A Pearl Among Princes (2 page)

“It's shameful,” Nora said, raising her fist, then slam ming it down on her chopping block. “A disgrace, 'tis. Them royals oughtta sell them castles and spread the coins round.”

Nora Baker and I don't often agree, but on that note we were rock solid.

I move my spyglass to my left eye to give my right a rest.

There, now, the tip of a ship nudges out of the mist, a sharp black nose on a white fog face. “Yes!” I shout to the pigeons and gull. “The first one has arrived.”

I scan the sea searching for others. How many will come this year?

Last summer there were only nine princes in training, a small and disappointing class. The tournament lacked spirit and the Summersleave Ball was a bore. Even I, a common servant girl, knew there wasn't a true prince among them.

Time passes and the mist curtain rises. A flock of geese flies by. They form an arrow. I follow their path. They lead me to the mast of another ship and then onward to a third, its boisterous sails billowing in the breeze.

“At least there will be three students this summer. Maybe even a prince for me.”

I look to the clouds. “Tell me, Mother. I ask you again. Would it be so wrong to marry a prince for transport? ” I laugh and wait, but Mother doesn't answer.

All of the PITs aren't princes, of course. In fact, most are not. They are of royal lineage though, descendents of dukes and earls. The Muffets spend countless hours prettying themselves for the summer boys, working on their perfect gowns for the Summersleave Ball. This is where the princes test out their ballroom dancing skills, and as there are no royal girls here, we Miramore girls get to play princesses for the evening. Even before the rules of the Order changed, the summer visitors always had an interest in us Miramore girls, hoping for a no-hearts-attached summer fling. Now the stakes are raised. Now they may come searching for a girl to make a princess.

Not that the boys of Miramore aren't worthy of our attention. For the most part, they are fine, hardworking young men, but they are bound to service here on the isle. They have neither the freedom nor the means and, as far as I can tell, not the desire either, to leave. They'll never make a girl a princess.

Not that I have ever wanted that. I only wanted Mackree.

There have been some PITs who caught my attention—standing out at first because they were witty or handsome, smart or brave—some even turned my head a bit as they whirled me about at the ball, but then they spoke or acted in a way in which their true character was revealed, and
poof
, the spell was broken.

So many PITs, never a prince.

Another ship approaches now. I turn the rim of my scope. There's a garishly painted mermaid carved on the hull, an audacious yet silent mascot. The mermaid's arms are clasped prisoner-like behind her neck, yet her chest is thrust forward, chin out, face upturned, braving the waves, leading the way.

My stomach grumbles and I reach in my satchel for a still-warm strawberry muffin, tossing some bits to my feathered friends. I brush a crumb from my blouse and wrap my fingers around the oyster shell on the braided seagrass rope. The necklace was a gift for my fifteenth birthday last August.

“Happy birthday, dear daughter,” Father had said, placing the simple necklace over my bowed head. He lifted my chin to look at me. “You have your mother's raven hair and her emerald eyes, and her heart open wide as the sea.”

“Papa, how you flatter me so.” I dusted flecks of flour and cocoa powder from his thick gray beard, remnants of the scrumptious cake he had personally baked for me, much to Nora Baker's annoyance.

“Your mother, Miriam, made this necklace,” Father said. “She found this shell as she walked the beach so happily, carrying you nine months heavy inside. It was on that day she chose your name, Gracepearl. ‘Our Grace will be a pearl among princes and the world her oyster shall be.'”

Oh, how I miss my mother. She died when I was eight.

My mind's album is filled with vivid scenes—lullabies and nursery rhymes, beach walks, forest talks, picnics and adventures, reading snuggled side by side, dancing by the firelight. Then my memory book ends abruptly, so many pages blank.

It could have ended there, but no. My beautiful and brilliant mother had a wonderful idea. In the months before her death from consumption, unbeknownst to me, she planned ten years' worth of birthday presents, one special surprise a year, which she instructed Papa to give me in the precise order outlined in a letter.

Father keeps Mother's birthday presents stowed in a purple trunk with a brass lock beneath his bed. He wears the key on a thin leather rope around his neck—silly goose of him, really, as I would never peek. I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise!

Each year when Father gives me the next gift, he tells me the story connected with it. The spyglass was a gift to my mother from her father, the jewel-framed mirror from her mother. The eider-bark journal contains my own mother's skillful sketches and descriptions of every flower and tree on Miramore, each animal, fish, and all things with wings. And so, every year on my birthday, my mother's treasures become my treasures.

Soon I will be sixteen. Mother said that “soon” I would choose. How soon is soon? Does she mean on my birthday? If so, choose what? Choose to stay or leave?

The only way I can leave is to marry a prince. Why doesn't that notion inspire me?

When I was little I play-dreamed that I would one day marry Mackree. Then for near a decade we were as sister and brother, best-best friends. But this past year things grew awkward between us. Mackree's feelings for me altered in a way I was not ready for. He hinted of marrying. Me? I know now I want something more than the wifely life on Miramore, cooking and cleaning and such. I want to make a difference out there in the world beyond, serve in some purposeful way. I want to mark my footprints, my
handprints
, on a bigger beach. And besides, I'm a horrible cook.

In school, when we would read the stories of noble heroes throughout time, the Muffets swooned, seeing themselves swept away by charming princes. Me? I wondered how Joan of Arc felt as she charged forward to save her people.

