It’s the personal insignia of Adalbrecht von Reigenbach, margrave of Bóern.
Gisele’s betrothed.
“Scheit,” I breathe.
I jerk the window mostly shut behind me, scramble up onto the balustrade, and hurl myself back onto the guest parlor’s balconette before I can dwell too long. My memories of Adalbrecht will strip the Pfennigeist card from my hand if I let them. It’s impossible to think of lockpicks and pennies and clever plans when every bone in my body wants simply to run.
But there’s one key to getting out of a tight corner, one that never changes. That trick is to not panic.
I’ve been in worse pinches before. I think. Maybe not. If I blink, I see the dust of ill fortune at the corner of my sight, for my luck has decidedly turned.
It can’t be too bad, though, for I don’t see the hand of Godmother Death. Yet.
Don’t panic.
The hoofbeats are loud enough now that I don’t need to worry about the guards below hearing me barge back into the parlor. I draw the drapes over the balconette door’s glass panes, then untie the linen bag and shove it under the cushions on the settee along with the kerchief.
The Pfennigeist card slides away; Marthe the Maid comes out. I’m still yanking the blue cap back over my hair as I rush to the parlor door and peer into the hall.
Hans is just rounding the corner, my trim leather toilette satchel in one hand, the very one I sent him to fetch. He sees me looking and picks up his pace. “You must make haste, Frohlein Marthe, the margrave is coming—”
I seize the satchel from him, careful to block his view of the parlor. “I heard. Thank you for your help. My mistress will be ready in five minutes.”
I shut the door before he can protest. I know what he will say: No one in their right mind would ask Adalbrecht von Reigenbach to wait for a heartbeat, much less five minutes. I just need an excuse for the noises about to come from the parlor.
“Maaaarthe,” I groan in the drunk-Gisele voice, knowing Hans will pass what he hears on to the countess, “make me pretty.”
Then I tear open the satchel and get to work.
Inside are clay jars with labels of powders, ointments, tonics—the picture of toiletries a noble lady might call for at any moment. In reality, they’re all just half-full pots of lard, lantern oil, or powdered chalk, scented with whatever oils and vile-smelling herbs I scrounged up. It’s the perfect way to transport stolen jewelry: buried in goo that is heavy enough to muffle clinking, too opaque to see through, and so viciously perfumed that no one will care to inspect it very long.
Once my haul is stoppered safely in the pots, I pull the rest of my stash out from the cushions and change as swiftly as I can despite the faint sheen of sweat gluing my dress to my skin. The satchel has a false bottom panel, and I pry out a knotted-up bundle of batting and replace it with the rolled-up servant uniform.
Voices rise in the courtyard as the hoofbeats quiet. Adalbrecht must be at the door. Nausea sours my belly. I suppose that will only help me look sick from wine.
I can’t quite make out Count Gustav’s wheezing as I cut the batting knot open and stuff the new cushions. I do catch a round of laughter
from the guests.
Stall, I beg silently, stall as long as you can.
I cram the last bit of batting back into the cushions and button them up, then rush to the mirror, pearls in hand. The manor door lets out a tortured creak as it swings open downstairs.
Do not panic, I order myself, and slip the string of pearls around my throat. Panic would make my fingers tremble, and no one has time for that. Instead I find the necklace clasp and lock it tight.
My cheeks turn smooth and rosy, my hips and bosom swell, and the color bleeds from my hair as I comb out the braid with my fingers. The platinum locks roll themselves into perfect, sleek sausage curls that I only loosely pin back, since Gisele will certainly have mussed her hair in her drunken stupor. I do one final glance-over: the leather satchel sitting neatly by the settee, the new cushions plump on the velvet, the old cushion slipcovers burned to ash—
The tallow. I forgot the tallow on the hinges. I swipe the small knife from where I’d left it on the hearth and dash to the balconette door, scraping the telltale fat from the brass.
Conversation bubbles up from the nearby stairwell, and thunderous boots crack on the floorboards.
I flick the tallow crumbs into the fire, throw myself onto the settee, and jam the knife back into its sheath in my bootheel. My foot crashes down just as the parlor door shudders with a knock.
To my surprise, Ezbeta’s voice carries through the wood. “Gisele, come quickly! There’s a messenger from the margrave!”
I let out a breath like a bellows deflating. Just a messenger? But I have to be sure. “Darling Adalbrecht! Is he here?” Hopefully Ezbeta reads the tremor in my voice as lingering wine-stupor.
“No, Prinzessin.” Ezbeta opens the door and hurries over as I stifle my relief. “He’s sent a messenger for you. Quick, quick!”
Ugh. Trust a blowhard like Adalbrecht to send a princely escort with a mere courier, just because he can. Though . . . I saw the warning from Fortune, the coal-dust clouds. There must be some cause for concern.
I let Ezbeta help me wobble down the flights of stairs. Hans is waiting on a landing, head bowed as we pass. I catch his sleeve and slur, “Marthe went to get me wwwwwater. Take her satchel . . . to the carriage . . . there’s a good man.” I pat him on the cheek. With any luck, he’ll be too annoyed to think about much else.
When Ezbeta half drags me into the main parlor, Adalbrecht’s messenger has commandeered the room by virtue of his livery alone, the rest of the guests buzzing and murmuring. They’ve already formed something of an audience for the man, who straightens and bows to me, then unfurls two pages of a letter and begins to read aloud:
“‘From Adalbrecht Auguste-Gebhard von Reigenbach, Lord of Minkja, Margrave of Bóern, High and Noble Commander of the Legions of the South, Loyal Servant of the Blessed Empire of Almandy: Greetings.’”
Saints and martyrs, that has to be half the letter alone, right?
“‘It is my deepest sorrow to have kept my dearest treasure, the lovely and gracious Prinzessin Gisele, waiting while I secure our empire’s borders.’” (More like expand them for entertainment.) “‘But our long winter of the heart is at an end. At last, we two shall become one.’”
Delighted gasps sweep the room, and every eye turns to me. Even the messenger pauses.
I’m going to vomit. Long winter of the heart? Whatever minstrel he consulted with for this garbage, I need to track them down and strangle them with their own lute strings.
“Nothing would bring me greater joy,” I say sweetly. No one has to know I mean murdering the minstrel.
The messenger continues, stone-faced. “‘I myself will be returning to Castle Reigenbach on the morrow, and we hope you all will join us in Minkja for the wedding in two weeks’ time. Guests will be received . . .’”
I don’t hear what he says after that, too busy trying not to look like I’ve been sucker punched. Two weeks? Two weeks?
No wonder I saw the warning of misfortune. I only have a fortnight to scrape together the last two hundred gilden and make my getaway.
Don’t panic.
It’s harder than it looks.