Tournament of Ruses

by Kate Stradling

  “I understand,” he interrupted in a clipped voice. “Say no more, Vi. I’ll speak to Father. I’m sure we can coordinate between the four of us what the ritual would be for Miss Dalton.”

  Will turned his attention upon Flora. “For now, don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks,” she said dryly.

  “We should get going,” said Viola. “The sooner we get this sample to Father, the sooner he can figure out what to do about it. Miss Dalton, can we trust you to keep this a secret until we send word to you?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said lifelessly.

  “I really am sorry,” Viola told her for the second time.

  Will instantly rebuked her. “Don’t treat it like it’s some sort of curse, Viola. It’s an honor, Flora, really. You’ll see.”

  An honor, she mentally repeated, and those words triggered something else in her mind. “Wait!” she cried as they all moved to the door. “What about those files?” she asked Charlie. “Can you take them back to the Prince?”

  “Have you put them in order already?” Will interjected, seeming vastly amused. Viola stepped on his foot. “What?” he asked defensively.

  “Since the Prince hasn’t decided what he’s going to do,” said Flora, “the order doesn’t really matter, does it? I don’t know why they gave them to me in the first place.”

  “The Prince thought you would be just the person to organize them, obviously,” said Will.

  “The Prince had better come up with something soon,” Viola added. “It’s bad enough that he started this firestorm by saying he wanted to take a consort, but now there are any number of rumors circulating about the various tests he’s going to put the applicants through! Are you all right, Miss Dalton?”

  Flora had self-consciously gasped and then choked. She coughed now but waved away Viola, who had stepped forward with concern. “No, no,” she wheezed. “I’m fine. Only… is the Prince angry about that?”

  “About what?”

  “About all those rumors! They weren’t supposed to… I mean…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at her three listeners helplessly. How could she confess her sins to people with such close ties to the Eternal Prince himself?

  And yet, her words thus far had been confession enough. “Miss Dalton, do you know where those rumors originated?” Viola asked suspiciously.

  Flora opened her mouth and then shut it again. She looked from Viola, to Will, to Charlie, and then back to Viola again.

  “I didn’t think anyone would take it seriously,” she admitted at last, contrition in her eyes. “It was because they kept asking me, day after day, thinking that I would know something because of my dad! I finally just blurted something ridiculous in the hopes that they would see I wasn’t a credible source. But far from discrediting me, they took it seriously! And suddenly all the girls from the Conservatory were balancing books on their heads and holing up in their houses to practice playing the harp, and… and… It’s really not that funny!”

  Will howled with laughter, though. “Oh, no!” he cried. “You must tell me exactly what you said the Prince would have them do! Please, Miss Flora! You really must!”

  Viola seemed like she wanted to swat him, but she folded her hands instead. Charlie looked more open to hearing the rest of Flora’s tale.

  She saw no point in withholding it after everything else she had already confessed, so she detailed the layers of evaluation that she had created: the beauty assessment, followed by the gracefulness obstacle course, the cultural display, and the culminating ball where the Prince would proclaim his choice for consort.

  “It’s brilliant!” Will declared. “I love it! Viola, please, can we—?”

  “It’s not up to me to decide,” she replied. “But if you think I’m going to subject myself to that sort of spectacle—”

  “Viola,” Charlie interrupted, “you would have to. As the Prime Minister’s daughter, you would have to participate. The Prince would insist upon it,” he added in lower tones, as though trying to convey some sort of unspoken warning.

  Viola looked to the ceiling in helpless frustration.

  “But it’s all rubbish!” Flora protested. “I just made it up off the top of my head, and I’ve been dreading ever since what would happen when everyone realized that! I really never meant for anyone to believe it. Well, anyone but Georgiana,” she amended in a small voice. “I sort of hoped she would, just because it’s funny.

  “I’m a terrible person,” she finished miserably.

  “Oh, Viola, please,” Will begged.

