“It’s too late to play the innocent with me, young lady!” Iris pounded the worktable. “Arcane” means—Later, Astro!
“I don’t suppose you could tell me why Prince Rodolfo would send me a letter volunteering to take an assistant named Viera off my hands?”
“Is that what the letter said?” Petra pretended to be confused. “I can’t imagine why the prince would be interested in me.”
“Nor can I.” Iris frowned. “You realize, of course, that Prince Rodolfo changes servants about as often as he changes his gloves. You’ll have a short career working for him. He likes to hire and fire servants, not keep them.”
He does more than fire them, Petra thought grimly. She wondered if Iris really had no idea about the true fate of the prince’s chambermaids.
Iris no longer seemed irked, just puzzled. “Perhaps he is trying to punish me. But why? Rodolfinium was a success.” She muttered to herself, ignoring Petra and pacing the room. “Could the Krumlovs have …? No, that doesn’t make any sense either. And I have about as much interest in political intrigues as I do in the spawning season of frogs. Perhaps it’s those silver eyes of his …”
Petra was suddenly alert.
“… he makes such odd decisions when he wears them, as if he’s not wholly himself. I wonder where he got them to begin with … who made them … who—” Iris stared into Petra’s eyes.
Oh, no, said Astrophil.
“Ah,” said Iris.
Petra began to wipe her hands, but the brown juice from the henna paste she had been making wouldn’t come off. “I don’t suppose I have a choice, though, do I?” She tried to speak calmly.
“No, you don’t.”
Petra glanced around, instinctively looking for something to pack up and take with her, just like when she left her family at the Sign of the Compass, and when she left Lucie and Pavel at the inn. But there was nothing here that belonged to her. So she let her hands fall. “Goodbye, Iris,” she said awkwardly. “I liked working for you. I really did.”
Iris didn’t say anything until Petra was opening the door. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me what your last name is, hmm?”
Petra turned around.
“Oh, forget it. I don’t particularly feel like making you tell a lie. It gives one such a sense of dissatisfaction.”
PETRA SCREWED HER belladonna-black eyes shut in nervousness and opened them again. She took a deep breath, and stared at the double door that soared in the shape of two trees, one pine and one oak. At the base of the pine tree was a sitting lion with green glowing eyes, keeping guard. There was a hole in the trunk of the oak tree, one that blazed with a small, real fire. A green-eyed salamander was curled up in the flames. Petra wondered how the small blaze could burn in the wood without setting the entire door on fire. The last detail of this magnificent entrance to the prince’s quarters was a silver line that split the pine from the oak, showing an upright sword whose hilt formed a handle for each door.
“Should I knock?” Petra whispered to herself.
The salamander blinked.
“State your purpose,” growled the lion.
“I’m,” Petra stammered, “I’m Prince Rodolfo’s new servant.”
“His Highness’s new servant, we are sure you mean.” “Yes. Right. His Highness’s.”
“Very well. We assume you have some documentation to present.”
“Documentation? Like … a letter? One was sent to my mistress, but it got burned up.”
The lion sprung the claws of his left hand and peered at them, idly.
“My mistress is—was—Countess December. She has an acid problem. Sometimes she destroys things. Accidentally, of course.”
The lion and the salamander exchanged a look. Some sort of communication seemed to pass between them.
“And what manner of servant are you?” asked the lion.
“What manner?”
“His Highness has many servants, who do many things. What are you to do?”
“Um, clean. I think.”
“Name?”
“Viera.”
The salamander disappeared from its nest of flames. After a brief moment, it reappeared. “Enter,” it said.
The silver sword split down its center, and both doors swung open.
Petra faced a long, dark, windowless hallway. Green brassica lamps lined each side, glowing dimly as if under water. The carpet was red and so thick that it seemed to be made of fur. Petra’s feet sank as the red plush came up to her ankles. Walking forward felt as if she were slogging through mud. She was wondering if the carpet was indeed made from some animal’s pelt and, if so, what kind of animal it could be, when the hallway opened into a vast chamber.
Here the carpet bloomed into a network of elaborate hunting scenes. With arrows, spears, and swords, men on horses were chasing down boars, foxes, quail, and even mythical beasts like unicorns and griffins. Seven doors flanked the chamber. Birch logs burned in the fireplace, the heart of the fire glowing blue amid shreds of orange flame. There was no furniture, save a large wooden throne in the center of the room. The throne was empty. Prince Rodolfo stood before an enormous, many-paned window, watching the sparse snow sift down.
Petra meant to be silent. She meant to wait for the prince to notice her. But then she happened to glance at the ceiling and gasped.
The heads of countless men and women were staring down at her.
At the sound of Petra’s stifled cry, the prince turned around. He examined her. “Do not worry, they are made of wood.”
He advanced. His velvet robes were dyed a color Petra quickly recognized as Tyrian purple. The color, made from a spiny snail shell, looked like clotted blood. The cuffs and hem of the robe were trimmed with the rough gray fur of a wolf.
You had better bow, Petra.
Though disliking herself for doing it, she obeyed the spider and sank into a deep curtsy.
“Rise.”
She looked up, and her father’s eyes flickered over her face. Prince Rodolfo sat, and pondered why he felt so kindly toward this young girl. “They are the heads of the former rulers of Bohemia,” he explained. “Quite gruesome, are they not, even if they are made of wood? Someday I, too, will look down from the ceiling. Between you and me, I do not look forward to that day.” He smiled.