The Secret of the Seven Princesses

28 September 1707

Again, I take up my quill to write of the unusual occurrences that have happened around the castle lately, particularly since His Majesty issued the proclamation for the prince contest almost three months ago. In that time, we have yet to go more than a couple weeks without having a guest arrive to try their hand at winning the hand of one of the princesses.

Though I understand His Majesty's motives for implementing this competition, I can't help but regret the trouble it brings to the household and our daily routine, especially since many of the contestants have been less than pleasant in their treatment of the servants, the household staff, and the princesses themselves. I also can't help but notice that, though we have had several visits and princes try their hand at the contest thus far, they have all failed. It certainly seems to me as though this competition is a fruitless endeavor, but who am I to question the judgment of a king?

The princesses have succeeded in keeping their secret. After many nights of observing them at dinner, I believe I have determined how they've been able to accomplish this. A few nights ago, I happened to see Princess Cliodne slipping a vial of some substance into Prince Delvin's goblet. I suspect that this unknown substance—it looked to be a powder—is actually a sedative of sorts, to ensure that the contestant remains safely unconscious and oblivious to their secret. Though I know my duty to the king, I can't bring myself to tell him about his daughters' methods. In fact, I am partly relieved that their actions have prevented any of the princes from taking advantage of their sleeping arrangements, or even winning the contest altogether. Not to cast aspersions on any of their characters, but I have had serious doubts about each of the men who have entered.

The first contestant, Prince Tavle of Auchlin, did not receive a good reception from anyone in the palace. My own acquaintance with him was limited, as I spent the majority of his visit arranging space in the stable for his six carriage horses, not to mention clearing space in the adjoining field for the carriage itself, which was at least twice as large as King Gustave's finest. Far from being impressive, it seemed nothing if not unwieldy, and very inconvenient for his hosts. It all came to naught; I received word at six the next morning that Prince Tavle had been found climbing the roof near the kitchen's chimney, shouting for help in getting down. When questioned, he was unable to give any response other than a muttered "Maybe they're not so beautiful after all." We are unsure as to whether he was referring to the stars or the princesses themselves. The princesses were just as tight-lipped, revealing nothing save that they had thought the Prince knew how to get down from the roof. After that debacle, I never missed another dinner—I found them far too entertaining.

The next contestant to appear was Lord Culwich of Yugolf, a duke who lives just beyond the northwestern border of Kyoria. It was a good thing that his property was not located within the country itself, or his banishment would have been problematic. In person, Culwich was a rotund individual who put away more food than the entire royal family combined…for the last few weeks, even. The princesses all seemed to share a marked disgust over his eating habits and physical appearance, not to mention his personal hygiene. At more than one point during the meal, I observed him using his dinner napkin to mop his sweat from his round, reddish face, then using the same napkin to wipe his mouth and hands clean of food. This surely didn't go unnoticed by the princesses; I particularly took note of Princess Eralie's marked avoidance of even looking in his direction.

Somehow, I wasn't surprised that Culwich was quite as unsuccessful as his predecessor. The next morning, he was found fast asleep in the middle of the dining room table, on top of the golden platter that Cook usually reserves for special occasion roasts. With his straight brown hair, slightly protuberant lower jaw, and the apple that someone had stuck into his mouth, he looked remarkably like a giant boar. I could hardly keep from laughing. It took several minutes to wake Culwich and even longer to explain the situation to him and His Majesty. We were in no way aided by the princesses, who seemed entirely without remorse even as they tried to deny their part, particularly Princess Petra: "But Father! You know I'm allergic to apples!" King Gustave knew no such thing, and even I had to admit that her defense was weakened by the fact that she drinks apple juice every morning for breakfast.

Following Lord Culwich was Sir Magnus, the Earl of Chetya to the south. No one, not even His Majesty, was altogether happy to hear who had presented himself as the next contestant, as Sir Magnus has quite a reputation for his overindulgence in strong drink. He lived up to the rumors, imbibing twenty-seven goblets of wine in the course of a half hour dinner, becoming louder and ever more boisterous after each one. I don't think I was the only one surprised to see him stand at the end of the meal, though he did require assistance from Gerard, one of the servers, in finding the exit. King Gustave—wisely, I thought—refrained from inviting Magnus to join him in a nightcap drink. I doubt that he gave much thought to solving the mystery during the night, and I highly suspect that he needed very little encouragement—herbal or otherwise—in sleeping the night away.

