And I know terribly well that is far, far from the worst thing that can be done to a servant.
I chuck the ruined slipcovers into the fire, where they catch almost instantly, giving off a faint singed-hair smell from the silk. I try not to breathe it in as I braid my hair and tuck it under the Reigenbach-blue cap. One of the burning cushion covers also has the smears of my face powders on it, for no handmaid would own such things . . . and my time as theprinzessinis waning.
The final touch, though, demands a mirror—not because I need to see what I’m doing, but because I need to be sure it works. Luckily, Gustav von Eisendorf loves nothing so much as showing off, and expensive full-length mirrors are well in supply in his guest parlor.
I stand before the nearest one and look my reflection over: From the neck down, I am a maidservant in an unobtrusive Reigenbach uniform, filling it out nicely with curves that would be calledambitiousin a maiden of nearly seventeen like myself. From the chin up, a few wisps of platinum hair twist from under the blue cap, and silvery eyes blink back at me from a heart-shaped face. Even without powders or rouge, twin roses bloom in my smooth ivory cheeks, and my pert lips flush with a natural shell-pink glow.
The hair like sunshine, the eyes like moonlight, they are both key to the image of the girl the march of Bóern knows as Gisele von Falbirg.
So is her signature string of perfect matched pearls.
I reach back and unclasp it from my neck. The effect is immediate.
My face lengthens, thins, mottles with a dusting of freckles; my eyes darken to black; the few loose tendrils of hair burnish rusty orange. The uniform dress hangs a little looser, though I’ve put on weight from a year’s worth of finally eating my fill, and it hangs a little longer, for eating well still cannot replace the inches I lost to years of meager fare in Castle Falbirg.
I am plain. I am forgettable. I am what I was for ten years: Gisele’s perfect servant.
I slip the pearls into a pocket and button it tight. I will not risk leaving them hidden in a cushion. Not when I’m so close to being free of them, and of Gisele, for the rest of my life.
Right on cue, Hans’s footsteps echo down the hall. I hunch my shoulders forward, lower my head, and slip through the door, donning a look of worried vexation.
In my mind, the second card turns over: Marthe the Maid.
“Thereyou are,” Hans says. “Marthe,ja?”
I jump as if he’s startled me, then shut the parlor door and bob into a curtsy. My voice takes on a high, whispery rasp. “My apologies, it seems my mistress sent a few people to look for me in her need. I’m afraid she’s had”—I watch as the smell of burnt silk reaches Hans— “anaccident,” I finish with just enough peevishness to suggest this is not an unusual occurrence. Hans’s face softens with camaraderie. “I can’t leave her, but I need my toilette satchel from the carriage.”
Hans sighs, and his voice lowers. “Fine, I’ll fetch it. And if the von Falbirg brat has any further accidents, try to make sure they’re cheap ones.”
I curtsy again. “My thanks.” Once he’s started down the hall, I duck back into the parlor and call in my drunken-Gisele voice, “Marthe!What in the Blessed Empire of Almandy is taking so long?”
It iscertainlyloud enough for Hans to hear. If he is a dutiful man, he will hurry to the carriage house, which is even farther away than the new chapel.
But if Hans is as spiteful a servant as I was in Castle Falbirg, he will take his time.
Ten minutes at the least. Fifteen minutes at the most.
Marthe the Maid and Gisele the Princess fall back into their dance on the table in my mind’s eye, circling the third and final card I’ve yet to reveal.
This is how you win the game, you know. Show them what they want to see, let them think they can win, let them follow the cards. Keep their eyes where you want them.
And never, ever lose sight of the real mark.
I trade the cap for the dull gray kerchief to cover my inconveniently bright ginger braid. Then I take up the linen drawstring bag and fold it into another pocket, checking one corner for a familiar weight: a single red penny.
It’s there. And it’s time.
I turn my final card. It is a shifting shadow, a blur in the night, a faceless specter. It could be a ghost. It could be anything.
After all . . . no one’s ever seen thePfennigeist.
Once upon a time, there was a girl as cunning as the fox in winter, as hungry as the wolf at first frost, and cold as the icy wind that kept them at each other’s throats.
Her name was not Gisele, nor was it Marthe, nor evenPfennigeist. My name was—is—Vanja. And this is the story of how I got caught.
CHAPTER TWO
TheGuest
