“And soon I knew an ever greater joy, when I realized that I would be presenting my beloved king with a child. I thought that he would marry me then, and make me his queen. But to my anger, my sisters were all also with child! I determined to have my child first, but Tanya and Daniela’s sons were born minutes before mine.” Her lips twisted, bitterly, and Petunia recoiled a little at the expression. But the grand duchess did not appear to notice.

“We had our children all in the same horrible night,” the grand duchess continued, “while a storm raged outside that kept any help from coming. We had a bell outside our window we could ring when we needed supplies or aid, and though we rang it through the night, the wind howled and none could hear it. When the storm cleared, all nine of us had had our babies, sons all. My parents arrived and looked on us in anguish, but before anyone could speak, a shadow covered the room, and my babe was taken from my arms.”

“How dreadful,” Petunia said, caught up in the story despite herself.

The grand duchess patted her hand. “The worst was to come. We were no longer allowed to join our dear king in the Palace Under Stone, but told that our sons would be raised as princes, and in time we might see them all again.

“Our father married us to whatever fools he could find before the scandal spread. Which is how I ended up in Westfalin. A lovely country, to be sure,” the grand duchess said, giving Petunia’s hand a squeeze. “But so far from my home, and so far from my true king … though for that, everything in the sunlight world is.” She chuckled a little at that. “And I was right: my king did favor me. He arranged for that silly little earldom to be broken up so that I might live in comfort on my estate, one of his last acts before he was murdered.”

Petunia sat frozen. She didn’t know which was worse: that this strange person sitting beside her might be a courtier impersonating the grand duchess, or that these words might actually be coming from that respected grand dame.

“Oliver’s estate … the King Under Stone …” Petunia could barely whisper the words.

“And then,” the old woman continued as if Petunia hadn’t spoken, “after a lifetime of waiting, I was contacted by my son! My firstborn, the son of my heart and soul!” The grand duchess’s eyes were shining, and she was looking beyond Petunia now, savoring the memory. “He would come as a shadow to my bedroom window, nightly visits from my dear one after so many years! The sad news that my magnificent king had died was a great blow. But I was consoled when my son told me that his two oldest brothers were also dead, and now he is the King Under Stone!”

“Rionin is your son?” Petunia’s entire body went numb.

The white hair, the green eyes … Rionin looked so much like the grand duchess. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

“Yes,” the grand duchess said with great pride. “Though I have always called him Alexei.” She sniffed. “It was his father who named him Rionin. A strange name, but I know that my king must have had his reasons for this. Perhaps in his language it had some noble meaning,” she mused. “I must ask him.”

“Rionin is your son,” Petunia said again. The sensation was slowly and coldly trickling back into her body. “Could you not … can’t you tell him … my sister Lily is already married!” Petunia clutched at the grand duchess’s hands desperately. “Please tell him! She doesn’t want to marry him! None of us want to stay here and marry the princes! Can’t you help us, please?” Tears stung her eyes.

The grand duchess looked at Petunia and smiled, and Petunia felt relief wash over her. This was the grand duchess, she was sure. And the grand duchess would help them. The tears wobbled and fell from her lower lashes.

“Don’t worry, my dear Petunia,” she said. “I’ve been speaking to my son a great deal about you. Kestilan won’t like it, of course, but I hardly care. His mother was some feather-brained Belgique countess. He’s hardly worth your attention, child.” Now the grand duchess squeezed Petunia’s hands in both of hers. “No, no, I will have you for my Grigori, the only one of my children or grandchildren who wasn’t a disappointment to me, other than my Alexei! And Alexei has finally agreed … that’s why you are here, isn’t it?”

“What?” Petunia pulled her hands free and leaped off the bed.

“Come now, Petunia, I’ve seen you and Grigori together, you will make a lovely couple. You will live here with me, but of course we shall go to the palace every night for the dancing! And we will have servants, not like those things at the palace. The maids from my estate, and Grigori’s men.”

“Why— No— How could you—” Petunia didn’t even know what to say, but the grand duchess just continued to look at her with her bright eyes and her wide smile.

“It will be wonderful, my Petunia. You may call me Grandmother, if you like.”

Petunia backed toward the door, her hands behind her. When she felt the latch she fumbled it open.

“You are not my grandmother,” she said. Then she turned and ran through the door.

She didn’t get far. In the passageway she ran straight into Grigori. He seized her arms, and she screamed and writhed out of his grip. She grabbed the pistol from his belt and stepped back just far enough to aim.

“My petal, what are you doing?”

Grigori snatched at the pistol, fouling her shot in the narrow passageway, and the bullet merely grazed his shoulder and embedded itself in the wall behind. He wrestled with her, and she managed one more shot, which went wild and shattered an ornate mirror on the wall near the door. He tore the pistol from her grip and wrapped his other arm around her waist, lifting her free of the ground and carrying her, writhing and screaming, back to his grandmother.

The grand duchess cried out and rustled her swathes of lace, but Petunia didn’t spare the old woman a look. She was more monstrous than Grigori or Rionin, as far as Petunia was concerned, and she never wanted to speak to the grand duchess again.

Grigori threw Petunia onto the foot of the bed and kicked the door closed behind him. Petunia was on her feet again in an instant. She lunged at Grigori, who held the pistol high over her head with one hand and pushed her away with the other. He frowned at Petunia as though her behavior were completely irrational.

“Let me go, you monster!” Petunia spit at him, and a glob of saliva struck the middle of his chest.

He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at it, frowning even deeper. Behind her, Petunia heard the grand duchess suck in a breath in disgust.

“Such unbecoming behavior, Petunia! And what makes you want to leave? You have already admitted you have no love for Kestilan!”

“I want out of this whole horrid place,” Petunia said, panting. She tried for the pistol again.

“I admire your spirit, my petal,” Grigori said, stepping away from her. “But this is ridiculous! I am your betrothed, and you must stop—”

There was a shout and a crash from the front of the house.

Petunia used the distraction to punch Grigori in the stomach, and when he doubled over, she snatched the pistol from his hand. She cocked the hammer but didn’t know whom to aim at. Grigori? The grand duchess? Or the new threat coming down the passage?

The door burst open, slamming into Grigori, who was just straightening, and knocking him to the ground. Standing in the doorway was a man in a wolf mask holding an ax. Petunia made her decision, crossing to the bed and aiming her pistol at the grand duchess, who began to wail and wring her hands.

“Oliver,” Petunia ordered, cutting through the old woman’s wails. “Take care of Grigori, I’ve got my eye on her.”

Grigori started to scramble to his feet as Oliver brought the butt of his pistol down on the back of the prince’s head. Grigori went down like a felled tree, and the grand duchess screamed like she had been wounded herself.