Текст книги "Princess of the Silver Woods"

Автор книги: Jessica Day George

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Prisoner

Things had not gone as Oliver had hoped, but they had certainly gone as he had expected.

He was being held in a tiny attic room at the palace while Karl and the others had been taken to the Bruch jail. King Gregor didn’t believe Oliver was an earl, but apparently being the leader of the bandits, the abductor of Princess Petunia, and the claimant to a divided earldom made him too interesting for the regular jail.

But not interesting enough for immediate questioning. Oliver sat in the little room until evening, when the door was unlocked and a dinner tray shoved inside. An hour later the door opened and a hand groped around for the tray. Oliver obligingly pushed it closer to the door with his foot.

“Every compliment to the royal chef,” Oliver called as the door closed.

The guard only grunted.

He grunted, too, when Oliver thanked him for the breakfast tray. And Oliver thanked him for lunch as well.

And that was all Oliver did. Sit in the room. Sleep. Eat. And try to get the burly guard to do more than grunt.

In the late afternoon, he heard voices outside his room, and the door swung all the way open. The guard stood in the doorway, his rifle held crosswise, and behind him Oliver saw skirts of red-sprigged muslin.

“Hello,” Oliver said cautiously.

“Hello,” said a voice, and Poppy peeped around one of the guard’s large arms. “Are you well?”

“A little bored,” Oliver said. “But otherwise unharmed.”

A spark of amusement lit her eyes. “I’ll send up some books. You can read, can’t you?”

“All the Wolves of the Westfalian Woods can read,” Oliver said grandly.

“Even the ones with four legs?”

“Poppy,” someone whispered loudly from a hiding place a little way down the passage. “What are you doing?”

Oliver guessed that it was Daisy, who seemed a good deal more timid than her twin. He gave Poppy a wink over the guard’s arm and raised his voice a little. “I have endeavored to teach them myself,” he said. “And they are coming along nicely.”

“So tell me,” Poppy said, “what is an educated young man with courtly manners, who even teaches wolves to read, doing robbing coaches in the middle of the forest?”

“Poppppyyyy,” moaned her sister.

“Hush, Pan,” said Poppy without taking her eyes off Oliver.

Not Daisy then, but Pansy, who was less than a year older than Petunia. Oliver considered his answer for a long time. It was possible that Poppy and Pansy were here out of mere curiosity, without their father’s permission. But it was also possible that King Gregor wanted Oliver to reveal some dastardly intent while flirting with Gregor’s beautiful daughters.

“Well, Your Highness,” Oliver replied at last, “I needed to feed my people. And after the depredations of the war, and with our homes and farms gone, we had no other recourse.”

“Your people?”

Poppy asked it at the same time Pansy asked, “What happened to the farms?”

“When the border was redrawn, some of the farms in my earldom ended up Analousia,” Oliver explained. “They were given to Analousian families who had lost their lands in the war. Some of them were near the manor, however, and that was given to the Grand Duke Volenskaya, who became the Duke of Hrothenborg.”

“That’s where Pet is staying,” Pansy said, and Oliver heard a rustling as she came closer.

“That’s right,” Oliver said.

“So you really are an earl,” Poppy mused.

The guard snorted at this, but Oliver and Poppy ignored him.

“Yes, I am,” Oliver said simply.

“Then why didn’t you come to Bruch and explain to Father what had happened?” Poppy studied him for a moment. “Or, your father would have, I guess.”

“My father died in the war,” Oliver said. “I became the earl when I was seven. My mother’s family did not approve of the marriage; I doubt anyone even knew that I existed. My mother tried to have me confirmed in my title and to petition for the return of our lands, but that was during the uproar over the worn-out slippers and the dying suitors. Since my mother is Bretoner, she was afraid to bring attention to herself.”

“Bretoner?” Pansy had crept even closer. Oliver could see the edge of a pink muslin gown just peeping around the edge of the door. “Did she know Mother?”

