Hi, readers! Here's your latest installment. Part of this chapter involves foreign languages, and after struggling with how best to represent it, I decided to post the translations at the end of the chapter. The translation is not imperative to the story, however, so I recommend you read through that part first without cheating, and then check the translation at the end.

Thanks so much for the kind reviews and new subscriptions! In three chapters, this is already my longest story by word count (this fourth chapter will make it twice as long as my previous forerunner), and I'm not out of ideas yet. :) I really appreciate everyone's support. Keep reading!


It had never occurred to me to wonder what royalty got up to in its spare time, and I had never seen the king and queen outside of a formal setting. I had only one picture of them in my mind. I expected to see them stiffly seated in high-backed chairs at the end of the room, hands folded neat, resplendent and austere as they had always appeared.

When we entered the room, however, the king and queen weren't there at all—only a man and woman, each cradling a goblet of wine. The man sat on the edge of a plush red loveseat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head tilted sideways, talking to the woman in a low, deep voice. She was coiled on a chaise lounge, legs hidden beneath her skirts, laughing at something he'd just said with an expression of wry amusement. They were simply dressed, though the clothes were fine: a dark sleeveless doublet over a cream blouse for the man, and a sleek gown of dusty violet for the woman.

They paused to look at us. The man's face broke into a grin, and I saw that it belonged unmistakably to Char. If not for that smile, I might never have recognized them. They seemed smaller, somehow, and decidedly more human, without their crowns and robes.

"Mother, Father," said Char. "This is Ella."

I swept a deep curtsy. Queen Daria reached us first. She took hold of my arms and smiled indulgently. "My dear," she said. "Ella. Ah, you are the spitting image of your mother." Her voice was all earnestness and warmth. It was a gentle voice, but I sensed strength behind it, like a stone wrapped in softest velvet. She pulled me close, engulfing me in the scent of wildflowers and honey.

When we parted, King Jerrold stood beside her. He took my hand in both of his. They were callused, broad and powerful. "Welcome, Ella," he said, and he made a half-bow over my hand. I nearly quaked to be bowed to by a king.

However little I wanted to broach the topic, I couldn't let them go on wondering about my behavior at the ball. I was sure they'd be too polite to ask, and so I spoke immediately.

"I must apologize for our last meeting," I said. "I was insufferably rude. I wore a mask before you, and I gave you a false name. It was imperative that I not be recognized. I beg your forgiveness."

The queen looked at me quizzically. "From whom were you hiding?"

Char was beside me again, and his arm went to my waist. "Her sisters," he said. "And her step-mother, Dame Olga. When they saw it was her, they chased her from the ball, and if they'd recognized her sooner, I feel certain they'd have forbidden her to return. Their reasons, as I gather, were spun from pure jealousy."

I recognized some of Char's vindictive anger in King Jerrold's eyes when he heard this, but his temperament was cooler than his son's. He said nothing.

Char's account was true, so far. I had been hiding from my step-family, if not exclusively. I started to talk again before he could elaborate.

"Your Majesties," I said, "since my father's remarriage, I've been living with my step-family. It's been . . ." I searched for the right word. "Difficult. They were able to take advantage of me for reasons which—if it please you—I will explain over dinner. It is fair to say they have mistreated me, and I think Char would like nothing better than to have them shut away for life."

Char still held me, and I felt him stiffen, but he didn't interrupt.

"I believe such a thing would cause my father terrible grief," I said. "They will cause me no further distress, and I have no desire for vengeance." That was the truth of it. I was glad enough to be rid of the curse—the sooner I could stop thinking about it altogether, the sooner I could begin my life without it. Holding my step-family in a dungeon would serve as a constant reminder of my servitude. I would be freer if I could forgive and forget.

I knew Char disapproved, but he would respect my decision. The king and queen smiled. "Whatever your situation," said the queen, "I am sure your feelings are the only ones that can guide a decision. No action will be taken regarding your family unless you wish it done."

She understood. I smiled gratefully.

The door opened behind us, and the squire bowed quickly. "Her highness—"

In bounced Cecilia, radiating energy. "Hello, Ella!" she said, and she linked arms with me. "Shall we head to dinner?"

