order the imprisonment or torment of an innocent bardling. My people,” Volmar added with a touch of contempt, “wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. The boy is already quite miserable, you say. No one will talk to him, no one will treat him kindly, and he’s faced with a long, boring, lonely task.” Carlotta smiled slowly. “Just think how delighted he would be if someone was race to him! How eager he would be to confide in that someone!”
“I don’t understand. An adult—”
“No, you idiot! Don’t you remember what it’s like being that young? The boy is only going to confide in someone his own age.”
As usual, Volmar forced down his rage at her casual insults. Ah, Carlotta, you superior little witch, if ever I gain the throne beside you, you had better guard your back! As innocuously as he could, he asked, “Who are you suggesting? One of the squires?”
“Oh, hardly that”
Her shape blurred, altered ... Volmar rubbed a hand over his eyes—He’d known from the start that Carlotta was as much a master of shape-shifting as any fairy, but watching her in action always made him dizzy.
“You can look now, poor Volmar.” Her voice was an octave higher than before, and so filled with sugar he dropped his hand to stare.
Where the adult Carlotta had sat was now a cloyingly sweet little blonde girl of, Volmar guessed, the bardling’s own age, though it was difficult to tell age amid all the golden ringlets and alabaster skin and large, shining blue eyes.
“How do I look?” she cooed.
Honest words came to his lips before he could stop them. “Sweet enough to rot my teeth.”
She merely threw back her head and laughed. Her teeth, of course, were flawless. “I am a bit sickening, aren’t I? Let me try a more plausible form.”
The sickening coyness faded. The girl remained the same age, but the blonde hair was now less perfectly golden, the big blue eyes a bit less glowing, the pale skin just a touch less smooth. As Volmar grit his teeth, determinedly watching despite a new surge of dizziness, he saw the perfect oval other face broaden ever so slightly at the forehead, narrow at the chin, until she looked just like ...
“Charina!” the count gasped.
“Charina,” the princess agreed. “Your darling little niece.”
Too amazed to remember propriety, Volmar got to his feet and slowly circled her. “Marvelous!” he breathed at last. “Simply marvelous! I would never know you weren’t the real—But what do we do with the real Charina?”
Her voice was deceptively light. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Ah, yes.” Volmar smiled thinly. “Poor Charina. She always has been a bit of a nuisance, wandering about the castle like a lonely wraith. How unfortunate that my sister and her fool of a husband had the bad taste to die. Poor little creature: too far from the main line of descent to be of any use as a marriage pawn. No political value at all. Just another useless girl.”
“Not so useless now.” Carlotta/
Charina dimpled prettily.
“Poor Charina,” Volmar repeated without any warmth at all. “So easily disposed of. She never will be missed.”
Kevin woke with a jolt as something smothering landed smack across his face, molding itself over his nose and mouth—Gasping, he clawed the monster aside —and found himself holding a damp towel.
“Very funny!” he began angrily, only to find himself talking to empty space. The last of the squires was just leaving the hall, laughing with the others.
Fuming, Kevin got to his feet and found the garderobe facilities, grateful that at least the count didn’t insist his underlings use lowly chamber pots. Going to the communal washing trough, he discovered the squires hadn’t left him more than a few inches of water, barely enough to splash on his face. Grumbling, he dressed, pulling his clothes from the chest at the foot of his bed, and sat down to a solitary breakfast—at least they’d left him something to eat—of a roll and some scraps of cheese, washed down with a lukewarm goblet of khafe.
Now, all he had to do was find the count’s library.
