Page 3 of The Midnight King

Prince Brantley is about twenty-three, and he’s made it clear he wants a wife, sooner rather than later. In this country, kings retire around age fifty and allow their eldest child to take the throne. And since the King is about forty-eight, it’s high time for our one and only prince to find himself a partner.

The King himself is extraordinarily handsome, judging by the portraits I’ve seen of him in the newspapers I scavenge from other houses. His son is also attractive. I swear, every unmarried woman of marriageable age—and even some of the married ones—would melt into submissive puddles at the Prince’s feet if he so much as looked at them.

As for me, I’ve got no time to think about submission, or puddles, unless it’s the puddles of spilled cream under the breakfast table. Sophie, my stepmother’s enormous gray cat, has already discovered the mess and is crouched low on fluffy paws, daintily dipping her little pink tongue into the cream.

“That’s going to make you sick,” I tell her. “You’ll leave a mess somewhere in the house and I’ll have to clean it up.”

She stares at me and continues the dip, dip, dip of her tongue. She is the haughtiest, puffiest, most disdainful of cats, and secretly I love her dearly. I like to think she loves me too. She did bring me a dead mouse once.

Contrary to my stepmother’s wishes, Sophie enjoys being outside, roaming the gardens or inspecting the barn animals like the queen she is. No matter how cold it is, she wants to be free. I’ve been ordered not to let her out, but I perceived a gray area in that command, and sometimes I happen to leave the back door ajar… by accident, of course. Not with any distinct purpose in mind.

Sophie is one creature my stepmother can’t control, and I glory in that fact.

Just when I’ve carefully balanced an entire stack of breakfast dishes and I’m preparing to carry them into the kitchen, someone raps at the front door. After a moment’s dithering, I set the dishes back down as carefully as I can and hurry to answer the knock.

On the doorstep is a tall, scrawny young man in royal livery, with a huge satchel full of letters. He hands one to me.

“An invitation to the palace,” he drones. “By the grace of His Illustrious Highness the Crown Prince. Your speedy response is requested and expected.”

2

“Wait… what?” I blink at the wax-sealed envelope in my hand.

The messenger is already turning away, heading back down the steps to the carriage drive in front of the house. Clearly he doesn’t wish to answer any questions.

“Fine,” I mutter, closing the door and laying the envelope in the silver tray on the side table, where I always put the correspondence for Gilda and her daughters. There are never any letters for me.

Except… this envelope is addressed “To the Ladies of the House.” And technically, I am also a lady of the house by birthright. So technically, I would be within my rights to open the invitation.

An invitation to the palace, the messenger said. But when? And why? There were many such invitations in the messenger’s satchel. We’re not the only recipients.

With my fingertip, I stroke the edge of the envelope. If I dare to peek inside, I’ll be punished. I’m not sure satisfying my curiosity is worth the price I’ll have to pay.

Gilda is a connoisseur of painful and humiliating punishments. Since the anklet I wear binds me to her will, I’m forced to do anything she wants—and what she wants varies wildly depending on her mood. Sometimes I’m forced to pull my hair out, bite my own lips until they bleed, put my fingertip in a candle flame, or dance until I faint from exhaustion. Once, she made me eat mouse shit. Another time, she forced me to go out naked into the winter night and shovel the front path. I almost didn’t survive that one.

I’ve learned to separate my conscious self from my body during those moments, to distance my emotions from whatever I’m suffering at the time. But the memory of those punishments is powerful enough to make me draw back from the invitation and leave it sitting unopened on the tray.

For the next few hours, I continue with the chores, until the front door bursts open and Gilda rushes in, trailed by her daughters, both of whom are shrieking, “Did we get one? Did we get one? Oh, we did! Oh, what does it say?”

“I presume it says exactly what Lady Hausen’s invitation said,” replies my stepmother testily. “Give me space to breathe, you noisy fools!”

The girls withdraw slightly, but the very flowers on their bonnets are trembling with anticipation as their mother opens the letter. I come to the doorway of the sitting room where I was dusting, cautiously interested in the contents of the envelope.

“There are going to be five grand balls at the palace—parties like no one has ever seen,” says Gilda, her eyes widening as she reads the missive. “The Crown Prince has invited every unmarried woman between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, from the capital and its surrounding towns and boroughs. On the sixth night, at a great feast, the Crown Prince will choose his bride!”

“His bride?” shrieks Amisa.

Gilda flips the card over and inspects the back side, frowning. “There’s nothing else. No further information, and no mention of family members escorting their eligible daughters to the ball.”

“In this kingdom, women over twenty don’t need an escort,” Vashli points out.

Gilda purses her lips, looking deeply displeased. I have no doubt she wants to accompany her daughters to the event, and the idea that she isn’t invited piques her terribly. Which delights me more than it should.

“What I want to know,” Vashli continues, “is why he’s invitingallthe unmarried women. Shouldn’t he invite only those of noble blood or good breeding?”

“There’s some jibber-jabber about that at the beginning of the letter,” says Gilda. “Something about equal opportunities, all social classes being represented, nonsense of that sort. Not worth bothering about. What’s important is that the first ball is being held in less than a month. Five balls in row, one every night, all in the same week—I never heard of such a thing! You girls will each need five new dresses—no,sixif we count the feast at the end!”

Six new dresses apiece… My heart sinks. There’s no way we can afford so many new gowns, which means some of their old ones will have to be made over and altered. I know who will be saddled with that burden, not to mention the labor of mending their stockings, gloves, ribbons and jewelry. They’ll want their perfume bottles refilled and their stock of hair products replenished, which means a trip to the perfumer’s shop, and that won’t come cheap.

---