Kai considered that in light of what he had read in the Herald over the last few years, the endless trash-talking of the boys in the palace. “So no one minds pissing off our futureking?”
She glanced around to check no one was close enough to hear what she said. “You’ve obviously never tried to piss off one of those princes. It’s like water off the back of a duck wrapped in gold-plated, waterproof armour. Besides, every reporter at the Herald has been holding back for years, just in case King Iolchas comes out of his fog and starts reading newspapers again.”
Kai blinked. “The coverage over the last few years has been the Herald holdingback?”
“Oh, honey. I don’t think the magical ink could actually handle some of the scandals we’ve discreetly reworded for public consumption.”
He wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or impressed. “So we go easy on the princesses. Fornow.”
“Exactly. Apart from the general ethics of not slamming them too early in the season — some of those wenches are crazycakes. They’re ruthless, ambitious, and unlike our local royals, perfectly capable of sneaking into the Herald offices in the dead of night and setting fire to yourdesk.”
Kai stared at her in horror.
Amira shrugged. “It only happened one time, but if we don’t learn from these experiences, we’re no better than animals.” She leaned into him, discreetly pointing at the cluster of their co-workers and competitors. “Keep an eye on Llew at the front there, the one in the green tunic. He has an eye on the Assistant Editor’s job when Maggie retires, so he’ll be going big or going home this season. Don’t let him near your quills and parchment, he’s been known to rewrite other people’s copy to leave out the juicy deets, and save them for his own stories.”
Kai took note of the heavy-set reporter in the front row. “Is everyone here from the Herald?” There were more than a dozen reporters, and at least eight monochromists setting up heavy equipment along the steps.
“And the Kingdom Weekly. They pretend they’re too highbrow for gossip, but when the season hits they’re not too proud to squash a few frocks on to their front cover. A few of the stragglers on the edge there are from the outer town gazettes, and there’s one or two representatives from the newspapers of border kingdoms -- Mountainside have two princesses joining us for the season this year, and the Riverlands are so bored of reporting flood damage that they usually send a few quills across to collect gossip. Their royal family is too young to play for the season, so they live vicariously through our national sport.”
“And the kids?” Okay, Kai was barely of age himself, but he was certain that the youngsters juggling some seriously vintage monochrome cameras down on the lowest step weren’t even old enough to read the Herald, let alone work for the paper.
“Oh, they’re from the Whistler,” Amira shrugged. “Up at the Academy. Didn’t you work for the school newspaper when you were there?”
“I didn’t go to the Academy,” Kai said, startled.
“Huh. You just have that look, youknow.”
“Whatlook?”
“Like you went to fancy private school. Something about the eyebrows. Also the accent. And the politeness. But mostly the accent.”
“My mother was a governess,” he growled, not liking her assumptions at all. “We travelled all over – pretty much everywhere but this kingdom.”
“There you go, then. Fancy.”
A hubbub sprang up from the crowd as the first of the Charming Pumpkins rattled precariously up the carriageway.
“Cheer up, Kai, you have the best job in the world,” Amira said breathlessly. “Get in there, my son.” She promptly elbowed him out of the way and darted at the coach. Llew in the green tunic gasped and swore as Amira’s high heel drove into hisfoot.
The foreign princesses emerged from the lopsided root vegetable on wheels, smiling and glowing. If their gowns were somewhat wilted (and honestly who decided they should travel in floor length dresses, that seemed unnaturally cruel?) then they hadn’t noticed — their chins stuck proudly upwards, with feathered headdresses swooping over their beautifully coiffedhair.
As if they were preparing for battle. Or some elaborate hazing ritual.
The air filled with the pop and crack of monochrome explosions, tearing up the space between the reporters and the princesses with flashes of ink and light, recording their calculated smiles on silver plates for printing.