He was still sleeping soundly the next morning, when Weston found him cradled in the ballroom chandelier. It took four servants to get him down, and I advised them to avoid waking him until his feet were on solid ground once more. Part of me felt sorry for Sir Magnus in his predicament, that is, until he became violently ill three times while returning to the princesses' room. When His Majesty confronted his daughters (with Sir Magnus standing alongside, smelling rather like moldy grapes), Petra's quick response was:

"Well, Father, he did mention last night that he felt as if he could fly. I was under the impression that he was speaking metaphorically."

I am finding it harder and harder to keep a straight face.

The stories of the first few contestants' failures seemed to have spread, for our next contestant did not show up until two weeks after Sir Magnus left. Prince Casimir of Miroa came not from his home country, but from the monastery where he'd been a resident for three years. He'd apparently heard about our unusual opportunity from correspondence with his mother. In dining with the family, I could see little reason to either like or dislike the man. He seemed to have no obvious vices or flaws. In fact, he had no distinguishing qualities whatsoever. Remaining mostly silent during mealtime, his taciturn disposition seemed more suitable for one entering into religious orders than as the head of state. He may have been a bit boring, but I could see no real harm in him. Maybe this is why, instead of finding Casimir in the rafters of the stable, hidden in a suit of armor, or some other unusual spot, he was left in peaceful slumber in the comfort of his own cot. I suspect, however, that this mercy was not in complete accordance with Petra's wishes. She, at least, didn't seem altogether thrilled with Casimir's piety, though she was unusually quiet the next morning.

Not only was I slightly disappointed by the lack of Petra's wit, but several of the household servants likewise expressed disappointment in missing the prince "seek-and-find" which they have come to anticipate almost as a game. Several of them have even begun to place wagers on where the next contestant will be found and who will find him.

Crown Prince Pieter of Nilvian was the next to appear, along with a large retinue of servants that nearly equaled our own extensive palace staff. From the accounts that I'd heard of him, I expected a well-educated, intelligent man, as he'd been under the private tutelage of three of the most well-known scholars in the world. I know His Majesty had high hopes that he would be the one to solve the mystery at long last. It did not take me long to discover that, in this case, the truth fell far short of the rumor.

Pieter did not have a single original thought in his body. Almost every word that came from his mouth was quoted from some famous piece of literature, often used incorrectly or out of context. He seemed to particularly favor Socrates. I was amused on several occasions when Princess Callia attempted to correct a misquoted phrase, but he refused to listen to her or submit to her wisdom. For instance, Pieter would have had us believe that "A child is always an honest man," and would not heed Callia's correction that, "An honest man is always a child." Their debate over this particular quote grew quite heated, and it never was officially resolved…until the next day.

I was the one who found Prince Pieter this time around (for which Weston won three silver pieces for his wager). He was lying on one of the top shelves in the library, wedged between Socrates and Plato like a flesh-and-blood bookend. It was a miracle that the prince didn't tumble from the shelf long before anyone found him. He narrowly avoided serious injury, though I doubt any of the princesses would have regretted him.

Petra's response when His Majesty questioned them? "Pieter clearly needed to check his sources, and where better to go?" I was reluctantly impressed with all of the sisters during this interview, as even Eurielle had perfected her innocent expression—but then, they've been given plenty of opportunities to practice.

About a month ago, we received another visitor: Ambassador Glyndwr of Kellehen. At first, I believed that he had reported to the castle as a political ambassador, not as a contestant. Though still quite robust, he is nearing fifty years of age. His Majesty seemed a little taken aback by the ambassador's entry as well, though he received him graciously. I must admit, I was not at all pleased with his behavior at dinner. Rather than taking the customary seat to the left of the king, he insisted on sitting at the end of the table, next to Princess Eurielle. From my perspective, he paid an inordinate amount of attention to the youngest princess, and Eurielle's face—always so expressive—seemed frozen in alarm. Were he to have won the competition, I have little doubt that he would have chosen her for his child-bride, despite the fact that his age was hardly suitable even for the eldest princess (heaven forbid!).

His behavior at dinner left me concerned about Eurielle's safety during the night. I even suggested to Princess Eralie that the youngest princess be removed to another chamber during Glyndwr's stay. Though she thanked me heartily for my concern with sparkling eyes and a gentle smile, Eralie assured me that the princesses had the situation under control. I didn't need to worry at all about either Princess Eurielle or Glyndwr's success in solving the mystery, as the ambassador was discovered the next morning in the oddest place yet.

