared to my sons. Does this gardener hope for the ultimate reward?” A smile slit the king’s face. “To marry a beautiful princess?” A chilling laugh.

  “Your gardener should feel honored: he will not marry a princess, but he will die a princely death.” Again the king laughed, and Galen felt sick.

  “H-he will?” Rose swallowed loudly.

  “Of course. Before the month is out he will be punished for his audacity, just as the others have been. What will it be?” the king mused. “A duel? A riding accident? It pleases me to dispatch him in the same way that I got rid of the foolish nobles. I shall have to think on it. It would be an unworthy death for one who aspired so high, to be run over by a farmer’s cart.”

  “Why did you have to …The princes. …” Rose trailed off, shivering, and pulled the white shawl closer around her shoulders, much to Galen’s delight. “Excuse me, Your Majesty.” She curtsied to the king and moved away from him on the arm of Prince Illiken. Galen followed them, trying not to think about how he would die.

  “You mustn’t anger Father,” Illiken said in his wooden voice.

  “I—,” Rose started to say; then she just shook her head and looked away.

  Prince Illiken stopped and Galen jumped back just in time to avoid treading on the back of the prince’s shoe.

  “Who is this commoner who courts you?” The faint curiosity was the most emotion Galen had ever heard from Illiken. Curiosity, and could it be jealousy?

  “He’s not courting me,” Rose said, but her tone was uneasy, and something else Galen couldn’t identify.

  “But he searches for answers?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And if he succeeds, he will marry one of you?” Prince Illiken’s black eyes narrowed.

  “He offered to do it without the, er, reward,” Rose said defensively. “Of course, my poor father will probably give him anything he wants if he uncovers the truth.” She raised her chin.

  “He will not find out,” Illiken said simply. “And even if he did, he could not help you.” And then, without warning, he grabbed Rose and pulled her into the figures of the next dance. She stumbled, but he was holding her so tightly that she didn’t fall—although it did take her several staggering steps to join in the dance properly.

  “Oaf,” Galen said aloud, and thought of several other things he’d like to call Illiken as well.

  “What did you say?” The woman standing behind him turned to her partner in confusion.

  “I didn’t say anything,” the man replied. As they moved off to join the dance as well, Galen blew on the woman’s neck and made her shriek. He sat down in his “good spirit” chair and tried to think.

  He wondered if Walter would be able to help protect him from Under Stone, if the king really did try to have him killed. Galen had his suspicions about the old gardener and who he really was. If Walter had done anything to protect the princes, though, it hadn’t worked. But then, Walter hadn’t particularly cared for any of them.

  Galen was forced to leap up again a moment later, when someone nearly sat in his lap. The edge of his cloak caught on the white-faced courtier’s hand as Galen slid away, and the man suddenly got up and walked out of the ballroom, rather than sitting down after all. Cursing softly to himself, Galen readjusted his cloak and stood in the corner until the ball ended.

  By the time the princesses were allowed to leave, Pansy and Petunia were so tired that their princes had to carry them. Galen got ready to step into Jonquil’s boat again, to see if her prince would again comment on the slender girl’s weight.

  Before any of them could push off, however, the King Under Stone came stalking out of the palace, his pale face horrible with rage. Just behind him was the man who had nearly sat on Galen.

  “Halt,” the king shouted. “Halt! Intruder!” In one hand he held a goblet and in the other a wilted sprig of nightshade. Lifting the incriminating items high, the king said, “The lips of a human male have touched this goblet! Nightshade has been brought into my home! Where is he?”

  Galen felt frantically in his pockets and under his lapel. The basil was still there, but the nightshade was gone; only the pin remained.

  Terrible black eyes raked over Galen, passed on, and then came back. Despite the cloak, the King Under Stone could see him, Galen was certain. A long finger pointed, the king’s pale lips twisted around words that keened and chattered in Galen’s ears. Dimly Galen heard the princesses screaming, felt a cold wind rush over him.

  The world went dark, and in that darkness Galen clearly heard the voice of the King Under Stone: “You will die ere the moon grows full again.”

  Riot

  Galen awakened to the sound of heavy knocking on the door to the princesses’ sitting room. Groggy, he picked himself up off the floor and stumbled to the door, not comprehending when the palace guard who had been knocking looked through him, puzzled, and called out for Princess Rose.

  “What’s this?” Maria the head maid came out of one of the bedrooms, hair mussed and gown creased. “What’s the to-do, Captain?” She stepped past Galen as if he weren’t even there.

  Belatedly Galen realized that he was still wearing the invisibility cloak. He would have to sneak down the hall and slip out of it in his room. He didn’t want to just reappear in front of the servants, or the princesses.

  The events of the last night jolted through Galen’s brain. The King Under Stone had seen him. Galen would be dead before the next full moon, which was in roughly three days. And Rose … Galen had been asleep in the middle of the gold-patterned carpet. If the princesses had returned, they would have stumbled over him.

  If the princesses had returned.