  “The Prince is the one to make those decisions,” Viola answered in a long-suffering voice, “and Father would have to present the plan to Parliament after that. And speaking of Father, we need to let him know what’s happened with the well, which is the far more pressing issue at hand!”

  Will appeared crestfallen.

  “It looks like you’ll need to keep the files for now, Miss Dalton,” said Charlie diplomatically. “I know it’s a lot of trouble to you, and we’re all very sorry about you getting entangled in that matter as well”—for some reason, he glared at Will as he said this—“but the Prince made that decision and we must abide by it, for now.”

  She could say nothing to this. So, instead, she simply nodded in disappointment. It was yet one more thing to chalk up to her horrible day. She supposed, given her poor behavior in tricking so many people, that she probably deserved it.

  Chapter Eight: An Illustrious Visitor

  This application for consort is utterly ridiculous. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t look at the files at all, but then, right before I was to turn into bed for the night, I decided that it couldn’t hurt to glance over just one. So, I picked one at random and, well, it’s halfway through the night and I’ve been through dozens of them. There must be close to two hundred in total, and so far the ones I have read have been equally absurd (my own included!).

  The form’s official title is “Application for Consideration by His Royal Highness the Eternal Prince of Lenore to Fulfill the Position of Princess Consort.” Even the name is ridiculous, you see. The prospective consorts must then provide their full name, their age, date of birth, height, weight (really!), and general coloring (hair, eyes, etc.). Then, there is a section to describe the girl’s personality. Here is what my dad wrote for me:

  “Flora is a dear girl, the treasure of our family. She lost her mother at a young age and has been raised in seclusion, so that she is accustomed to a quiet life. She has spirit, however, and an engaging laugh that endears her to all she meets. Her impeccable manners and lovely face make her an ideal candidate for the position of consort.”

  Rubbish. I was sorely pressed not to cast the whole thing into my fireplace. I worry that the Prime Minister’s secretary might have kept an inventory of the files, though. That was the only thing that stayed my hand.

  I know my dad meant well when he wrote that about me, and I’m grateful that he sees me in such an optimistic light, but the idea that anyone else should read it makes me positively cringe. I feel somewhat better from reading the other applications, though. Mine is quite tame compared to many of them, I swear.

  Flora stayed awake into the wee hours, thanks to that stack of files on her bedside table. She burned her lantern wick to a stub and had to go in search of some extra firewood for her little fireplace, but she was warm and cozy, and as the time passed, she found herself more and more entertained by her reading material.

  Some of the applicants had included portraits to set their application apart from the others: Flora discovered everything from chalk sketches to small, oil-painted canvases, and each one gave her new delight. She supposed that the women who had submitted them were trying to get a jump on the “beauty” category, for each portrait, be it rough drawing or completed miniature, exhibited an exquisite face or figure. They would each probably be returned to the applicant in question after the Prince chose his consort, which was a shame: they made quite a nice little collecti
on of pictures.

  Her eyelids began to droop against her will, and she finally gave in to sleep. When she awoke the next morning, one glance at the clock by her bed showed it to be after ten. Flora was appalled with herself.

  Her dad had already left for the palace, of course. Flora had not spoken to him about the files or the well of magic in the garden yet and harbored guilt on both counts. To be sure, she had promised secrecy on that latter topic, but with the snows melting and an unnatural spring on its way, Lord Dalton would be wise to it soon enough.

  He was not wise to it yet, however. The storm of the previous afternoon had persisted through the night and into the morning, to create a very gray day and two feet of new snow. It was a wonder her father had gone to the palace at all under such conditions, but the sleigh tracks she could see from her window showed her that he was not the only lord to make that trip.

  Toward noon the snowfall abated entirely and the world was covered with glistening white—in the front of her house, that was. Flora peered out a window that overlooked the garden, only to discover the whole area bare of snow, with little touches of green starting up from the scrubby brown grass.

