Princess of Glass - Jessica Day George [5]
But she wasn’t all right.
She was surrounded by women who smelled of lavender water (a scent she had always detested), and all around the room people were staring at her and whispering behind their hands. In Westfalin, ringed by her eleven sisters, she did not attract much attention. But here in Breton, a visiting foreign princess was the subject of much gossip. A visiting foreign princess who refused to dance for unknown reasons was even more interesting.
Lady Thwaite, freed from the reception line, came over to Poppy a few moments later. “Your Highness, may I present the Duchess of Hinterdale?” Lady Thwaite indicated the woman at her side, who was shaped rather alarmingly like the prow of a ship.
Poppy shook the woman’s hand. “How do you do?”
“Veddy, veddy well,” the duchess replied, staring down her remarkable nose at Poppy.
Lady Thwaite went off to see to the rest of her guests, leaving Poppy and the duchess to make each other’s acquaintance. The duchess spoke in a drawling fashion that forced Poppy to listen very carefully. She had studied Bretoner since she was three, but her governess had always used perfect grammar and pronunciation.
Unlike the Duchess of Hinterdale.
“You are a strenge gel, Princessss Puppy,” the duchess said. “He-ere you are, with ev-er-y young man in Breton to dence with you, and you well not dence.”
“Ah,” Poppy said after deciphering this. “No. I don’t den—dance.”
“Wuh-hy not?” The duchess raised one overplucked eyebrow.
“Because my mother and sisters and I were cursed to dance for the pleasure of an evil king,” Poppy thought. She reached up and straightened her knitted silk choker. “I do not care for dancing,” she said finally.
“Do not care for dencing?” The duchess’s face was abruptly purple. “My godson was Prence Alllfred!” And with that the Duchess of Hinterdale stormed off, leaving Poppy with burning cheeks and a hammering heart.
“Alfred,” Poppy muttered under her breath. “Duel? Or horse accident? He was the horsy one… yes.” She put one hand over her eyes, then snatched it away, knowing that people were watching her and whispering behind their fans.
Alfred, King Rupert’s late son, had gone to Westfalin to find out the secret of their ruined dancing slippers, failed, and returned to Breton to die in some sort of accident a week later. He had been foolish and vain, but no worse than a lot of spoiled princes.
And it was because of Alfred that Poppy had been sent to Breton. In the wake of his son’s death, King Rupert had stirred up rumors of witchcraft and foul play at the Westfalin court, which even now continued to circulate.
But since the mystery of the slippers had been solved (even though the solution had not been widely broadcast), and three uneventful years had passed, Rupert and Gregor had reached an uneasy truce and Rupert had come up with this grand fostering program to establish stronger ties among the Ionian nations.
The first to be taken from her home and family? Poppy. In an effort to appease his royal neighbors, Gregor had volunteered all of his unmarried daughters. Poppy and Daisy had asked to go together, but no one seemed to want two of the mysterious Westfalian princesses at once. It had been a wrench, leaving her twin behind, but she didn’t envy Daisy, who had pulled Venenzia out of the hat.
Daisy hated boats, and humid air made her hair frizz, and the streets of Venenzia were paved with water. Her first letter to Poppy had been a hysterical recitation of horrors, from her wild hair to the shaky gondolas to the food, though Poppy argued that Bretoner cuisine was far worse.
“Are you all right?” A tall young man saw her shudder and strode over to her. It was Richard “but everyone calls me Dickon” Thwaite, the genial eighteen-year-old son of her host and hostess.
Poppy blurted