His cloth scraped over the wood. It had grown so quiet Grace could hear the rasp of cloth over smooth wood. She let the steady, familiar rhythm soothe her. His big hands were sure and steady on the wood, and for a moment Grace felt that she could borrow the confidence he had in his place in the world by dint of sheer proximity.
Eventually, Derrick looked up. “You going to tell me what's going on?”
“Oh, everyone thinks I'm some kind of paranoid lunatic.” Grace slouched more, sulking.
“Are you?” His hands stilled, holding the cloth loose and easy, but he kept his head down and his eyes on his work.
“Jack and Nell didn't make it to the fair. No one's heard from them.” Her voice caught. Grace found the hem of her tunic with thumb and forefinger.
Derrick looked up from the staff at that, face shifting. “Jack and Nell always make it.”
“I think something happened to them.”
“You should go look, then, and find out what.” Derrick turned back to the staff, the cloth resuming its smooth arc.
Grace couldn’t stand it. “They all think I'm making something out of nothing.”
“So?” Derrick put down the staff and looked at her. “You know what you know. What's the worst that can happen? You go on a camping trip and you feel a little silly when they're fine.”
“Camping trip.” Grace echoed, absently finding a loose thread and beginning to unravel the end of the hem. She'd gone camping before, though never deep in the mountains. She’d heard some of Jack and Nell's stories, and from those, their cabin was fairly remote. “Want to come?”
“I can't. I'm four days a week doing security at the bazaar and I've already got three custom orders.”
“So I'll find someone else to take, then.” She met Derrick's eyes and didn't say she'd go alone if no one else would come. She didn't want him to try to stop her.
“The mountains are beautiful when they're not trying to kill you.” Derrick paused. “Mind you come back home alive.”
It had helped, Grace thought, as she and Derrick walked from his workshop as dawn broke over the horizon. They practiced early. It set the tone for a productive day and, more importantly, it hadn’t grown so hot that people would skive off to avoid the misery of physical exertion under the brutal summer sun.
When they got to the courtyard they used to practice, the cast of familiar faces settled her stomach the rest of the way. Together, they formed a volunteer militia comprised of people who all had other jobs. This, alone out of everything else in her life, was fully Grace’s.
A light wind from the east made the dust swirl around their boots. At a word from her, they started on on a run on the shaded trails in the foothills of the mountains just outside of town. They’d made so much progress.
There hadn’t been a militia in Coura for two hundred years. Grace had been in that awkward stage between true childhood and puberty when she’d stumbled into it.
At first, it was just an excuse for Grace to continue practicing staff-fighting with Derrick. She’d met him by chance and started going to his lessons any time she could sneak away.
She had improved considerably in the three months before her mother had found out.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Grace had protested.
“Nevertheless, it would be better if you found something more appropriate to do with your time,” her mother had said in a very quiet voice. Instead of yelling, her mother got quieter when she grew angry. Soft requests from the queen were not lightly ignored.
Grace felt like a wet cat, taken from a cozy dry perch and thrust back into the water, but she complied with the order.
She decided that since her favorite game had been stolen from her, she could go live in the library instead. It was the only acceptable activity she knew where she didn’t have to deal with the kind of cloying people who thought they could curry favor with the young princess. She’d been there four days, brushing dust off of old books and immersing herself in the histories of the battles from the time when Courans still got angry enough to fight.
Grace had learned the story of the treaty where her family’s lasting peace had been brokered at her father’s knee. Tutors had delivered dire warnings of the emotional toll that mending the ravages of war exacted. No one had ever explained that enough blazing fury muted the gift and made the wars possible, if the need was great.
She curled more deeply into the chair she’d taken for her own in one of the most remote corners of the libraries. A smile tugged at the edge of her lips as she flicked through the pages, reveling in the sheer volume of content she’d never known had existed.
A single word popped off the page and stopped her dead. Prince.
As far as Grace had been taught, princes didn’t fight in wars. She thumbed back a few pages, wondering how he’d managed it. Perhaps he’d disguised his identity so he could stand for his country.
Ah, there was a chapter heading.
They’d set up camp in one of the forests in the mountains, nestled in a clearing against a cliff that provided them with some degree of shelter. One could, of course, go over the cliff, but it would take a long hike and vulnerable rappelling. It was as safe as it would be for a while, and safer than they had been for some time.
Birdsong and the soft rustling of tree leaves hid the noise of two dozen fighting men and women seeing to their gear. The prince had given the order to rest well this evening, because on the following day would begin before dawn.
Grace turned several pages back and read the passage again to make sure she had read it right. The rustling of pages became the rustling of nature and the sun gleaming onto woods and fabrics in the library became the weak morning light as she learned how the prince had led-- led!-- the small band to hold off the encroaching forces for long enough that the diplomatic corps could broker a renegotiation of the trade agreement.
The royal family had once had a position for a military commander. She could make it happen again.
Grace had dressed in her very best outfit and waited until she knew the throne room had been deserted.
When she walked into the empty throne room, her mother took one look at her and asked, “Grace, what have you done now?”
