I May Say, Very Surprising
I pause in front of the golden oak door to Father’s study. It will be my study, someday. I’ve spent hours here, discussing business with Father and his council. He’s taught me well, preparing me to be a ruler in his image. We’ve debated tariffs, treaties, and taxes; deliberated over imports, exports, and reports. Always dry, always rational, always practical.
Which is why this conversation will be so difficult.
I straighten my shoulders and rap before entering.
Father looks up from the massive desk in the center of the green-and-gold room. His crown perches on the edge, forgotten, while a sheaf of paperwork is spread before him. “Inglebert—glad you’re here. Take a look at this proposal.” He motions for me to sit and pushes the stack to me.
I clear my throat. “Actually, Father, I have something else to discuss with you.”
“Good news about your betrothal, I hope.” With the first sheaf of papers out of his way, he retrieves another stack from the end of the desk and riffles through it.
“If you’re referring to the matter with the Princess Islabetta—”
He looks up, a frown creasing his face. “Who else would I be referring to? Of course I mean Islabetta! I don’t understand why it hasn’t been arranged before now!” The fire crackles on the hearth, raindrops pitter against the windowpane, and the longcase clock ticks nervously, but I am silent. Father’s face shifts from irritation to incredulity. “She didn’t refuse you?”
“I didn’t ask.” We listen to the clock for another few ticks. “I cannot marry the princess, Father.”
I expect Father to growl or huff, bluster or yell. I expect him to be surprised, at the very least. Instead, he stares at me for a long moment and then sighs. “Your mother’s nature comes out in the end,” he says. “I should have expected as much.”
“You’re not angry?”
“I’m disappointed—very disappointed! But your mother did warn me that you were unlikely to go through with it. She told me you had a romantic streak somewhere under all that pecuniary acumen.” He frowns, tents his fingers, sighs again. “At least tell me we haven’t injured relations with the royal family.”
“I don’t believe so.” I shuffle the papers Father had put in front of me. “I only wrote to the princess once, and Hugh can vouch that it was quite unromantic. I doubt she has any expectations at this point, but I drafted another letter to settle the issue.” I take an envelope from my pocket and hand it to Father, who removes the folded sheet and reads it quickly.
“Diplomatic.” He nods and gives it back, then pushes away from the desk and paces to the window. Rain splatters against the glass. “I was hoping for that alliance, though.”
I cough. “I also drafted an alliance proposal, sans marriage, emphasizing the eastern trade routes.” I follow him to the window so I can hand him another envelope, this one thicker.
Father raises his eyebrows but takes it. I listen to the rain while he reads.
“Thorough,” he finally says. “Although it would require much more discussion.” He refolds the document and slides it back into the envelope, then turns to face me as we stand by the window. “And I presume you have another reason for refusing to marry the princess?”
I take out a third envelope. Father rumbles a chuckle. “Still more of my nature than your mother’s, I see.”
My throat is thick, and I sputter when I try to speak. “I have another proposal that I believe will increase the productivity and revenue of the western counties.” My heartbeat is suddenly louder than the other noises in the room, drowning out the rain and the longcase clock alike. Father takes longer on this paper. His eyes scan and rescan sections while his eyebrows raise higher and higher.
At last he hems, eyebrows resuming their customary place. “Interesting.”
I swallow. “And?”
“Surprising—I may say, very surprising!—but there’s some sense to it.” He faces the window again, tapping the envelope against the pane.
The clock chimes the hour, six slow clangs. I watch his face: unreadable as usual.
“Well?” he says. His eyes still trace the path of raindrops down the window. “What else do you have for me?”
“Nothing, Father.”
“Then why are you still standing there?”
“I’d like your permission, sir. To”—I cough—“to proceed.”
A flash of humor, so brief that I may have imagined it, cracks his face. “To proceed, eh?” Finally, he turns back to me. “Tell your mother before you leave. She’ll want to crow.” He places a hand on my shoulder, squeezes, and chuckles. “And put a word in Hugh’s ear about the princess. We might get that alliance yet. In fact, I’ll go with you to your mother.” He gives my shoulder one last hearty thump. “May as well suffer the glee so we can get back to business.”
My head is high and steps are eager as we stride down the hallways. I’ve never felt this light before. It may not exactly be a blessing, but I was prepared to debate my case. Father’s approval was almost too easy. Can happiness—can love—really be so close, so possible?
Mother is not in her parlor, nor speaking with the housekeeper, nor in her dressing room, nor in the gardens. We finally find her rushing down a corridor on the ground floor, closest to the stables. She flutters into Father’s arms with a sob.
“Oh, my dears!” She dabs at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Hugh has gone missing!”
“I know I’m a selfish beast,” I mutter to Rodering when I meet him in the hallway near my room, “but it does seem that Hugh ruins everything, doesn’t it?”
But my happiness is not ruined, I remind myself. Just delayed.
Rodering is too polite to answer my grousing. I pull the new letter for Islabetta out of my pocket. “This needs to go in the next post. You haven’t seen Hugh, have you?”
He takes it with a bow. “I saw His Highness yesterday afternoon, here in the hall, right after I left the noon mail on your desk.”
I stare. “There was no mail on my desk yesterday.”
Rodering starts. “Your pardon, Your Highness, but there was a letter—a woman’s handwriting—” He coughs. “Sent from Ramsfeldshire, village of Lower Splott, I believe. I thought you would prefer it in your sitting room, rather than your study.”