  “Unbelievable!” she muttered.

  She quickly drew the curtains and hoped that none of the servants thought to open them again.

  Lucky for her, the few servants they employed seemed to have no interest in the backyard.

  Shortly after lunch, there was a knock at the front door, and Mrs. Finch bustled off to answer it. Flora followed with foreboding, not all the way to the entry, but to the corridor just beyond it.

  She heard a man’s voice say, “Good afternoon. I wonder if Miss Dalton is available to speak with me.”

  Mrs. Finch put on her most haughty airs and replied, “And whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Prime Minister Nicholas Moreland.”

  The housekeeper opened the door wide and babbled to cover up her previous aloofness. “Oh! Prime Minister Moreland! Of course! Come in! I’ll fetch Flora right away! Can I take your hat and coat?”

  A quiet gentleman entered the house. “Thank you, I can hang them up myself,” he said, and he efficiently turned to the row of coat hooks that lined the wall adjacent to the door.

  Mrs. Finch looked like she was about to faint dead away. Flora thought it best to intervene.

  “Who is here?” she asked politely as she stepped into view.

  Before the housekeeper could answer, the visitor turned and bowed efficiently. “Nicholas Moreland at your service, Miss Dalton,” he said. “I believe you have something to discuss with me?”

  His shrewd eyes slid toward the flustered Mrs. Finch. “Get rid of her,” that glance said.

  “Oh, yes!” said Flora. “Mrs. Finch, would you bring some tea to the front drawing room, please?”

  The housekeeper gratefully escaped. Flora turned expectant eyes upon the Prime Minister and said nothing further. It was his visit, so she would defer the burden of conversation to him.

  “I suppose I ought to have a look at it,” he said ambiguously. “In that case I should’ve left my coat on.”

  “I doubt you’ll need it,” replied Flora, surprised at how calm she felt in the presence of someone so illustrious. “There’s not an inch of snow on the ground back there. It’s this way.” She guided him toward the back door and said as they went, “I’ve shut all the curtains on windows that look out to the garden. The servants come in and out the side door in the kitchen, so I don’t think any of them have seen it yet, but someone’s bound to notice sooner or later.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” he said vaguely.

  Flora spared him an uncertain glance but showed him through the door into the unnatural garden beyond. The expression on his face as he surveyed the scene was one of grim resignation.

  “And the well?” he prompted.

  She led him on the path between the muddy holes, across the scrubby grass that had new growth springing from it, to the first dried rosebush and the pair of holes in front of it. Will and Charlie had covered the new well with a sheet of metal they had found in the greenhouse. It was rusting around the edges but otherwise served its purpose.

  “It’s beneath there,” said Flora. She wasn’t about to move the dirty thing, not with the threat of Mrs. Finch’s rebuke about getting rust stains on her clothes.

  Prime Minister Moreland had no qualms about doing the job. He tipped the metal on its side and perched it against the rosebush. “Was it that full yesterday?” he inquired as he peered down into the hole.

  Flora looked as well and discovered that the puddle had risen three inches at least. “No. It’s fuller now. Did the falling snow melt and run into the hole, perhaps?”

  “No,” he replied shortly, and he replaced the cover on the well. He looked around the garden with speculative eyes. “We need to contain it. Otherwise it’s going to spread to your neighbors’ gardens as well, and everyone will know that something strange is afoot. This is a rather small space, though. I wonder if it’s enough.” Suddenly he paced off from the new well to the side wall, then back again, and to the other side from there. Flora watched with growing confusion.

  “Is there any way I can help you?” she asked.

  “There’s supposed to be a ring of trees to mark the boundaries,” said Prime Minister Moreland. “Do you have a preference on the type, or shall we just plant any old thing?”

  “I like birches.”

  “Birch trees might suit this small area quite nicely. If they get too aggressive, we can always replace them. I’ll see what the palace greenhouse has. If I can’t get them, though, do you have any other preferences?”