“Mother,” Grace began in the best formal tones she knew, “I would like to re-form the Couran Defense Corps.”
The long-suffering look the queen gave Grace contrasted with her elegant garments. The lack of an immediate rebuttal gave Grace hope.
She imagined that a string connected to the ceiling, pulling her head tall and straight. She’d learned the trick in lessons about decorum, where she’d felt short and frumpy next to Petra’s slim elegance. Petra had always been tall, and Grace had always been short. There was nothing she could do to change it, and she would force it into irrelevance. “The position once had honor, Mother. I would like to like to re-form the Couran Defense Corps.”
It was a victory when her mother said that she would consider the request.
After she’d been dismissed, Grace took care to keep her steps cool and measured as she left the chambers. Once in the hallway, though, she broke into a scampering jig.
Permission arrived a fortnight later, and she’d gone to Derrick with the proclamation written on thick Couran letterhead. It had started with just the two of them roping in everyone they could cajole into it. All one of him. They’d practiced as a trio until Derrick broke his finger and fast-talked the doctor who set it into joining them. The doctor knew of two others, and the company grew in dribs and drabs.
Now Derrick stood at her right hand as a crowd of twenty ran behind them.
By the time practice was over, sweat drenched her clothes and she wore the marks of falling to the ground on her clothes. Her mind had cleared. This was better.
Chapter 3
Grace tried to go in quietly, but the door creaked when it opened and thudded hard against the frame when it shut. The skinny man behind the counter glared at her. Even covered with a tunic, his e
lbows gave a distinct impression of spikiness, like he’d just had a growth spurt and hadn’t yet filled out his frame. Grace vaguely recognized him as one of Petra's friends.
She cleared her throat, completely uncomfortable. “I need directions.” She was suddenly keenly aware that she’d come in with mud caked on her elbows and tufts of grass still clinging to her knees.
The man raised an eyebrow, glancing from her sweat-stained top to the grass stains on her trousers. “Clearly. You can reach the athletic fields if you turn right and go down the hall. The door outside is the third on the left. Alternatively, the showers are in the same direction on the other side of the hall.”
Grace placed him when she heard his voice. Harold, who had flatly refused to put down his book on Petra's eleventh birthday outing. He’d made noises about how his studies meant he had limited time for frivolity. Grace had looked at his grip on the book, knuckles white on the spine as if he worried it would be taken away. He was as out of place amongst the party-goers as she was.
She had felt a moment of unexpected camaraderie for someone who obviously loved Petra as much as she did. Then he’d sneered at her for proposing a bit of sport as a party game and spoiled it.
She sucked a breath in. “I'm looking for-- there was a specific winery I wanted to visit, and I wanted to know where it was.”
“We have here these things called maps,” said Harold, eyes wary as he stroked a hand over the spine of his book, guarding it from imminent peril.
“I wash my hands regularly and I am not going to ruin your books,” snapped Grace. “I am familiar with maps and wanted to know if you could please help me find a specific map. Jack and Nell.”
“You know, mountain geography is not as predictable as all that.” Harold shoved his chair back awkwardly and Grace felt a pang of sympathy for approximately three seconds. Then Harold started talking again. “It's not like you can just go to the third stall to the left in the red section of the bazaar.”
She picked up a nearby book and shifted it from hand to hand. The pages riffled under her thumb, and the physical sensation almost felt like progress. “I know. I've spent weeks camping in the mountains. I know that the streams move, the passes get blocked, that you can't always trust the rocks. The most recent version you have will be helpful anyway.”
Harold shot her a look of disgust, took the book from her hands, and led her through the stacks. “Jack and Nell? They're pretty far north.”
Grace blinked. “You know the maps by heart?” No wonder he’d been so focused on studying.
“No, someone looked up their bazaar registration records for the last twenty years. I was curious and did a little research.” Harold pulled down a map. “They're good people, even better than their wine. I hope you're not going to harass them.”
“I know they’re good people.” Grace snatched the scroll from Harold. “They're friends.”
Grace could see the incredulity bloom over Harold's face as he handed her some notes in a binder. She didn't know if he knew how much he was broadcasting his disdain, or if he just didn't care.
Grace took the map. “Thanks.” She knew she didn't sound grateful and tried to care. “I miss Pook.” It was the first thing she could think of to say that was true and might help. It surprised her when Harold gave her a curt nod and didn’t object when she tucked the binder under her arm. A brief prickle of something she couldn’t make out tickled at her mind, like he wanted to convey some emotion to her. She ignored it.
She didn't look back at Harold's face as she beat a retreat to a table to study the map and the notes.
After a while, the notes caught her attention. She knew part of the way there, but it was one of the trickier ones. Two mountains mashed into each other and the runoff from the spring thaw made the streams branch into new paths nearly every year. She, Derrick, and Chloe had gone in that direction once at the end of a camping trip and had turned back for the comforts of home. Jack and Nell braved it every year, and Grace was suddenly even more impressed.
There was nothing in the maps that suggested any more geographic instability than usual.