  Ignoring the hurried whispers of the maid and the guard, Galen ran to the door of Rose’s bedroom and peered in. The beds were neatly made, and one of their other maids was still slumped on a sofa in the corner. There was no sign of any of the princesses. Galen stepped into the room, whipped off his cloak, and came running back out with a shout.

  “The princesses are gone!”

  Maria and the guard stared at him in astonishment.

  Galen ran to one of the other bedrooms and threw open the door. There he saw another maid, this one just starting to wake, and another row of unoccupied beds. “The princesses are gone!”

  “What?” Now understanding dawned, and Maria and the guard joined him in searching the rooms. There were four maids and no princesses.

  “They’ve been taken hostage,” the guard said, crossing himself. “The mob must have broken in.”

  “What mob?” Galen stared at him.

  “The townsfolk are rioting,” the guard said.

  It suddenly dawned on Galen that this must be what the man had come to the princesses’ rooms to report.

  “They’re demanding that Fraulein Anne be hung, and the Interdict lifted.” The guard looked around uncomfortably. “All this talk of witchcraft, and the princesses killing those foreign princes … well, and not being able to bury their dead or receive the sacred rites …”

  But Galen shook his head, casting this information aside. None of that mattered now. The King Under Stone had Rose, and he would never let her or her sis
ters leave his realm again.

  “I must speak to the king,” Galen said urgently, rushing out of the sitting room with the other two at his heels.

  Bishop Angier was with King Gregor, of course. So were the prime minister and the rest of the king’s councillors, including Bishop Schelker, his brow furrowed and his eyes on Angier.

  Puzzlement showed on King Gregor’s face when Galen walked into the room with the guard captain and Maria. He looked beyond them to the hallway. “Master Werner, where are my daughters?”

  “They are not here, Your Majesty,” Galen said, bowing. He wished he did not have to explain everything in front of an audience.

  “Someone has taken them hostage, sire,” the captain blurted out. “This person claims he knows who.”

  The room erupted at the news. The ministers began to babble, waving their arms and pointing out the window. Galen craned his neck and could see a regiment of guards standing in formation in the courtyard below.

  “Silence!” the king shouted. “Silence, all of you!” He stepped forward and gripped Galen’s shoulder tightly. “Who has taken my girls?”

  Galen took a deep breath. “The same creature who forces them to dance, night after night, Your Majesty. The King Under Stone.”

  The prime minister let out a bitter guffaw. “Get him out of here, Captain,” he said, gesturing to the guard beside Galen. “He’s mad. Or a fool. Or both.”

  “Or he’s in league with the rioters,” said another minister. “Take him for questioning.”

  Galen’s eyes never left the king’s. In King Gregor’s face, Galen could see the realization that the king knew he spoke the truth. Terror flickered in the king’s eyes. Over the king’s shoulder, Galen saw Bishop Schelker half rise. His face, too, showed a horror that told Galen the Bishop of Bruch knew the legends were true as well.

  “You have proof,” King Gregor said in a dry whisper. It was not a question.

  Galen reached for the pouch at his waist, shifting aside the purple cloak he had tucked awkwardly into his belt. Hard hands closed on Galen’s arms from behind.

  “Don’t move,” the captain said in a low voice. “Your Majesty, please step away.”

  “Take him to my rooms,” Angier said, waving his hand at the captain. “I will question him later.”

  “Bishop Angier, I must speak with the boy,” King Gregor protested, stepping away from Galen even as the captain began to haul him backward.

  “Brother Angier,” Bishop Schelker began.

  “I said, take him away!” Angier shouted, pounding his fist on a table.

  The captain clamped down on Galen’s arms and started to haul him out of the room. Galen struggled but couldn’t break his grip.

  “Every night the princesses descend a golden staircase in their sitting room!” Galen shouted. “They walk through a silver forest and are rowed across a black lake to a palace where they dance with twelve princes, the King Under Stone’s sons! Queen Maude was tricked!” By this time they were already out in the passageway, and the door had been shut behind them.

  “Shut up,” the captain said, and smacked the back of Galen’s head with one hand.

  Galen twisted in the grip of the captain’s single restraining hand and finally broke free. In one quick movement Galen whipped the invisibility cloak around himself and fastened the clasp. The captain gasped as Galen disappeared before his eyes, and Galen backed slowly away from the man, keeping to the carpeted center of the passageway so that his boots wouldn’t make any noise.

  Ducking into the first room he came to, he tried to shut out the shouts of the captain as he roused the rest of the household guards. Finding himself in the music room, which overlooked the front gates, Galen hastened around the pianoforte to lean over a small sofa by the window. The regiment of soldiers standing in the courtyard had not moved, and now Galen could see beyond them to the gates. It looked like the whole city of Bruch stood there, shaking their fists and chanting, “Hang the witch!”

  Galen turned away and went back into the corridor. The guard was farther down the hall, opening and closing doors, looking for Galen. Galen crept past him and went down the back stairs to the kitchens. In the shadows just outside the baize kitchen door he pulled off his cloak and shoved it into his satchel.

  Counting on the fact that the kitchen servants would be the last to know that he was under arrest, Galen strode in as though he hadn’t a care in the world. The head cook quickly beckoned him over to the stove in the far corner, where a large black pot bubbled merrily away.

