Chapter 5

It wasn’t until she’d been at Eldridge Hall for nearly a year that Seraphina learned why Giselle despised her so much. Their mother, Queen Aurora, had died giving birth to Imogen when Giselle was five years old—old enough to remember her mother, yet young enough not to understand the inherent dangers of childbirth. According to Jocelyn, Giselle refused to acknowledge Imogen as a baby. It didn’t help that King Stuart seemed to channel all his sadness at the loss of his wife into love and affection for baby Imogen.

Still, this charade had been Giselle’s idea, and she was bound and determined to see it through. Even if it meant watching her own father dote on a commoner. A Jewish commoner, no less.

Today the king was feeling nostalgic and had asked all his daughters to join him for an afternoon of cards and music. The real Princess Imogen had been a talented piano player, but Seraphina had never touched an instrument in her life. Her sisters had explained this to their father as stiffening in Seraphina’s finger joints that made it difficult to play. But she had a fine singing voice, so she entertained the king in her own way.

“Lovely,” Lord Greymont said as Seraphina returned to her seat after accompanying Nina for three songs. Nina was twenty-six and the heir to the throne, though she didn’t have a “sovereign’s temperament,” per Giselle. Indeed, Nina didn’t seem bothered about the fact that she’d have to marry to produce an heir one day. “Flirtation keeps me young,” she’d once told Seraphina with a wicked grin.

Seraphina inclined her head at Lord Greymont and took up her embroidery. “Shall we resume our game?”

“I had a different game in mind.”

She glanced at the king, who was snoring softly on a sofa with his head on Giselle’s shoulder. She was undeniably beautiful, with her bright green eyes and dark chestnut hair, but she wore a perpetual scowl that hinted at the ugliness inside her.

Rose, who was just twenty-two, was equally lovely, with a pair of dimples that could make the most cantankerous lord smile. She was also the only one of the princesses engaged to be married, though whether or not the prince she was betrothed to was still alive was unknown.

“And what game is that?” Seraphina asked finally.

“Hide-and-seek.”

“That is a children’s game, Lord Greymont.”

He grinned. “Not the way I play it.”

“Regardless,” she said quickly, “we can hardly play hide-and-seek in one room.” She didn’t like the way his grins made her belly flutter. Or rather, she did like it, and that was the problem. She pinched her wrist beneath the pillow.

“Then we shall have to leave.”

“I have been asked to spend the afternoon with my father.”

Lord Greymont leaned so close his hair brushed her neck. “Part of the fun is sneaking out without getting caught.”

Seraphina chewed on her lip for a moment. She didn’t want to do anything improper, but she also didn’t want him to tire of her before she’d determined his usefulness. “And I assume you expect me to hide?”

“Naturally.”

She had been snared like a rabbit once and forced into this gilded cage, but Imogen didn’t have to play by the same rules as Seraphina. “I think not. If we’re to play, you will be the one hiding. I can claim I was searching for something I lost, should anyone ask.”

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll need a five-minute head start. The castle is quite large, after all.”

“Personal chambers are off-limits. As are the servants’ domains. You know how they love to gossip.”

Greymont twisted his lips in thought. “What does that leave?”

“The great hall, the library, the old armory, any of the unused apartments, and the cellar. I think that should suffice.”

“Indeed. Happy hunting.” He rose and began to step away, but Seraphina caught his sleeve.

“What do I get if I find you?” she whispered. “The prize must be very great, to make it worth such a risk.”

His eyes sparked with mischief. “What would you have of me, Princess Imogen?”

She knew what he was hoping for: something he was eager to receive, like a kiss. But she was a princess; she didn’t bestow kisses for free. “A favor of my choosing, whenever I ask it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Any favor?”

She nodded. “As I said, this is a great risk for me, to be seen cavorting around the castle when I’m meant to be spending the afternoon with my father.”

He raised one corner of his mouth. “Very well, then. A favor of your choosing. I do hope you find me.”

