Palace of Lies (30 page)

I squinted at the girls in their finery, so out of place in the grimy dungeon. I knew how Lord Throckmorton would view my apology: as an admission of weakness. Royalty wasn't supposed to admit mistakes. Or make them. But I was experiencing something like double vision—or maybe triple vision. I could see how I'd always thought a princess should act. I could see what behavior had come to seem acceptable during my time with Janelia and Herk and Tog.

Could I also see what I needed to do to convince these girls to help me?

They're already here,
I told myself.
They already said they believe you.

I swallowed hard.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Sophia, Elzbethl, and Marindia, of course,” the one in the middle said. Then she laughed. “No, we're messing with you. We're Catrice, Zuba, and Rose.”

She pointed first at herself, then at the other two. So Catrice was the blond in the middle, Zuba was the tall brunette on the right, and Rose was the tiny brunette on the left.

“And you believe me?” I asked. “You really do? Do the other ten believe me as well?”

The three girls exchanged glances.

“We didn't exactly have a chance to ask everyone,” Zuba volunteered. “But . . . I think everyone else could be convinced.”

“Because none of us wants to die,” Rose finished up.

I winced.

“You figured out the same thing I did,” I whispered. “One girl gets to live in luxury in the palace, as the wife of Prince Charming. And then eventually she'll be queen—queen of the combined kingdoms of Suala and Fridesia. But for that charade to work, the other twelve girls must be…”

“Eliminated,” Catrice finished for me. “To make sure we never tell our stories. So no one ever knows the truth.”

I wanted to sink down to the ground. Then I remembered
the filth on the floor and just clutched the bars of my dungeon cell even harder.

“What
is
your story?” I asked. “You all look so . . .”

“Real” was the word I wanted to use. They looked as though they had all grown up in a palace—or at least lived in a palace for the past few months. Girls who were peasants wouldn't wear ball gowns with such ease and natural grace. Girls living on paupers' food wouldn't have hair that gleamed like that, or skin that glowed with such health and vitality. Girls who had to work for a living wouldn't have such smooth hands, such perfect fingernails.

I knew this because I could feel how rough and frazzled my own skin and hair had become in the weeks of walking from Suala. I could see the many cuts on my own hands from the days of basket-weaving; I could see all my chipped and broken nails.

Catrice snorted.

“It's
so
easy to figure out,” she said. “We're actresses.”

I should have thought of that. But I'd only heard about acting troupes from my sister-princesses. Lord Throckmorton had forbidden their presence in the palace because he considered them tacky and low-class. And untrustworthy liars and thieves.

And he wanted to be the only liar and thief in the palace,
I thought bitterly.

“I warrant that every acting troupe in Suala is missing its ingénue cast member right now,” Zuba added.

“If none of us goes back, I don't know how they'll ever act out a love story again,” Rose said, as if this was something to worry about. “It'll just be the pirate and soldier plays they do. And there'll be no kiss waiting for the brave hero at the end. . . .”

“Maybe they'd just start using ugly girls instead,” Catrice said calmly. “The ones who usually play servants. Love stories wouldn't die.”

I blinked. How did any of this matter? How could they care about the future of theater troupes at a time like this?

“So someone came and—what? Kidnapped all of you?” I asked. “Forced you to act like princesses?”

“They didn't have to kidnap us,” Zuba said, shrugging apologetically. “They offered us four times our usual salary.”

“For a long journey and maybe just one performance,” Catrice finished. “Tonight's performance.”

“But whoever the prince chooses—” I began. “She'll have to go on acting for years and years and years.”

“You think that one will have a long life either?” Rose asked. “I mean, maybe the prince will like her. But—”

“But since when is it the prince's decision?” Catrice broke in. “Look what happened to his first wife!”

They were all so matter-of-fact about all this: the danger they were in, the casual manipulation of people's lives.

“Does this surprise you?” Zuba asked, watching me carefully.

“I . . . I guess I was a little sheltered growing up in the palace,” I replied.

It was true. I had known about lies and manipulation and evil, but I'd almost never seen the messy outcomes. People just disappeared. Whispers just traveled through the courtiers. I'd only seen prettied-up evil, masked by perfume and luxury.

The first true thing I'd seen had been my sister-princesses trapped in a dungeon back at the Palace of Mirrors.

And I did something about it!
I wanted to protest.

But that had just led to the fire. It had led to my sister-princesses vanishing.

And it had led to me being trapped in this dungeon now.

So maybe I'm not all that great at dealing with truth?

“If you knew what Madame Bisset and Lord  Throckmorton were planning, why did you go along with it?” I asked plaintively. “Why didn't you refuse from the very beginning?”

“Because we
didn't
know what was going on until tonight,” Zuba said, shaking her dark curls for emphasis. “We thought we were doing our patriotic duty, fooling our enemies.”

“And protecting the real princesses,” Rose added. “Don't forget they told us that. We thought we were being noble and brave, standing in for the real princesses in the danger of our enemy's court.”

“And then you showed up and . . . we thought about things a little deeper,” Catrice said. “We sneaked down here and we heard what you talked about with Lord Twelling and the prince, and then with Lord Throckmorton and Terrence.”

So they had help in getting to believe me,
I thought.
They had proof. They didn't just trust me outright.

“Do you know what happened to the real princesses?” I asked. “The other twelve besides me?”

Catrice shook her head.

“Madame Bisset talks like they were still alive after the fire, but—”

“But even if they were dead, she'd lie so you'd think you were protecting them,” I finished in despair.

“Right,” Zuba said. She twisted up her face and whispered, “Sorry.”

Distantly, I heard the chiming of a clock:
Dong . . . dong . . . dong . . .
I counted.

“Is that eleven?” I asked. “Eleven o'clock already?”

