by K. E. Mills
Relieved laughter broke out around the table. Even Brunelda was betrayed into a twitch of a smile. Leopold Gertz, stirring himself at last, turned to the Margrave of Blonkken and invited him to expound upon the recent exciting discovery of etheretically sensitive crystal caves beneath his nation’s capital.
The breakfast continued, less fraughtly, and two courses later mercifully concluded.
Melissande, thwarted yet again in her quest to capture one of the Lanruvians in conversation, stared after their retreating backs and swallowed an unladylike oath. Then, feeling a light touch to her elbow, she turned.
“Ratafia!”
The soon-to-be Princess of Splotze smiled. “Melissande, I was wondering if you’d care to take a stroll around the barge with me? Only Luddie’s gone to smoke a cigar in the saloon with the other men, and Mama says she has the headache and must take to her bed. So I thought I’d partake of the fresh air, in your company. But only if you’d care to. I don’t want to impose.”
For all that Ratafia was beautiful and polished, her public manners impeccable, still Melissande could hear a note of loneliness in her well-schooled voice. Her inner self rejoiced.
Excellent. She’s vulnerable. Twist her arm hard enough and you might get some useful answers.
It was a shameful thing to think, but she couldn’t afford to be squeamish. If she didn’t do her best to help Gerald get to the truth, lives might well … would probably … be lost. What price scruples then?
“Impose, Ratafia?” She gave her sister-princess a bracing smile. “Not at all. After that enormous breakfast, I think strolling is a must.”
And so, side by side, they strolled and watched Splotze’s verdant countryside glide by. The lackeys and their breakfast remains were already cleared away, so they had the spacious promenade deck to themselves.
Tipping her head back a little, Melissande smiled to feel the gentle sunshine on her face. Freckles, shmeckles. How long had it been since she’d strolled beneath a blue sky, with a green-scented breeze caressing her skin? Or listened to the lowing of distant cows, the skirling cries of river gulls, a murmur of voices not tight with tension or grief or impending danger? Too long. She had to do this more often.
“I expect you’re wondering,” Ratafia said eventually, “why my mother is so quick to raise the dust with Crown Princess Brunelda.”
So much for relaxation.
“Actually, no,” Melissande replied, “Tell me if I have it aright. Your mother and Prince Ludwig’s mother have known each other nearly all their lives, having bumped shoulders at practically every important social occasion since they were let out of the nursery. And thanks to the stupid politics between Borovnik and Splotze, they were never encouraged to be friends, which means they’ve spent the last fifty-odd years in a vain attempt to lord it over each other every chance they get. And even though your two families are about to be joined in historic matrimony, after so long they can’t imagine doing anything but squabble.”
“Gosh,” said Ratafia, awestruck. “However did you know?”
She shrugged. “Because Lional and Sultan Zazoor of Kallarap were in a similar boat. It was all terribly tedious. Lional—”
“I’m sorry,” Ratafia said quickly. “Please, don’t talk about him if it’s painful. If you’d rather, we needn’t talk at all.”
But she wasn’t really listening to Ratafia. Oh, lord. Lional. Slowing, she touched her fingertips to Ratafia’s rose-pink sleeve. “Ratafia—you do want to marry Ludwig, don’t you? I mean, I hope nobody’s forcing your hand.”
“Forcing my hand?” Ratafia stopped, astonished. “Melissande, are you afraid I’m being bullied into this wedding?”
For all the eggshell-walking that diplomacy required as a matter of course, sometimes it was just as important to forge ahead and bugger the mess. She might be in Splotze more-or-less on behalf of the Ottosland government, but if tricky Sir Alec thought she’d stand quietly by while a sweet young girl was sold into wedlock for a bloody canal then he wasn’t half as clever as he liked to think.
“To be honest, Ratafia, I am,” she replied. “Is that what’s happening?”
Ratafia laughed, surprised. “Of course not. I told you, I’m terribly fond of Luddie.”
Well, that seemed genuine enough … but marriage was a two-way street. Struck by yet another horrible thought, Melissande bit her lip.
I wonder if Luddie is terribly fond of her?
It was a ghastly notion, but every possibility had to be considered. What if Hartwig’s brother didn’t want to marry Ratafia? What if he was the one being pressured into the wedding?
