We are taken to the royal palace in a train of open, gilded coaches. I had wished to ride with Prince Mariusz, but instead I am put with King Edmund in the foremost coach. It is beyond my pride to twist backwards for another glance of Mariusz, whose eyes I still cannot recall the colour of, so I sit upright next to my uncle and keep my gaze upon the road in front of me.
We are in the heart of the city, driving down wide avenues lined by trees bare of leaf or flower and edged beyond by looming grey palaces. The roads have been cleared for our passage, and it is silent but for the rush of wind between the buildings. We pass into narrower streets, where the palaces become terrace shops with homes on the upper floors. A grey-faced child stares hollowly at us from the gate of a courtyard. Curtains and shutters twitch as we pass. Pale blurs flutter behind bare, dirty windows.
It feels as though I am driving through a giant cemetery, not a city. The buildings on either side like rows of tombstones, the pale faces in them, ghosts. I shiver and pull my cloak tighter around me.
The palace is not in the centre of the city, but towards the outskirts, where the road widens again. The terraces become houses, then painted villas and mansions, surrounded by gardens and high stone walls. We pass through a wrought-iron gate in the highest stone wall of all and down a gravel path. There follows a series of further gates, each guarded by a pair of impassive, motionless Selician soldiers. At last, a greenish-blue roof, tarnished copper, appears above a row of conifers and we pass beneath the trees and into a walled garden in which lies the palace itself.
It is all creamy yellow, and white, and blue-green, and gilt. A toy palace, for a toy kingdom, my uncle's toys. His flag hangs from the centre mast. Two others, lower, to each side, show the blue and red flag of the kingdom which became a duchy and the black and red flag of the city.
Our coach rounds a circular lawn and stops in front of the palace steps. Four people wait for us on the terrace, three children and a woman, all with the same pond-weedy blond hair and hawkish cast of face as Mariusz. The children ogle me with blatant curiosity. The little boy whispers to one of the girls, who nudges him with her elbow and hisses back. I am reminded suddenly of my little cousins, who always were terrified of me, even before I tried to kill King Edmund. From the look on the girl's face, I can see she is frightened of me too.
I alight from the coach after my uncle and it rolls away again. Behind us, the coach containing Mariusz and his sister slows to a stop and Mariusz jumps down. Now, I will find out what colour his eyes are. But he keeps his gaze low to the ground, intent, it seems, on examining the gravel he kicks out from under his neat tan boots. When he is next to me, he takes my gloved hand in his and performs a sweeping bow to the people on the terrace. He says something in Selician and I catch my name in his unusual, lilted accent. The way he says it makes my heart flutter.
The woman comes down the steps and stops in front of us. She is tall and very slender, the skin stretched taut over her bones. Her eyes are both worried and hostile.
"Duchess Maria," Mariusz says. "She is my mother."
Then he does speak my language, at least a little, and his accent makes the sound pleasing.
Dowager Duchess Maria kisses me on each cheek, a salutation I suspect neither of us desire. I manage not to flinch and for a response give her a curtsy. She continues to look at me for a moment longer, then says something in her own language.
"She says she is happy to gain a daughter," Mariusz explains. "And welcome to her home."
I know I should say something politic, something complimentary, but I find I can say nothing at all. I had not thought of gaining a mother by marriage. I don't want one. And judging by the look in Duchess Maria's eyes, she does not want another daughter, despite her kind words.
King Edmund says something in Selician, and Duchess Maria responds, the worry flickering in her eyes. She moves aside, and the eldest of the children, a girl of about fifteen, comes down the steps behind her. She extends a trembling curtsy.
"Princess Henryka, my sister."
I curtsy back, relieved there is to be no more kissing. After Princess Henryka comes the next sister, who is introduced as Zofia, and after her, the little boy, Dominik.
"You must be tired after your journey," Mariusz says when it is finished. "My sister will take you to rest."
"I'm not tired." I want to speak with Mariusz. I have still not managed to catch his eye. He always seems to be looking at someone else. "In fact, I would like to walk a little around the garden."
"That can be arranged," Mariusz says. "Henuszka!" He speaks to his sister rapidly in his own language and she comes forward.
Henryka says something in heavily accented, incomprehensible syllables. I frown.
"You speak French?" she says in the language, and I recognise it now.
"But yes. A little." I strain my memory. "Ça longtemps. Pas bien."
She risks a tentative smile. "Suffisant. Come to see the garden?"
I look to Mariusz, but he has turned away and is talking with my uncle in Selician. King Edmund sees me looking.
"Go with her," he says. "We have time before dinner for you to see a little of the gardens."
There is nothing I can do but go with her, though I know I am being gotten rid of. She takes me up the steps and through the palace doors, where the hall is all white marble and gilt. The rooms beyond, however, are honey-coloured parquetry and panelling. We pass quickly through and out onto a terrace on which lies an ornate knot garden scattered with white marble statues.
"In winter it is pretty here," Henryka says. "Some gardens are not pretty in winter."
"It is autumn now."
She blushes scarlet and gives no reply.