“Indeed,” Oliver said. He felt like he was holding out breadcrumbs for birds, and any sudden movement would make them take flight. Or, in Poppy’s case, peck him. “She was one of your mother’s ladies-in-waiting. But her family wanted her to return home to marry a Bretoner lord, and my father’s family had a second cousin handpicked to marry him.”

“No wonder she didn’t dare come to the palace,” Poppy said. “Bishop Angiers would have had her on trial for witchcraft in a heartbeat. But don’t worry, the Church has long since made things right, and he got what he deserved.”

“That’s good,” Oliver said. The way that Poppy kept looking over her shoulder made Oliver think that they would leave soon. It was time to ask his own questions.

“Are my men all right?”

“For now,” Poppy said. “Until Father decides what to do with you.”

“That’s good,” Oliver said again, not sure what else to say. He wanted them released, but he supposed that they were just as guilty. “And Petunia? Have you heard from your sister?”

“Not since the first day,” Pansy said.

She pushed in next to Poppy so that she could see him around the guard’s elbow. She was as tall as Poppy, with shining dark-brown hair and blue eyes. An utterly lovely girl, as all the princesses were, yet Oliver thought Petunia was far more beautiful.

“We got one letter explaining that she’d gotten lost and had to find her own way to the manor, but nothing since. Did you really kidnap her?”

“It was an accident, but yes,” Oliver said. “She saw me and my brother with our masks off, so we snatched her before she could raise the alarm. She stayed with us one night, and then I took her to the manor. Quite unharmed, I assure you.”

“And things at the estate, they seemed … all right … to you?” Pansy pressed.

Oliver started to say that they had been fine, but then he stopped. “I don’t know.” He leaned forward a little, conscious more than ever of the guard. “Your Highnesses, I saw … creatures in the garden of the manor. People … made of shadow. I think they were trying to get to Petunia.” Oliver moved back a little, waiting for Poppy to scoff or Pansy to squeak in fright.

But both the princesses surprised him.

Poppy shrank back, and her hands twisted in her skirts. It was Pansy who stood up straighter and looked him in the eye.

“Shadowy creatures?” Pansy’s voice was shrill despite her stern posture. “What nonsense! Come, Poppy, we’re going.” She tugged Poppy’s arm to make her move.

Oliver stared after them. They’d believed him—he knew they had. But why were they pretending they hadn’t?

The guard glared at Oliver. “If you’re lying, there’s a special place in hell for you.” He slammed the door in Oliver’s face, locking it with a scraping of metal that made Oliver’s teeth ache.

He hadn’t been dreaming the shadows in the garden. One look at Poppy’s face told him that much, and Pansy’s and the guard’s reactions had confirmed it.

“But what are they?” Oliver asked his empty room.

After another night and morning spent pacing the tiny room, Oliver was frantic. His mother and Simon would be beside themselves with anxiety, he wanted reassurance that his men were all right, and he couldn’t stop wondering if the shadow creatures had gone after Petunia again.

Poppy had sent books to him with his dinner tray, but he couldn’t concentrate for more than a pair of minutes. Besides his personal distractions, the books were both rather dry histories of Westfalin. Oliver wasn’t sure whether Poppy was joking or she really thought such things riveting reading for the imprisoned. A scrap of paper fell from one as he leafed through it, but if it had been marking a particular page, he couldn’t find it now.

And then, just when he was expecting his lunch tray, King Gregor sent for him.

Oliver was taken to the same room where he had first met the king, with its long, dark table and the high-backed chairs full of scowling men. The king was at the head of the table, a broad-shouldered man with wiry gray hair and wild eyebrows at his left, a gentle-faced priest at his right. The men along each side of the table were all uniformly older, grim, and dressed in black. This made the pair sitting at the end of the table all the more striking.

