Princess of Glass (2 page)

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"Westfalin's war with Analousia was not a pretty thing," King Karl went on. "It cost a lot of lives, and caused a lot of bad blood between former allies. Then there was that business with Gregor's gaggle of daughters and those fool princes dying left and right."

The Westfalian princesses again. The back of Christians neck prickled.

"A lot of old alliances need renewing," his father was saying. "Rupert's quite concerned about it, and I know that Francesco of Spania's been talking about the same thing for a while. Some official state visits and exchanging of gifts would not be remiss."

"Do you want me to send a gift to Prince George?" Christian had met the heir to the Bretoner throne once before, and he was a nice enough chap if a bit too obsessed with foxhunting. Christian shrugged. "I could send him a new riding crop or some such."

But his father was shaking his head. "Well." King Karl paused. "I suppose if you wanted to take a gift to George you could. But that's not exactly what we have in mind."

Christian's heart began to race. "
Take
a gift? You want me to go to
Breton?"
Christian blurted out the question, incredulous.

King Karl nodded, looking uncomfortable.

Jaw agape, Christian stared at his father. He'd been to Breton once, as a child, and once to Analousia before the war, but since then he'd had to fight to even leave the palace grounds. Now his father wanted to send him to Breton?

"Why? Why now?"

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"Because we must," King Karl said simply. "As I said, since the war, things haven't been right between the nations of Ionia, and the Westfalian princesses did nothing to improve that. It's time to prove to our neighbors that we trust one another--"

Christian interrupted. "Do we?"

His father looked grim. "We pretend that we do," he said. "And we pretend that we aren't all thinking the same thing: that the death of so many princes has left a lot of countries in a vulnerable state. Not all of those poor boys were second sons, you know. Helvetia sent their only heir, the next in line is a cousin's son. Unless Markus decides to take Westfalin's lead and declare his daughter and her future husband co-rulers."

Frowning, Christian asked, "Who is she going to marry?" His tutors had drilled the names of every royal family in Ionia into his head, but it always seemed that there were so many young princesses that their names blurred together in his mind.

"No one yet, and that's what makes Rupert's little plan so perfect. We're going to be exchanging our sons and daughters for a while: sending you to Breton while George goes to Analousia, and Analousia's little Prince Henri comes here. Ostensibly it's to make friends among the next generation, but go a little deeper and it's a grand matchmaking scheme."

"What?"

"That's right," King Karl laughed. "Think about it: George will leave for Analousia shortly after you arrive in Breton, and then you'll be at the mercy of his sisters and cousins. You'll come back here for the holidays with your family; your mother

18

put her foot down over that. But after the New Year I might have you visit Spania, or La Beige, we've just sent them a courier. There are a number of lovely ladies at those courts as well, and you, my boy, are of an age when you should be thinking of a royal alliance."

Christian felt as though his world were dropping out from under him. In the space of a few hours he had gone from feeling smothered by his parents to being thrown to the wolves, so to speak. He would be alone in a strange country, expected to talk and flirt and possibly even marry some silly princess.

And if he failed, another war might break out.

This wasn't remotely what he had thought his father wanted to talk about. Christian slapped the side of the telescope and watched it spin on its tripod. He was being offered an adventure, but was it one he wanted to embark on? There would be no battles to fight on horseback and with rifle in hand, only fancy dress parties and balls.

King Karl's gaze softened and he put one hand on the young man's shoulder. "Son, we need you to do this. You know your mother and I have always tried to keep you safe," his voice roughened and he barked a laugh. "All right, we've fussed like a hen with a new chick. But it's because you're our only son and we love you. Sending one's heir off to a foreign land is never an easy thing, but your sisters are too young. Your mother and I, well, we paced the floor all night arguing about what to do. And we think that this is the right thing." Karl looked down for a moment. "If you cannot bring yourself to go, we'll make other arrangements." The king grimaced.

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It was reassuring to know that this wasn't an easy decision for his parents. For a brief, wild moment Christian had been wondering if they wanted to be rid of him after all.

But at last he was being offered a chance to travel! Even if it wasn't where or how he had dreamed, it was better than nothing.

"I'll go," Christian said.

His father gave him a rough, quick hug. "Good lad."

20

***

Ball

Poppy regretted her decision to go to the ball as soon as they entered the Thwaites' mansion. The dancing had already started and music poured down the stairs, making Marianne clutch at Poppy's arm in excitement. The Thwaites were standing at the top of the stairs to receive their guests, and they were delighted to see Poppy, the mysterious foreign princess.

"Oh, Your Highness," Lady Thwaite gushed. "We're honored to have you join us! I'm sure your dance card will be filled before you have time to sit down."

Wishing that she could sink into the floor as the guests gathered in the foyer turned to gawk at her, Poppy just nodded and smiled. Then Marianne burst out with the news that Poppy didn't dance, and they spent ten minutes explaining that she was not ill, and she really did want to attend the ball, and thanking their gracious hosts, until Poppy felt like she was baring her teeth in self-defense rather than smiling.

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It started all over again when they stepped into the ballroom. A footman bustled over to hand the ladies their dance cards, and was confused when Lady Margaret took one, Marianne took one, but Poppy did not. They found some seats along one wall near some friends of the Seadowns' and young men started coming over to sign their cards. Again Poppy had to decline any dances, holding up her left hand to show that she had no dance card dangling from her gloved wrist.

"But surely you'll make an exception for me," said one duke's son, lowering his eyelids in a flirtatious manner.

"Is there something in your eye?" Poppy tried to assume a solicitous expression.

"Er, no." The duke's son backed away, and Poppy fought back a pang of guilt.

