A less intelligent girl might have continued her rebellions despite all the punishments and eventually been broken altogether. But Georgette was surrounded by broken women, and she took careful note. She smiled at the foppish courtiers who prinked to gain her attention, and performed her endless and dull royal duties with the appearance of goodwill and dutiful obedience. She was especially careful to gain the good opinion of such powerful figures as Cardinal Lamir. Like everyone else, although she seldom admitted it even to herself, she was afraid of him.
Georgette knew that Queen Theoroda hated her. The princess’s elevation to heir to the throne meant that the king no longer hoped for a son. It had taken a couple of years for Georgette to work out why the queen loathed her so much, and it didn’t make her like the queen any more when she did. But at least it was understandable.
By her fifteenth year Princess Georgette had been transformed from a wild and rebellious tomboy to a poised and accomplished young beauty. She moved with perfect bearing and impeccable etiquette, and she had a good general understanding of the official histories, heraldries, poetry, arts, and major languages of Continentia, as well as a smattering of knowledge of such things as mathematics, astronomy, and alchemy. Her sophisticated conversation and charm astounded visiting dignitaries, who waxed eloquently on her accomplishments when they made their reports to their kings or doges or dukes or bishops.
The only freedom Georgette insisted upon — granted as a sentimental indulgence after stubborn application, because of her otherwise irreproachable behavior — was to visit privately with her old nurse, Amina. If Georgette loved anyone, it was Amina.
Over the years, the king had revised his opinion of Georgette. He showed her off as the jewel of his kingdom and plotted her most advantageous marriage. Georgette was clever at heading off these alliances with diplomatically phrased observations on how they might dim the glory of Clarel and weaken its power. And the king, who was a jealous man, had so far been happy to accede to her arguments, especially as they were so artfully turned that they seemed to him to be his own ideas and not Georgette’s.
This time, though, her usual antimarriage tactics weren’t working. When she had persisted, her father had thrown one of his rages and told her, spittle flying everywhere, that if she didn’t marry King Oswald he would have her beheaded as a traitor.
Georgette stole a furtive glance at King Oswald, who was sitting in the place of honor next to Axel. The two men were a study in contrast. Oswald was thin and dark-haired and, she guessed, about fifteen years older than she was. He dressed soberly for a king, preferring the chaste luxury of pearls and diamonds over the showy rubies and emeralds favored by her father. He ate sparingly and said little, limiting himself to polite nods and murmured courtesies.
If that had been all, Georgette might have resigned herself to the doom of marriage. If she really had to get married, a sober, reserved man was a better bet than the spoiled, vain princelings she had met so far. But that wasn’t all.
When they had been formally introduced, King Oswald’s hand had felt like parchment, as dry and cold as the kiss he had dropped on her fingers. Unable to contain her curiosity, she flicked up a glance and caught his eye before her gaze dropped modestly to her feet.
In that moment, for no reason that she understood, her whole body flooded with terror. She was exactly as afraid as if he had drawn a knife and held it to her throat. She suddenly remembered her dream, her mother’s icy hand grasping her arm. She could still feel where the queen’s fingers had gripped her, as if she were trying to save her daughter from drowning.
It took a long time for the trembling in her body to subside, and she was quiet enough during the meal for the cardinal to remark on it.
“It’s very unfortunate, but I have a migraine,” she said, smiling wanly.
“Your royal admirer might think you have taken him in aversion,” said the cardinal.
“Oh no!” said Georgette lightly. “Why would I do that?”
She pretended to concentrate on her meal, trying to trace the origin of her fear of King Oswald. On the surface it seemed completely reasonless. All nobles, in Georgette’s opinion, were cruel, and on the surface, King Oswald seemed no worse than any other. Until you looked into his eyes. The word that popped into her head was . . . empty. What did that mean? Why should that be frightening?
Empty, without soul. As if he were the living dead.
She pushed away the thought and attempted to be more like her usual lively self, but every time she looked at King Oswald she felt a sick thrill of terror. The dozens of candelabras threw a bright glare across the overdecorated room, which became hotter and stuffier every moment, and a flea had got into her corset and was biting her. It took all her willpower not to scratch or wriggle.
Maybe, thought Georgette, as the ninth and final course was being laid on the table, I don’t want to be a princess anymore.
It wasn’t a new notion. Often, when she had been locked in a dark cellar for rudeness to a palace noble or some other minor disobedience, she had wished passionately that she was unimportant enough to do anything she wanted, like the children she had played with in the Old Palace. The illegitimate sons of the king had more freedom and power than she did.
But deep inside, Georgette
