Petra was taken aback. Was the prince trying to be friendly?
“Much here is not what it seems. That window, for instance, is not real.”
“But isn’t it actually snowing outside, Your Highness?”
“Indeed it is. But the window is really bewitched rock. Watch.” He pulled a gold coin from a pocket and flung it at the window. There was no crack or shatter, but a mere thunk as the coin hit a windowpane and fell to the carpet. He let the coin rest there. “There can be no real windows in my chambers, for reasons of security. Which brings me to the subject of my presence and yours. I interview every one of my personal servants—my valets, my pages, and my chambermaids. I am forced to do this, because some servants have proven to be … disloyal.” His face did not grow angry. It emptied itself of any expression.
Petra. Astrophil tapped her head.
“You don’t have to worry about that with me, Your Highness.” She took a deep breath and dragged out the next few words: “I am devoted to Your Highness.”
He nodded, pleased. He sat in his throne. “Tell me about yourself.”
Petra spun a story of country life. She was an orphan, she explained, from the hills.
“You are quite all alone, then?”
She nodded.
“No brothers or sisters?”
She nodded.
“You need not look so sad. I assure you that having siblings is overrated. And if you miss having a family, Salamander Castle offers you hundreds of mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers.”
Petra remained silent, unsure how to respond when he looked so earnest.
He studied her. He was perplexed. Why were the Kronos eyes so interested in this girl? She possessed no special beauty. She seemed like every other servant girl in the castle—except, perhaps, less afraid. Nevertheless he had to admit there was something intriguing, and also … familiar, about her, as if he had encountered her face many times before. But where? Perhaps she reminded him of a work of art … No. Prince Rodolfo dismissed that idea. The girl’s face was too common to remind him of anything in his collection.
“These seven doors”—he gestured at the sides of the room—“lead to seven different rooms. There is only one door you will be allowed to open, and only one room that you may enter. That room is my study, which you will clean. Can you read?”
She hesitated, then gave him the answer he seemed to expect:
“No.”
“Can you guess which door leads to my office? I will give you a treat if you can.”
Petra was not sure she wanted whatever “treat” Prince Rodolfo would give her. But as she looked around the room, it became utterly clear to her which door led to his office, even though every door was identical and plain. She simply knew what the right answer was. She pointed to that door with a confidence that might not have been wise.
Prince Rodolfo was startled, though he did his best to hide it. “Why, well spotted!” The silver eyes glinted. “There is one door that leads to a room I value most of all. Can you guess which door that is?”
Again, a feeling of certainty stole over Petra. She started to raise her hand when Astrophil commanded with alarm: Point to whichever one you think he values least, Petra!
She did.
The prince noticeably relaxed. “Our conversation is nearly concluded. I am to attend a meeting in a few minutes. I need to … change. You will wait here. When I have left my chamber you will remain, and clean my study.”
She nodded.
The prince rose from his throne and walked slowly to the very door that Petra would have marked as the one most important to him. He withdrew a large key with complicated swirls and squiggles of metal, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
When he emerged a few moments later, the gaze he directed toward Petra was no longer silver, but an ordinary dark brown.
She couldn’t help herself. “Your Highness … your eyes …”
“Yes. As I said, much here is not what it seems. I am attending a meeting of the Tribunal of the Lion’s Paw, and my other eyes are distracting.”
Her father’s eyes were a plaything to Prince Rodolfo, Petra realized. They were something to change his vision of the world, to amuse him.
“I promised you a reward.” He held out something spherical. It was an orange. Oranges were the prince’s favorite fruit. He always peeled them himself, and took some pleasure in tearing the bright skin away to expose the soft wedges within. He liked the spray of tiny citrus beads, he liked the tangy taste, and above all he liked that an orange is a fruit to be eaten piece by piece. If he came across a pebble-sized seed, he would swallow it rather than spit it out, even if he was alone.
This orange, however, was not meant to be eaten. It was studded all over with cloves that were stuck into the fruit like nails.
Petra accepted the orange. She forced herself to curtsy again. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
He peered at her. To his own eyes, the girl looked like nothing, nothing at all. “You are quite a mystery.”
She was silent.
“Luckily for you, I enjoy mysteries.” He smiled, like the young man he was, like someone entertained.
As Petra walked away from the prince’s chambers, an unfinished thought swam at the back of her mind, wriggling away like a slippery minnow. Petra grasped at it. Even if stealing and wearing her father’s eyes seemed to be just a game to the prince, he must have wanted them very badly. Petra wondered why she was so certain of this. Then she realized something so obvious, yet so unthinkable that she had never before considered it: the prince must have undergone the same painful operation he ordered to be performed on her father. The prince had done it willingly. He had had his own eyes gouged out and enspelled so that he could trade them for another’s.
Petra was stunned. What kind of person would do that?
24
Bad News
PETRA SAT AT THE EDGE of the wooden bench, gripping the towel around her and watching the young women climb out of the large bath. She listened to their laughter and the slap of wet feet on stone. None of the other girls waiting for their turn in the bath sat next to her. They crowded together at the other end of the bench like pigeons. Petra peered around the bathing room one more time for Susana. She was nowhere to be seen. Even Astrophil had abandoned her, asking to be left in a corner of the dormitory. Spiders do not need baths, he had said.
“Hey, Poxy!” Dana called. Sadie followed closely behind her. Their faces glowed from the bath. Dana gently tugged Petra’s ponytail. “Your hair has grown.”