The Princess Imposter Page 5

  Parf made a sound of contempt, and she was about to ask him what she’d done wrong now when she realized that two shirts and a dress were floating downstream. She captured them, but meanwhile a skirt floated by; reaching for that, she lost her footing and once again found herself sitting in the water.

  By the time she’d retrieved all the clothing she could see—and she suspected she’d lost a few items to the current—Parf was sitting beneath a nearby tree, clapping as though she were putting on a show.

  “If you’d helped me,” she said, cramming the last dandelion headband into the basket, “I could be sure I caught everything.”

  “You didn’t,” Parf said. “And this way, I get to hear you explain all about it to Mumsy.”

  That was not something to which Gabriella was looking forward. “Am I finished?” Gabriella asked.

  “Nooooo. You’ve dunked the clothes, not washed them.”

  Gabriella couldn’t see any way but to come out and ask him. “How do I wash them?”

  “You beat them against the rock to loosen the dirt.” Parf pointed to where a round-topped rock poked out of the water.

  The fairy clothes looked too delicate to withstand being beaten against a stone, and she did wonder if Parf was intentionally misleading her. Not that at this point she really cared.

  But the fairy magic proved durable. The clothes didn’t rip as Gabriella slammed them—and occasionally her fingers, which were not quite so durable—against the rock. She worked on one article of clothing at a time, so as not to lose any more. When she finished, she trudged back and forth from the rock, knee-deep in water, to the basket on dry land. No matter how mindful she tried to be, she tripped almost every time over the sodden skirt of her nightgown, as it grew longer from the weight of the water and mud it had soaked up.

  And it wasn’t just her nightgown that was causing her to trip. Her purple fairy shoes were beginning to look more and more like eggplants. No longer just because of the color, and not even due to their unfortunate shape. Vines were beginning to grow from them.

  Parf, seeing her take note of this, pointed out: “You’ve overwatered the shoes. You’ll have to trim them once we get back to the house.”

  Although she did her best to wring out the excess water from the fairy shirts, skirts, dresses, and breeches, the basket was still incredibly heavy as she hauled it up the bank. She could tell she hadn’t done a thorough enough job, because water dripped out of the basket as she staggered back along the path to the fairies’ home. Her shoes made rude squishing noises and continued to grow leafy. Parf didn’t talk, but he did whistle, and that was almost as irritating. Would it be too much to expect a little help from him? Gabriella set the basket down and stretched, pressing her hands into her back. “Do you think maybe you might—”

  “Nope,” Parf cut her off. “Mumsy said you. Mumsy gets cranky when we don’t follow her instructions.”

  Gabriella said, “I didn’t see you worrying about her getting cranky when your brothers and sisters decided to cut the laundry lines.”

  Parf snorted. “Mumsy never said we couldn’t cut the laundry lines.”

  “But—”

  “Mumsy said you needed to do the laundry and fix the lines.”

  “But—”

  “Mumsies know. They always know.”

  Gabriella sighed and picked up the basket, forgetting to use her knees. Her aching back reminded her.

  At the hill, she restrung the lines. Her hands were stiff from all the washing and carrying, and the knuckles of her fingers were raw from repeated accidental smackings against the rock. In fact, Gabriella’s arms, shoulders, legs, and back were all sore, and her hair kept falling into her face. She was almost willing to consider that the fairies’ short, spiky hair might be an improvement. She grew light-headed from bending down over the basket, then standing up to clip the clothes to the lines. Or maybe it was from hunger. The sun was overhead, and she hadn’t eaten since last night.

  “They’ll take forever to dry,” Parf observed disapprovingly, “seeing as you haven’t wrung them out sufficiently.”

  What Gabriella wanted to wring was Parf’s neck. She had never had such a thought before, and was ashamed for it. But only a little.

  She reminded herself that fairies usually exchanged babies for babies. She was only here as a game, one thought up by bored children. Now that she had spent the morning doing their bidding without fuss or drama, surely they would lose interest in her. Surely they would return her home.

  In fact, just as she and Parf arrived at the house, the other children came running outside.