What if he’s the one behind Abel Bestwick, and the fireworks, and whatever goes wrong next?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alarmed, Ratafia stretched out her hand. “Are you all right, Melissande? You’ve gone awfully pale.”
“What? Oh. Yes. I’m fine.” With her knees suddenly wobbly, she clutched at the promenade deck’s polished hand rail. And that’s a lie, it’s a great big fib. Staring over the barge’s side, all the way down to the greenish-grey water and the piebald ducks with their yellow beaks and curly tails, industriously paddling, Melissande breathed hard and waited for the horror to subside. “Though I think your mother might be right,” she added, over her shoulder. “That peppercorn sauce. Especially on top of everything else!”
“Hartwig does love his food,” Ratafia said, with a smothered giggle. “And he loves to share. I shall have to be careful or I’ll not fit into my wedding dress.”
Ratafia’s wedding dress. Her wedding. Scant days away now, and no hope of changing her mind. The scandal would be lethal. Frozen, Melissande stared at the ducks. So many of them. This stretch of the Canal was like a little duck city.
How can I ask her if Ludwig’s love is real? I can’t. She’ll pitch me over the side. I’ll create an international incident and Sir Alec will go spare.
She uncramped her fingers from the hand rail and made herself turn round. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Ratafia. I’m sure you’ll look beautiful.”
“Well, I hope so,” Ratafia sighed. “Because I do want to make Luddie proud. And I want to make Borovnik proud, too. This marriage is so important. It’s our chance, perhaps our only chance, for lasting peace.”
She really was a sweet girl. Too sweet, perhaps, to survive the shark-infested waters into which she was about to plunge.
Unless of course she’s lying. Maybe I’m wrong about Ludwig. Maybe Ratafia is being pressured to marry and the only way out is to sabotage her own wedding.
It wasn’t a completely far-fetched notion. Hadn’t she done her own feeble best to scupper Lional’s mad plan to marry her off? And so what if Ratafia was sweet? That could be an act. Beneath the sweetness, the girl might well be a seething morass of bitter scheming. Look at Permelia Wycliffe, that so-called bastion of Ottish Pastry Guild respectability. As it turned out, the woman had been a bogtrotting nutter.
“Melissande?” said Ratafia, anxious. “Are you sure you’re all right? You do look rather odd.”
Ignoring the churning nerves, she made herself smile at Borovnik’s princess. “Well, to be honest, Ratafia, I am a trifle worried. About you. Because I think I know a little bit of what you’re going through just now. Feeling like a leaf swept up in a windstorm, tossed hither and yon, at the mercy of so many powerful forces. It makes you wonder if anyone’s stopped to think about you, and what you want.”
“Oh.” Gaze faltering, Ratafia blushed. “Yes. It is a little— only, not really. I wouldn’t like you to think me ungrateful, or unmindful of—”
“It’s not about gratitude,” Melissande said quickly. “Or owing something to others. Ratafia, your first obligation is to yourself. It must be. How can you make someone else happy if you’re miserable?”
Another blush. “Mother says a woman’s true happiness is found in the happiness of others,” Ratafia said softly. “Especially a husband.”
“Oh, really?” Melissande
retorted. “Well, your mother might be a dab hand when it comes to peppercorn sauce, but that doesn’t make her an expert on everything!”
Ratafia stepped back. “Melissande!”
Bugger, bugger, bugger. “I’m sorry, Ratafia,” she said, grimacing. “It’s just—well, the thing is, you remind me of me, from not so long ago. When Lional was determined I should marry Sultan Zazoor. I didn’t want to, and he didn’t care, and I felt so alone, so helpless, that I got drunk and climbed into a fountain full of goldfish. And there might’ve been singing, but it’s all a bit of a blur.”
Ratafia’s rosebud mouth opened into a perfect little O. “How awful for you!” she whispered. “But you’re wrong, Melissande. I don’t the least bit want to get drunk and serenade goldfish. I want to marry Luddie.”
“Because you honestly love him? Not because it’s the only way to seal a lasting peace over the Canal?”
Ratafia stared across the water at the moist brown clods of earth in the ploughed field beyond the Canal’s far bank. Creeping into her lovely eyes, a mingling of iron and acceptance.