“As do I,” she said with a bat of her lashes. “Otherwise, it could be a very long day for you.”

***

Seraphina waited a bit longer than five minutes, just to make sure no one connected her departure to Lord Greymont’s. The king was still sleeping when she slipped out, claiming she needed to relieve herself, and though Giselle had narrowed her eyes at Seraphina, she hadn’t moved for fear of waking her father.

She tried the apartments and the library first, as they were on the way to the great hall. The cellar was a last resort because there was a much higher likelihood of running into a servant there. Not that any of them would dare to question her, but even still. She didn’t like to give them any reason to gossip.

One of the only good things to come of her imprisonment was access to the castle library. Her father was a scholar who’d taught her to read at an early age, but he studied Torah and historical texts, not necessarily subjects that interested young Seraphina. Now she entered the library and inhaled the warm, musty smell of old books that had become as familiar as friends. She often settled down here to read away the afternoon, as did some of the other lords and ladies. They had all been trapped for years, and reading was one of the few means of escape left to many of them. Yes, there was gambling, the elaborate meals, hours spent dressing and preening, sordid affairs in dark corners, or wandering around the many halls of the castle, as she was doing now. But there was no opportunity for outdoor amusements like riding, hunting, archery, or any of the activities that might have interested her in her former life.

She checked the empty apartments next. There were more now than there had been when this whole charade began because people had died during that time. Not of the plague, but of natural causes and accidents. Several people had gone missing according to Nina, who was the most attuned to the castle’s gossip. No one knew how they’d escaped, though it certainly supported Jocelyn’s theory about a hidden tunnel. But Seraphina’s unattended moments were rare. In fact, she realized as she checked behind a canopied bed, this was the first time she’d been alone outside her tower in ages.

She sang to herself as she walked, one of the ballads she’d been performing for the king. But as she allowed herself to get lost in her thoughts, the words began to change to a nursery rhyme, which was sung to the same tune as the ballad.

Old King Stuart’s lost his head, hoping he won’t end up dead.

Lock the windows, bar the door; the plague will come for rich and poor.

If you want to stay alive, there are three ways to survive:

Run away across the sea; pray for blood immunity;

Or die and be reborn again, and drink the blood of living men.

Dalia had sung it to Seraphina, just a few days before the princesses came for her. Dalia had a sweet singing voice, like her beloved songbirds, which somehow made the words even more unsettling.

King Stuart had already begun to hoard crops and supplies by then, and other cities in Goslind had closed themselves off to outsiders. Giselle had taken a risk in bringing a stranger into the castle; although she now knew that the plague had not yet arrived at Esmoor when she’d been taken away, at the time there’d been no way to know for sure, and Seraphina could theoretically have been in the early stages of the mori roja. But then, Giselle had no experience with plagues. Her father’s temper, on the other hand... That, she’d known all too well.

The last line, about the reborn, was pure nonsense. But it gave Seraphina a chill every time she sang it. Why were children’s rhymes always the ones to make your skin crawl?

She spun around as she entered the great hall, sure she had heard someone call her from one of the apartments. But she’d checked them thoroughly, and Lord Greymont wouldn’t be so foolish as to call her by her first name out in the open like this. She was about to pass through the hall to the cold fireplace at the far end when the ebony clock began to chime.

She turned to face it slowly. The clock was as tall as two men standing on top of one another, and as broad as five. It was solidly, impenetrably black, from the lion’s feet pedestals at the bottom to the eagle finial—or was it a raven?—at the very top. Even the face was black, making it difficult to read the golden filigree hands. Not that it mattered, considering they were always positioned at three. She guessed the real time was closer to five o’clock in the evening.

She stepped toward the clock, noticing for the first time that there was a little keyhole in the door carved into the front. She smiled to herself. It would be a very clever place for Lord Greymont to hide, probably too clever. If she had never noticed it before, she doubted he had. She lifted her hand to the door, curious if the space inside really was big enough to house a grown man. If so, she would keep it in mind when it was her turn to hide.

