in ink. “Now, where would you like the wolf?”
A knock on the door made her lift her head. Her armsman, Karel, opened the door. The mood of the palace seemed to leak into the nursery: edgy, fearful.
Britta heard low voices, then Karel stepped back and a bondservant entered the nursery.
“Princess.” The man bowed low.
She recognized him: he served her father. No. Not now. Her hand quivered slightly and a drop of ink fell on the parchment.
“The king demands your presence, princess.”
Her throat tightened. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. What shall I do without Harkeld to help me? She placed the quill carefully in its silver holder. “Inform my father that I shall be there shortly.”
“Yes, highness.” The man bowed again and scurried from the room.
Britta capped the ink pot.
“But you haven’t finished,” Rutgar protested.
“I’ll come back tomorrow.” She forced a smile to her lips. “I promise.”
“You made a mistake,” Lukas said, pointing.
Britta looked at the ink blot. “Never mind. We’ll turn it into a rock.”
She kissed both boys on the cheek, inhaling the scent of the cinnamon buns they’d eaten for lunch and the rosemary the nursemaids washed their hair with.
“May we start coloring it in?” Rutgar asked as her armsman opened the door for her.
“Of course.” Britta smiled at them from the doorway. “But let the ink dry first.”
She hurried back to her rooms. The sound of her armsman’s stride echoed flatly in the marble corridors. Memory came, Harkeld’s voice: You need to understand who our father is, Britta. He’s a dangerous man. I think he killed the boys’ mother.
Her maid was in the bedchamber, mending the hem of a gown. She glanced up as Britta entered.
“Yasma, my father wants to see me. I need a new overtunic. This one’s creased.”
Yasma scrambled to her feet. “Do you think—?”
“I don’t know.”
Britta unfastened her girdle and shrugged out of the wrinkled tunic while Yasma fetched a fresh one. A glance in the mirror told her that the silk undergown had survived the nursery unmarked by ink or grubby fingers.
Yasma returned with a sky-blue tunic in her arms. She lifted it over Britta’s head and settled the fabric neatly over her shoulders, smoothing the long folds. The heavy silk was embroidered with gold thread.
Yasma fastened the girdle briskly. “Your hair.”
Britta sat before the mirror.
“What do you think he wants?” the maid asked.
“I don’t know.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. Probably Duke Rikard. But neither of them said it aloud.
Britta watched as Yasma tidied her hair, catching up stray tendrils and weaving them back into place around the golden crown. Her eyes were drawn to the iron band of bondservice that gleamed dully on the girl’s arm. “A few days before he left, Harkeld told me something about Queen Sigren.”
“Yes?” Yasma said, her fingers moving deftly.
“He said that she argued with my father the night she died. About bondservice.”
Yasma’s fingers slowed.
“Sigren said that bondservice was barbaric and cruel, and it had to stop.” Britta glanced at Yasma in the mirror, remembering the first time she’d seen the girl, remembering the mute misery on her face, the utter despair in her eyes. “Father said that Osgaard’s economy couldn’t survive without bondservants.”
Yasma said nothing. She continued weaving strands of hair around the golden crown.
“Sigren disagreed. She said it’s the greed of Osgaard’s rulers that keeps the people so oppressed. She said that if we forwent our golden bathtubs, our gilded roof tiles, we wouldn’t need to raise taxes again. We could free the bondservants.” Britta stared at her reflection. The chair she sat on was gilded. The pins Yasma used to fasten the crown into her hair were gold set with precious stones. Even the mirror was gilt-framed.
“Father threw his goblet at Sigren and ordered her from the room. Harkeld said that was the last time he saw her. She died that night, in her bath tub.” A golden bath tub.
Yasma said nothing.
“Harkeld said...her death was no accident.”
Yasma met her eyes in the mirror. She lowered her hands and stepped back. “I’ve finished.”
Britta swallowed. She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. A princess stared back at her, a delicate crown woven into her hair. Gold thread glinted on the sleeveless overtunic. A golden girdle circled her waist. The long-sleeved cream undergown with its flowing sleeves was made of rich and shimmering silk.
Her face was as pale as the undergown, her lips colorless.
Father’s a bully, Harkeld’s voice said in her head. Never let him see you’re afraid of him.
Britta pinched her cheeks and