It was a couple minutes to eight, so we obliged. Cecilia led the way through the twisting corridors. Char had just shown me the dining room, and I'd already forgotten where it was. In any case, Cecilia took us by a different route. The castle's interior layout seemed to be more or less circular. I wondered how long it would take me to memorize its passageways, or whether it could even be done.

There were two lads already seated at the dining table, and they rose when we entered. Char introduced me. "Ella, my brothers, Philip and Armand."

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," I said.

Philip, the elder of the two, looked like a shorter, more solid version of Char. His hair was lighter and trimmed short, and his face was free of freckles, but they shared the same eyes, nose, and easy smile. "The pleasure is ours, my lady," he said. His voice was deeper than I'd expected. I knew him to be around fourteen, but the voice made him seem older.

Armand said nothing—only stared at me with wide, dark eyes. I knew he was younger than Philip, but I'd thought the difference was only a few years. Armand looked very young, indeed. Perhaps eight or nine. His curls were darker than his siblings' hair—nearly black, like his mother's, and very fine. His freckles stood out against pale skin, and he was short and slight of frame. His stare wasn't empty like Olive's. I could tell he was studying me, curious. His countenance had something intelligent about it. Perhaps his shyness would fade over dinner—I hoped to hear him in conversation.

When it was just Char among me and his knights, he had sat first and had his pick of everything before us. As the only commoner among royalty, I was lost for the decorum. Armand and Philip sat, first, and I was prepared to wait for the rest of them—but Char pulled back a seat for me, so I took it. He sat beside me, and on his left was King Jerrold at the head of the table. Along the other side were the queen, then Philip, then Armand. Cecilia sat to my right. I wondered whether they took the same seats at every meal. Would this be my permanent assignment?

The first course appeared immediately. Seven servants placed a small bowl of soup at each place setting. I took the tiny portion as a good sign—it signaled a variety of courses, and I was eager to try everything Char's cook had to offer.

A short woman in an apron stood beside King Jerrold's chair. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and her hands were dusty with flour. She had to be the royal cook. I marveled at her appearance. Where Mandy seemed in a permanent state of disarray, stains all over her dress and frizzy hair flying everywhere, this woman's flushed cheeks were the only indicator that she had been hard at work moments before. Her hair was tucked neatly into a bright blue scarf, an easy smile played on her lips, and even her apron was spotless. She was entirely composed.

The cook gestured at the table. "Leek-and-dwarfish-truffle soup," she said, "with piment d'espelette imported this morning from Bast." She gave me a surreptitious wink, and I realized with a jolt that she must have heard about Lela.

"Thank you, Rachel," said the king.

Rachel bowed and followed her servants out of the room. One young girl remained, circling the table and filling glittering crystal goblets with clear white wine. King Jerrold lifted his glass, and we followed suit.

"To Lady Ella," he said, his powerful voice resonating through the long room, "the newest addition to our family."

There was a short chorus of hear-hears, and Char beamed at me. I loved to see him so happy.

Rachel's soup was beyond belief. Mandy always said the delicate leek was a perfect preamble to any meal, and this was no exception. The leeks were buttery and smooth, and the truffles added an earthy flavor that complimented them well. The imported pepper was a nice touch, too, lending a smokiness and a slow spiciness that was not overbearing. The real miracle was the texture. Despite flavors that tended toward the heavy side, Rachel's soup was thin and light as air—a feat to be applauded. It lingered on my tongue, but not in my stomach.

"What do you think?" asked Char. "As good as your Mandy's?"

"It's no wonder our cooks are friends," I said. "They have the same taste. This is wonderful. I think Mandy should like to know the recipe."

King Jerrold laughed. "You'll be hard-pressed to get such a thing from Rachel," he said. "She guards her kitchen like a fortress."

"Char told us you help the cook at your manor," said Cecilia. "We're all terribly jealous. Rachel won't let any of us near her while she's working."

I started at this. Would I be forbidden from the kitchen when I came to live here?

As though reading my mind, Char said, "That's because you don't help, Cecilia. You poke around and get underfoot looking for free samples. Ella would be an extra pair of hands—and a talented pair, at that."