When her fingers brushed the surface, she shuddered. Slowly, she brought her other palm up to the door. The clock was cold, far colder than a wooden clock should be. She pressed her cheek to the surface and listened, expecting to hear the tick-tock of the pendulum inside. Instead, she heard the steady whine and whoosh of wind. That was the sound she’d heard before: not a voice calling her name, but the wail of wind through a tiny opening.

She was lowering her eye to the keyhole when something clamped down on her shoulder.

“There you are,” Lord Greymont said as she whirled around.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she took a step back, pressing against the cold face of the clock. He was smiling, his white teeth almost too bright in the unlit hall. Seraphina had been forced to bleach her teeth with lemon juice when she arrived, to try and undo some of the damage from drinking strong coffee without milk for years.

“You’re trembling.” He brought his other hand up to her shoulder, grasping her tightly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She wanted to pull away from him and run, but she forced her muscles to relax and smiled. “Startled. Not frightened. You’re supposed to be hiding.”

“I’d been gone so long I was worried my beard was coming in and you wouldn’t recognize me when you found me.”

She smirked at his smooth cheeks. “It’s been less than half an hour.”

“Is that right? I swear an age had passed. What century is it, Princess?”

Before she could answer, Lord Greymont tucked a loose curl behind her ear, leaned forward, and brushed his lips against her cheekbone. It was brief and could hardly be considered a real kiss, but she was a princess, as far as he was concerned. Even as Seraphina, she would never allow a boy to take such liberties without permission.

“I’m sorry,” he said when he saw her furrowed brow. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No. You shouldn’t have.”

There was a panicked look in his eyes. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

As much as she would have liked to see him squirm a bit longer, she didn’t want to scare him off entirely. “I suppose we’ll just have to pretend this never happened.” She grinned and stepped around him, away from the clock. “Where were you hiding, anyway?” She heard his sigh of relief behind her and her grin broadened. As long as he was afraid of offending her, she still had the power.

“I was in the cellar. That’s part of the reason I came looking for you. I found something there I thought might be of interest.”

She let him take her arm and lead her toward the cellar. Not once did she let her gaze return to the clock, or to the dust on the floor surrounding it. She especially didn’t look at the footprints she had seen there, leading away from the door inside the clock, and the sliver of sunlight—as fine as one of the golden hairs on her head—coming from the floor beneath it.

***

Seraphina and Greymont stood staring at the cellar, the uninvited kiss forgotten. It was empty. Utterly, disastrously empty, aside from a few sagging sacks of grain and jars of pickled vegetables.

“Have you ever been down here before?” Seraphina asked when she finally found her voice.

He shook his head. “No, never. I know it sounds foolish, but I almost didn’t want to know where the food was coming from.”

“I know the feeling. But this... We’ll never last the winter.”

“No, we won’t.” He turned suddenly, grabbing her arm and pulling her into a corner of the cellar where the light from the doorway didn’t reach.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, struggling against his grip.

He dropped her arm immediately, but she was trapped in the corner by his body. “No more games,” he hissed.

“I am not playing,” she said through gritted teeth. If she screamed, a servant would probably hear her. But she wasn’t eager to explain to the king what she was doing alone with Lord Greymont, potentially putting her “virtue” in peril, something the king often advised her against.

“It’s been nearly four years. The plague is gone. We all know it. When is the king going to let us out?”

Seraphina’s breath came fast against the laces of her corset. He had done it, broken the illusion, said the forbidden words. She half expected the ceiling to fall down around them.

“When?” he demanded, slamming his palm against the wall next to her head.

Seeing the fear in his eyes helped her to shake off her own. She stood taller and barked a wry laugh. “I don’t pretend to know the inner workings of my father’s mind, Lord Greymont.”

Greymont dropped his arm and collapsed against the wall next to her. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t your fault.”