Mackree is right. We're too old for skipping stones. Now that he rebukes me, it is good that I set my sights elsewhere. Maybe this is the summer. Miramore, however lovely, has grown smaller than a water closet. I feel a pull like the powerful tide, but where, where, does it lead me?

More time passes and the sun finally claims its throne in the sky, uncurling long finger rays of gold. “Good. An eighth ship.” I scan wide across the horizon and then I see them. One . . . two . . . three . . . four more.
Twelve
.

A banner year indeed! Every branch of the Royal Order has sent a prince for training. “To the docks!” I stuff my spyglass in my satchel and turn.

Caw, caw
, the gull screeches. I look back.

The bird hops off the sill and flits toward me, landing at my feet. Its beady black eye meets mine for a second, then it
caws
meaningfully again and flies up to ledge.

What is it? I move to the ledge and look down at the water.

There is another ship.

That cannot be. I count them again, poking my finger in the air, one to three, until I reach thirteen. Indeed, a thirteenth ship approaches Miramore.

How is that possible? There are only twelve branches of the Royal Order. Each branch sends one ship. No merchant vessels or recreational boats ever make their way to Miramore. Safe passage here is a well-guarded secret, only known to the royal families. You will not find the island on a seafaring map, nor divined by navigation device. And if the constant circle of fog around the isle, as thick as Saturn's ring, is not enough to keep visitors away, the dangerous spiked shoals on the left arc, like the spears of armored knights, or the fiery whirlpools that can suck a boat down into a dragon-fierce inferno on the right arc, would discourage an idle explorer.

The only people who come here are the PITs. Their trusted captains deposit them in June and return to collect them in September along with the reams of cotton and wool, linen and lace ordered from the mills. Only these faithful old seamen know the way.

A thirteenth ship? Who can this be? I turn my spyglass for a closer look. Judging from the boat, this royal is not wealthy. He comes in a simple vessel, two modest tarp sails without adornment, no regal coat of arms.

There is the captain at the wheel, but where is his royal passenger? This ship bears no such grandeur as a lower deck. It is really no more than a fishing boat.

Hmmm, how interesting. How exciting!

I gather my skirts about me and hurry down the tower steps to find Lu and Nuff.

CHAPTER 3

The PITs

Rushing down the hill toward the beach to meet my friends, I pause to pluck a callaberry blossom and loop the stem around my ear. The red flower with a yellow heart is lovelier than the ruby hair brooch that brash PIT from Sycamore, Aldous, offered me last summer. His girlfriend, a duke's daughter, insisted he take the ornament for the summer to remember her by. Sir Aldous had the nerve to say I could “borrow it” in exchange for a kiss. “Pig's chance of that,” I told him.

Hopefully Nuff is finished ironing the royals' fine linen sheets and Lu is done dusting their quarters. Thanks to Father, on this arrival day, I am not due in the kitchen until later.

“Have fun, Gracepearl,” Father said this morning in the kitchen, feathers flying up about his happy face as he plucked the freshly slaughtered chickens for tomorrow's feast.

“And give those poor princes a pity-try this year,” Nora Baker shouted to me as she took a tray of muffins from the oven. “If yer lucky maybe one'll call ya princess.”

I smiled and caught a feather in the air. “Or I could stick this feather in a prince's hat and call
him
macaroni.” Swiping two hot muffins I dashed off, Father's laughter ringing sweet in my ears.

Down one flight of stone steps, then another, I reach the beach, toss off my sandals, and sink my feet in the cool soft sand.

“Gracepearl! Gracepearl!” Lu and Nuff call from an elevated spot by the docks.

Over there are the Muffets in their matching pink shawls primping their hair and fidgeting about for the best spots for the princes to see them.

Maneuvering through the crowd, I search faces for Mackree as I go.

As they have on this first day of summer for ages, the people of Miramore have gathered here to welcome the royal boys. Fishermen, farmers, carpenters, weavers, tinkers, butlers and scullery maids, stable hands, grounds-keepers, those who toil in the orchards and vineyards and vegetable gardens, the flax and wheat and cotton fields, the farms and the fabric mills. Miramore exists primarily as a summer school where royals learn the charming arts. Secondarily we provide reams of wool and cotton fabrics, linens and fine embroidered pieces for the wealthy families of the Order.

The isle provides us food aplenty and surely everything a cook could wish for. Father furnishes delicious meals for the professors who remain here all year long, but as he would be the first to boast, the food he prepares in the summer is truly fit for a king.

Over there on the raised dais are Headmistress Jule and the instructors in their university robes. I scrunch my nose as I do at the smell of blue cheese at the sight of mean pockmark-faced Pillage, Professor Emeritus in the military arts. He once taught for the House of Ash and has come to Miramore for the warm climate and fresh air to soothe his smoke-diseased lungs. It's rumored that Pillage wants to teach this year, but we can't imagine he would stoop to teach the charming arts. Not that he has an ounce of knowledge on such matters—he is the least charming man I've ever met.

Reaching my friends, I hug them. “Lu! Nuff!”

“Gracie,” Lu says, relieved, “thank goodness. Where have you been?”

“We feared you'd miss the rating,” Nuff says.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” I say. Inside I'm thinking,
Especially this year
. But even as I think this I wonder how I could leave Father and Mackree and my dear best friends, Lu and Nuff.

Sweet Lu, short and plump, pale and pretty, a heart as good as gold. She wants a big family, a gaggle of children. Nuff and I tease her about turning into that lady who lived in a shoe who had so many children she didn't know what to do.