I rise to my feet, stomach turning as I glance at the trunks. Instead of the haphazard disarray I left them in, they now sit stacked neatly against the wall. “What did you do with my things?”
Imogen pauses, looking at me with a raised brow. It takes a few moments for her expression to soften. “We put everything away for you, Your Highness. You left quite a mess for us.”
My pulse quickens as I study the trunks. If they found my gown…well, I suppose they would have said something by now. I swallow hard. “Did you puteverythingaway?”
She leaves the wardrobe to approach the stack of trunks, words slightly clipped with indignation. “No, Your Highness, not everything. One was locked.” She gestures toward the bottom trunk. “Perhaps you have the key?”
My hand flies to my skirt pocket—only to remember I’m not wearing a skirt, just my chemise and petticoats. The keys are long gone now, in possession of a thief. Regret washes over me, but it quickly shifts into relief. If I can’t open the trunk, neither can anyone else. I’ll need to find a way inside before I make my escape, if only to collect my train ticket. But that’s a problem for a future day, not now. “No, I do not have the key. It’s been lost.”
“I see,” Imogen says. “Perhaps I can inquire about a locksmith—”
“No,” I say, tone far shaper than I intend. Forcing my posture to relax, I add, “That’s not necessary.”
“What’s inside?” Clara asks from the washroom doorway.
I blink a few times, seeking a valid explanation. One that would make sense for Maisie. A princess. A selkie. Then it comes to me. “My sealskin. I must keep it locked away.”
“Why?” Clara asks. After a glare from Imogen, she adds, “Your Highness.”
“It smells,” I say, and the girls go pale. “Like rotting fish, in fact. Believe me, no one wants that chest to open.”
“Won’t you need it again, Your Highness?” Imogen asks.
“That’s doubtful.”
“Because you’re courting the prince?” Imogen’s smile contrasts with the iron in her gaze. I recall Mrs. Coleman expressing her desire for Imogen to woo the prince. That was before any of us knew there would be a princess to contend with. I can see the calculations in my stepsister’s eyes as she assesses me from head to toe, wondering whether she stands a chance.
“Oh yes, the prince,” I say with a dreamy sigh and watch Imogen’s expression turn hard. If I were a kinder person, I wouldn’t take such pleasure from being the source of my stepsister’s angst. “He’s quite the handsome specimen, is he not?”
“Your bath is ready,” Clara says. “Would you like me to wash your hair?”
All vindictive amusement flees at the question. Is that normal for a lady’s maid to do? I suppose anything can be asked of a maid when in service to a royal. “No, that won’t be necessary. I like to bathe in private. However, while I bathe, you may select fresh undergarments for me as well as something to wear to dinner. After that, please take the evening off.”
“Take the evening off.” Imogen looks as if I suggested she jump off a cliff. “Don’t you want us to help you dress, Your Highness? Accompany you to the opera?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can manage.”
My stepsisters exchange a wide-eyed glance and dip into resigned curtsies, Imogen looking positively livid. With as much grace as I can manage, I brush past them to the washroom. Just as I’m about to enter, Clara says, “Your shoes, Your Highness.”
I glance down, a surge of terror heating my cheeks as I wonder if something’s amiss. Did the heel break? To my relief, they appear the same as they last were, tied to my feet by the two strips of torn cloth.
“Leave them out here and I will have them cleaned,” Clara says.
Specks of dirt have stained the toe, but they are otherwise of little concern. “That’s all right.”
She frowns. “Surely, you don’t need to wear your shoes into the washroom.”
Imogen quirks a brow from across the room. My mind goes blank as I seek a reply. A princess has no need to explain herself to a maid, but their suspicion is the last thing I need.
Then it hits me.
A web of truth to spin alongside my growing collection of lies.
“As a matter of fact, I do wear my shoes to the washroom. In the bath too.”
“Might I ask why, Your Highness?” Imogen says with clear distaste.
“Well, as you already know, I am a selkie,” I say, recalling everything I know about selkie lore. “My kind only take seelie form when we remove our sealskins. We are able to maintain this form after sundown, but if we fail to don human clothing by sunrise, we perish.” I wave a hand toward the nearest window, curtains drawn open to reveal the daylight. “So long as the sun is up, I must wear at least a single article of human clothing.”