  And continued right past Gabriella and Parf.

  “You missed the midday meal!” they called, a moment before they disappeared into the surrounding woods.

  So much for surely-they-would-return-her-home.

  “Good thing I had a big breakfast,” Parf told Gabriella. “You?”

  “No.” She forced her weary resentment not to show. “I woke up from a night’s slumber, surrounded by you and your family, and have not yet had a chance to dine.”

  Parf considered this news. Gabriella hoped he might say that, if she explained what had happened, perhaps Mumsy would find a little leftover something for her to eat.

  Of course, as far as explanations went, unless the fairies returned her home now, Gabriella would also have to explain to Mumsy about the lost clothing; she was not looking forward to that.

  In any case, what Parf ended up saying was, “Well, then, you better be quick at the evening meal. The little ones tend to grab up anything good really quick.”

  Gabriella sighed. “That’s nice to know.” She didn’t have the energy to say more.

  Amanda, she thought. Amanda will have seen that the fairy girl is not me. Amanda will have raised the alarm that I am gone, and that a changeling has taken my place.

  She assumed her father or one of his advisers would know how to get to the fairy realm. She wished she had paid more attention during her geography lessons, because she had no idea whether the fairies even shared the same world as her own kingdom, or if it could only be reached through magical means.

  But her father would know, or would find out.

  How far off could rescue be?

  Phleg and Ellen were walking in the castle, either using a different route back from the garden or heading toward a different room for the midday meal. Phleg would not put it beyond people to have a different room for each meal.

  She was just thinking of how difficult people were when they went around a corner and almost collided with a tall, older man. He wore many gold buttons and had golden tassels on his shoulders. Clearly someone important—and someone who did not appreciate being almost collided with.

  Ellen curtseyed and murmured, “Your Highness.”

  So this was the king. Apparently kings didn’t walk around wearing crowns all the time, which surprised Phleg. If she’d been a king, she thought, she would never take her crown off. But, now that she thought about it, the queen hadn’t been wearing hers at the breakfast meal, either.

  Come to think of it, surely princesses had crowns, too. If Ellen had been a good servant, Phleg decided, she should have asked about that this morning, along with all the other questions about clothing: So, Princess Gabriella, are you going to be wearing your crown today? Phleg determined that she would send Ellen to fetch her crown during the midday meal, so that she could wear it that afternoon.

  But meanwhile, Phleg wondered if princesses curtseyed to their fathers. She decided to bob her head, which might be taken for a curtsey if you were looking for one. “Hello, Daddy,” she said.

  “What?” the imposing man bellowed at her.

  His hair was gray, so maybe he was old enough that he had become hard of hearing. But something about his tone made her suspect he was incredulous rather than unsure. And he was without a doubt displeased. Maybe princesses were more formal with their parents than fairies were. She gave a definite curtsey. She’d seen Ellen
and other servants do it often enough that she had the general idea of how. She tottered off balance so that Ellen lunged—overdramatically, Phleg thought—to keep her from tipping over, and this time Phleg said, formally, “Hello, Father.”

  Still not right—she could tell by the way his brows came together, even before he thundered, “What ails the girl?”

  She glanced at Ellen, who made an obvious concerted effort to close her mouth, which for some reason was hanging open. Ellen gathered herself, then said, “Princess Gabriella, this is King Leopold of Rosenmark, the father of Prince Frederic.”

  “Of course I know that,” Phleg said. “That’s what I meant to say: Hello, Fred’s … um … daddy-father.”

  Clearly King Leopold was not persuaded that this was what Phleg had meant to say. “What is this?” Apparently, the man never spoke at a level short of a roar. “Are you addled in the head? What trickery is King Humphrey trying to get away with?”

  “No trickery, sire,” Ellen said. “Princess Gabriella struck her head this morning and is sometimes momentarily confused. Temporarily, I’m sure.”

  “And so she’s been rolling in the dirt?” the king shouted.

