Princess of Glass - Jessica Day George [2]
“You’ll need ball gowns,” Rose had insisted.
“I’m not going to any balls,” Poppy objected.
“You might surprise yourself,” Galen had said. “You’ll have friends; you’ll want to go to a ball with them…” He had raised his eyebrows suggestively as he knit away with two tiny wooden needles and yarn that was hardly thicker than a thread.
“No.”
But Rose had had the maids pack the two gowns behind Poppy’s back. And Poppy would never let Rose know that she was suddenly grateful for the gowns. In fact, Poppy debated whether she would even tell her own twin that she had been to a ball. Daisy practically had hysterics when their sister Violet played a valse on the pianoforte.
Young Bretoner ladies wore white to most formal occasions, which made Poppy feel like a corpse. Clever Rose, knowing this, had had these gowns made of fine white muslin with satin slips of a different color underneath. One slip was purple, which the white muslin softened to lavender, the other a rich blue dampened into a mistier shade by the overgown. There was delicate embroidery around the hems and necklines to match the underskirts. Poppy laid the lavender gown across the bed (after checking to make certain that she had not spilled any ink on the counterpane) and then went downstairs. Suddenly hungry, she wanted to find out how soon the early supper would be.
Prince
Prince Christian rode with his eyes focused straight ahead. As long as he didn’t make eye contact with any of the girls lining the streets of Damerhavn to watch him go by, they wouldn’t do anything foolish.
Like pretend to faint under the hooves of his horse.
Or throw a handkerchief at him, hoping that he would keep it as a memento.
The last time that had happened, his horse had spooked at the sight of the white fluttery thing, and Christian had nearly been thrown into the waiting arms of a horde of hopeful young ladies. He wanted to ride, needed to get out of the palace and away from his parents and tutors, but it was never as relaxing as he hoped it would be.
Today he was even more distracted than usual. On his way to the stables, his father had popped out of his study and made Christian promise to speak with him immediately upon his return.
Christian had extended his daily ride to stall for time.
With a sigh, he saw from the angle of the sun that if he didn’t return to the palace soon his father would send soldiers to find him. Not because he was a prisoner, but because Christian’s parents loved him, and cared for him, and worried for his safety.
Constantly.
“You’re alive today because we smother you,” King Karl was fond of saying when Christian accused his parents of being overprotective. “Imagine if we’d sent you off to Westfalin, and you’d had your soul sucked away by those horrible girls!”
Mention of this always made Christian uncomfortable. When the king of Westfalin had pleaded for a prince to help solve the mystery behind the princesses’ worn-out dancing shoes, Christian had been eager to go. His parents, however, had not permitted it. From the beginning they had been certain that dark magic was involved, and when the reports came of the failed princes dying in strange accidents, King Karl had put Christian under house arrest. No son of his would sneak away to Westfalin and attempt to meddle with those “cursed girls.”
Not that Christian had wanted to get married. He had only been fifteen at the time, after all. But he had never been outside of the Danelaw, and it all sounded like such a great adventure. In the end it had been a common soldier who had solved the mystery and ended up being knighted and married to the oldest princess. The intrepid fellow had solved the problem using an embroidery hoop or some such strange thing, but Christian rather doubted that part of the story.
Back at the palace, Christian groomed his horse himself, still trying to put off this talk. Then he had to go and change out of his riding clothes, wash his face, and comb his hair—which