It was all very well, she thought to herself, to say that choosing not to dance at a ball will be no great matter, but things look different once you reach the ballroom. As Marianne's first partner claimed her, Poppy tried to smile and not feel bereft. The only other ladies not dancing were elderly chaperones. Lord Richard and Lady Margaret, who loved to dance, had taken to the floor once Poppy assured them that she was all right.

But she wasn't all right.

She was surrounded by women who smelled of lavender water (a scent she had always detested), and all around the room people were staring at her and whispering behind their hands. In Westfalin, ringed by her eleven sisters, she did not attract

22

much attention. But here in Breton, a visiting foreign princess was the subject of much gossip. A visiting foreign princess who refused to dance for unknown reasons was even more interesting.

Lady Thwaite, freed from the reception line, came over to Poppy a few moments later. "Your Highness, may I present the Duchess of Hinterdale?" Lady Thwaite indicated the woman at her side, who was shaped rather alarmingly like the prow of a ship.

Poppy shook the woman's hand. "How do you do?"

"Veddy, veddy well," the duchess replied, staring down her remarkable nose at Poppy.

Lady Thwaite went off to see to the rest of her guests, leaving Poppy and the duchess to make each other's acquaintance. The duchess spoke in a drawling fashion that forced Poppy to listen very carefully. She had studied Bretoner since she was three, but her governess had always used perfect grammar and pronunciation.

Unlike the Duchess of Hinterdale.

"You are a strenge gel, Princessss Puppy," the duchess said. "He-ere you are, with ev-er-y young man in Breton to dence with you, and you well not dence."

"Ah," Poppy said after deciphering this. "No. I don't den-- dance."

"Wuh-hy not?" The duchess raised one overplucked eyebrow.

"Because my mother and sisters and I were cursed to dance for the pleasure of an evil king," Poppy thought. She reached

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up and straightened her knitted silk choker. "I do not care for dancing," she said finally.

"Do not care for dencing?" The duchess's face was abruptly purple. "My godson was Prence Alllfred!" And with that the Duchess of Hinterdale stormed off, leaving Poppy with burning cheeks and a hammering heart.

"Alfred," Poppy muttered under her breath. "Duel? Or horse accident? He was the horsy one... yes." She put one hand over her eyes, then snatched it away, knowing that people were watching her and whispering behind their fans.

Alfred, King Rupert's late son, had gone to Westfalin to find out the secret of their ruined dancing slippers, failed, and returned to Breton to die in some sort of accident a week later. He had been foolish and vain, but no worse than a lot of spoiled princes.

And it was because of Alfred that Poppy had been sent to Breton. In the wake of his son's death, King Rupert had stirred up rumors of witchcraft and foul play at the Westfalin court, which even now continued to circulate.

But since the mystery of the slippers had been solved (even though the solution had not been widely broadcast), and three uneventful years had passed, Rupert and Gregor had reached an uneasy truce and Rupert had come up with this grand fostering program to establish stronger ties among the Ionian nations.

The first to be taken from her home and family? Poppy. In an effort to appease his royal neighbors, Gregor had volunteered all

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of his unmarried daughters. Poppy and Daisy had asked to go together, but no one seemed to want two of the mysterious Westfalian princesses at once. It had been a wrench, leaving her twin behind, but she didn't envy Daisy, who had pulled Venenzia out of the hat.

Daisy hated boats, and humid air made her hair frizz, and the streets of Venenzia were paved with water. Her first letter to Poppy had been a hysterical recitation of horrors, from her wild hair to the shaky gondolas to the food, though Poppy argued that Bretoner cuisine was far worse.

"Are you all right?" A tall young man saw her shudder and strode over to her. It was Richard "but everyone calls me Dickon" Thwaite, the genial eighteen-year-old son of her host and hostess.

Poppy blurted out, "I was just thinking about kippers and blood sausage," and then bit her lip, feeling like a fool.

Dickon took a step back, startled. "I see. Well. I thought you might be bored, sitting alone here, but it seems that you are more than capable of entertaining yourself." He gave a little bow and started to move on. He had been hovering near Poppy's chair, waiting to talk to Marianne, whom he had already danced with twice.

"Wait!" Poppy stretched out a hand. She
was
bored, and more self-conscious than she'd ever imagined she could be, and she didn't want to have another encounter with another indignant matron like the Duchess of Hinterdale.

"Yes, Your Highness?"

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"Er, where are you going now?"

He paused. "Well, since Marianne's dance card is full now and you are occupied with important thoughts about breakfast meats, I thought I might take myself to the card room for a hand or two." He nodded in the direction of a little door to one side of the ballroom. Through it, Poppy could see part of a table occupied by four men, deep in their game.

"I shall join you," she told him with relief. She got to her feet and took his arm before she saw the shocked expression on his face. "What is the matter?"

"Young ladies don't... I shouldn't really ...," he spluttered.

"Oh, nonsense! I love to play cards."

And Poppy steered him out of the ballroom and into the rather smoky little card room, where their appearance briefly stopped all conversation. She felt a flush of regret: apparently young ladies really
didn't
play cards.

"Ah, Poppy dear," Lord Richard said, coming to her rescue. "Care to join me?" He had been standing to one side, talking to a friend and watching a game that looked to be ending. "Poppy and young Thwaite and I will take this table next, if you don't mind, Robert. And perhaps Geoffrey will consent to make up the fourth."

The men all agreed despite their shock at seeing a young lady in their midst, and got up as soon as the hand was finished. Robert, the winner, gathered up his chips with a bemused expression.

"Didn't think you played anymore, Seadown," he said.