“Too late,” a deep, sepulchral voice intoned. A tall figure slid out of the shadow in the corner, a theatrical trick that scared the life out of Adalbert while making Anya roll her eyes. She knew there was a narrow, unlit staircase there.
The recently frog-shaped prince made a kind of bleating noise and ran away. The evil stepstepfather turned back to Anya, swinging his rich velvet cloak wide like a raven’s wing and then wrapping it around himself. Rikard always felt cold, even in midsummer. It was a side effect of doing too much evil magic. He would never be warm again.
Ardent closed up to Anya’s knee, the hair all along his back raised in a ridge and his lip curled to snarl. The princess let her hand rest lightly on his collar, taking strength from his presence. The Duke somehow made her feel even younger and smaller than she was, and Anya could feel her heart racing in fear. He would transform her one day, she knew. He was just waiting, gaining magical strength, building up his power in the kingdom, replacing loyal servants with his own people. It was only a matter of time.
“I felt someone tamper with one of my spells.” The Duke’s voice was cold and piercing, and made Anya’s ears ache. “Really, child, you mustn’t interfere with my magic. A horrible accident might occur.”
“I understand,” said Anya. It was always best to simply agree with the Duke.
“In fact this tendency of yours has reminded me that it is well past time you were sent away,” said Rikard.
“Sent away?” This was a new and horrifying development. “You can’t send me away.”
“To school,” said the Duke smoothly. “I have one in mind. A very good school. It is some distance away, and the journey there is perhaps a trifle dangerous, but that is the only drawback.”
“Does my stepmother know about this?” asked Anya. “You know she promised my father I would be educated at home. A deathbed promise!”
A deathbed promise was a powerful thing. There was a good chance that the ghost of the person to whom the promise had been made would return to haunt the promiser if it was broken. But there was an even better chance that the Duke wouldn’t care about that. He was very familiar with ghosts, revenants, and evil spirits of all kinds. Besides, the ghost wouldn’t be haunting him, but his wife, who was rarely at home.
“I am sure my dear Yselde would agree with me, should she be here,” said Rikard. “Alas, her search for the infant form of the Golden Sapsmirch Tree has proved more difficult than expected, and she will not be home for many months.”
“I’m not going!”
“You will,” said the Duke. “One way or another. I am your father after all.”
“Stepstepfather,” muttered Anya.
“It is sufficient to give me authority over you. As you well know. And who can argue with sending a child to school? Even your dogs know about the necessity of school.”
Ardent growled, but very softly. School was important, he knew, and so he couldn’t protest about that. He had been to school himself, for three whole months. In addition to reading he had learned a great many things about when to sniff, what not to sniff, how not to gulp food, how to gulp food while pretending not to, and much more.
“You can’t just send me to any old school,” said Anya. “I am a princess after all.”
“That is why I am going to send you to the Most Select Royal Academy of Tarwicce,” said the Duke. There was the trace of a smirk on his face.
“Tarwicce! But that’s … that’s almost half the world away!” protested Anya. “Six months’ travel, or more, by land and sea.”
“As I said, the journey there is slightly perilous. But it is the best school in the world for princes and princesses, or so I am reliably informed.”
“How can something be ‘slightly perilous’? I mean either it is … or … ahem … not,” Gotfried began to say, before quailing under the Duke’s stare. The white of Rikard’s eyes were in fact not white, but a kind of ugly gray and his pupils were the deep red of shriveled cranberries.
“I see,” said Anya quietly. “What about Morven?”
“Morven is too old to go to school,” said the Duke. “She will continue in her ambassadorial duties, receiving princes from other lands, with the possibility of marriage. In fact I have high hopes a match can be arranged with her current suitor, Prince … ah … Maggers. The one with the lovely singing voice.”
“Prince Maggers?” asked Anya suspiciously. “Where does he hail from?”
The Duke waved his hand vaguely. “Some kingdom in the west. Small, of course, but rich in … er … jewels and the like. He is eminently suitable.”
“You’ve never encouraged anyone before,” said Anya. “Why transform Prince Denholm into a frog, for example? He was extremely eligible—he said his father’s kingdom is four times the size of ours.”
“Maggers is even more eligible,” replied the Duke with a small smile he imagined could only be felt by himself, and not seen. Anya, however, caught the tiny quirk of his left lip. It put her instantly on guard.
“Maggers is an unusual name,” she said. The prince’s singing had reminded her of something, some familiar sound.
“Not where he comes from,” said the Duke … and there was that supposedly secret smile again. “It’s a very common name there. Not just for princes.”
Maggers. That singing, with the liquid trills … thoughts swirled through Anya’s very sharp mind and came together in a sudden conclusion.
Prince Maggers must be a transformed magpie. The Duke was planning to marry off Morven to a magpie … so she would have no help from her husband, or allies from her husband’s family.
“Morven will be crowned queen quite soon, in any case,” said Anya, wishing that by saying this it could be true. “She can choose a husband for herself. Or not.”
“Soon is such an imperfect term,” said the Duke. “A coronation can hardly happen before your mother returns.”
“Stepmother,” said Anya.