“Of course there’s the politics. For people like us there’s always politics, Melissande. But it isn’t just politics. I won’t let it be just politics. And neither will Luddie.”
She sounded so sure of Hartwig’s younger brother, Melissande didn’t have the heart to question her resolve. If the girl was love-blind, marriage would restore her sight soon enough.
And in the meantime, I’ll find out what I can about Prince Ludwig and his resolve.
If it turned out her suspicions were right, and Ludwig proved himself a villain, she’d have Gerald take steps. Which yes, would break Ratafia’s heart.
But better a broken heart than a funeral—or a lifetime of being hexed. Just ask Reg.
She and Ratafia started strolling again, companionably silent, the climbing sun warm on their cheeks. They passed one barge-hand polishing the promenade deck’s railing, and another oiling some rope. Drifting up from the saloon on the middle deck beneath them, gentlemen’s laughter and the teasing tang of cigar smoke. Hearing her Luddie’s raucous mirth, Ratafia smiled. The look on her face caught Melissande sharply unprepared. Stirred up thoughts of Monk, who loved thaumaturgics so much it sometimes seemed there wasn’t room in his life for anything … anyone … else.
She winced. Stop being a gel, woman. You’ve a job to do, so do it. Let her be sidetracked into mooning over Bibbie’s infuriating, bewildering brother and she’d likely miss an important clue.
“Ratafia, can I ask you something?”
Borovnik’s princess trailed her fingertips along a stretch of freshly polished timber hand rail. “Yes, of course.”
“You might think me impertinent.”
An amused smile. “Friends can’t be impertinent.”
Friends. It was a nice thought. A pity she was here under false pretences.
Come on, you ditherer. Ask. It’s not like you’re betraying her. You’ve only just met, and when this business is over likely you’ll never see her again. So what does it matter?
But it did matter. Her scruples, it seemed, weren’t so easily abandoned. Going out of her way to befriend Ratafia simply to lull her into sharing confidences? That was cold. Fancy being Gerald, doing this sort of thing for the rest of his life. Hardly surprising he often looked sad.
“Well, I was wondering how it came about, you know, that you and Prince Ludwig—” Annoyed, Melissande felt herself turning pink. “How you—I mean—”
“Fell in love?” said Ratafia, with a swift, mischievous grin, as they swung about the barge’s gently rounded stern and started back towards the bow. Their fashionable silk day dresses made little swishing sounds with each measured step. “Actually, it’s all Uncle Norbert’s fault. He encouraged our acquaintance last year, at Harenstein’s First Snow Fair.”
And that was unexpected. “Uncle Norbert? I didn’t realize you’re related to the Marquis of Harenstein.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Ratafia said, pausing to admire the barge’s ceremonial brass bell. “It’s a courtesy title. To be honest—” Her voice lowered confidingly. “It feels a little odd, acquiring an uncle at my age. But when he asked for the honour I didn’t like to say no. He’s done so much for me and Luddie, you see.”
“So, you and Prince Ludwig hadn’t met before the fair?”
Ratafia wrinkled her perfect nose. “Well, yes, we’d met. A few times. But I’d hardly said more than hello to him, on account of we’re never sure from one hour to the next whether Borovnik and Splotze are at daggers drawn or not. And what with Mama so difficult about Crown Princess Brunelda, and Luddie being a man and me needing to be careful, you know what that’s like, there seemed little point in pursuing further conversation. Not until Uncle Norbert stuck his oar in, so to speak.”
And thus was the world rearranged. Neatly. On a whim.
“And how will your alliance work, in the long run?” said Melissande. “I mean, Prince Ludwig is Hartwig’s heir. The sad truth is that at some point, let’s hope it’s years from now, he’s going to succeed his brother as the Crown Prince of Splotze, which will make you Crown Princess. And one day your mother—” Oh dear. Best not. “Well, she might decide she’s tired of being the Dowager Queen. What will happen to Borovnik then?”
“I’ll be Queen of Borovnik in my own right,” said Ratafia, and flicked her fingernail against the barge’s brass bell. It chimed the air, sweetly. “That’s one of the marriage conditions. Uncle Norbert was very firm about it.”