It is not difficult to catch his implication. I would be embarrassed, but my body is tingling with the realization that Hester wrote me. It must be Hester; no one else could come from a place called Lower Splott! “Ah,” I say, my chest tightening. “You’re sure—you’re quite sure you left it here?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
I walk into my sitting room, glancing around and underneath the desk, but there’s no letter to be seen. Rodering follows, distress on his face. “My apologies, Your Highness,” he stammers. “I do not know what could have happened—”
“Don’t blame yourself.” I grit my teeth, trying not to take my frustration out on him. “Was anyone else around?”
“No, Your Highness,” he answers. “Only Prince Fitzhugh, as I said. Although—I hesitate to mention it, Your Highness—”
Unease pools in my stomach. I gesture for him to continue.
“His Highness has been unusually interested in your mail recently.” Rodering’s face is red.
“Interested?”
“He asked every day if you had received any letters from a woman. I attempted not to answer—”
I flatten my lips. “But Hugh is annoyingly persistent. Yes, I’m aware.” I sweep my gaze over the study again, hoping the letter will appear in some corner or other. “Did you tell him that Hes—that I had a letter?”
“I’m afraid I did, Your Highness.”
I lift my eyes to the ceiling and let out a long breath through my nose. What business does Hugh have rifling through my correspondence and interrogating my manservant? What purpose could he have in stealing Hester’s letter?
The answer is sickeningly obvious. Her address, his disappearance.
Hugh has gone to Lower Splott to find Hester.
But why? He’s not in love, whatever he says. Why does he insist on plaguing her? I sink to a chair, suddenly unsteady. “I must talk to my parents.” They’ll want to know where Hugh’s gone, and they’ll need to know that I will be following him.
I rise again and tell Rodering to have the fastest carriage prepared.
Before finding Mother and Father, I let myself into Hugh’s rooms. I hope I’m jumping to conclusions; I don’t want to imagine why Hugh would be chasing Hester. Hopefully, he’ll have left a clue about his plans.
I’ve never spent much time in Hugh’s suite; he seemed to discourage it, somehow. His rooms are cluttered and chaotic, with too many plants and too much color. The gasoliers hanging from the high ceilings are covered with bright paper shades, making the lights look like flickering rubies and emeralds and casting mystic hues over the room.
Have Hugh’s tastes always been so odd? I stare at a statue hiding in the corner of his sitting room—a half-goat, half-human figurine with a leering face and curling horns. Where did he even get that?
There’s a half-decayed log, covered in red-capped mushrooms, hanging from the wall, and when I wander into his dressing room I see a series of mirrors each more distorted than the last. I catch my reflection in one of them and imagine it makes a face at me. I peer into his wardrobe, full of gaudy waistcoats and trousers in every color. I can’t tell if he’s taken anything; he has too many outfits for me to keep track of. I move into his bedroom.
The large canopy bed shouldn't surprise me; my own bed has a canopy. But where mine is swathed in stately curtains, Hugh’s bed is hung with … moss? I step closer. The posts look like four living oaks, smaller branches springing out at random. I run my hand over one and feel the rough bark.
Well. This is unnatural.
A glass jar on his bedside table catches my attention. Some sort of floating light bobs gently inside.
Very, very unnatural.
Although I’d like nothing better than to leave all this strangeness behind, I force myself to walk about the room slowly, looking for any sign of what happened to Hugh. My eyes catch on a piece of paper on the floor. I bend to get a closer look.
It’s Hester’s letter. Or part of it, anyhow. The paper is ripped in half and the envelope is nowhere to be seen. Besides being torn, the letter is crinkled and smudged nearly beyond legibility. I can only make out a few lines: am writing you becau … surgeon may be … rgive my boldne … your friend .
I smooth out the paper, unclenching my jaw. I draw in a deep breath and look around Hugh’s room again.
Why did Hugh take this? What does he want with Hester?
But—are those the questions I should be asking? I pace back through his rooms slowly, stopping at the bright purple door into the hallway.
Strange lights, living furniture, inhuman figurines. Something is not right.
I swallow, my throat suddenly thick.
Hugh is—Hugh must be—
I shake my head at my wild imagination. I didn’t get enough sleep last night. Hugh can’t be anything inhuman . He is my brother.
My fingers curl in a tight fist. Hester’s letter crinkles in my hand.
Hester. Hester knows about the—the Folk.
Is that why Hugh went to her?
I let myself out and close the door firmly behind me. The air feels clearer in the corridor; I hadn’t even realized the sickly-sweet scent in the room was dulling my senses until I got out.
Why have I never noticed the strangeness of Hugh’s suite before, and why have no servants talked about it? Is it new? Has something taken my brother, replaced him?
I keep the scrap of Hester’s letter in my hand as I trot through the palace to find Mother and Father. My stomach roils. Can I accuse their son of being a—what did Hester call it? Changeling?
I find my parents back in Mother’s sitting room. I’m glad they’re still together; it will be easier this way.
“I think I know where Hugh went.” I plant my feet on the mossy green carpet. “But I’m not sure why.”
Mother looks at Father, then at me—the paper I hold in my trembling hand, the rapid rise and fall of my chest. “I think you should sit, son.” Her musical voice lulls me to a chair. “We need to talk about Hugh.”