Wandering from room to room in Tuckington Palace, Christian did his best to stay out of the way of the bustling servants. The weather had turned stormy, with great gales of wind and torrents of rain pouring down, preventing him from riding. Even Hermione and Emmeline were too busy with the fittings for their costumes to plague him.
But the entire palace was taken up in preparations for the masked ball. All the bedrooms were being aired out, floors were scrubbed and waxed, laundry boiled and hung to dry indoors so that the servants’ quarters and kitchens looked like an army camp with pristine white tents every two paces. The kitchen servants wove in and out around the sheets and towels with expert skill, whisking and baking and icing thousands of little cakes, bonbons, and other delicacies for the refreshments. The regular meals suffered because of it, and Christian had made a solemn vow that if he was served cold meat pie one more time he was going to start taking all his meals at the nearest pub, and never mind the proprieties.
After finding himself yet again halfway down a hallway he didn’t recognize, and unable to think what he was doing there, Christian finally just went back to his room. He started a letter to his parents, tore it up, started a letter to his sisters, and tore that up as well. There were green sparkles in the corners of his eyes again, and his head throbbed. The bracelet Poppy had given him itched worse than anything he had ever worn, yet he didn’t want to take it off.
Poppy had made it, just for him, as a sign of friendship … or something more? The letter to his parents that he had just cast into the fireplace had started out as a request that Poppy be invited to Damerhavn after her visit to Breton was over. He’d discarded it because he didn’t know how to describe his feelings about Poppy to his parents … or to himself. Were they just friends? Or did he care more deeply for her? What did she feel for him? He hoped that spending time with her in his home, with his family, would help him understand.
But Ella will be there, a little voice nagged in his head. And she might not like having Poppy around.
Christian frowned and shook his head. Ella? Why would Lady Ella be there? She wasn’t a pawn in this grand marital game, like himself and Poppy.
His cheeks went hot at the idea of introducing Poppy to his family as a potential bride. He imagined her riding through the streets beside him, though, still awkward on horseback but determined not to show it. And she would love the Danelaw: it was very near to Westfalin and she could visit her family. Perhaps he would get to meet them as well.
There was a sudden zing through his body, as though he had been struck by lightning, and hot guilt poured over him. How could he have been thinking of courting Poppy? He hoped that Lady Ella, his darling intended, never found out about his treacherous thoughts!
Christian shook his head again, feeling the fog come back. Lady Ella? He knew nothing about her! His parents would have to meet her, and he wouldn’t invite a girl to travel all the way to his home before he had met her parents … or guardian, in Lady Ella’s case. She had never said, but he got the impression that she was an orphan. There was a mysterious godmother that she made reference to. And those references were mysterious indeed. Even King Rupert, with his determination to see Christian married to a Bretoner lady, could find out nothing about Lady Ella.
“For all we know, she’s a pirate or a laundress who has stolen someone else’s gowns,” Christian muttered aloud.
Instantly another zing of lightning coursed through him, this one powerful enough to make him cry out. The throbbing in his head became a blinding pain that settled behind his right eye and sent him reeling to his bed. He flung himself across the mattress, clutching at his head with one hand. The bracelet Poppy had given him itched so fiercely now that it felt like his wrist was on fire. One of these pains had to go away, or he would end up barking mad!
He started to rip the bracelet off, but stopped himself just in time. Through the green sparkles that kept sending him visions of Lady Ella dancing in her glowing slippers, he saw glimmers of Poppy in her red and white gown from the gala.
Poppy, with her regal bearing and flashing eyes. Poppy gambling like a hardened cardsharp and teasing Roger Thwaite about his stern demeanor. Poppy in lavender, with her knitting needles flashing and the tip of her tongue in the corner of her mouth—a habit she denied.
She had put this bracelet on him for a reason.
He took his hand away from his head, and forced himself to breathe deeply in and out. He clutched at the bracelet, not to tear it away, but to press the wool even tighter against his skin. He raised his shaking hands and rubbed the itchy band against his forehead, against his eyelids.