Questions shot out from the cluster of reporters, even as more pumpkins rolled up and more noblewomen levered themselves out, blinking in the autumn sunshine. Only two of the pumpkins contained genuine princesses; the rest were a more general assortment of aristocratic debutantes. There were even a few young men here and there — it was the height of rudeness to send too many unmarried princes or lords to a season like this when it was known that the host wanted his sons married off, but no one wanted to be left without suitable dance partners in the mean time. Some wily kingdoms sent sons as chaperones to their sisters, well aware that the Charming princes could only take one wife apiece and there would be plenty of disappointed leftovers who might be bought for a bargain.
The male guests were ignored entirely by the assembly of reporters, who knew where the kingdom’s real interest lay. Half of their questions were about what the ladies were wearing right now, and the rest were about what they would be wearing for the ball that evening.
Frocks, frocks, frocks.
Kai’s eye was drawn to one of the princesses from the first coach. Her smile was every bit as practiced and pretty as the others, but there was a sharpness to her as she surveyed the crowd. He immediately dubbed her ‘Princess Most Likely To Be Smuggling a Shiv.’ She became aware of his gaze and met it with a challenging stare.
As the noblewomen made their way up the steps, the reporters and monochromists fell back to make an avenue for their procession.
Kai finally got up the stones to holler a question of his own, and blurted the words “Are you going to meet the prince of your dreams tonight?” to the Princess Most Likely To Stab Me In My Sleep.
She gave him a searingly sarcastic expression, then batted her eyelashes at him. “It’s what we were born for,” she drawled.
Oh, he likedher.
Five
THE CARE AND MAINTENANCE OF PRINCESSHAIR
Ziyi was the only princess who had not brought a retinue of relatives, maids or ladies-in-waiting with her to the castle. Her reasoning was simple: everyone she brought from her own kingdom was likely to be a spy for her family, and might put a spoke in the wheel of her plans.
So she was given the impoverished step-cousin of suites, in a crumbling corner of the castle. She was provided with the service of Abigale, who was called in to “do” for visiting ladies at Castle Charming during the season, and spent the rest of the year as a shepherdess. Or possibly a milkmaid. Some sort of healthy outdoor job involving dairy product or lanolin, anyway. Her hands were terriblysoft.
Abigale had two hairstyles she could master: three-strand braids and four-strand braids. She faltered at the array of pearl pins and jade clasps that Ziyi usually required for formal hair attire.
“I thought we could tie fresh jasmine into your hair,” said the maid, biting her plump lower lip. “Tuck it into a braid, like.”
“Goodness, why?” said Ziyi in alarm. She hated the cloying smell of jasmine. It reminded her of her mother’s funeral.
“To let them know where you’re from,” said the maid. “You’re of the Jasmine Kingdom, ain’tyou?”
Ziyi flinched. “Is that what you call us?” It could be worse. The first time she travelled abroad, she discovered that her home was often referred to as ‘Gunpowder Isle’ by outsiders. Still, she would rather be the gunpowder princess than be named after a sickly sweet flower.
“Why?” said Abigale in surprise. “Ain’t that what you call yourselves?”
“We call ourselves Xix,” saidZiyi.
“That’s not nearly as pretty as the Jasmine Kingdom,”
Abigale decided, brushing Ziyi’s hair so hard that static electricity flew around them. “What’s your name mean, then, in your tongue?”
“It means ziyi,” said the princess, and refused to translate. “Put my hair in the jasmine,” she decided. If Castle Charming expected an exotic cliche of a Xixese noblewoman, then she would meet their expectations. The best thing about a disguise was that, once you removed it, you could disappear entirely.
Six
DRUNK PRINCE IN GAZEBO SHOCK!
“How could you lose him?” Corporal Jack demanded. She had two inches on Dennis in height and used both of them to great effect as she loomed over him. “Chase Charming is a drunken sot of a prince wearing fuschia satin. He’s not exactly camouflaged!”
“I swear,” said Dennis desperately. “He was righthere!”