The other girls exchanged glances once more.

“The prince is supposed to announce his decision at midnight,” Rose said.

And Tog and I told Janelia we'd meet her and Herk at midnight
, I thought.
We have one hour.

“We need a key to get me out of this prison cell,” I said. “Maybe the three of you could search around and find it, if you can do that secretly. But what if someone notices you're missing from the ballroom? What would happen then?”

Catrice shrugged.

“We told the others we had to go and powder our noses,” she said. “Nobody would expect a princess to do that quickly.”

“And there are ten other fake princesses,” Zuba said.
“It's kind of hard for anyone to keep track of all of us.”

Like I was trying to do the night of the fire with the real princesses,
I thought.
I couldn't.

But tonight I felt responsible once again for other girls: I would need to figure out a way to smuggle out thirteen fake princesses without anybody noticing. Having all thirteen girls disappear at once would be impossible to miss.

Maybe we could get impostors for the impostors?
I wondered.

My mind started racing. I shook my head, trying to clear it.

“I changed my mind,” I announced. “We're not going to have time for anyone to go look for a key to this door. We've got too many other things to take care of. Does anybody have a hairpin I could borrow instead?”

The three girls looked at me strangely. But Catrice said, “Sure. I've got about sixty of them holding up my hair right now. I don't think anything's going to change if I pull one out.”

I held my hand through the bars in the door. When Catrice handed me a hairpin, I reached for the lock on my door and jammed the pin inside.

It took a few moments, but the lock came undone with a
click
. I pushed the door open.

“I didn't know princesses could do that,” Rose said, her eyes wide.

“There are a lot of things most people don't know about being a princess,” I answered, stepping out of my prison cell.

“So, um, what's next?” Zuba asked.

I thought about how much I'd wanted to find out who had been in this dungeon or some other palace dungeon an hour ago. But that would have to wait. I looked down at my filthy, ripped dress.

“Do you think the fake Princess Desmia would mind trading dresses with me?” I asked. “To save her life and her kingdom?”

I stepped back into the
ballroom. I wasn't alone. Rose—the fake Marindia—walked alongside me on the left, her dark hair bouncing against her mint-green dress with every step.

And on my right, clutching my arm, was a girl dressed as Princess Elzbethl. But it wasn't Zuba, the actress who'd been playing Elzbethl all evening. It was a servant girl named Mary, who had been friends with Ella when Ella was living in the Fridesian castle. Mary, in fact, had been the one who'd helped Ella escape.

I was just relieved that I'd remembered Mary's name. And that Zuba, Rose, and Catrice had been able to find her quickly.

“I'm way too ugly for this dress,” Mary whispered nervously. “We get out of the shadows, everybody'll know I ain't a princess.”

“You act pretty, people'll think you are pretty,” Rose
whispered, leaning past me. “Beauty's just an illusion. Acting. And anyhow—you've got the greatest prop ever. That golden dress. A
toad
could look beautiful in that dress!”

I didn't think this was helpful—who wanted to be compared to a toad? But Mary stood up straighter and beamed.

“You think so?” she asked. “Even
I
look beautiful now?”

I studied her face. Mary's eyes and nose and mouth weren't exactly symmetrical, and in general her features were all either too big or too small. But—I glanced to my other side, toward Rose—Rose's features weren't perfect either. And yet she had tricked me into considering her beautiful.

“You look perfect,” I told Mary. “And—you're doing something good. That counts for more than beauty.”

“But what will I say?” Mary fretted.

“Both Fridesians and Sualans tend to prefer their princesses quiet and polite and well behaved,” I said. “So ‘please' and ‘thank you' will probably do it.”

And then, later on, none of us will be quiet and polite and well-behaved,
I thought grimly.
We'll be running.

With Mary and Rose on either side of me, I stepped from the shadows to the back of a cluster of the other fake princesses. Rose immediately began whispering to the nearest girls, telling them to leave in twos and threes, and go out and find Zuba and Catrice and the fake Desmia. The three of them were finding servant girls to trade clothes
with the fake princesses. And then the servant girls were leaving clothes to change back into in convenient places near the ballroom, for afterward.

Is this going to work?
I wondered.
Will any of us get out of here alive?

I looked toward the opposite wall, toward the secret door hiding the passageway where Tog and I had been together peeking out at the ballroom only an hour or so earlier. Just in case he was still standing there, I put my finger to my lips. I hoped he would understand that that meant,
Don't show yourself. Don't think I need to be rescued right now. Just stay hidden! Stay safe!

“Might I have this dance?” a voice said in my ear. “I believe you're the only princess I haven't danced with yet.”

I turned.

It was the prince.

My first instinct was to drop my head, put on a coy act, maybe let him think me so exceedingly shy that I wouldn't meet his eyes . . . anything so that he wouldn't recognize me. But he was already looking me directly in the face, and his expression stayed blank and vaguely cordial.

He already doesn't recognize me,
I thought in amazement.
All I had to do was change my dress and put up my hair and attach a few strings of pearls to my neck and arms and head. And now he has no idea who I am.

Were all men so dense?

I didn't think it worked that way. As the prince led me
out onto the dance floor, I took the precaution of bending my head, pretending I was overcome with the thrill of dancing with such a heart-throbbingly handsome man.

But we'll be in the brightest part of the ballroom,
I thought in a panic.
Lord Throckmorton will see me. Madame Bisset will see me. Lord Twelling will see me. . . .

“As long as you're dancing with me, nobody will dare to do a thing,” the prince said quietly, putting an arm around me and launching both of us into the first steps of a slow waltz.

My feet moved automatically into the proper steps, but I glanced at the prince in surprise. His expression stayed carefully bland, no different from a moment ago. Then, very quickly, he winked.