Dancer.

My one consolation is that the princes are all very good dancers," Orchid remarked to Petunia as they entered the ball.

"There is that," Petunia agreed.

"I think it's awful, and you're both awful," Pansy said shrilly.

Petunia tried to put her arm through Pansy's, but Pansy shrugged her away and went to Lily's side. She had always been Lily's pet when she'd been small, and now that they were back in the Palace Under Stone, Petunia suspected that Pansy was returning a bit to that time in her mind. Pansy had never quite recovered from the Midnight b.a.l.l.s to begin with: she had always been plagued by night terrors, even before the dreams had begun. And Pansy had never liked dancing, so Petunia could hardly fault her for being upset now.

"There you are, my dove," Kestilan said caressingly as he came to draw Petunia away from her sisters and into the figures of the dance that was just beginning.

Petunia gritted her teeth and took his hand and tried to ignore him as they danced. He refused to be ignored, however, lavishing her with praise and running through an apparently endless list of endearments until Petunia wanted to scream. All around her, the members of the court swirled in the steps of the dance, her sisters mingling among them, their princes by turn sullen or equally flirtatious. Petunia was not sure which was worse, and when Kestilan called her his "sugar lump," she knew that she had had enough.

She yanked her hands out of Kestilan's grip and stood still and straight in the middle of the worn marble floor. When the dancers around them had been forced to stop as well, lest they trample Petunia, and she saw even Rionin's gaze on her from the dais, she raised her voice so that they could all hear her.

"I am not your sugar lump," she said. "I am not your dove, your flower, your amour, your jewel, your sweetmeat, your pigeon, or your delight. I am here as a prisoner, as are my sisters. I will wear this awful gown and eat your terrible food and sleep in that cold bed, and I will dance when I am bid to dance. But I will not endure this grotesque attempt at seduction. Is that understood?"

"Is there a problem?" Rionin drawled from his throne. Then he summoned both Kestilan and Petunia to the dais with a look and a languid wave of one hand.

Petunia went willingly, but Kestilan scuffed along behind her like a young boy caught in some mischief. Rose abandoned her partner and followed, and so did Lily. Lily was dancing with some gaunt member of the court who looked relieved when she stepped toward the dais, Petunia noticed.

"My queen," Rionin said with a smile at Lily. "Won't you sit beside me?"

Another gesture, and a small, crook-legged chair was brought and set beside the tall, angular throne. Lily went to it and sat without comment, but Petunia could see that her sister's thin hands were clenched in her violet skirts. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she had lost weight in the past weeks. Petunia could hardly fault her for taking the seat, close as it was to the throne.

"Now," Rionin said with a kindly air that set Petunia's teeth on edge, "what seems to be the trouble?"

"The trouble," Petunia said over Kestilan's protest that there was none, "is that we are here against our will. You know it, we know it, everyone here knows it. For four days I have endured his horrible playacting, calling me little pet names and pretending at courtship, and it is vile beyond even your usual vileness. I will dance all night if that is what is required of me, but I refuse to do so while Kestilan hisses in my ear about my being his kitten."

The King Under Stone was looking at Petunia as though she had suddenly sprouted a horn from the middle of her forehead. "Who knew that little Petunia would grow up to be such a bold creature?"

"Anyone who ever spoke with her from the time she said her first words," Rose said crisply. "Now, if you will make your brother promise to stop his awkward flirtations, we will continue to dance."

"Very well," the King Under Stone said, looking amused. He raised his voice so that it carried to all the corners of the ballroom. "The princesses have asked that all endearments and flirtations be halted, and we will abide by their wishes," he said.

There were hoots and catcalls from the court, and several of them called out alternate names that the princesses might enjoy. Petunia was shocked, not just because of the cra.s.sness of some of the names, but also because the first King Under Stone would never have allowed such behavior.

She was about to say something, when Rose squeezed her elbow in warning. Petunia glanced up at her oldest sister, who didn't look at her but continued to gaze at Rionin with vast disapproval.

Had they not been standing on the dais, Petunia would not even have seen it. But under the weight of Rose's stare, the King Under Stone's pallid cheek showed the faintest hint of a blush. The sight of it gave Petunia a small glow of hope. She reminded herself once more that he was human, at least half-human, and susceptible to human weaknesses and mistakes after all. He'd been trying to taunt the princesses with his announcement, but instead it had only underlined how tenuous his control was.

Rose let go of Petunia's elbow, and Petunia turned on her heel and stepped off the dais without waiting for permission. She snapped her fingers at Kestilan, who followed her with an expression of deep astonishment. As they rejoined the dance, Petunia wondered if she'd gone mad. Even as a child, when she knew that she had had no real idea of the danger they were in, she never would have dared to argue with or turn her back on the king.

But she was not a child. And Rionin was not the king who had terrified her then.

