But she was not a child. And Rionin was not the king who had terrified her then.

After the ball, Petunia went back to her room alone. They usually met in Rose’s room once they were sure the princes were abed. She had just closed the door and was thinking of blocking it with a chair, when it swung open and someone walked in. She tensed, but it was only Poppy.

“Want me to help you undress so that you don’t have to have one of those horrid court ladies snatching at you?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

Petunia turned so that her sister could undo the dozens of tiny hooks that held together the bodice of her gown. But instead of feeling Poppy’s deft fingers at her back, Petunia stood alone in the middle of the room until she finally heard her sister’s hushed voice.

“What in the name of all that is holy is that?”

Petunia turned and saw Poppy pointing at something lying on her dressing table. Poppy’s face was twisted with revulsion, and Petunia could hardly blame her. The blackened mass defied recognition, and she wondered if one of the court ladies had put it there as a sort of petty revenge. She sidled closer and poked it with the end of her lace fan.

“Oh,” Petunia said after a moment. “It’s the roses.”

“Roses? It looks like a decomposing weasel,” Poppy said. She put a hand to her nose. “It smells like a decomposing weasel too.”

The poke from Petunia’s fan had indeed released an odor of extreme decay into the room, and Petunia gagged and covered her nose and mouth with her handkerchief. She dropped the fan next to the roses, resolving to never touch it again, as some of the rose petals had broken off and were now stuck to the folded lace.

“Are those the roses you picked in the forest?” Poppy’s voice was choked, and the smell was getting stronger.

“Yes, but I don’t think they’re really roses,” Petunia said.

“Clearly. Scoop them into the chamber pot?” “They’ll just fall apart,” Petunia wheezed. “Get the water pitcher.”

“Washing won’t help,” Poppy said, but she went over to the pitcher all the same.

“I’m not going to wash them; I’m going to burn them,” said Petunia.

Still holding the handkerchief over the lower half of her face, she went over to the bundle of her cloak. Galen had once told her that a good soldier never went anywhere without waterproof matches, and she had started carrying a box immediately. Later she realized that this was to stop her six-year-old self from demanding a pistol, but she continued to carry them all the same. She was rather proud of the fact that she could light a fire anywhere, and with any type of kindling.

“Step back, but keep the water ready,” she instructed Poppy.

Seeing the matches in Petunia’s hand when she turned around, Poppy nodded. She hefted the full pitcher of water in front of her, but stepped clear of the dressing table. Petunia realized she would need two hands, but instead of tucking her handkerchief away, she dropped it on top of the rotten flowers and the fan. Then she tapped out a match and struck it on the rough side of the box. It flared to life and she set it atop her little pile.

The whole mess flared instantly. Petunia leaped backward, stuffing the box of matches into her bodice and reaching for the pitcher of water. She hadn’t expected it to burn so quickly or so high, and she could tell that Poppy was just as stunned.

But before she could grab the pitcher to pour it over it, the door flew open and the princes filled the room. One of them tossed something soft and gray, like a massive cobweb, over the flames. The fire died and noxious smoke filled the room, far more than was warranted by the blaze Petunia had created.

The King Under Stone swept in, his face so twisted with rage that Petunia was as frightened as she ever had been of his father. He looked at her, and then at Poppy, still standing frozen with the pitcher of water in her hands. Rionin snatched the pitcher from Poppy and threw it against the wall. The porcelain shattered, sending water and tiny shards of blue porcelain flying across the room.

Then the king rounded on Petunia, and his face no longer bore any semblance of humanity. Petunia tried to step back, but the high bed was right behind her, and she had nowhere to go. Poppy tried to move closer to her and Blathen caught Poppy’s arm, his own face a rictus of fear.

“We do not light fires in this place,” the king hissed. “Not ever.”

“But I just wanted to—”

“I don’t care what you want,” snarled the king. “No one here cares what you want. Now give me the matches.”

Petunia went cold all over. She didn’t want to give up one more thing—not her matches, not her pistol, not her cloak. But if he searched the room for the matches, he would find the pistol.

“She only had the one,” Poppy blurted out.

“Yes. I had a match,” Petunia said, scrambling to think of a story. “When I came here I had a whole box in my pocket, but the ladies took it when they took my clothes. One fell on the floor and I—I saved it. When I saw the flowers had gone rotten, I used the match on them.”

She thought that this was the stupidest thing she had ever said. It was plain that she was lying and she almost closed her eyes, certain that Rionin was about to murder her with his bare hands. Knowing that would make her look even guiltier, however, she managed to keep them open.

It occurred to her that there were no fireplaces in the palace and the lamps all burned with a pale glow that gave off neither heat nor smoke. She had never seen anyone light one of the lamps, and wondered if they used matches or if it was some kind of magic.

“Very well,” the king said at last. “But if you ever light a fire in my kingdom again, I will make you suffer for it.”

Petunia swallowed, and nodded. The king stalked out of the room, his brothers following without a word. When the door had slammed behind them, Petunia gave a faint scream and collapsed on the bed.

“That was very interesting,” Poppy said slowly, sinking down next to Petunia. She hummed under her breath for a moment.

“Interesting?” Petunia’s voice came out as a shriek, and she laid her arm over her eyes.

Poppy asked a little while later, “How many matches have you got?”

Hero

The hunting lodge was locked tight, and all the curtains were drawn. It looked as though no one had been there for a month at least. There were even dried leaves blown across the front steps, the sight of which was apparently hilarious to the crone.

“A very nice touch,” she cackled. “But never fear, young hero, someone is inside.”

“Are you sure?” Bishop Schelker’s face was tense.

They were all tense. As soon as Oliver had spurred his horse along the track, the others had followed, arriving only a heartbeat after. Karl and Johan and the rest of Oliver’s men were not far behind, either, even though they were on foot.

The crone didn’t even bother to answer Schelker. She climbed down off her horse and tied it to the long rail in front of the lodge, then pointed to Oliver.

“Boy! Hero! You have nice, broad shoulders: see if you can’t get yourself through that door.” She made an encouraging gesture.

Oliver got down from his own horse and tied it to the rail. He looked helplessly at the door, a massive thing of aged oak and iron. He could try ramming his way in, but he knew full well that his bones would break before the wood so much as splintered.

“Stop toying with the poor lad,” said Walter Vogel as he dismounted.

He threw his reins to Oliver, who tied up the old man’s horse as Walter hobbled up the steps to the door. He did something for a moment with the lock, and the door swung open.