Opposite King Gregor at the foot of the table was a young man with unfashionably short hair and a pair of silver knitting needles in his hands. By his side in a cushioned chair sat the only woman in the room. She was gravely beautiful, with golden brown hair held up with garnet-studded combs, a gleaming gold watch pinned to the bosom of her green gown. She was untangling a skein of gray yarn with her slender fingers, and Oliver thought that together the two of them looked remarkably like a woodcut he had seen of the Destinies. If the older man seated on the woman’s other side had been holding a knife, with which the Destinies sever the thread of a man’s life, it would have completed the picture. He was toying with a pen, to Oliver’s relief.

Oliver bowed to the king. “Your Majesty,” he murmured. Then he turned and bowed to the pair at the other end of the table. “Crown Prince Galen, Crown Princess Rose.”

“Smart lad,” grunted the man with the eyebrows at the king’s side. “I’ll give him that.”

“If you’re that smart, why did you turn yourself in, hey?” King Gregor barked.

“Because it was time,” Oliver said.

“Time to stop stealing from the innocent … time to stop stealing the innocent themselves?” King Gregor’s face was red. “If you did indeed abduct my youngest daughter—and why you would boast about it if you hadn’t, I don’t know—she hasn’t said a word about it, nor has the Grand Duchess Volenskaya von Hrothenborg, who is hosting Petunia at her estate!”

“My estate, if it please Your Majesty,” Oliver said, cutting across the bluster. He could see how his mother had quailed at the thought of facing the king.

Gregor thumped the table with his fist. “Still pretending to be an earl?”

“I am an earl,” Oliver said. “The Earl of Saxeborg-Rohlstein. My father was Caspar Gerhard Saxony, the twenty-fifth earl of Saxeborg-Rohlstein. My mother is the Dowager Countess Emily Ellsworth Saxony, once lady-in-waiting to Queen Maude, may her soul rest in peace. My father died in service to the crown, leading a regiment in the war with Analousia. When my mother brought me to Bruch to be confirmed in my title, she found that my earldom had been divided up and given to others, and Bretoners like herself were being accused of witchcraft.”

This statement was followed by the sharpest silence Oliver had ever experienced.

“Your Majesty, I believe that Heinrich might be some help in this matter,” said Prince Galen after the longest minute of Oliver’s life.

“Heinrich? What would he know about it?” King Gregor looked at his oldest son-in-law in distraction, rubbing at his chin as though trying to scrub the clean-shaven skin right off.

“The captain of Heinrich’s regiment was the Earl Caspar Saxony,” Galen said. He took the neatly wound yarn from Rose’s hands with a smile and began wrapping it around one of his knitting needles.

“My father was the captain of the Eagle regiment,” said Oliver. His mother had told him that often and with great pride.

The king raised one eyebrow, and Oliver saw a sudden similarity to Poppy in the expression and the set of his jaw. “Fetch the boy,” the king snapped at one of the guards.

What boy? Oliver wondered.

“To the victor go the spoils, they say,” King Gregor went on after one of the guards had left. “I drew up the border to take whatever spoils I could when the war ended. Which is why I can’t believe I would give Analousia half an earldom.”

“I’m afraid you did, Your Majesty,” said one of the ministers.

Everyone in the room turned to stare at the man, who shuffled through some papers on the table in front of him. He absently stuck a pen behind his ear, leaving streak of black ink on his gray hair.

“Here it is,” he announced. “The earldom of SaxeborgRohlstein was declared defunct, according to this. There are no heirs listed. All dwellings within its borders were declared empty. ‘Estate abandoned, land to be divided,’ it says in your own handwriting, sire. And here is your signature.” He held up the paper for the king’s inspection.

King Gregor snatched it from his hands and studied it. “That’s my hand, all right,” he said after a moment. “But I don’t remember writing this. Why would I say it was abandoned?” He looked around the room, but no one answered. “I’d been to that estate, with Maude, just before the war. It was a fine place!”