A skein of grey geese flew low overhead, pinions creaking. Melissande watched them, thoughts awhirl. A moment later an angry shout, as goose-shit splattered a stretch of newly-polished hand rail. She rolled her eyes.
Oh, look. My life in a nutshell.
Glancing at Ratafia, she moved on from the bell. “I hadn’t realised the marquis was involved in the legalities of your union with Ludwig.”
“No?” Ratafia smiled, and fell into step beside her. “Well, he was, and he’s been tremendous. He’s helped Mama negotiate the marriage treaty every step of the way. Such a blessing, since more often than not we were dealing with Secretary of State Gertz and Mother can’t abide him. She says he’s so damp that after an hour in his company, she’s caught a cold. But thankfully Uncle Norbert knows just how to handle him.”
Melissande felt her stirred instincts stir even harder. Really? Well, well, well. Uncle Norbert had been busy, hadn’t he?
The question is, what is he expecting to get in return for all his hard work? And who on this barge would rather he were disappointed?
Another line of investigation that should be pursued. At this rate they’d have to ask Sir Alec for reinforcements. If ever there was a time to be missing Reg …
“It sounds rather complicated,” she said, cautiously. “How do your people feel about the arrangement? Won’t they mind having their queen living in another country?”
Ratafia sighed. “I did rather wonder about that myself. Only Uncle Norbert says that whatever pleases me will please the people of Borovnik. He says a ruler’s subjects are like children, they must be kindly guided and firmly led and that under no circumstances can their crotchets be allowed to sway matters of state.”
So, Norbert of Harenstein was a glutton and a pompous prat. Good to know.
“And Queen Erminium agrees with him?”
“Mama says Uncle Norbert is the answer to her prayers.”
Heart sinking, Melissande looked at Ratafia’s serenely beautiful face. “And what do you think?”
A pause, then Ratafia’s lips firmed. “I think Uncle Norbert is Marquis of Harenstein, and one day I’ll be Queen of Borovnik and Crown Princess of Splotze.”
In other words, look out, Uncle Norbert. There’s a new tiara in town. “Good for you, Ratafia.”
“Ludwig and I care a great deal for our peoples.”
Yes, but did their peoples care for Ratafia and Ludwig, as a matched set? Pompous prattery aside, the stark t
ruth was that royalty nearly always married without first consulting Mistress Needle the seamstress and the butcher, Master Ham. So what if the plain folk of Splotze weren’t all that thrilled with the notion of inheriting the princess next door? What if Borovnik’s commonplace sons and daughters didn’t care to see Ludwig’s face smirking up at them from every coin? What if they resented the Splotzeish imposition of a mostly absent, part-time queen?
“Melissande?” said Ratafia. “You’re looking peculiar again.”
They’d reached the barge’s bow with its cushioned chairs and a scattering of wooden planters riotous with colourful blossoms. The Canal stretched out before them in a long, straight line, the celebrations at Little Grande Splotze coming closer with every copse and cow and cottage they majestically glided by.
Overwhelmed, Melissande stared at Ratafia. The weight of her terrible secret felt suddenly unbearable. This was the poor girl’s wedding tour. Soon it would be her wedding. And if she wasn’t the one plotting to see it brought crashing to ruin, then didn’t she have the right to know that her future was in peril? That Ludwig, or his people, or her people, or the Lanruvians, someone, was scheming to make ashes of her dreams?
Of course she does. But I can’t tell her. Lord, I hate this. I want to go home.
She smiled. “No, no, I’m fine, Ratafia. I’m just happy for you, that’s all.”
“Thank you, Melissande,” said Ratafia, and impulsively embraced her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
With an effort, Melissande managed to keep smiling. See if you still think that when your wedding goes up in smoke. But no, she couldn’t afford to be pessimistic. Things would work out. Gerald was going to save the day … with a little help from his friends.
Provided his friends don’t lose their marbles in the meantime.
With a sigh, Ratafia gazed at the pretty countryside surrounding them. “I have a confession, Melissande. I appreciate this barge is probably the most wonderful ever built, but I shan’t be sorry to leave it behind and continue the wedding tour in the carriages. I’m looking forward to being cheered along Splotze’s roads and through its townships.”