That night, there was a party, and Grace went because she was supposed to. More importantly, she could see if there were any travelers from the mountains where Jack and Nell lived. She knew where to look and who to look for now.
Usually, a lot of people wanted to discuss the exciting trade possibilities for their country’s unique wares at the bazaar. Even more would make a beeline for Petra and accept Grace as a consolation prize. It made the hideous small talk bearable when she could monopolize someone she could tell Petra wanted to avoid. Every time they cut her off because they realized Grace had no intention of putting in a good word for them, a frisson of perverse pleasure ran through her.
Tonight, however, they gave her a wide berth. After a handful of conversations that didn’t progress beyond the weather, Grace realized that they might be able to feel her agitation like prickling spiders on their skin. She had another drink.
The wine washed warm over her as she patiently worked conversations about wood carving and leather work around to mountaineering. When her conversational partners found excuses to move along, she went back to the drinks table.
Wine couldn’t cover her frustration when she ended up talking to Dylan’s friend Rudy, who had recently taken a larger role in his family’s mining company. He wanted to strike a deal about an aluminum refinery. At least he knew the mountains, Grace reminded herself. The route south from the Arrosan capital would have taken him past the foothills of the mountains where Jack and Nell lived.
“Coura runs on Arrosa's minerals,” he said. “Your telephones and your data banks, your running water and your jewelry.”
Grace did not tell him about the war 800 years ago, where Arrosa had violently carved out their chunk of mountains out of Coura. The same mountains that held modern Arrosa's bauxite reserves had once been Couran territory. Bringing up ancient history would do nothing but stir up old animosities.
“How interesting,” Grace said instead, and took another sip of her wine. “Tell me more about where you mine them?”
“The deposits run along the surface of the mountains, but there are veins that run deeper,” Rudy explained. “We've got several complicated mining operations in place to efficiently extract the minerals. The seismic activity is always a risk, but sometimes it exposes new seams that we can exploit.”
Grace nodded.
“It's always a challenge to ship in food during the winter. Maybe we could work out a deal to set up a mining operation in your side of the mountains so we could grow food near the mines.”
Grace thought that many of the wineries might object, and kept the thought to herself. Memories of the sharp taste of thin mountain air and the sweetness of clean cold water from the mountain streams prickled at the back of her throat. She tilted her head and nodded, hoping she wouldn’t see how tightly she gripped the stem of her wineglass.
“It would be a pity to lose some of the vineyards that are so common up there.” He swirled the wine in his glass. Grace watched the light catch on the rim of the glass and the glow of trade burn in his eyes.
“It's such lovely wine,” he continued. “But sacrifices must be made for progress.” He smiled, showing teeth. Grace's mind filled with pictures of displaced children, lost in Arrosa’s barren lowlands. If the mines fouled the clean water needed for farming, the wineries might not survive. Mining was no work for a child, but a child could pick grapes and learn the mountains.
“Progress is-- often good,” Grace said, and gulped the rest of her wine. She could see a heavy thunderhead forming outside the window as a cold front swept in. “If you'll excuse me--”
She bolted for the door.
She shivered when the cold night air hit her face. Her stupid flimsy tunic did little to shield her from the cold, but surely no one would follow her outside into weather like this. She could go back inside after she'd calmed down.
Glancing around to make sure she was alone, she turned to a manicured shrub and kicked it.
“Rough ball, Princess?” said a voice behind her. It sounded familiar, but Grace couldn't place it. She heard so many voices. So few belonged to people worth remembering. Petra said that the connection helped sort out the voices, gave them texture and context, but Grace had never had that luxury. Maybe that was why Petra and William and her mother and father could hold so many people so easily in their lives, when Grace was well content to count her friends on her fingers and toes.
Grace wanted to curse. She settled for shifting her weight back and letting whoever-it-was make the next move. Paying proper attention now, she caught the soft thud of feet on the stone walkway, almost outside the range of hearing. She reached into her tunic for her knife.
“Easy, Princess,” said the voice, coming slowly closer.
Grace recognized the face the instant it emerged from the shadows. “Oh my god,” she said.
“Not exactly,” said the Ice Pretender. “But I appreciate the compliment.”
“Ms. Lemieux.” Grace paused, trying to find her manners when she couldn't figure out what the Ice Pretender was doing in her garden.
“Alex.”
“What?” asked Grace, completely nonplussed.
“Call me Alex.” The Ice Pretender-- Alex, Grace reminded herself sharply-- took a step forward, and Grace took a startled step back.
“I don't bite,” said Alex, making a face Grace couldn't interpret. “Is that what they're saying about me these days?”
Grace tried to think of a polite way of saying “yes” that would keep the garden interloper from-- Grace didn't actually know what she might do.
Alex waited for a moment for the response before breaking into a grin. “Wait, it is? That's brilliant.”
Grace just about managed not to gape.
“I'm sorry,” Alex said, as Grace continued to fail to respond. “Did you want me to do this the formal way? Charmed to meet you and so forth?”
Misfit Princess Page 3