  Admittedly her dress was not quite as clean as when she’d put it on, and—all right!—there were one or two twigs snagged in the fabric from when she’d been in the garden, listening to Fred’s story of the adventures of Telmund. Rolling in the dirt was a clear exaggeration, however. For the sake of making her feel bad.

  “I have not been rolling in the dirt,” Phleg protested. She heard Ellen’s sharp intake of breath. “What?” Phleg snapped at the servant.

  Ellen’s eyes were wide and her face had gone white.

  But it was Leopold who answered Phleg. His voice was loud enough that Phleg wouldn’t have been surprised if it shook the tapestries off the walls. “How dare you! Nobody talks back to me that way! Not even another king! Much less a … grubby … snip of a princess from a third-rate kingdom who’s lucky we’re even considering aligning ourselves with you.”

  Phleg put her hands on her hips. “Oh yeah?” she said. Ellen yanked at the nearer of Phleg’s arms in an attempt to get her attention—either that or to make her look less confrontational—but Phleg refused to take the warning. “Oh yeah?” she repeated, for the momentum it gave her. “Well, and you shouldn’t talk to me that way, either.”

  A new voice spoke up: a calm, let’s-be-reasonable voice that Phleg recognized even before turning around to see that Fred was behind her. His younger brother, Telmund, hung back, apparently unsettled by all the shouting. “Come, come, Father,” Fred said jovially. “I’m sure Princess Gabriella means no harm.”

  “No harm?” The king was so angry he was spitting, which Phleg suspected was probably as rude for people as it was for fairies. “King Humphrey is trying to pass off this addlepated shrew of a daughter as normal? As worthy of union with our family?”

  “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding,” Fred told him. “Princess Gabriella was in the garden with me and Telmund; that’s how she happens to have a few leaves caught in her skirts. There’s no reason for you to bully—”

  He stopped short in his explanation when Leopold sucked in a breath. “And is this why you refused to join the hunting party this morning? To defy me? To spend time, unchaperoned, with this … this … person?”

  Fred repeated, “With me and Telmund.”

  “She’s already a bad influence on the two of you!” Leopold’s voice suddenly went quiet. Unexpectedly, that was worse than the shouting. The tiny hairs on the nape of Phleg’s neck stood up as the king finished, “I will not tolerate this.”

  But if he meant to say anything further, he was interrupted by the arrival of another imposing older man, to whom Ellen bowed and murmured, “Your Highness.”

  Phleg was not going to risk being wrong again. She folded her arms over her chest and glowered.

  The new man kissed her on the forehead, but then turned a fierce expression onto Leopold. “What’s amiss?” he asked. “We could hear the commotion in the throne room.”

  “What’s amiss?” Leopold’s volume continued to be low and dangerous. “Your daughter is a simpleton. And unmannered on top of that.”

  “She is not, and she is not,” King Humphrey stated. “How dare you—”

  “I decree the wedding is off!”

  Phleg gasped. “No,” she squeaked.

  “Father!” Fred cried.

  “No insolence from you!” Leopold ordered his son.

  “Of course the wedding is off,” King Humphrey said, putting his arm protectively around Phleg. “We wouldn’t have you.”

  “No,” Phleg repeated. She was supposed to pass as the princess. She wasn’t supposed to ruin the princess’s wedding plans. And Fred seemed so nice.

  But Leopold took her response the wrong way. He took her to mean that she, too, wouldn’t have them. “Insufferable brat!”

  “Father!” Fred repeated. “The betrothal is set. Surely if we all sit down—”

  While Phleg’s attention was on the two kings, Gabriella’s mother had entered the corridor. The queen rested her hand on Phleg’s shoulder, but spoke to her husband and to her formerly-meant-to-be-daughter’s-husband’s-father. (What was that relationship named? Brother-in-law, once removed?) In any case, the two men were standing toe-to-toe with each other, looking close to coming to blows.

  “Perhaps if we all sit down,” the queen began, “and have something cool to drink—”

  “I will have nothing more to do with this conniving family,” Leopold shouted.

  “Leopold!”