His first night as a Royal Hound was not going well. Prince Chase had seemed amiable enough when he joined his entourage for the evening, making a point of remembering Dennis’ name and sharing a joke or two with Jack before they joined “the fray” which was the two hour receiving line before the Autumnal Fling began.
Then there was the dancing, during which Jack and Dennis stood by the sidelines and watched as Chase and his brother Cyrus — who was similar in aspect but wore less glitter powder in his hair and had restrained himself to a jacket of emerald satin instead of the fuschia — paraded an endless swirl of marriageable damsels around the ballroom decorated with thousands of gilded autumn leaves.
An easy night in theory, if you didn’t mind standing to attention for hours on end, but now he had stuffed up good and proper. It was Dennis’ job to supervise Prince Chase while Corporal Jack made the eleven o’clock check-in with Sarge, and in that tiny window of time he had somehow been talked into a ‘breath of fresh air’ on the balcony that led them - well, here. Wandering around the well-lit palace gardens, searching for an errant fuschia prince.
“Sarge is going to have our ears for this,” groanedJack.
“Excuse me,” said a polite voice. “Are you — uh, looking for a fellow in satin?”
Dennis whirled around to see an awkward looking boy with dark hair and very bright blue eyes. “Have you seenhim?”
The stranger gestured with a thumb. “He’s throwing up in the gazebo.”
“Oh, brilliant,” said Jack, and took off at arun.
Chase was in a sorry state when they found him on the floor of the ornamental gazebo. He had indeed been emptying his stomach into one of the large antiqueurns.
“I swear I found him like that,” said Mr Helpful.
“No one thought otherwise,” snappedJack.
Dennis stared down at Chase’s glazed eyes. It was impressive, how dedicated the prince was to getting off his face. “He was out of sight for fifteen minutes. How did he drink somuch?”
“He was already far gone when the evening started,” said Jack through gritted teeth.
Dennis had enjoyed his share of wild nights with friends, but he was starting to think he was a doe-eyed innocent compared to everyone else in this palace. “He looked fine,” he ventured.
“He always does,” said Jack with pained cynicism. “Here, you two, help me get him to the fountain for some cleanup.”
Dennis came forward to catch one of Prince Chase’s flailing arms, and their new friend helped to lever the nearly dead-weight of the prince upwards. As the three (four) of them manoeuvred themselves awkwardly out of the darkened gazebo and out into a pool of light from the paper lanterns along the avenue, Jack sucked in a breath.
“Oh hell,” she growled. “I thought you were one of the foreign princes.”
“No,” said Mr Helpful. “I just sound like I went to one of those fancy schools. I’m quite ordinary really.”
“You’re a quill,” said Jack, like it was a dirtyword.
Quill meant reporter, and that was bad, right? We have to protect them from more than assassins.
“Do people actually call us that?” asked the stranger archly. “It’s my firstday.”
“It’s my first day too,” Dennis broke in. “But I can already tell when Jack is about to punch someone, so maybe it’s time to make yourself scarce, mate?”
It was a shame, really. Their helpful stranger was about Dennis’ age, and very nice to look at. (He had promised himself he wasn’t looking, not this year. He had enough to manage without bringing down that kind of trouble on hishead.)
“Sorry,” said the quill, letting go of his half of the prince. “Look, I can push off if you like, but I promise I won’t write aboutthis.”
“Is anyone interested that I’m about to throw up again?” demanded the prince, opening his eyes long enough to collapse into the nearest hydrangeabush.
“I didn’t push him,” said Jack calmly.
“No one thought otherwise,” said the quill, and smiled a beautiful smile.
Trouble, Dennis told himself sternly. Don’t.
“Jack,” said his corporal gruffly, holding out a hand. “This is Dennis. Thanks for your help. And your silence.”
“Kai,” said the quill, gripping her hand with his own. “Don’t mention it. Only an idiot would try to start out with a Drunk Prince in Gazebo Shock byline his firstday.”