I noticed Armand's eyes on me from across the table. His stare hadn't wavered since we'd sat down. Now, in a low voice, he said, "You cook in your own kitchen?"

"All the time," I said, hoping to encourage his conversation. "Mandy is one of my best friends. We'll cook for you when she gets here. Her rabbit stew is—"

"Aren't you in the peerage?" said Armand.

I blinked. "We're not, actually," I said.

"You know Ella's father," said Cecilia. "Sir Peter of Frell."

Armand paused. "The merchant?" His eyes shot from me to Char, then along the table to his parents, and then back to me. I wondered what he was thinking. Of course they'd met Father before. Did they know him as the charming, courteous gentleman Mother had fallen in love with? Or had they gotten to know him a bit better?

"It doesn't matter who her father is," said Char, fairly answering my unposed question. "Ella is herself. Just Ella."

"Mama," said Cecilia suddenly, leaning her elbows on the table, "do you remember what you told Char before the balls began?" She turned to me. "My mother and father have been anxious for him to take a wife," she explained. "They didn't want to arrange a marriage for him, and so on the night before the first ball, Mama told him . . ." Cecilia straightened in her chair and switched her voice into a timbre that was comically prim and much too high: "'Marry a scullery maid, for all we care, but marry someone you can love.' Those were her exact words, on my life, and if Char's story is to be believed, that is exactly what has transpired!"

With the exception of Armand, who looked like he'd missed the joke, the table erupted in laughter. It was the same kind of laugh Char had—they weren't laughing at me, but at the humor of the situation, and I found myself laughing, too.

"I told you," said Char. "They had her dressed up like a cinder-girl, but next to her horrid step-family, she was still the most beautiful one in the room."

"The prince shall inspire envy in kingdoms around," I said, "to have a wife so well-trained in the art of fire-making."

Cecilia added, "He shall never lack for warmth, though not for the reasons most would suspect!"

"Cecilia!" gasped the queen, but the others laughed so hard I could hear the ringing in the chandelier and the far corners of the hall. I found myself overcome with relief as I laughed along with them. It had never occurred to me that Char's family might share his sense of humor, but now that it had manifested before me, I wondered at my oversight. Where else would he have gotten it from?

"Ella," said Philip across the table. "Did you truly fight off a whole hoard of ogres?"

"Char said she tamed them, Philip," said Cecilia. "She didn't fight them."

"Only because she didn't have to," said Char. "I don't doubt she could have fought them, if she so pleased."

"That seems improbable," said Armand.

"Then you tamed them," said Cecilia. Her eyes were sharp and lively, and they shone bright. "Is it true, Ella? Or has our brother been telling us tales? Are you really so grand as he proclaims?"

"I wouldn't say it was a hoard," I said. "There were . . ." I looked to Char. "Eight or nine, perhaps?"

There was a gasp around the table. "Nine?" breathed Cecilia. "Surely you're jesting!"

"She isn't," insisted Char.

"And they all did what you said?" asked Philip.

"One actually held out its hands for me to bind," said Char. "Not that we needed to bind them, at all. They'd have gone wherever she told them to."

The king said, "I've heard this tale, as well." He did not speak loudly, and yet his voice seemed to make all other sound take pause. It rumbled comfortably along the table, clear as day despite the low volume. "How did you manage it?"

"I persuaded them," I said. "The honeyed way they have of speaking—I imitated it. I didn't know whether it would work."

"That must have been terribly frightening," said Daria. "How is it you happened across them?"

"I was traveling," I said. "From finishing school, to meet my father." They didn't need to know I'd run away.

She tilted her head. "Ah, the school in Jenn? I was a pupil there when I was a girl. What do they teach the young ladies nowadays?"

"Oh, all sorts of terribly important things," I said. "Things I'd never known were essential to my survival until I was enlightened by Manners Mistress and the others."

"Like what?" asked Philip.

I raised my fork. "Like the sin it is to use, say, a salad fork when eating fish. I remember asking Manners Mistress why we had to have four separate forks over the course of a meal. She was too distressed to speak."

"I've always wondered that, myself," said the king.

"Oh, the art of cutlery is extensive, indeed," I said. "You could fill a library with literature on the proper ways to hold a fork."

