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?”