The green sparkles fled and the pain subsided.
Still holding his wrist to his forehead, Christian got to his feet. He needed to see Poppy right away; it seemed that the bracelet she had made for him had some sort of power. But why? To prevent headaches? Or was it a love charm, to entice him?
He snorted at the very idea. Poppy wouldn’t try to ensnare him with some love charm!
Scrubbing his forehead with the rough wool bracelet, he lurched for the bedroom door. He had to get to Seadown House; from there he could send for Roger as well. Roger knew things; Roger would help.
He fumbled the door open and nearly bowled over a small man with ridiculously curled hair and an elaborate green waistcoat that made Christian’s eyes sting. It reminded him of the green sparkles, and he had to look away quickly before they returned.
“Your Highness!” The man bowed with much flourishing of lace cuffs.
“Who are you?”
“Monsieur Flamonde,” the little man said. “The tailor!” More flourishing. “Your Highness’s costume is ready to be fitted!”
“Costume?” Christian sagged weakly against the doorframe.
King Rupert came stumping along the passageway. “Flamonde, you must do our guest right!” He slapped the small man on the back, nearly pitching the tailor into Christian’s arms. “There may be an announcement after the unmasking, and Prince Christian will want to look his best!” King Rupert winked and chortled through his mustache, and Christian felt even more ill.
“An announcement! Will there be wedding clothes ordered soon?” The tailor rose up on his toes in excitement, which did not add much to his height. In fact, he was already wearing shoes with heels almost too high to be masculine, and still barely came to Christian’s chin.
“Very soon,” King Rupert said.
“I’m going to ask Lady Ella,” Christian said, hearing his voice as if from a great distance, “Lady Ella to—to marr—”
His head throbbed, the sparkles returned, the wool band itched, and Christian reeled back into his bedroom. He barely grabbed the chamber pot in time, retching into the freshly scrubbed porcelain.
“Oh no, Your Highness,” Monsieur Flamonde trilled in dismay.
“Prince Christian, what’s all this, then?” King Rupert demanded.
Christian almost burst into hysterical laughter. Instead he wiped his mouth on a handkerchief and lurched out of the palace.
He didn’t bother to call for a carriage. He just stumbled down the street until he saw a hackney cab. It nearly ran him down, in fact. He flung himself into it, ignoring the driver’s cursing and brandishing of the whip, and yelled for the man to take him to Seadown House as quickly as possible.
When they reached the Seadowns’ front gate, the driver climbed down, grabbed Christian by the coat collar, and unceremoniously dumped him on the pavement. Christian reached into his pockets, searching for some money, but the man just rolled his eyes.
“Jus’ doan get in my cab again, yer daft drunk!” He climbed back onto the cab and sent the horse off at a trot.
Christian staggered through the gate and up the drive. The butler was so shocked by the prince’s appearance that he let him inside without a word, pointing toward the drawing room.
Christian managed to get himself through the drawing room door before collapsing. Looking up in a daze, he saw the Seadowns, Poppy, Roger, Marianne, and Dickon all staring down at him.
“Two might do it,” Poppy said enigmatically. She plucked a bracelet from her work basket and tied it around Christian’s other wrist. “And Roger, another glassful of that horrid stuff, please.”
Dickon propped Christian up and Roger poured something foul down his throat, then guided his hand to break the glass on the hearthstones. Christian could only retch and mumble in response.
Then the green sparkles subsided, and so did the throbbing in his head.
“You’re in trouble, my lad,” Lord Richard told him when his vision cleared. “A creature known as the Corley has you in her sights.”
Christian sat up and stared at His Lordship.
“We’re doing our best to stop her,” Roger Thwaite said, his voice lower than Lord Richard’s. He helped Christian off the floor and onto a chair.
“Oh, good,” Christian mumbled.
Then he fainted. Again.