Jerrold raised his eyebrows. "The proper ways to hold it?"

Beside him, Daria laughed. "Oh, dear, are they still teaching that nonsense? I haven't gripped a fork the proper way since I was eighteen. Let's see . . ." She held up her own fork and arranged her fingers along the handle. "Salad fork . . ." She changed her grip. "Fish fork . . . and meat fork. Was that right?"

"You forgot the dessert fork," I said, demonstrating.

"Of course, the delicate dessert fork!" laughed Daria. "Which is gripped in an entirely different fashion than the dessert spoon, make no mistake!"

I shared in her laughter while the rest of the table cast bewildered looks at one another. I wondered what Manners Mistress would say if she were here. She'd probably have a conniption.

"Finishing school," said Cecilia, and I heard the distaste in her voice. "I think I'd refuse to go."

"So would I," I said. "Regrettably, that wasn't an alternative in my situation."

"You hold your father in high regard," said Cecilia.

"No more than is customary," I said, which was the truth, if an understatement. "But that's not what I mean."

Char glanced at me, and I nodded to reassure him. "I have something to tell you," I told the table. "When I was an infant, I was visited by a fairy by the name of Lucinda."

I waited for a reaction, but they appeared not to have heard of her. She must have been smart enough to keep away from the royal family.

"Lucinda liked to give gifts," I said. "Her gift for me was obedience. All my life, I've been cursed to obey any command I was given, no matter what or by whom."

Philip's eyes were wide, and Daria said, "Oh, my dear."

"Any order?" said Armand. "Suppose I told you to pinch yourself?"

"It's been broken," I said, and Char's hand went to the small of my back. "Char helped me break it."

"This is the advantage your step-family held over you?" said Jerrold.

"It is," I said, "and perhaps you think them even more despicable, knowing the truth of it. But my decision stands, if it please you. I would like my father's opinion before anything is done."

Philip made an indignant noise. "I'd lock them away, if it were me," he said. "Char told us what they did to you. I'd turn them into servants for a while. Have your fairy make them obedient. See how they like it."

I couldn't help but feel touched by his leap to my defense. "The fairy has seen the error of her ways and renounced—as the fairies call it—big magic. She shan't be cursing anyone again."

"Still," said Philip. "Something should be done."

"The decision is Ella's," said Daria beside him. "We will respect her wishes, whatever they may be."

Philip didn't look convinced, but he let the matter rest.

Our empty soup bowls had been replaced almost without my noticing, and Rachel stood again at the head of the table. "Drowned sardine," she announced simply, and she left the room.

I was surprised that she didn't elaborate further, and with my first bite, I wished fervently that she had. The fish dripped in a tangy-sweet marinade, perhaps based in wine or some spirit. I could see the small, red rings of sliced pepper, but while their mild spiciness warmed the dish, I couldn't pick out their flavor. There was something else in the sauce—citrus? Oranges, perhaps? It was like nothing I'd tasted before, and I became so enthralled with trying to dissect the recipe that I lost track of the conversation until Cecilia nudged me with an elbow.

"Mama was asking about your gift with tongues," she said.

"There's a trait you have in common with Armand," said Daria.

I looked at her. "I've never really studied," I said. "I like languages, but it's only a hobby."

"She's being modest," said Char. "Her Ayorthaian far outstrips mine, and she speaks Elfian, Gnommic . . ."

"Ubensu iniki," said Armand. "Aba offouro echane ishirini ubensu."

I looked at him, pleasantly surprised. His accent was superb. The rest of the family clearly understood him—of course, they would all be well-versed in the language of our closest ally. Armand had called me pretty and said Char was lucky to have me.

"Aramma," I said. "Ubensu ockommo ammasa. Utyu ubensu—"

"Kummeck ims powd. Aff ench poel?"

He interrupted in Elfian. I had to think for half a second, but I recovered quickly. "Ella hux Frell. Aff ench poel?"

"Dok ench pess garkummeck Armand, jort hux pess gorgokummeck ims faddo ol poroni sta toronos hux Kyrria," he said. "Ji-juje x't-elije ximx aoujo ourj fixii aouxea?"