Oliver wanted to snatch the paper from the king’s hands and throw it on the fire, as though that would do any good. He caught the crown prince looking at him and glared. The crown prince raised his eyebrows and the fingers of one hand, as though urging Oliver to be calm.

The old minister had more papers to hand to the king. “And here is a copy of the deed giving the estate and surrounding farms to the grand duke as a reward for his service during the war, along with the title of Duke of Hrothenborg.”

“Blustering fool,” the king said, almost to himself. “Made a terrible duke. Does anyone remember what Hrothenborg did to deserve that?” He looked around. “Anyone?”

It seemed that no one did.

“This is highly irregular,” the king remarked, striding around the room. “I’m starting to suspect that it falls into your area of expertise, Galen,” he said to the crown prince.

Oliver wondered what the crown prince’s area of expertise was, and saw he wasn’t the only one. He saw one of the ministers mouth, “Knitting?” to his fellow, who smirked.

The man with the impressive eyebrows did not look puzzled but was looking over the papers with great concern. “This isn’t good, Gregor,” he said in a gravelly voice.

“No, it isn’t, Hans,” the king retorted. “I would like to—”

“Prince Heinrich,” announced the guard at the door, and Oliver’s question was answered as the “boy” King Gregor had sent for entered the room.

He was actually a man in his late twenties who walked with a pronounced limp. He looked a great deal like Galen but slightly shorter and more weather-beaten. And, Oliver supposed, to someone like King Gregor, just a boy.

Oliver himself must appear to be a squalling infant, then.

Heinrich bowed and nodded all around, and then his gaze fixed on Oliver. “Yes, Your Majesty?” he said to his father-in-law without moving his eyes from Oliver.

He was married to Lily, the second oldest princess, Oliver remembered. Also, Oliver thought that Heinrich was Galen’s cousin or some other relation, and looking at them made that obvious. He wondered that the two oldest princesses had been allowed to marry commoners—Galen would be the future king! What had they done to deserve such rewards?

“Heinrich,” King Gregor said. “What was the name of your captain in the war?”

“The Earl of Saxeborg-Rohlstein, Caspar Saxony, sire,” Heinrich said promptly.

“Ever talk about his family?” The man was all but shouting at Heinrich, who looked as though it were nothing out of the ordinary.

“Oh, yes. His wife was foreign, I believe.” Heinrich tilted his head, studying the ceiling as he thought. “I don’t remember her name,” he went on after a moment. “But he always spoke of her with great affection. He had a young son, and then a daughter? Perhaps the youngest was another son …” Heinrich shook his head. “I’m sorry, I just don’t remember much.”

“Does this young man bear any resemblance?” King Gregor asked gruffly.

Heinrich stared intently at Oliver, then nodded. “I marked it as soon as I entered, yes.”

“Very well,” King Gregor said. “You can stay or go.”

“I believe I will go,” Heinrich said deferentially. “Lily is not feeling well.”

“Still?” A cloud passed over the king’s face. “Hans,” he said to the man with the eyebrows. “You could do more good with Lily than here, I’ll wager.”

“Most likely,” said the other man. He handed the papers to Crown Princess Rose before following Heinrich out of the room.

“So,” King Gregor barked at Oliver when the door had closed behind them. “You’re an earl. Now I have to find out if I can hang an earl for banditry, or just keep you in prison for the rest of your life.”

Fugitive

Two days passed in silence. Oliver wondered if this was to be his punishment: to spend the rest of his life in the attic of the palace, alone, reading the same two books over and over.

The books were mildly interesting, but he still could not figure out why Princess Poppy had sent them. There were surely plenty of novels and books of poetry in the palace library, so Oliver was convinced that the princess had sent him these particular books for a reason, and he was determined to find it.

And really, what else was there for him to do?

One book was a history of Westfalin, beginning before it was Westfalin. Prior to the late fourth century, it had been nothing but a collection of walled cities. Then Ranulf, ruler of the largest city, had united them to fight the Rhwamanes in the south. After the Rhwamanes were defeated, he had declared himself king.

