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Galen and Walter had already trimmed the winter-dead flowers down to dirt level and were preparing to cover them with mulch to protect their roots from the cold. In the past Galen had thought that gardening, like farming, was a matter of luck. You planted something, you watered it, you hoped that it grew.

Here, though, was an intriguing new world. A world of thinning, mulching, bandaging, grafting, and pruning—it was like building fortifications against an enemy invader. Trunks of trees and whole shrubs had to be wound with strips of burlap for the winter. The iris roots or “corms,” which looked rather like withered parsnips, were dug up, separated, and then replanted.

Gophers, mice, and other rodents were the bane of the Queen’s Garden. The gardeners did double duty as exterminators, keeping an eye out for any signs of burrowing or nibbling. Walter had a pair of small dachshunds that roamed the garden, their liquid brown eyes on the lookout for trespassing vermin. Their sharp barks at finding prey carried clearly over the screeching of the peacocks.

Now as Walter came trundling around the corner with a full wheelbarrow, Galen stowed his knitting in a canvas bag and jumped down to help. Under the watchful eyes of Reiner Orm, they carefully shoveled a layer of rich black mulch over the stumps of the hollyhocks. Galen overloaded his shovel in his zeal, and a clump of mulch fell on the browning grass.

“The garden must be made ready for winter,” Reiner said. “But”—he held up an admonishing finger—”it must still be pleasing to the eye.”

“Yes, sir,” Galen said, raking up the clump with his fingers and scattering it over the bed.

“There will be a great many important guests this winter. Royal guests.”

Both Galen’s and Walter’s heads snapped up, but it was Galen who asked the question. “Is there more trouble? With Analousia?”

“No, lad, nothing like that,” Reiner was quick to reassure them. No one wanted another war. “The ambassadors will be coming and going, and I was told that the princesses would be receiving more guests.”

“The king is thinking of a royal marriage?” Walter rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. “Rose, most likely; she’s the oldest.” His expression clouded. “O’ course, she’s the most ill right now, poor girl. And there are other things—” He saw Galen and Reiner looking at him and stopped abruptly. “Forgive my rambling.”

“Princess Rose is ill?” Galen had wondered why he hadn’t seen any of the princesses in the garden since the day that Rose had fallen in the fountain. He felt a surge of guilt. She wouldn’t have fallen in if he hadn’t startled her, but seeing her there, with her white face turned toward the bronze swan, had made him think of the crone and her strange gifts.

“Very ill, as are the others. It’s the talk of Bruch, and they say that—”

“Walter, Galen,” Reiner said stiffly. “We do not speak of the royal family in this familiar fashion.” But as he stalked away, they could faintly hear him muttering, “Young ladies running wild, dancing about all night in their rooms.… ”

Galen drew back and exchanged a look with Walter. Once his uncle was out of earshot, Galen traded his shovel for a rake. “Dancing all night in their rooms?”

“You may be the only person in Bruch who hasn’t heard the gossip,” Walter told him. They raked for a while in silence, and then the older man spoke. “Every third night the girls emerge from their rooms exhausted, with their dancing shoes in tatters. Dr. Kelling, the royal physician, says this is the cause of their continuing illness.”

“But I don’t understand,” Galen said. “If they are ill, why are they dancing all night? Or are they sneaking out to meet suitors? Can’t a guard follow them?” It seemed ludicrous to imagine the king’s daughters climbing out their window in the night, attired in ballgowns and dancing slippers, but he supposed stranger things had happened.

“Guards outside the rooms, maids within, and no one sees or hears a thing,” Walter said. “Though I understand that last night,