Thump- thump.Two raps of gloved knuckles against the carriage roof. The driver’s muffled voice carries down to me inside. “Almost there,Prinzessin.”
I don’t reply. I don’t have to; I learned long ago that princesses don’t owe their servants answers.
And for most of the last year, that’s the face I’ve worn: the princess.
Or to be precise: Gisele-Berthilde Ludwila von Falbirg of the Sovabin Principality,Prinzessin-Wahlof the Blessed Empire of Almandy. Soon to beMarkgräfi nGisele you-get-the-idea von Reigenbach of the empire’s largest territory, the border march of Bóern, once its mar
grave gets around to a wedding.
Though not if I can help it.
(We’ll come back to that.)
I squint out the gilt-trimmed carriage window, studying the timber-and-plaster blocks of Eisendorf Manor as the horses draw us closer. Shadows pass behind the first-floor windows, turning them to rosy eyes winking into the frosty twilight gloom. It looks crowded already, even for a Sunday-night party. Good—a princess ought to be the last of the von Eisendorfs’ guests to arrive. There was a reason I dawdled in my bedroom at Castle Reigenbach: to make sure we hit peak Minkja traffic when we left an hour ago.
But I have more motive to survey the manor’s scenery than just making sure thePrinzessinarrives fashionably late. Lit windows are fewer on the third floor, but I still spot two bracketing the double doors where the master bedroom lets out onto its telltale grand balcony.
The real question tonight is whether it’s theonlybalcony.
It is not. Balconettes frame it on either side. Lamplight gilds only one of the balconettes, spilling from an adjacent room that looks to share the fat main chimney with the master bedroom.
That chimney is currently chugging smoke into the dimming sky. One might wonderwhythe von Eisendorfs would keep a fire going up in their bedroom when they’ll be busy entertaining guests downstairs all evening.
I’d bet three solidgildenthat they’re heating the guest chambers next door instead, in case I—well, in case theprinzessinneeds a respite. An opportunity to suck up to the margrave’s bride-to-be can’t be missed.
One also might wonder why I care about chimneys, balconettes, and suck-ups. It’s because tonight, the von Eisendorfs are handing me an entirely different sort of opportunity.
And I wouldloathefor either of those opportunities to go to waste.
The faint reflection of my grin cuts across the glass. A moment later it vanishes as my breath clouds the pane in the late-November chill.
I should play it safe, settle back into my seat, resume the serene, graceful façade of theprinzessin.
Instead I size up the remaining distance between us and the first guard we’ll pass, and quickly draw a simple, distinct set of curves in the fogged glass.ThenI sit back and smooth my grin down to a placid smile.
When we pass the first guard, I see him do a double take. He elbows the guard beside him, pointing to the carriage window, and I’m pretty sure I hear: “. . .an arse!”
“And no one will ever believe you,” I hum under my breath as the fog melts from the glass.
The jingle-stamp of the horses stops when we draw even with the manor’s stout oaken front door. I sneak a look under the opposite seat and confirm my satchel, an unassuming toilette bag, is still stowed away. For now, it will stay there.
Then I close my eyes, swaying with the carriage as the footman jumps off, and think of three playing cards dancing facedown across a table. It’s time to begin my oldest game, Find the Lady.
There are many tricks to running the game, but the absolutely ironclad one is this: Only one person should know where the Lady is at all times. That person is me.
I run my fingertips over the string of heavy, perfect pearls around my neck. It’s habit more than anything; I would know if they were unclasped. I wouldknow.
The carriage door opens. In my mind, I flip the first card faceup.
ThePrinzessin.Silver eyes, pale-golden curls, pristine pearls under glacier-blue velvet and burgundy brocade, a gentle smile with a hint of mystery. Even the nameGiseleis an intrigue, shunning sturdy Almanic for the Bourgienne pronunciation, with its honeyed vowels and a butter-softG. It’s just the sort of pretentious affectation Dame von Falbirg loved to dish out, knowing people like the von Eisendorfs would eat it up.
This is how the game begins, you see. Step one: Show them the card they’re looking for.
Theprinzessindescends from the carriage like a vision. Ezbeta and Gustav von Eisendorf are hovering in the entrance hall, faces lighting up when they see me finally gliding toward their open door. It’s not just about arriving on my own schedule, of course. It’s about making sure theotherguests see Ezbeta and Gustav waiting for me.
I alone see the surest sign that this night is going to go off without a hitch, for when Fortune is your godmother, you can always see her hand at work. Faint, dull clouds like coal dust are coalescing around the von Eisendorfs as they flutter in the hall. It’s an omen of the ill luck I’m about to bring upon their house.
The Count and Countess von Eisendorf are celebrating their twentieth anniversary tonight—well, commemorating, at least. “Celebrating” may be too strong a term. All I’m saying is that there’s a reasonKomtessinEzbeta is already ruddy-cheeked and stashing a goblet behind an urn on the entrance hall’s credenza.