Oliver felt his eyes glazing over, then something jolted him, and he read one of the passages over again. Ranulf the Second, grandson of the first king, had been closely tied to a sorcerer named Wolfram von Aue. Later, Wolfram von Aue became known as the King Under Stone. The author of the book noted this with some distaste, as though reporting the rumors of magic and evildoing made him less of a historian.

Tossing that book onto the bed, Oliver scrabbled for the other. This was a slightly more whimsical work on the legends of Westfalin; there was sure to be more about the King Under Stone.

At last he found what he was looking for. This author not only believed that Under Stone had really done all that the rumors claimed, but was quite obviously afraid of the sorcerer king. The book asserted, as Oliver’s mother had, that the Nine Daughters of Russaka had borne the king’s sons, and it listed three other noblewomen who had done the same.

“He has at least twelve sons?” Oliver whistled. “And where do they all live? That is a lot of mouths to feed, assuming they eat and …”

Petunia. Poppy and Daisy. Rose. Lily, Lilac, Orchid, Violet, Hyacinth, Jonquil, Pansy, Iris. Twelve princesses, and the King Under Stone had twelve sons. Would these sons want brides to keep them company in their father’s prison? The author didn’t know much about the prison, saying only that it was all too appropriate that Wolfram von Aue was called the King Under Stone, which wasn’t much help.

Oliver went to the door and banged on it until the guard opened up.

“I need to speak to Princess Poppy at once,” Oliver said.

“No,” the man said and started to close the door again.

“It’s very important,” Oliver protested.

The guard shook his head. “You couldn’t even if it was allowed,” he said. “Her Highness has gone visiting.”

“When will she be back? Could I speak to Crown Princess Rose? Or Crown Prince Galen? Princess Pansy?” Oliver tried to wedge himself through the half-closed door.

“They’ve all gone,” the man said, pushing him back into the room. “They’re visiting the youngest princess in the south.”

“At the Grand Duchess Volenskaya’s?” Oliver felt the color drain from his face.

“Yes,” the man said, and closed the door.

“Bloody hell,” Oliver whispered, and slumped onto his narrow bed.

It was a trap. The Grand Duchess Volenskaya was one of the Nine Daughters of Russaka, and she was part of some plot against the princesses, Oliver was sure of it. A plot that had originated with the King Under Stone.

Oliver put his hands over his face. What was he thinking? If the King Under Stone was real, then he was long dead. Perhaps the grand duchess and her sisters had had some secret lover who braved the walls of their tower, but that hardly meant the old woman was evil.

Oliver lay back on the bed, his hands still over his face. He needed to stop worrying about Petunia and start worrying about himself and his people. Particularly if his thoughts of Petunia were going to turn increasingly fantastical. If she was in any danger, she could take care of herself, and she was soon to be surrounded by her eleven sisters and her brothers-in-law. He’d known the princess for less than twenty-four hours; it was not his place to rescue her.

What he needed to know, much more urgently, was if his men were all right. Oliver had known that he wouldn’t be coming back from Bruch, but at the time it had seemed like the right thing to do. It had filled him with a righteous sense of courage. Now that courage was fading, and he wanted to get out of here, to take his men home to their families and see his mother and brother.

And he wanted to make certain that Petunia was all right.

He leaped to his feet and started pacing. Thoughts of Petunia clearly could not be brushed aside. She was not all right, and the legends were true. He knew it. He’d seen it in the garden that night. Poppy had tried to give him clues. But there was nothing he could do, trapped in this room.

He went to the door again and pounded.

“What?” The guard looked irritated.

“I need to speak to the king at once.”

“The king’s done with you now, my lad,” the guard told Oliver, then snapped his mouth shut as if he’d said too much.

Oliver felt like cold water had been poured over his head. “He’s done with me?”