At his apparent exhaustion and desperation, her anger began to dissolve. For the first time in years, she felt a little less alone. Even Jocelyn wouldn’t discuss the possibility of the food running out. But more than that, Greymont might just be her key to surviving once she did get out of here—because she would get out. “I’m sorry, too,” she said, softening her posture and her tone. “Perhaps there is something I can do, to help matters along.”

They stood there, both breathing heavily, and Seraphina wondered what calculations were going on in his mind. Greymont was right about one thing. They were all going to starve, and meanwhile the king was expecting a feast for her birthday. What would happen when no food materialized on the nobles’ gilt-edged plates, when the clock wound down and the music stopped? These weren’t people accustomed to fending for themselves. Would they be rendered impotent by fear? Or would they shed their civility like snakeskins, revealing their true natures beneath?

“I assume others talk about this, how the plague is over?” she asked finally.

He nodded. “Never where the king might hear, but yes, there is talk. More and more lately.”

“I do have my father’s ear, of course. I could try to reason with him,” she said, though the very idea terrified her. She had seen him lose his temper before, and it was not a pretty sight. Once a servant told him they had no fresh cream and he had backhanded the poor woman, knocking her to the floor in front of everyone. Seraphina could still picture the gleaming crimson blood on the dull gray stone.

The color in Greymont’s cheeks rose. “Would you? He would listen to you, I think. Tell him there is no more food. He has to let us out. He must. There are people willing to risk it out there, who want to.”

People. Meaning him? Who else did Greymont conspire with? She felt a cold sliver of worry lodge in her chest. Throughout her time at Eldridge, she had struggled to separate farce from reality. Was Jocelyn her friend, or simply playing a part? Did everyone suspect she was an imposter, going along with the lie to preserve the king’s fragile mental state, or did they really believe she was Princess Imogen?

And when Greymont took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the back of it, did he care about her, or was she simply a means to an end? She’d assumed he wanted her because she was a future queen, but she was starting to feel more like a pawn.

All she knew was that the game was still in play, only the stakes were higher than ever now. If there was no food in the cellar, then perhaps any possible outside source had also run out. If the servants had the ability to escape, why did they return to Eldridge Hall? Was she still safer in here, even if the plague was gone? She had never been on her own before.

She told herself she stayed in Eldridge Hall for her own protection, that her safety was what her parents—what God—would want. But it wasn’t just devoutness that kept her here. Deep down she knew it was fear. And as much as she hated to admit it, even with a way out, the truth was that she didn’t know what awaited her out there. How would she even get home, to see if her family survived? Here, now, was someone who could help her, someone who could make the terror of the unknown just a little less frightening.

She made her eyes as big and doleful as possible and found it wasn’t difficult to conjure tears. “And where would you go, if you were to leave Eldridge?” she asked softly.

He brushed his finger along her cheekbone, catching her tear. “I do know of a lovely vineyard...”

She turned her head away to hide her smile. “Then I hope these years cooped up in the castle haven’t harmed your sailing abilities, my lord.”

“Impossible,” he replied.

She looked back up at him to see him grinning down at her. “I wish—” she began.

“What do you wish?”

She wished to be far away from Eldridge, on a ship across the sea to a place where the Bloody Three never existed. She wished she was still in her safe, loving home with her parents, or next door at Dalia’s house, waiting for a fresh loaf of Dalia’s mother’s famous challah. She wished that she was Seraphina again, not Imogen the Worthless, Imogen the Shy. Imogen the Impotent.

Her wishes beat against her chest like trapped birds, aching to be free. She wanted to feel anything other than the deep pit of terror in her belly, to forget for one moment who and where she was, so she blurted, “I wish you would kiss me.”

He laughed, a soft rumble in his chest. “You are nothing like the other ladies at Eldridge, Princess Imogen.”

She reached up and gently pushed a lock of hair away from his forehead as he started to lean toward her. Oh, she thought as his lips brushed hers. You have no idea.

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