I was about to permit her one when the birds and insects went quiet. I lifted my head. A moment later, we felt the vibration in the ground, then saw the dust in the road, and, after a brief pause, a train of coaches. This was no farmer’s cart.
I leaned forward and, as gently as I could manage, slapped Mathilde across the face.
“What—” she cried, raising a hand to her inflamed jaw.
Before she could turn, I slapped her other cheek.
“Stop!” Rosie cried, confused.
“For color,” I explained. I handed Rosie my handkerchief. “And wipe yours. You have too much rouge.”
They stared at me.
“Do not move off the carpet,” I called over my shoulder and hurried toward the road.
Standing alone at the edge of the byway, I watched as the carriages drew near. One at the middle, marked by the royal coat of arms, was larger and grander than all the rest. I was overwhelmed with quick relief—I had been right—which soon gave way to focus: It was imperative that the caravan stop, if only briefly.
A glance over my shoulder confirmed the girls were still in place: framed by pretty grasses, their yellow dresses as eye-catching in thebrowning field as if they had been glowing lanterns. I stepped out into the road as the caravan’s first riders neared. Armed guards and men on horseback.
I opened my mouth to call out but found I could summon no words. I recognized the first man, not only for the richness of his dress, but for the same yellow hair I’d seen in his portrait. The foremost rider was not an attendant or huntsman, but the prince himself.
I shut my mouth and sank into a curtsy, murmuring “Your Royal Highness” into the dirt.
I had hoped that I could plead for help from a guard or hunter, and that, in the brief delay, the prince would see my daughters through the window of his carriage. That he might notice them, and later remember them. That, seeing their faces amongst the many, many women at the ball, there would be a sense of recognition. I had thought the attendants would quickly pull the chaise from the ditch. I had not accounted for the flipping, or the broken wheel. I had not prepared myself to converse with Prince Simeon directly. As I rose from my curtsy, Agatha had no advice for me, but I felt her presence in my breath and in the staccato of my heartbeat.
“You are in distress,” the prince observed, face marked by the faintest trace of a smile.
I rose and peered up at him. He had brought his horse to a stop and was staring at the overturned chaise with interest.
“A small mishap,” I explained. “We came to enjoy a picnic.” I gestured back toward Rosie and Mathilde, who were looking on with wonder. “The horse spooked. He is, thankfully, fine, as are we, but I am afraid our carriage is not.”
Behind Prince Simeon, his caravan was coming to a noisy halt, horses stamping at the ground and men talking, calling ahead. He turned and declared to those milling closest: “We must help these women!”
The prince began to dismount, leaning into one of the stirrups andthrowing his other leg over the top of the horse with ease. Two attendants rushed forward as he landed on the ground and he waved them away, saying, instead, to me: “Their entire role is to help me on and off a horse. And people wonder why the royal coffers run low. Now.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s see about that carriage.”
He strode over toward the ditch and, in one quick motion, hopped down and landed in the muck at the bottom. He circled the chaise, muddying himself in the process. “I see the predicament. We won’t be able to just push it out.”
“I—we are much beholden.” I was at a loss for words.
“Do not thank me yet.” He smiled up at me from the bottom of the ditch. “The chaise is still stuck in the mud.”
“Regardless, we owe you our gratitude for your willingness to help—” I paused, hearing hoofbeats approach behind me. Otto, the royal counselor and the stranger from the woods, was making his way from the back of the caravan. He rode a muscular steed with a shiny black coat that had been brushed and cleaned well. My spirits plummeted.
“Lady Tremaine,” he said, barely touching his brow. I curtsied. “What is the problem?” Otto addressed the question to Simeon.
“You know one another?” The prince was rolling up his sleeves. “How disgustingly small our kingdom is.”
“Allow me to present Lady Etheldreda Tremaine… Bramley,” Otto replied, stiffly, as if the words were sour in his mouth. He surveyed the cart and then glanced over at Arno, who was ignorantly switching his tail in the grasses yards away. “The horse did this?”
I lowered my gaze. “I am afraid the wheel has cracked.”
Otto stared down into the ditch from the back of his steed. “Why is the wagon perpendicular to the road?”
Something in his tone made me forget my timidity and restored my voice. “It is strange indeed.” I held his eyes, lifting my chin slightly. “I was setting up the picnic and did not see what spooked the horse.”
“And yet the horse is untouched.” Otto looked at the cart and backat me with the prowling, feral energy of a watchdog. Despite his nose, which looked to have been broken more than once, he might have been handsome—except he held a constant look of distaste.
“Come, Otto,” Prince Simeon called. “And get down here and help me push it out.”