“You’re to be sentenced in the morning,” the guard muttered, and he patted Oliver on the shoulder, which was more unsettling than his words. “It’s to be execution. But not hanging,” he hastened to add. “Firing squad, as befits an earl.” He seemed to think this would comfort Oliver.

“And my men?” Oliver could barely choke out the question.

“Hanging,” the guard said, his eyes full of sympathy.

“When?”

“Soon. The king will want to do it while the princesses are gone. It would upset them.”

“Yes,” said Oliver. “I suppose it would.”

He went to lie down again. What else was there to do?

“Do you … want anything?” the guard asked. “Something to eat? Or … to see a priest, maybe?” Having told Oliver that he would be dead before the end of the week seemed to have made the guard uncomfortable.

“No, thank you,” Oliver said. Then he sat up again. “Wait! Could I speak to one of the gardeners?”

“One of the gardeners?” The guard stared.

“Yes, a gardener named Walter Vogel.”

The guard shook his head. “I’m sorry, Walter’s been gone for years.”

“Oh.” There went his mother’s last piece of advice, Oliver thought. And just as well: what could a gardener do to change the mind of a king?

“Well, if you think of anything else—” the guard began.

A commotion at the end of the passage caught the man’s attention. “Sorry,” he said to Oliver, before closing the door.

“It’s all right,” Oliver said to the empty room.

“Is it really?” The voice came from near the window.

Oliver was on his feet in an instant, groping at his waist for a pistol, a knife … But there was nothing on his belt and nothing by the window, either. Who, or what, had spoken?

“What are you?” he demanded.

“Just a man,” said the voice quietly.

And then Prince Heinrich was standing in front of the window, one hand holding the collar of a dull purple cavalry cape that looked incongruous with his blue suit.

“I want to help you,” he said.

“How … how did you do that?” Oliver stammered.

“It’s this,” Heinrich said.

Oliver flinched as the commoner-turned-prince reached up and fastened the cape, disappearing from view. He reappeared again, opening the cape with a wry smile.

“It’s not mine,” he said, sounding apologetic. “Galen let me borrow it.”

“Oh,” was all Oliver could think to say.

“I want to help you,” Heinrich said again. “Help you escape, that is.”

Oliver stared at him in astonishment. “You want to help me? But the king is about to sentence me to death! The king—your father-in-law!” Oliver made an effort to keep his voice down. “And what about my men? They have families who need them.”

“They’re being freed right now,” Heinrich said, looking more embarrassed … then Oliver realized it wasn’t embarrassment: the prince looked guilty.

“They are? But why? Why are you doing this?”

Oliver wondered if this was some sort of test. If he stayed in his room with the door unlocked and the guard gone, would the king reward his honesty?

“Your father saved my life,” Heinrich said, and in that instant the guilt was gone, replaced by a ferocity that caused Oliver to take a small step back. “He was one of the greatest men I have ever known. He died for me, for all of us in the Eagle Regiment. I will not let his son die for something he could not control.”

“I could have—” Oliver began.

Heinrich was shaking his head. “It’s not your fault that your estate was taken from you. Or that you had to turn to banditry to support your people.”

“But it was still banditry,” Oliver said, though he wasn’t really sure why he was arguing with someone who wanted to help him.

Heinrich’s gaze was far away now, seeing other rooms or perhaps a battlefield.

“My father-in-law is not a cruel man,” Heinrich said. “Though he is sometimes too hasty. In a few days he will regret executing you and then it will be too late. But if you are not here to be executed …”

“Won’t that just make him even angrier?”

“At first, but once Galen and I have had a chance to talk to him, and once his ire has cooled …” Heinrich shrugged. “All I know is, I will not see you face a firing squad. Something can, and will, be done to make things right for you and your people. Even the king suspects that other powers were at play when he divided up your earldom. We just need to buy a little time while we figure this all out.” His face tightened, and he looked down at his knuckles, which bore small white scars. “Fortunately, my wife and her sisters are providing a distraction.”

