The edges of Barthl’s mouth wilt as he watches the paper burn, but he only jots a note on his slate.
I would feel bad, but by the time this wedding rolls around, I fully intend to be long gone from Minkja, and that’s going to be a considerably larger problem for them.
(I should probably feel bad about that too. But given that the alternative is becoming an incredibly valuable, if eccentric, statue, I don’t.)
The rest of the morning is spent just as Adalbrecht threatened: in wedding preparations. And by that I mean him dictating everything. We will serve venison at the gala. We will have a breakfast banquet the morning of the wedding. My wedding dress will be Reigenbach blue.
At one point, desperate to escape, I gently offer to go confer with my maids on how to dress my hair for the occasions. Adalbrecht just pats my hand. “Impossible,” he says firmly. “Isovalue your input.” And then he calls for another round of coffee.
By lunch, I’ve realized that he intends to keep me trapped here because he can. Not just today, but every day until our wedding.
I don’t have time for this. Not with the curse, not with Prefect Klemens due in less than a week, not with Emeric and Gisele at my throat.
While Adalbrecht is droning over some nonsense with seating arrangements, I come up with a plan. The curse is the only thing keeping me in Bóern right now; I can scrape by on the money that I have. Once I’m out, Gisele is welcome to a triumphant return, I just need her to lie low for a few more days. I’m sure she’ll agree if it means living in a castle again, especially one like Castle Reigenbach.
Considering she tried to strangle me the last time we spoke, though, I’m going to need someone else to deliver that message.
And that means going back into Minkja. Which means theprinzessinmust be . . . indisposed.
So when no one’s looking, I sneak the tiny jar of milk off the coffee service. Then I stuff a napkin in there to absorb the milk and keep it from splashing, and hold the jar between my hot palms.
When there’s a break between discussing the Wednesday hunt and the Saturday gala, I excuse myself to visit the privy.
“Don’t be long about it,” Adalbrecht barks.
I smile sweetly, the jar safely hidden in my conveniently enormous and lace-shrouded sleeves. “Of course,” I lie.
When I reach my bedchamber, I close the door, then set the jar on the hearth and wring the milk back into it from the napkin. The cinders from the fireplace are still warm. They’ll keep it just tepid enough to go bad, fast.
My birth mother once said that wherever I go, the milk spoils. I certainly didn’t manage that when I was four, but I’ve figured out the trick of it by now. And I’ve also figured out the secret to faking a stomach ailment: the smell of rotten dairy.
Before I leave my bedroom, I also work a light dusting of pale-green powder into my cheeks. The pearls make it look like an elegant kind of nausea, at least.
“Saints and martyrs,” Franziska says when I return. “Mistress Gisele, are you taking ill again?”
I smile bravely, like I’m auditioning for the role of First Martyr in one of the more gruesome holy pageants, and sink into a chair. “I’ll be fine, it’s just my poor constitution. Please, don’t stop for my sake.”
I barely pick at my supper a few hours later. I can see the castle staff pursing their lips; they know a storm is squatting on the horizon, and it’s blowing in from the riverfront wing.
Theprinzessinretires early. My bedroom is already beginning to sour with the rotten-milk smell that’s the key to pulling this off. (I warned you my methods are revolting.) I cover the ruby, change quickly into the servant uniform and a pair of worn gloves, and then run down to the kitchens to forage for a real dinner. The kitchen staff don’t even bother me, they’re so accustomed to Gisele’s needs sending me into the pantry at all hours.
Trudl, on the other hand, catches me by the elbow as I pick up a bucket of scraps. Her voice is hesitant but clear. “Marthe. You haven’t been here when the margrave is home. You should know . . .” The words hitch, then come out in a rush. “The maids work in pairs, no matter the job, while he’s here. Or they walk with another servant. They never go alone. Do you understand?”
My grip tightens on the bucket handle. “I understand.”
“It may change once he’s married,” Trudl adds. “Fortune willing, he’ll stay only a few months to make sure he’s put a baby in that poor girl, then run back to the battlefield. But whatever you do, don’t let him catch you alone.”
I stare at a bit of cabbage in the scrap bucket and nod, unsure of how to tell her that he already did a year ago. If Joniza hadn’t come around the corner before he—
Well. I learned.
“Thank you” is all I say. Then I take the scrap bucket, and grits and honey for Poldi, and return the way I came.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
To theLetter
When I told Ragne I would be stuck in the castle all day, she decided to go visit her mother. She’s back now in human shape, making a face as she crouches by the fireplace. She’s at least managed to don one of my larger shirts this time. “Why does it stink in here?”