“They generally prefer you to work up to those,” Jack agreed.
“Besides,” said Kai, growing bold. “We all know it wouldn’t be a shock.”
“Still lying in a bush!” announced the prince.
“Exactly what you deserve,” said Jack, yanking him to his feet again, and draping him decoratively over one of Dennis’ shoulders.
“I miss when you used to be fun, Jax,” sighed Chase with apout.
Huh. That was interesting. Exactly how well did they know each other? Dennis pretended not to notice the weird intimacy between the Prince and his Hound, and he spotted that Kai was pretending not to notice the same thing. Their eyes met for a moment, and they exchanged awkward smiles.
Seven
BREAKFAST OF QUILLS
“…And then we took turns scooping water over the prince’s head until he sobered up, and the Hounds dragged him off to bed.” Kai finished describing his evening to Amira over breakfast rolls. She had dragged him out of his digs first thing to steer him into the Queen’s Bishop, a small and only slightly seedy coffee house near the Herald offices. He was pretty sure this meant that they were not merely two people whose desks were parked next to each other, but officially friends.
She had also managed to worm out of him that both of the Hounds were all muscles and hotness.
“Aww, most of us have to be with the Herald at least a month before we get our very own drunken prince encounter,” Amira said, refilling their tiny glasses from the communal coffee pot. “Let alone a tasty Hound to flirtwith.”
“There was no flirting!” Kai protested. He would, he suspected, always regret letting her know that he now had a thing for men in uniform.
“She was right, though,” Amira went on. “You can’t write it. Prince Gets Trashed in Gazebo is barely even Page 6 material — and besides, while you were hanging out with Hounds and Royals, you missed the biggest story of the week. Maybe the season. The story that’s going to swallow us whole and spit us out after.”
“What?” said Kai. “Did someone break a punchbowl in the ballroom?”
“Better than that,” said Amira with glee. “We’re talking a glass slipper situation, accept no substitutions.”
Eight
LIVING THE FAIRYTALE
Everyone knows the story of the Rags to Riches Queen - the glass slippers and the fairy godmother, the ball and the mice and the Happy Ever After.
No one ever talks about how long Happy Ever After lasted.
Magical happy endings come at a cost, and this was hers: cursed that if her heart ever broke, she would fall into a terrible sleep until it could be mended again.
It seemed no risk at all, at the time of their marriage. Their future was golden. As the new King and Queen of Castle Ch
arming they had wealth and power, the boundless love of their people. They had silver-eyed twins, as happy and joyous as any children could be. Then the second pair of twins, the dark-haired babies that the kingdom took to its heart…
The King and Queen thought themselves immune from heartbreak. But one of their babies was stolen, and nothing that they had — the magic, the wealth, the Hounds, nothing could help them find that child.
The Queen’s heart broke, and she was lost forever to the enchanted sleep.
Those left behind — her King, their sons and their daughter, remained awake and breathing, but equally broken.
They’re still breaking. Every day. Before the eyes of the kingdom.
No one ever tells that part of the story. No one can bear to say the words aloud.
Nine
WHO IS THE MIDNIGHT PRINCESS? YOUR MOST POPULAR GUESSES, INSIDE
“A glass slipper situation,” Kai repeated.
“Pure and beautiful,” confirmed Amira. “The full bit. A mysterious, masked princess arrived in the ballroom shortly before midnight. She danced with Prince Cyrus three times, and then — this is where things get weird. She legged it out of the ballroom the second that the clock struck midnight.”
“And she left a shoe behind.”
“I see you’re familiar with the trope.”
Kai shook his head, breathing disbelief into his coffee glass. “But who would —”
“Iknow.”
“Seriously, who —”
“Iknow.”
“Who would have the balls to do the glass slipper thing in Castle Charming?”
“The Midnight Princess, that’s who,” said Amira. “The name was my idea,” she added modestly. “Front page headline, thank you verymuch.”
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