“Kalsang fell behind on paperwork over the sabbath,” she sighs, absently thumbing the tassels of a pair of white silk cords twisted together and draped over her shoulders. Congregants of the House of the High typically just wear the cords for their sabbath prayers, but those among the public officials tend to keep theirs on day and night.
I suspect it’s for the same reason her husband, a soft-spoken Gharese tea merchant who’s much happier at home with their two little apso hounds, is avoiding this party. Dealing with a bunch of red-faced, competitively self-important Almanic aristocrats would make anyone pray for divine intervention.
His absence is fine by me. I like Kalsang and Philippa. I know exactly what’s about to befall Eisendorf Manor, and I’d rather their part in it be minimal.
I spend the rest of the hour making small talk and seemingly chugging glohwein like it’ll cure boils. (Not that Princess Gisele ever gets blemishes. The pearls see to that.) All the while, I keep an eye on Komtessin Ezbeta.
At last, I see my opportunity and start moving toward the parlor door.
“Nooo, Gisele!” A hand latches on to my brocade sleeve: Ezbeta has taken the bait. By now, she has had at least one glass of glohwein for every glittering emerald in her heavy necklace. That would be roughly seven more than I’ve had and, judging by her flaming face, about five too many.
And that is why I waited until now to head for the exit, when I knew she would make a tipsy scene.
Ezbeta, of course, obliges me. “You cannot leave us so soon! We’ve a five-course supper, just for you!”
One might wonder why I’m about to visit such misfortune upon my gracious hosts. Why tonight, on their anniversary? Why them, when they’ve been nothing but eager to please?
And the truth of the matter is this: If they saw me without the pearls and the face of the prinzessin, if they had any idea who I really was, they wouldn’t give a damn if I was staying for supper or scraping it out of the swine trough.
That’s why.
I hiccup in her face, then burst into giggles. My billowing skirts rustle as I wobble in place like a ship in an uneasy harbor. “Of course I’m not leaving, silly goose! I simply need . . . I need . . .” I trail off, twirling a pale-blond curl around a finger. The goblet of glohwein lurches in my other hand and spills a few drops onto my bodice. Not enough to ruin it, of course, only to sell the idea that I am at least as drunk as the good Komtessin Ezbeta.
Sure enough, Lady von Morz shoots me an amused look and mutters something to Komte von Kirchstadtler.
“What was I saying?” I ask, my gaze sliding dreamily around the room.
“You should lie down a moment, perhaps,” Komtessin Ezbeta says, “to recover your faculties before we dine. We have a lovely settee in the guest parlor. HANS!”
Half the room gives a start, staring at both of us. Ezbeta is too drunk to notice. I take the opportunity to pat my cheeks as if marveling how warm they are. In reality, there’s a layer of rouge beneath my talc face powder, and as I dab the talc away, my cheeks redden like Ezbeta’s. While everyone’s eyes are still on us, I let off another round of sloppy giggles for good measure.
I need every guest here to witness this mess and think it prudent to exile Gisele von Falbirg from the party. To take the prinzessin off the table. I need twenty minutes to myself, and since Gisele cannot leave a party without notice, she will leave with good cause.
“HANS!” Ezbeta bellows again. A beleaguered man in a servant’s uniform is already at her elbow, wincing at his name being sounded like a bugle.
“What does m’lady desire?” Hans asks with a bow.
“Escort the mar . . .” A befuddled look muddies the countess’s face as she tries to remember the proper form of address. You can almost see her doing the math, in fact. Too soon for markgräfin, not officially a princess-elector; you could say I’m in between titles. For now Ezbeta plays it safe. “Escort the princess to the guest parlor.”
I take Hans’s arm and stumble toward the door, hiding a smile. Ezbeta von Eisendorf has gotten many things wrong tonight: I am not drunk. I do not need to lie down.
I am not Gisele-Berthilde Ludwila von Falbirg.
But the countess has gotten one thing correct: As far as everyone knows, I’m still Gisele, not a baseborn peasant imposter. And that means for now, they call me Prinzessin.
As a final touch, I discard the goblet of glohwein on a table by the door, perched haphazardly on the edge. A moment later a clang tells me it’s crashed to the floor.
Now everyone behind me will swear to the High Gods and the Low that tonight, Gisele von Falbirg was a senseless drunk, and utterly incapable of the villainy to come.
Poor Hans endures a lurching stroll with me through the dim upper corridors of Eisendorf Manor as I sing praises of his master and mistress. The sour look on his face tells me that praise is wholly unfounded. I can’t say I’m shocked.
“Marthe,” I slur as Hans opens the door to the guest parlor. A maid is stoking the roaring fire inside, but she scurries away as he walks me over to the settee Ezbeta had boasted of. It truly is a lovely thing, stuffed spring-green velvet warmed by the fire.
Even better, it’s been adorned in the gold-tasseled cushions I sent them for an anniversary gift. Just as I’d expected.
I flop gracelessly onto the settee, flapping my arm at Hans. “My maid, Marthe, fetch her for me. She’ll be in the scullery. Or the chapel, pious as she is. She wears a . . .” I make a vague gesture toward the crown of my head, staring glassily at the ceiling. “A cap. Reigenbach blue. I need her at once.”
“Right away, Prinzessin.” Hans bows and excuses himself, shutting the parlor door behind him. I wait in place, holding my breath, until the clipped beat of his footsteps fades down the hall.
Then I roll off the settee and onto the floor. I yank up my skirt to free a tiny knife tucked in one of my elegant leather boots.
For this first part, I have five minutes at least, ten minutes at most. Last time I hosted the von Eisendorfs, Gustav would not shut up about their new chapel, so I know it’s on the opposite side of the manor from the scullery. Hans, tragically, will not find Marthe in either. And that means I have at least five minutes until he returns to apologize.
I snatch up one of the cushions I sent and carefully slice it open. Cotton batting blooms from the gash. When I reach inside, I find a small linen drawstring bag, a dark cloth sash, and two slipcovers identical to the one I just slit open, down to the silken tassels.
I gut the other cushion just as quickly. This one holds a linen shift and a simple steel-blue woolen servant dress, which I stashed inside before gifting the cushions to the von Eisendorfs. Tucked in one sleeve is a dark gray kerchief. Hidden in the other is a modest little cap of distinct Reigenbach blue.
Five minutes later, the new cushion covers are stuffed with my petticoats, chemise, and expertly folded gown; most of my jewelry; and a respectable handful of other people’s jewelry. Anna von Morz’s slim gold bracelet, nabbed while she passed me the glohwein. Minister Holbein’s earring, to help her avoid suspicion. Rings and baubles picked from the crowd, just enough to let them know the thief passed through their midst.
There’s a chance they’ll blame the servants of Eisendorf Manor. It’s happened before. The bailiff comes in, lines them up, shakes down sleeping pallets, and turns out pockets. But not so much as a trinket will fall to the flagstones, so they’ll walk away more or less unscathed.