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Prologue
Death disturbed the night. The sound of squeaking wheels grew louder, as did the clicking of horse hooves scraping across cobblestones. A rickety old wagon, its simple board bed held together with rusty screws, pulled up against the back of the palace.
Two servants slipped from the shadows, a bearded footman and a wiry kitchen maid with a shuttered lantern in her hand. The footman put his back and shoulder strength into opening an old storage-room door. It had not been moved for some time. Finally, the harsh brush of sliding splinters overcame the friction. A loud squeak echoed into the stillness as he pulled his hands away from the door, satisfied the gap was wide enough.
Meanwhile the maid had rushed toward the driver in the wagon seat and gestured for him to follow her inside. A scraggly, aged man climbed down from his perch, one mud-crusted boot at a time sliding into its foothold and landing less than gracefully upon the ground. The woman tried to encourage him to hurry but received only a sullen grumbling about arthritis on a cold night.
Her face tight with worry, she led both men through the doorway, passing shelves of f lour, sugar, and other baking ingredients on her way toward the abandoned cellar. At the top of the staircase, she lifted the lantern shutter to reveal a burning candle, and the group began a descent into the darkness, keeping their hands on the jittery, loose banister.
They hovered above a bulky lump draped in a linen sheet at the bottom of the stairway. Words were exchanged in rasping whispers, though no one was nearby to overhear the conversation. The footman's face dripped with sweat, and the woman's hands trembled, causing thelantern to shake and the light to flicker along empty walls.
In contrast to the nervous servants, the driver simply went about his job as he did every night. He asked the necessary questions, frowned at the distance he was told to travel, and nodded as his payment was increased.
Then the three lifted the awkward object, still wrapped within its sheet, and packed it up the stairs and out of the palace, where they loaded it onto the back of the wagon. Though the wagon bed had been empty, a lingering stench of decay caused the maid to pale and move away in fear of growing nauseous.
The footman dug his hand into a pocket and pulled out a thin purse of money to place in the older man's callused palm. Having received payment, the driver nodded, slipping the purse into a pocket under his frayed, black coat. He pulled up the wagon f lap and slid the latch into place. Then, at the same slow pace with which he had climbed down, he negotiated his way back up to his original perch. The well-trained horses waited patiently for him to unwind the reins, and a croaked "Giddyap" swung the wagon into motion.
As the wheels rapped their way down the road, the two servants exhaled with the relief of having finished an undesired task. The woman shuddered and said, "I never thought I'd be dealing with the likes of him when I undertook this job."
The footman murmured his agreement, sliding shut the obstinate door. A chill wind picked up, encouraging both servants to hurry along the path. They slipped through a stone doorway and entered the warm interior of a kitchen in the tumultuous midst of serving a royal banquet.
Down the road, no more than half a mile, the tattered driver hunched over the wagon seat in a futile attempt to fend off the cold. His stomach did not turn when he thought of his cargo. Even if he had been aware it was the body of the princess's meal taster, the knowledge would have mattered little to him beyond its contribution to the purse in his pocket. To him, the body was just another corpse, resting on cracked boards as the wagon lurched its way toward an unmarked mass grave.
Chapter One
On the night of her younger sister's coming-out party, Aurelia almost died. Of boredom. Her ankle itched as though a single ant were casually creeping over her f lesh. She squirmed and stared blankly at the banquet-hall f loor. If only she had not worn the violet silk with the stiff lace ruffle on the bottom. She longed to reach down and scratch, but years of royal training had not been entirely lost. She could not afford such a dramatic movement while her father was speaking.
The king stood at the head of the banquet table, his pale eyes staring at the guests' foreheads. His gold crown f lattened his prematurely gray hair beneath its weight, and only his slate-gray mustache moved as he droned, "Loyalty and respect are the highest attributes of a young woman." Please. Aurelia raised her eyes to the fresco on the ceiling.
The back of her gilt chair bit into her shoulder blades, and the heat generated by close bodies made the dab of face paint on her cheeks gleam. Her lady's maid had dared her to wear the paint, and Aurelia had never refused a dare in her seventeen years.