His reply was so deft, almost lazy, that it took me a moment to realize he had transitioned seamlessly into Jindar. Still in an Elfian mindset, I missed all but a few words—Jindar could sound like so much shushing to the inattentive ear. I glanced around the table for help, but I was met with expressions of transfixed wonderment. They were even more lost than I.

"Ah, x'n-abaja-xat douxo, ou-x't-jamaje?" I said.

I'd asked him to repeat himself. Instead, Armand replied, "frah SSyng FFnOO myfOOn oyjo fezOOn hijyNN."

That stopped me. I blinked twice, dumbfounded. I must have misheard him. "Pardon?" I said in Kyrrian.

He smiled. "frah SSyng," he said clearly, "FFnOO myfOOn oyjo fezOOn hijyNN." He gestured at the food-laden table to illustrate.

Beside me, Cecilia caught my expression. "What?" she said, and she shot a suspicious look at Armand. "What did he say?"

My Ogrese was good. The phrase was characteristically despicable in Ogrese, but its translation was hardly more pleasant: it meant, essentially, "You are not welcome here."

Armand was watching me for my response. I turned to Cecilia and smiled reassuringly. "He said, 'You are very welcome here.'"

"No, I didn't," said Armand.

All eyes went to him, and my heart skipped a beat. Did he truly want me to reveal what he'd said? I could only stare at him with uncomprehending eyes.

"I asked her how she liked the food," said Armand.

Perhaps he had mistranslated. I tried to relax. But then I met his gaze. He was staring at me, his dark eyes appearing almost black, and he smiled—a private, triumphant smile—and I knew he had not misspoken. I was not welcome. Prince Armand had told me—in Ogrese, no less—that he did not want me here.

I gathered my wits. "Oh," I said. "Of course. SSyng psySSahbuSS. Most Ogrese phrases have to do with food. I confused it with a different phrase."

"That is an amazing gift you have," said Jerrold. "Did I hear Jindar? I know no more than a few select, decidedly diplomatic phrases." He laughed. The mood of the table remained light. No one suspected what Armand had told me. I tried to quell my shaken nerves.

"Ella speaks better than Sir Gregory," said Cecilia. "I don't doubt she could have taught me twice the Elfian he did in half the time."

The queen leaned forward. "As it happens, Sir Gregory has been talking about stepping down," she said. "He is getting on in years. It may be time we offered him a manse in the country. If we have found a replacement, that is." She beamed at me, and I realized what she wanted.

"Mother," said Char, and he sounded affronted. "Ella is not a staff member."

"Oh, I don't mean to suggest that, Char," said the queen. "Sir Gregory is far more than a tutor. His official position is that of Court Linguist. He sits in on council meetings when an ambassador is present, and he has been working on Kyrrian translations for our collection of foreign texts. Still, he barely speaks Jindar, and I'm certain he knows no Ogrese."

"Court Linguist?" I said. I had wondered what responsibilities I would incur as part of the royal family. It seemed I now had my answer.

"You don't have to," said Char quickly. "You can think about it for a while."

"No," I said. "I accept. I'd love to." It was an indescribably better title than Princess. A linguist was a scholar, and I grinned to think of all the foreign books I'd have access to. My only hesitation was in regard to tutoring. I wondered how difficult Armand would be. His smirk from across the table had already melted into a cold glower. I would have to think carefully about how best to approach him. Perhaps he was simply wary of me, still a stranger to him. Once we got to know each other, perhaps he'd warm to me.

Perhaps. What a devilish word. It could make a person believe in anything.

I took up my wine and drank.


Translations from Ella's conversation with Armand.

Armand: (Ayorthaian) You're pretty. My brother is lucky to have found you.

Ella: (Ayorthaian) Thank you. You speak very well. Do you like—

Armand: (Elfian) Hello. (lit. "Sun and rain.") Who are you?

Ella: (Elfian) Ella of Frell. Who are you?

Armand: (Elfian) I am the prince Armand, son of the king and fourth in line to the throne of Kyrria. (Jindar) Why does my brother choose you above noble maidens?

Ella: (Jindar) Will you say it again, please?

Armand: (Ogrese) You're not welcome. (lit. "You may eat the spoiled discards from our dinner.")

Ella: (Ogrese) The food is delicious.