After the ball, Petunia went back to her room alone. They usually met in Rose's room once they were sure the princes were abed. She had just closed the door and was thinking of blocking it with a chair, when it swung open and someone walked in. She tensed, but it was only Poppy.

"Want me to help you undress so that you don't have to have one of those horrid court ladies s.n.a.t.c.hing at you?"

"Oh, yes, please!"

Petunia turned so that her sister could undo the dozens of tiny hooks that held together the bodice of her gown. But instead of feeling Poppy's deft fingers at her back, Petunia stood alone in the middle of the room until she finally heard her sister's hushed voice.

"What in the name of all that is holy is that?"

Petunia turned and saw Poppy pointing at something lying on her dressing table. Poppy's face was twisted with revulsion, and Petunia could hardly blame her. The blackened ma.s.s defied recognition, and she wondered if one of the court ladies had put it there as a sort of petty revenge. She sidled closer and poked it with the end of her lace fan.

"Oh," Petunia said after a moment. "It's the roses."

"Roses? It looks like a decomposing weasel," Poppy said. She put a hand to her nose. "It smells like a decomposing weasel too."

The poke from Petunia's fan had indeed released an odor of extreme decay into the room, and Petunia gagged and covered her nose and mouth with her handkerchief. She dropped the fan next to the roses, resolving to never touch it again, as some of the rose petals had broken off and were now stuck to the folded lace.

"Are those the roses you picked in the forest?" Poppy's voice was choked, and the smell was getting stronger.

"Yes, but I don't think they're really roses," Petunia said.

"Clearly. Scoop them into the chamber pot?" "They'll just fall apart," Petunia wheezed. "Get the water pitcher."

"Washing won't help," Poppy said, but she went over to the pitcher all the same.

"I'm not going to wash them; I'm going to burn them," said Petunia.

Still holding the handkerchief over the lower half of her face, she went over to the bundle of her cloak. Galen had once told her that a good soldier never went anywhere without waterproof matches, and she had started carrying a box immediately. Later she realized that this was to stop her six-year-old self from demanding a pistol, but she continued to carry them all the same. She was rather proud of the fact that she could light a fire anywhere, and with any type of kindling.

"Step back, but keep the water ready," she instructed Poppy.

Seeing the matches in Petunia's hand when she turned around, Poppy nodded. She hefted the full pitcher of water in front of her, but stepped clear of the dressing table. Petunia realized she would need two hands, but instead of tucking her handkerchief away, she dropped it on top of the rotten flowers and the fan. Then she tapped out a match and struck it on the rough side of the box. It flared to life and she set it atop her little pile.

The whole mess flared instantly. Petunia leaped backward, stuffing the box of matches into her bodice and reaching for the pitcher of water. She hadn't expected it to burn so quickly or so high, and she could tell that Poppy was just as stunned.

But before she could grab the pitcher to pour it over it, the door flew open and the princes filled the room. One of them tossed something soft and gray, like a ma.s.sive cobweb, over the flames. The fire died and noxious smoke filled the room, far more than was warranted by the blaze Petunia had created.

The King Under Stone swept in, his face so twisted with rage that Petunia was as frightened as she ever had been of his father. He looked at her, and then at Poppy, still standing frozen with the pitcher of water in her hands. Rionin s.n.a.t.c.hed the pitcher from Poppy and threw it against the wall. The porcelain shattered, sending water and tiny shards of blue porcelain flying across the room.

Then the king rounded on Petunia, and his face no longer bore any semblance of humanity. Petunia tried to step back, but the high bed was right behind her, and she had nowhere to go. Poppy tried to move closer to her and Blathen caught Poppy's arm, his own face a rictus of fear.

"We do not light fires in this place," the king hissed. "Not ever."

"But I just wanted to-"

"I don't care what you want," snarled the king. "No one here cares what you want. Now give me the matches."

Petunia went cold all over. She didn't want to give up one more thing-not her matches, not her pistol, not her cloak. But if he searched the room for the matches, he would find the pistol.

"She only had the one," Poppy blurted out.

"Yes. I had a match," Petunia said, scrambling to think of a story. "When I came here I had a whole box in my pocket, but the ladies took it when they took my clothes. One fell on the floor and I-I saved it. When I saw the flowers had gone rotten, I used the match on them."

She thought that this was the stupidest thing she had ever said. It was plain that she was lying and she almost closed her eyes, certain that Rionin was about to murder her with his bare hands. Knowing that would make her look even guiltier, however, she managed to keep them open.

It occurred to her that there were no fireplaces in the palace and the lamps all burned with a pale glow that gave off neither heat nor smoke. She had never seen anyone light one of the lamps, and wondered if they used matches or if it was some kind of magic.

"Very well," the king said at last. "But if you ever light a fire in my kingdom again, I will make you suffer for it."

Petunia swallowed, and nodded. The king stalked out of the room, his brothers following without a word. When the door had slammed behind them, Petunia gave a faint scream and collapsed on the bed.

