Rosie
Following my meeting with Elis, I am bustled off to the library once more and forced to read detailed lineages of all the various kings and queens of Belanor for the last two hundred years then recite them back to Master Gormon. How this is supposed to make me better ready for the gods-ordained task of dragon slaying, I fail to comprehend. But Master Gormon seems to think it an essential part of my preparation, and there’s no arguing with the little man.
Here and there throughout the long hours, that same prickling sensation comes over me as it had in the garden. I can’t help wondering if I’m inventing it, if it’s just my overwrought imagination turning jumpy with lack of sleep. But what if it is real? What if…what if, while my fire remains stubbornly suppressed, other dragonish aspects are beginning to stir to life?
Not a comforting thought. I’d much prefer to believe as I have always believed—that I am not the Dragon Princess they seek. That someone, somewhere, has made a huge gaffe, and we’reall now playing part in this dark comedy of errors. Not a happy scenario to be sure, but better than the one in which I’m destined to transform into a fire-breathing lizard with wings and challenge my own mother to mortal combat.
At long last, Master Gormon releases me from his academic clutches. Philippa does not meet me at the library door as usual. It doesn’t matter—no chance to slip away again, for three stalwart guardsmen stand in her place, and I have little choice but to fall in step with them. They march me back to my chambers, where Captain Norlan waits just outside the door.
“Now, Princess,” he says sternly, his long mustache bristling with authority. “There’s to be no leaving your room unescorted tonight. If you must wander, you’re to take three of the lads with you wherever you go.” He tilts his head, fixing me with a keen blue stare. “It’s for your own good, you comprehend?”
“Why of course, Captain Norlan,” I reply with what I hope is a winsome smile. “I’m sure I’m eternally grateful for the stouthearted loyalty of both you and your men.”
This seems to mollify him somewhat, and he lets me step through my door. The minute it’s closed behind me, however, I curse and, though I know it’s childish, stamp my foot for good measure. Gods blast and blight the man! There’s no chance in heaven or any disreputable hell that he’s going to fall for another ruse such as Philippa pulled off last night. They might as well lock my door and throw away the key, I’m that likely of getting out of here and meeting Valtar as planned.
The room feels strangely empty. My own breath seems to echo. I begin pacing. Where is Philippa? It’s not like her to be late. Ever since my initial getaway of three days ago, she’s been hounding my footsteps, scarcely giving me room to breathe. I ought to be grateful for the reprieve, but instead I’m oddlyunsettled, nervous. Perhaps because I’ve been secretly counting on Philippa to come up with a scheme to get me out of here again. Have I become so dependent? So passive? I grind my teeth, hating the very thought. But the truth is, for all my bold speeches to Valtar, I’m no closer to escaping now than I was when I first arrived in this wretched place. I can’t even sneak out of my own room undetected. There’s no way to come and go without…without…
I pause. My brow knots suddenly, and I look over my shoulder to the little armoire standing along one wall. There, lying beside a jewelry box, discarded and forgotten but somehow not swept away by Philippa’s industrious hand, are the remains of the crushed gold rose. It’s quite withered now, a sad little remnant of the beauty it once was.
I step across the room, reach out one finger, and touch the stem. My lips press into a hard line as the memory of a dark figure standing over my bed and offering me the flower plays across the theater of my mind. I’d assumed it was a hallucination brought on by theholabellabrew. But what if it wasn’t? Dread slices like a knife down to the pit of my stomach. Because if that was no dream, that would mean some stranger had entered my room entirely undetected to…what? Kill me? But then, I am distinctlynotdead.
My gaze turns sharply from the rose to the round table beside my bed. There Valtar’s message lies folded where I left it last night. What was it Philippa had said? That it hadappeared. Out of nowhere. On my pillow.
“Gods smite me black and blue!” I growl, stepping to the table and catching up that missive, crumpling it in my fist. “It was him!He’sthe one who came dropping into my room uninvited, looming over me like the gods-damned loomer he is!” I huff outa ragged breath, shaking my head. Then, in a burst of ineffectual fury: “Rude!”
Well, I certainly can’t let him get away with such ungentlemanly behavior. I must have it out with him. Tonight! But that puts me right back in the same dilemma: How am I to escape this room?
I chew my lip, looking around the chamber. It’s become familiar to me over the last week and a half. I know all the furnishings, the heavy mirror dominating one wall, the massive wardrobe, the little tables and elegant chairs. There is no secret doorway or hidden passage, none that I have been able to discover, at least. There isn’t even a fireplace down which a determined prowler might crawl at need. But Valtar got in somehow and out again too, all without raising any alarm. Which means there must be some way.
My gaze rises from the walls to the ceiling overhead. Unlike the passages outside, this ceiling is not jagged with stalactites but smooth and covered in decorative moldings in mandala patterns too elaborate for my eye to follow. But as I study those moldings, my face upraised, I feel a stirring of air on my cheeks. Air…of course! There must be air shafts into this room, just as there are throughout Stromin Palace. The dwarves who built this place were master craftsmen, were they not? And they certainly would take care to ensure the human queen they served was provided with plenty of airflow, suitable to her more delicate lungs.
It is a matter of minutes before I spot the grating, half-hidden by the molding pattern. It doesn’t look big enough for a person to get through, but if Valtar managed it, surely I can also. Dragging a chair across the room, I climb up on the seat, balancing rather precariously, and stretch my arms overhead. I can just about reach it—
“Princess!”
My balance tilts. The chair goes over, and I tumble ignominiously to the floor in awhooshof petticoats. The breath knocked out of me, I can do nothing for some moments but lie there, staring at the pair of slipper-shod feet standing just in my line of view in the doorway. Dragging in a lungful of air, I lift my gaze to Philippa’s shocked face, which floats above the covered silver platter she carries in both hands.
“Whatareyou doing?” she demands, in a voice of deeply offended sensibility.
Hastily, I scramble to my knees, pulling myself together. “What am I doing?” I ask, channeling what I can of her own imperiousness back at her. “What areyoudoing, rather? You’re the one who’s late!”
Much to my surprise, the deflection works rather well. Philippa’s color deepens, and she looks away from me quickly before stepping into the room and pushing the door shut behind her. Without looking at me as I pick myself up off the floor, she hastens to a little table to set down her platter. “I was…delayed,” she says, a certain carefulness in her tone. “One of the…” She clears her throat, licks her lips, and tries again. “One of the champions stopped me. To inquire after your well-being following the events of last night.”
“Oh?” She’s definitely not telling the whole story here. Blight me, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so flushed! Not cool, composed Philippa. “And which champion are we speaking of exactly?”
Philippa blinks then turns to me, her expression once more nonchalant. “Prince Warrick.”
“Warrick,” I repeat.
She nods.
“You were late because you were being chatted up by Prince Warrick?”
“He met me between here and the kitchens. He was very kind and helped me carry the tray hither.”
“Did he now?” I fold my arms. “And what was that you said to me just the other day?” I strike a pose and assume my most Philippa-like demeanor. ‘‘‘Youcannotmake the champions fetch and carry for you. They are yourchampions, not yourpage boys.’ ”
Philippa turns from me and primly busies herself with arranging the table to her liking. “I’m sure Prince Warrick was eager to perform whatever small service he might in honor of his princess.”