  “Anything is fine,” she said. “I like most plants.”

  He regarded her as though trying to determine whether she was being sincere or not. He must have accepted her response, though, for he replied, “Very good. I’ll be back in an hour or two with the trees and some helpers to plant them.”

  Flora gaped. “You’re doing it today?”

  “There’s not much choice, Miss Dalton. At the rate this well is expanding, any later than today might very well be too late.”

  “Have you spoken to my dad yet?”

  His face was unreadable. “I’ve not had that pleasure,” he said with all the decorum of a diplomat. “I wanted to confirm the report with my own eyes before I created a stir. I will speak with him, of course, but securing the well itself must be the first priority. I’d have come sooner, but it took me this long just to find the instructions,” he added wryly. “As you might’ve guessed, we don’t have to do this very often.”

  He led the way back indoors. “I’ll be back soon. In the meantime, do try to keep the curtains drawn.”

  She followed him to the entryway, where he paused to retrieve his coat and hat. “So that’s it?” she asked in surprise.

  “One step at a time,” said the Prime Minister, and he smiled. “Thank you, Miss Dalton. If the servants of the house have any errands to run, this afternoon might be the ideal opportunity to send them.”

  Then, he quietly left. Flora turned just in time to see Mrs. Finch hurrying up the hallway from the kitchen with a loaded tea tray. “It took forever for the water to boil!” she said apologetically. “Has the Prime Minister gotten impatient?”

  “He’s already gone,” said Flora. “I’m sorry I made you go to all that trouble.”

  Mrs. Finch stared, wide-eyed. “Gone? Whatever did he want?”

  The files in her room provided her with a perfect excuse. “He wanted to know whether I’d had a chance to sort through the Prince’s consort applications at all yet, and whether it was too taxing of a job,” she lied. Then, to her deepening shame, she inquired, “Mrs. Finch, would it be too much trouble to ask whether you and Mary could fetch some things for me this afternoon? I think the storm has blown over, and I have need of a few supplies to accomplish this task I’ve been given.”

  “No, no trouble at all, sweet girl,” Mrs. Finch replied.r />
  Flora’s conscience throbbed painfully. “Thank you. I’ll write you a list immediately.”

  As she sat in her bedroom, pen in hand, she fought against that growing sense of guilt. She was trusting in the Morelands, people she had only just met, over Mrs. Finch, whom she had known all her life. Her own father was still out of the loop. Flora’s conscience told her that it didn’t have to be this way, that she could go downstairs right now and explain to all of the servants what was happening in the backyard. Even as she considered this action, though, her instincts warned her against it. She was a guardian for that well now. She had to protect it. Until she knew exactly what being a guardian entailed, she would remain quiet on the matter.

  Thus, she constructed a list of items that she did not truly need. Then, she went one step further and constructed a second one for Cook, with instructions for a more elaborate dinner than usual that evening.

  “I’m a terrible person!” she muttered. The servants of the Dalton household were loyal if nothing else and left immediately to procure the requested items. Flora felt sick at using them so.

  Chapter Nine: All Is Well

  I feel sort of like I’ve joined a cult. This whole business of magic is foreign and strange, but it’s a little exciting, too. There are precious few people in Lenore who know anything about it, it seems, and now I’m one of them. I’m still not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  In the safety of this journal, I will admit that Prime Minister Moreland unsettles me. He presents a docile personality most of the time, like some benign, middle-aged clerk, but I can’t help but feel that it’s only a façade. I suppose he’s not Prime Minister for nothing. It’s a hereditary position in Lenore, though, so he wouldn’t have to be cunning to hold it. He is. I imagine his children (the heir apparent in particular) take after him at least somewhat in that characteristic.

  Maybe I’m being overly self-conscious. He’s the mouthpiece for the Prince in most matters, so that alone makes me nervous. I’m not the only one who’s wary of him, though, and I do find that at least a little heartening.