“There’s something to all this,” his mother went on. “There’s some connection between the grand duchess and the earlier tragedies. I would stake my life on it.”

“But what?” Oliver shook his head, tearing off a hunk of bread to sop up the gravy. “Because the grand duchess is one of the Nine Daughters of Russaka? What would that have to do with worn-out dancing slippers?” He tried not to sound derisive. He really did want his mother’s opinions on the matter, but if she started talking about fairy stories again …

“The Nine Daughters of Russaka bore the sons of the King Under Stone,” his mother said primly. “But no one has ever said whether the Nine Daughters had any further contact with the King Under Stone, or the babies. Did they ever see their sons again?” His mother looked at him archly.

Oliver began to think. His mother believed that this had really happened. And heaven knew that he had seen some strange sights, even before last night. The forest was full of odd creatures, mysterious lights—and Karl’s wife claimed to have found a dragon’s lair while gathering mushrooms one day. What if the King Under Stone was real? What if he had fathered nine sons with the Russakan princesses, and one of those princesses was now the Grand Duchess Volenskaya? Was she allowed to visit her son? Did the King Under Stone have a hold over her?

“Let’s say that the grand duchess did have a child of the King Under Stone’s,” Oliver said. “Where is the child now? Is it human?”

“Exactly,” his mother said, looking uneasy. “No one knows. And what all this has to do with Petunia and her sisters, I don’t know, either. But I do know that something strange is happening around those girls again.”

“He fathered nine sons with nine sisters in Russaka,” Oliver said, convulsively swallowing the last bite of chicken with a dry throat. “But who’s to say he doesn’t have more? And if the king of Westfalin has twelve daughters … whose suitors kept being killed …” He shook his head, dismissing the idea. “It’s all too strange, and we just don’t know enough,” he said.

His mother put both hands to her mouth, face chalky white. “I just hope the King Under Stone doesn’t see you as a potential suitor,” she said in a strangled voice.

Oliver laughed bitterly. “Please, Mother, I’m not even a real earl.”

Chilled

Must this window be open? It’s freezing!”

Petunia slammed her window shut yet again, wincing at the chill wind that bit into her borrowed nightgown. It seemed that the Princess Nastasya cared more about the draping of fine muslin and cobweb lace than catching her death of cold—and the matching dressing gown was hardly any warmer. It also appeared that Olga was attempting to kill Petunia by keeping her window open all night.

When Petunia had awakened from her nightmare, there had been cold air and mist pouring into the room through the open window. But no sooner had she shut it than Olga had peeped into the room to see if she was all right, and immediately bustled over to open the window again, saying that the “brisk” air was good for the complexion. Petunia’s demands that the maid leave the window shut fell on deaf ears, so between skirmishes in the window war she had snatched little sleep.

And now she wanted very much to write to Rose and Galen about her latest nightmares, but Olga insisted on dressing her for breakfast at once. Petunia was still not certain that she was only dreaming the shadowy figures in the garden and needed to tell her sisters. The shadowy figures looked different, older, and those princes who had died when she and her sisters had escaped the Kingdom Under Stone did not appear, which made all too convincing an argument that what she was seeing, both in the gardens and in her dreams, was real.

But she couldn’t write the letter with Olga fussing over her, pulling up Petunia’s stockings, chivvying her into a freshly altered gown. Though Petunia had to admit that Olga had done a wonderful job—the gown fit as though it had been made for Petunia, and she determined at once to keep it. Then there was her hair to be done up and her face to be powdered and rouged, even though King Gregor did not approve of such things. But her father was not here, Petunia reasoned, studying the effect in the mirror.

“Very nice,” she complimented Olga, who glowed at the praise. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must write a letter to my sister.”

“Oh, no, Your Highness!” Olga hustled her off the dressingtable stool and toward the door. “You must go downstairs at once! They’ll be waiting for you in the breakfast room! I’ll show you myself.”

“No, really I’m sure that I can find it in just a moment,” said Petunia helplessly.

She was already out the door of her bedchamber and going down the corridor now, with Olga pushing gently on the small of her back. Really, Petunia was starting to think that the maid didn’t want her to write a letter at all, and why would Olga care about such a thing? Perhaps Olga was worried that she would be blamed if Petunia was late for breakfast, so Petunia let herself be pushed down the stairs and into the breakfast room.

The breakfast room was empty save for a footman laying out silverware. He bowed to Petunia and hastily set down the rest of the forks before bowing his way out. Petunia raised her eyebrows at Olga.

“Oh, good, you are early,” Olga said. “I am sure that Her Grace and His Highness will join you shortly.” Then she curtsied and left, leaving Petunia gaping at her.

“She’s completely mad,” Petunia grumbled to herself. “But very good with a needle.”

With nothing better to do, Petunia took a plate and helped herself to rolls and soft cheese, preserves, and toast. The grand duchess did not care for coffee but preferred the strong, dark Russakan tea, which Petunia also loved, so she poured herself a cup.

She had had a roll and was spreading marmalade on toast when Prince Grigori and his grandmother entered the room. Petunia dropped her toast and leaped to her feet to curtsy to the old lady, who looked her over with an approving eye.

“That gown suits you. You should keep it.” The grand duchess sank down into the chair that Prince Grigori held for her.

“Thank you, ma’am, I would love to,” Petunia said with gratitude. She sat at her own place, self-conscious about the crumbs on the white tablecloth that made it look as though she had eaten at least a half-dozen rolls instead of just one. “If Princess Nastasya doesn’t mind, that is.”

“She will never notice.” Prince Grigori laughed. “My cousin has more clothes than any three young ladies put together!”

He filled a plate for his grandmother and himself and sat down opposite Petunia. He smiled at her and gave a subtle wink. To her embarrassment, Petunia felt the color rising in her cheeks. She took a sip of tea, which was too hot and nearly choked her, and managed to recover without gasping or spitting the dark liquid onto the table.

“We cannot have you languishing here in that beautiful gown,” the grand duchess declared, fortunately not noticing Petunia’s moment of distress. She gave Prince Grigori a meaningful look, and Petunia thought he dipped his chin in a subtle nod. “After breakfast, Grigori must take you around the gardens. It is winter, but your work in your father’s gardens is well known, and I’m sure mine will hold some small interest for you.”

Did everyone here want her to catch her death of cold? Petunia wondered.

“That sounds lovely,” she said.

“My Grigori, I know you feel you must go about your duties, but please be a gallant and keep dear Petunia entertained during her visit.” The grand duchess’s voice sounded very studied, as though she were trying to sound spontaneous but had rehearsed her words in advance. “I charge you with keeping her from boredom, Grigori. It is your new calling in life.”