I walk down the paths between the box hedges. It is a pretty garden, and I can see more pretty gardens beyond the terrace wall. I itch to explore them, but not with this girl watching.
It ought to be Mariusz with me.
Anger makes my heart beat faster. How can he not be curious about the woman he is to marry?
But perhaps he is shy.
Henryka comes up behind me. "Does the garden please you?"
"What is your brother like?" I ask. "Is he..." I can't think of the word for shy in French. "Ah! What is he like? Tell me!"
She looks confused. "Mariusz? He is... my brother."
"Yes, I understand. But what is he like?" I translate the phrase word-by-word in my head to check my French, but I am sure it is correct. Still, Henryka looks confused. "He is..." Few French adjectives come to mind. "...good?"
Relief floods her face. "Yes, he is in very good health."
My French is clearly worse than I thought, or Henryka is abominably stupid. I curse in my own language and Henryka flinches, though she cannot possibly understand what I have said.
I point to the palace. "Dormir. Ah, no. Rest. Rest. What is rest? Oh, for God's sake, let's go inside and find someone who can understand me."
Perhaps she understands my pointing. Perhaps she only wants to get away from me. She leads me back inside. I hope that she will take me to wherever Mariusz has gone, but instead she takes me upstairs to a private apartment consisting of a sitting room and a bedroom, partitioned by a set of pocket doors.
"Your room," Henryka says. She points to a further, closed door in the bedroom wall. "Your bathroom." She asks a question, which I cannot translate, and when I do not respond, rephrases herself, "Do I wait with you?"
"No." She has not been unkind to me, despite our language difficulties. "No, thank you."
"Very good." She curtsies. "Until dinner."
Dinner. On the train, my uncle told me that we would have dinner with the most intimate members of the Selician court, the people who were friends as well as allies to the ducal family. He said I should try to make a good first impression, but the only one I care to impress is Mariusz, who will not look me in the eye. Besides, if no one speaks my language, I will only be able to impress them with my looks.
To that end, I ring the bell for the servants, and with a mix of mime and broken French manage to get myself adequately costumed in a coppery silk dress with indigo ribbon trimming and little puff sleeves halfway down my shoulders. The last month in Rothalia, while I waited to leave for this place, I had my entire wardrobe made new. There was nothing of what I wore in the tower that I wanted to ever wear again, and my old bedroom had been made over to one of my cousins long ago and all my old things disappeared somewhere in the palace, perhaps given away, perhaps stored out of sight, perhaps destroyed. I did not care to look for them. There is nothing of the past I want to keep with me.
It is dark outside when my uncle knocks at the door to escort me to dinner. He takes me through the hallways of the palace in silence until we emerge into a small salon. People stand around in groups talking, though the sound dies away when we enter. My uncle bows and I curtsy, conscious of all eyes upon me. A man approaches us, and my uncle introduces him as Lord Tarnuv, the prime minister. From there, I am introduced to every person in the room in turn, some dozen foreign faces and foreign names in syllables I cannot even pronounce. Mariusz is not here. He arrives only when the introductions are finished and we are making our way into the dining room.
I hope we will be seated together, but I am given pride of place at the head of the table, and Mariusz is at the tail. I am at a good distance to look at him, however, and I like what what I see. Occasionally I catch his gaze flitting in my direction, and knowing how I have dressed, trust that he cannot be displeased with my appearance either.
After three elegant courses, Dowager Duchess Maria stands up and gives a short speech in Selician. There are smiles, some polite clapping, nods, and at the end a toast, for which a footman refills my champagne glass.
Several more speeches follow as we nibble at cheeses and cakes. Prince Konrad gives one, which is brief but encourages an agreeing murmur from most of the table. Lord Tarnuv gives another, not so brief, and not so encouraging of murmurs. One young man, fortified by champagne, lets out a snore, and the woman next to him hides a giggle. Nevertheless, at the end of his speech, we all clap and have another toast, though I have no idea what I am toasting to. Then my uncle stands up to speak, like the others, in Selician. A silence, a stillness, comes over the table. The woman who giggled before is now glaring. The man next to her stops smiling for the first time all evening.
When his speech is over, there is silence for quite some time before Dowager Duchess Maria begins to clap, and then so do the others. It does not last long before the table falls into silence again. I think the speeches are over, but the young man who pretended to snore raps on the table and calls Mariusz's name. The young woman next to him repeats his call.
Mariusz remains in his chair, smiling but shaking his head. However the younger people here, who must be his personal friends, continue to call for a speech and finally he laughs and stands up. He raises his glass and a footman steps forward to fill it. Other footmen see to ours and we all raise our glasses in readiness. Mariusz waits until the room is very quiet and still.
Across the table, looking down at me, he at last meets my eyes.
They are grey eyes, very cold, very angry, incongruous above the faint smile hovering on his delicate lips. He keeps my gaze long enough for his faint smile to fade.
Finally, when a pin drop might be heard, he says a single harsh word in Selician. It needs no translation.
He downs his toast amidst gales of laughter and gasps of shock.
I set my toast down, undrunk.
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2024-04-06: Mariusz is perhaps not very nice.