“What’s happening? Is Petunia all right?”

Heinrich looked at him for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But as soon as you leave, I’ll be riding after them.”

“How do I leave?”

“Wearing this,” Heinrich said, and swept off the cape. He offered it to Oliver, who put his hands behind his back. “Climb down the ivy outside the window,” Heinrich instructed, “go to the back of the gardens. Over the wall and you’re free. Your men will meet you outside of Bruch, on the road to the forest.”

“How will you get out of here?” Oliver still hadn’t taken the cape.

“I’ll climb down to the window below yours. It’s Rose and Galen’s sitting room, no one will notice.”

“Very clever,” Oliver grudgingly admitted. “How does this work?” He finally reached out a hand for the cape.

“Put it on and fasten it, and not even your shadow can be seen,” Heinrich told him.

“Where did Prince Galen get such a thing?” Oliver wondered aloud as he put on the cape and clipped the little chain. His body disappeared, giving him a strangely disconnected feeling.

“From an old woman he met on the road,” Heinrich said as though such things happened every day. “We are all very careful to be kind to every traveler we meet.”

Oliver grinned, then he realized that the prince was not joking. Oliver made a mental note to also be kind to unknown travelers.

“All right,” he said. “Out I go.” He threw his leg over the windowsill.

“I promise you,” Heinrich said sincerely, “once we get a few family matters squared away, Galen and I will work on getting amnesty for you and your men.”

Oliver hesitated. “These family matters … do you mean the shadows? In the garden at my—at the grand duchess’s estate?”

Heinrich whirled around, reaching out with one hand until he connected with Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver pulled his leg in and undid the cape so that Heinrich could see him. The prince’s face was intense, and Oliver saw that there were fine lines around his eyes.

“You saw them?” Heinrich’s voice was tight. “What did you see?”

“It– They looked like shadows, people made of shadow,” Oliver stammered. “They were running across the lawn toward the manor. I followed them; they climbed the ivy to Petunia’s window. I don’t think that any of them got inside, though.”

“They can’t come inside; that’s the one consolation we have,” Heinrich said, looking even grimmer.

“One of them saw me,” Oliver went on. “It put its hand in my chest.”

“Did he speak to you? What did he say?” Heinrich asked urgently.

“His hand went into my chest and was squeezing my heart.” He put a hand there, the memory causing a pang of remembered pain. “Then he said that she wasn’t for me.”

Oliver grimaced, suddenly embarrassed that Petunia’s brother-in-law might think he was trying to woo her himself. Of course, Heinrich had been born a commoner, but at least he wasn’t a wanted criminal.

“It was probably Kestilan, then,” Heinrich said, his face twisted. “What else?”

“They just, they turned and went away,” Oliver said. Who was this Kestilan? One of the King Under Stone’s sons? “Back to the hothouse.”

“What hothouse?”

Heinrich’s gaze sharpened on Oliver again.

“The … shadow people … or whatever they were. They came out of the hothouse, the one that isn’t used anymore. I mean, they store old pots and tools in it, but no plants. They came out of there.”

Oliver realized that he was babbling. His greatest fear in coming to Bruch was that he would risk his life and the lives of his men, and the court would laugh at him. Shadows in the garden threatening the princess? It sounded ludicrous. But Heinrich was not laughing. The more Oliver told him, the more intense the prince’s expression became.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Oliver said. “I was in the hothouse, sleeping.” He felt himself turning red. “I was hiding from Prince Grigori,” he added, so that Heinrich would not think he was living in the hothouse like a vagrant. “I dozed, and when I woke, the creatures were coming out of the floor. I followed them through the gardens to the manor.”

“Excellent,” Heinrich said. He clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “Thank you. Now get out of here.”

Oliver put his foot on the windowsill again but stopped before he fastened the cloak.