"That was very interesting," Poppy said slowly, sinking down next to Petunia. She hummed under her breath for a moment.

"Interesting?" Petunia's voice came out as a shriek, and she laid her arm over her eyes.

Poppy asked a little while later, "How many matches have you got?"

Hero.

The hunting lodge was locked tight, and all the curtains were drawn. It looked as though no one had been there for a month at least. There were even dried leaves blown across the front steps, the sight of which was apparently hilarious to the crone.

"A very nice touch," she cackled. "But never fear, young hero, someone is inside."

"Are you sure?" Bishop Schelker's face was tense.

They were all tense. As soon as Oliver had spurred his horse along the track, the others had followed, arriving only a heartbeat after. Karl and Johan and the rest of Oliver's men were not far behind, either, even though they were on foot.

The crone didn't even bother to answer Schelker. She climbed down off her horse and tied it to the long rail in front of the lodge, then pointed to Oliver.

"Boy! Hero! You have nice, broad shoulders: see if you can't get yourself through that door." She made an encouraging gesture.

Oliver got down from his own horse and tied it to the rail. He looked helplessly at the door, a ma.s.sive thing of aged oak and iron. He could try ramming his way in, but he knew full well that his bones would break before the wood so much as splintered.

"Stop toying with the poor lad," said Walter Vogel as he dismounted.

He threw his reins to Oliver, who tied up the old man's horse as Walter hobbled up the steps to the door. He did something for a moment with the lock, and the door swung open.

"Magic," Oliver breathed as Bishop Schelker tied his horse beside Walter's.

"Picked the lock, more like," the bishop snorted. "Herr Vogel has many talents. Not all of them that mysterious. Or very honest."

"Oh," Oliver said, feeling foolish.

"Come along." The good frau stalked up the stairs to the door.

Oliver and the bishop hurried after her. Oliver drew his pistol and was pleased that the bishop did the same. He wasn't being overly cautious then. Their bullets were silver, which the bishop had blessed, but that would hardly keep them from being effective on an ordinary man.

Like Grigori.

"h.e.l.lo the house," Walter called out cheerfully. "Anyone at home?"

Silence.

Complete and utter silence. Not a single footstep could be heard that was not their own. No bustle of servants, no sound of a small caged bird twittering from the parlor, no hiss of a teakettle from the kitchen. The hair on Oliver's neck stood on end, and he knew that they were all gone: Grigori, his men, everyone. But where had they gone without Oliver's men seeing?

"I think we'd-" Bishop Schelker began, but Oliver silenced him, holding up one hand.

Oliver was sure that he had heard something, but he wasn't sure what or where the sound was coming from. They all froze in the middle of the front hall, heads c.o.c.ked and eyes unfocused. Then Oliver heard it again: a sc.r.a.ping noise that came from a room on the left.

Oliver readied his pistol and crept toward the room with Bishop Schelker just behind. Oliver crouched down and peered through the keyhole but couldn't see anything. He tried the door latch. It opened easily, and Oliver jumped into the room with his pistol c.o.c.ked.

Three men were lying bound and gagged in the middle of the floor. Oliver recognized Galen and Heinrich and a.s.sumed that the third man was another of the royal husbands.

Oliver holstered his pistol and pulled out a hunting knife. He ran to Prince Galen and sawed through the ropes that bound his hands while Bishop Schelker rushed to Prince Heinrich.

"This is a fine state of affairs," said the crone as she came into the room. "Got the drop on you, did he?"

"Yes," the crown prince said with disgust, removing his gag. "He did."

"In all fairness, he did have a small army," Prince Heinrich said.

"He ... what?" Oliver looked around.

The hunting lodge showed no sign of a scuffle. Oliver's heart clenched as he noticed a small marble statue of a stag in the corner of the room. He was almost certain that had belonged to his father.

"We followed Grigori here because we had his people tied up in the woods," Galen said, as he ma.s.saged his hands and wrists. "We outnumbered him fourteen to one! Heinrich had a gun to his head! Then, when darkness fell, the room was filled with people-"

"Those weren't people," the prince Oliver didn't know interrupted, his voice dark with revulsion.

"Under Stone's court," clarified Heinrich. "They surrounded us, tied us up, and then they were gone in a matter of minutes."

"Where are the princesses?" Walter's voice was as sharp as Oliver had ever heard it.

"They're gone," said the other prince as the bishop freed him. "They went to Under Stone to be with Petunia, before we were ambushed."

"Ye G.o.ds," Oliver said, feeling sick.

"Begin at the beginning," Bishop Schelker urged.

Galen leaned back against the sofa, still sitting on the rug. His skin looked grayish, and his voice was raw, but he waved away Schelker's waterskin. "We were coming here for lunch," the crown prince began. "Halfway here, Petunia saw a rosebush in full bloom and tried to pick some of the flowers. We tried to stop her, but Grigori interfered. Before we could get to her, the ground opened up and she fell."