  “The chain shrunk,” she said in a whisper.

  “It’s supposed to,” he assured her.

  With a wooden spoon she fished out the black wool, wrapped it in a towel to wring out some of the water, and then handed the wet thing to Galen.

  He fingered the links carefully. They were thicker and harder, but smaller. He couldn’t poke a finger between the stitches anymore. In fact, the wool appeared solid: no stitches were in evidence. It was exactly as he had wished, even down to the sharp smell of the herbs it had been boiled with.

  “My dear goodfrau, you are a gem,” Galen told her. He kissed her round cheek, stuck the chain in his bag, and went out the kitchen door into the garden.

  He picked himself new sprigs of basil and nightshade, for what he hoped was the last time, and then he used some ivy to climb over the garden wall. He considered putting the cloak on again, but the streets at the back of the palace were deserted.

  Making his way to his uncle’s house, he saw that there was mud spattered on the pink stucco, and the window boxes on the ground floor had been ripped off and thrown in the streets. It seemed that, unable to reach the palace itself, some of the protestors had taken out their ire on the head gardener of the King’s Folly.

  The door was locked, and Galen had no key, so he knocked. It took a few moments for anyone to answer, but at last Uncle Reiner opened the door a crack, a suspicious look on his face. Seeing that Galen was alone, he grudgingly stood aside to let him in.

  “Are you well, sir?” Galen asked. “And Tante Liesel and Ulrike?”

  Reiner nodded.

  “What of the other gardeners? Walter?”

  “I sent word for Walter and the others to stay at home for the time being,” Reiner grunted. “I had hardly gotten two steps from the door this morning when a group of rabble-rousers swept by me. Have they broken into the palace?”

  “They’re still outside the gates,” Galen said. “But I don’t know how long they’ll be content to simply stand there and shake their fists.”

  Reiner shook his head, his face grim. “To think that it should have come to this,” he muttered. “Throwing mud and rocks at my house, shouting obscenities at the palace… disgraceful!”

  Ulrike came down the stairs, and her face brightened when she saw Galen. “Oh, thank heavens!” She rushed over and gave him a hug. “Please say you’re back for good.”

  “I’m afraid I’m just here to get some things, then I’ll be going back to the palace,” Galen said gently.

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Uncle Reiner huffed. “You have already humiliated me by getting yourself involved in this strangeness with the princesses, and I will let it go no further.

  “You need to keep your head down and work at the tasks given you: hoeing the soil and caring for the king’s garden. Forget these princesses with their odd ways.”

  “It isn’t the king’s garden, and they aren’t the princesses’ odd ways,” Galen said quietly. “They’re the queen’s. The garden was for her, and all this trouble”—Galen made a sweeping gesture with his arms—”is because of her as well.”

  “We do not speak ill of the dead in this house, boy,” Uncle Reiner warned.

  “She cursed her own daughters,” Galen retorted, his voice gaining heat. “Cursed them from the day they were born. I even wonder if the King Under Stone didn’t start the war so that he could gain a firmer hold on them.”

  “What are you talking abou
t?” Reiner’s face had gone from angry to confused, and Ulrike was staring with her mouth open.

  Galen couldn’t stop, though. He hadn’t slept more than a pair of hours in the past few days, and all the things he had witnessed were coming together in his head. Besides which, the shouts and screams of the mob had taken him back to his days in the war.

  “The war, the dancing, the rumors of witchcraft, it all comes down to this: the King Under Stone wants Rose and her sisters for his sons, and he doesn’t care how many mortals die to get them.” Galen stared over Uncle Reiner’s shoulder, his teeth gritted.

  “Stop raving, boy,” Reiner said. “Go to your room and lie down, and when this all clears over, I’ll see about letting you work with me again. Go.”

  Galen went, but he didn’t lie down. He changed out of his suit and back into his army uniform. On a heavy belt buckled over his blue soldier’s coat he wore a pair of pistols and a long knife. Another knife was concealed in his right boot. He emptied out his satchel and then repacked it with the silver needles, the goblet, and the bag of black sand. On top of that he put extra powder and shot for the pistols and his rifle.

  He put on the satchel, making sure that it didn’t interfere with the pistols. Then he shouldered his rifle and swung the cape over it all. Invisible again, he went down the stairs and along the front hall. As he passed the sitting room, he could hear the rumble of Reiner’s voice and caught his own name.

  “He’s gotten himself into trouble, Liesel,” Reiner was saying. “If he wasn’t family—”

  “But he is,” came Tante Liesel’s fluting voice. “And we have to help him.”

  “Who said he was in trouble? He’s just trying to help his friends.” That was Ulrike.

  “You don’t understand,” Reiner said. “It’s Heinrich all over again. Galen and the eldest princess—”

  But Galen didn’t wait to hear any more. There was nothing he could say that would convince Reiner that Rose was innocent, and that Galen was just trying to help her. The only thing to do was to stop this and free the princesses of their curse. Galen slipped out the front door and made his way down the street.