Thinking was becoming a trial in this stif ling atmosphere. Must nearly every lord and lady in the kingdom attend Melony's coming-out party? Where was the appeal in seeing Aurelia's younger sister dance with every titled man in the room? And why must all the dull society members insist upon participating in the celebration?
Aurelia reached toward her dessert plate and crushed the remaining cake crumbs beneath her fork. The rich smell of chocolate clashed with the multitude of perfumes oozing off the guests. Brocade sleeves and frock coats rustled as the speech dragged on, and the whalebone stays in Aurelia's corset dug into her diaphragm. Breathe, she told herself. It's going to be a long night, but then it will finally be over.
For weeks the entire staff had hurtled back and forth, preparing for Melony's debut. The ballroom and banquet-hall f loors were waxed, and tall crimson candles in golden candelabras lit up every corner of the rooms. Long-stemmed roses sprang forth in bouquets of fifteen, one for each of the fifteen years leading up to this exceptional birthday. The pale green silk for Melony's dress had been imported a year in advance, and the palace musicians had been practicing just as long. At first Aurelia had enjoyed the beautiful dance rhythms haunting the palace hallways, but she had long since come to associate the sound of tuning up with the grinding of an oncoming headache.
At least her sister was enjoying herself. Sitting on Aurelia's right, in sharp contrast to her older sister's dark features and darker mood, Melony glowed. Her blond hair glistened in the candlelight and her green eyes matched the sparkle of the emerald necklace at her throat. A smile of sheer pleasure spread across her face. Any other observer might have assumed the brilliant smile was for the king, but Aurelia noted her sister's darting glances toward the end of the long table. Which young noble had captured Melony's interest this time?
Aurelia leaned over to whisper the question in her sister's ear, but a sudden wave of champagne glasses interrupted. "To Tyralt," the king said, his voice gaining in strength, "the most powerful kingdom on the southern coast."
Noting the hesitation on the faces of several of the foreign guests, Aurelia took a sip of champagne. She doubted her father's tactless statement was an accident. He preferred to use words rather than armies to maintain Tyralt's legacy of power within the region.
"I am told we live in an Age of Reason," the king continued, "of Rationality, of Enlightenment." His face cracked a smile as he aimed his glass in Melony's direction. "But I ask you, gentlemen, of what use is reason in the face of beauty?"
A round of chuckles rippled along the table, cleansing the air of the earlier tension. "To Melony, a true jewel of the realm," the king said.
"To Melony," the guests echoed with enthusiasm.
The gold clock chimed ten. At last! Time for the dancing to begin. The king stepped forward, offered his arm to his younger daughter, and led Melony out through the wide archway connecting the banquet hall to the ballroom.
As the crowd's eager eyes focused on the pair positioning themselves for the opening waltz, Aurelia knew her chance had come. Quickly she reached up to secure her tiara. Then, bending down, skirt hitched up, she scratched her ankle in a highly satisfying, undignified manner.
Now for the agony of the ballroom.
Aurelia lifted her empty glass and twirled its thin stem between her fingers, stalling until the final strains of the waltz came to an end. She admired her sister's powers of persuasion. The king had opposed the playing of modern waltz music among the usual minuets and gavottes. He feared the close waltz hold would invite scandal, but Melony had pleaded with her innocent eyes and won the day.
Now the king's gaze lifted from Melony's face and reeled Aurelia in. Duty called. She set down the glass, stood up, and stepped into the rapidly filling ballroom.
A towering gray wig promptly blocked her view. "Oh, my dear, you have grown up," gushed the female owner of the powdered wig. "You were a little sprig of a girl in your father's wedding train the last time I saw you."
Aurelia peered at the petite, older woman, identifying her as a duchess from several kingdoms over. "You must be mistaking me for my sister Melony. I was not present at my father's second wedding."
"Perhaps not at the actual ceremony, but you were a member of the original wedding train." The duchess placed a gloved hand above her mouth as if sharing a secret. "I remember the rehearsal. You had a tantrum because you disliked the frilly dress, and you tore the bows and ruffles right off. Your father removed you from the wedding because your stepmother was so upset. My, how you have changed."
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