  All the males in the room—not just Leopold, but also Gabriella’s father, and Fred, and his brother, as well as a couple of stray servants—all of them gave guilty starts. A woman Phleg hadn’t seen before spoke in a commanding, condemning, surely-I-must-be-mistaken-because-I-could-not-have-just-heard-you-say-THAT tone of voice. This new woman stepped forward to stand beside the queen, matching exactly both the look and voice Mumsy used when Daddy had irritated her beyond bearing. No question about it: Leopold must be this woman’s husband, making her Fred’s mumsy.

  Although he was clearly cowed by his wife, Leopold tried to explain. “That girl … ” His finger shook as he pointed at Phleg. “That girl … There’s something not right with her! Mark my words! She’s no proper princess!”

  Oh no! How had he guessed in so short a time? Once Leopold explained to his wife, she would take his side. Once that happened, Gabriella’s parents would see the truth, too. Phleg couldn’t stand the thought that Parf had been right: She hadn’t been able to pass as a princess for three days. She hadn’t even managed for half a day. Parf would never let her hear the end of it.

  And even worse than that, if she lost the bet, she’d have to do his chores, on top of her own, for a week! No chance now to wear that crown. No more comfy bed. No more all-she-could-eat meals. No more of Fred’s stories.

  There was nothing Phleg could think to say or do to fix the situation.

  But she refused to go home this early, admitting defeat.

  All she could think was that she needed to get out of there.

  So she turned and ran.

  Gabriella realized she had no idea what fairies ate. Now that she thought about it, she found in the back of her mind a vague notion that they might sip nectar, like hummingbirds.

  Though sipping seemed too delicate a word to associate with this particular family of fairies.

  Especially once Parf led Gabriella into the kitchen.

  To a certain extent, it looked more like a regular kitchen than Gabriella would have expected, with cupboards, counters, a dry sink, a vat for holding water, and both a fire for cooking over and an oven for baking.

  But it was the filthiest kitchen she had ever seen. Granted, she had only ever seen the one in the castle, but never was that kitchen in such disarray, even after state dinners with many, many guests. The fairies’ kitchen was covered with grimy handprints all o
ver every surface—buttery, floury, milky, jammy, mustardy handprints—and enough used dishes and bowls and pots and pans that it almost seemed as though the fairies must have had a state dinner of their own.

  Except that some of the piles of greasy dishes were dusty, as well as crusty, indicating they’d sat for a good long while. This was a wonder, as the stacks were piled very precariously. The dishes were all different sizes and shapes, having been fashioned from a variety of leaves. As with the fairies’ clothing, magic had made the leaves bigger than they would have been in nature, and more durable. Some were spring green, some deep summer olive, and others showed autumn’s riot of color. The cups and bowls looked to have started life as acorns and walnuts and mushroom caps; and the pots were hollowed-out gourds and melons.

  Amid all this chaos, Mumsy sat with one of her legs stretched out on the table, painting her toenails and drinking tea—chamomile by the smell of it. Gabriella suspected the fairy mother routinely made more tableware when she ran out of clean leaves, rather than wash what she already had. She certainly was showing no inclination for tidying up now.

  Despite all this, and much to her embarrassment, Gabriella’s stomach grumbled.

  “Kitchen’s closed,” Mumsy snarled without looking up from her toes. “I’m too busy to fix individual meals for children who can’t bestir themselves to make it here at mealtime.”

  “But—” Gabriella started.

  “No,” Mumsy said.

  It may well have been a breach of protocol to insist—but Gabriella was too weary to remember, and she continued as though Mumsy hadn’t spoken. “I was busy working. Doing the laundry.”

  “No exceptions,” Mumsy told her. “If I said yes to you, I’d have to say yes to all the other children, and then I’d be a slave to the kitchen.” She looked at Gabriella and Parf coolly. “I’ll not be a slave to the kitchen.”

  Parf shrugged. “I tried to tell her. But Gabby’s stubborn.”

  “Well, then, you shouldn’t have brought her in here.”

  Parf nodded, even though Mumsy was once again absorbed in her toenails and was no longer looking at him to see that he was agreeing with her. “She has something to tell you,” Parf added.