About midmorning, after the servants had been searching for Glyndwr for a quarter of an hour, Geoffrey, one of the stable hands, informed me that there was a small dinghy floating in the middle of the lake. When I went out to investigate, I noticed that the boat wasn't just floating; it was traveling in circles. It was Glyndwr, and he had been set out with only one oar, making it nearly impossible for him to return to shore without assistance. And apparently, the ambassador was unable to swim. As you can imagine, it took quite some time to bring him back to dry land, so it was nearly midday when His Majesty was able to face his daughters (Alone, this time, as Glyndwr had by this time departed Kyoria almost as quickly as he could order his carriage).

In response to this latest, the princesses appeared to have worked out a little theatrics beforehand. Petra denied their part in Glyndwr's fate, adding: "Father, you know we're all afraid of water," followed by a shriek when Eurielle handed her a glass filled to the brim. Despite his anger, I do suspect that the king's mouth twitched a bit to hide a smile. Indeed, how could he mourn the loss of such an unworthy contender?

Our most recent visitor, Prince Delvin of Tabor, was perhaps the most memorable of all—not only because of the prince himself, but also because of his fate. He arrived nearly a week ago, and the only word I can think to describe him would be "dazzling." Delvin was admittedly a very handsome individual, with bright golden hair and a structured face. He dazzled the house maids, he dazzled the serving girls, he even dazzled the princesses to an extent. I suspect that Raia, in particular, would have been inclined to like him for his artistic face…if it weren't for his vanity. Because as much as he dazzled everyone else, he certainly dazzled himself the most. I don't think he was able to pass a single reflective surface without using it to check his appearance.

At one point, when I was escorting Prince Delvin to the dining hall with Princesses Callia and Petra, the candidate paused briefly in front of a wall mirror to adjust a curl along his forehead and murmur something. At first, I thought I'd misheard, but a glance at Petra's disgusted expression confirmed my suspicions—Delvin actually referred to his reflection as "gorgeous." Never have I met a vainer or more narcissistic man, and I have to admit that I was rather looking forward to seeing what the princesses would do to bring him down a peg.

They outdid themselves. In my wildest imagination, I could never have believed them capable of this. Unlike with Ambassador Glyndwr, Prince Delvin was found relatively easily and early in the morning, as his hiding place had been conveniently placed inside the spare dressing room on the third floor. Also unlike the Ambassador, it was much more difficult to restore Prince Delvin, as he had been intricately wedged in a triangle of three full-length mirrors, all bound together with ropes and chains from the dungeons. He was so tightly entrapped that only his head retained any range of movement—and even then, he could see nothing besides his own "gorgeous" reflection.

The servants spent an hour trying to free him without breaking the mirrors, for fear of harming Prince Delvin. Try as they might, they were unable to loosen the tangle of ropes and chains around the mirrors. His Majesty finally ordered Prince Delvin to be brought to the princesses' chamber in his current state. It was midmorning by this time, so I was somewhat surprised to find all of the princesses still in their room. Several were still asleep, but Princess Eralie, Princess Raia, and even Princess Petra were awake and seemed to be waiting for their father's appearance. In fact, they didn't even bother to feign innocence or ignorance this time, not even when the mirror trap was brought in. Before His Majesty even had time to say a word, Petra walked to Prince Devlin, circled the triangular trap, and turned to address her father saucily:

"He was already married to his reflection, Father. We merely felt they could be better acquainted."

I am still somewhat amazed at her audacity. Petra agreed to restore Prince Delvin, but only if she could be permitted to do so in complete privacy. We all retreated from the room, and Prince Delvin emerged ten minutes later, fully restored except for his peace of mind. Not surprisingly, he took little time in taking leave from the castle, though I did notice that he left a large collection of his own personal mirrors in his wake. I don't think he will ever view his own reflection with quite the same feelings as before.

Thus far, I have mostly described events in the past half-year that, though interesting, have been more entertaining than concerning. While I admit to being curious about where the princesses go and what they do at night, I have faith in their judgment and sincerely doubt that they are doing anything untoward or dangerous. That being said, there have been some other incidents—particularly lately—that have been somewhat disturbing that have resulted from their secrecy.

Most disturbingly, there has been the matter of Sir Luka. He has always insinuated himself into the workings of the palace as a "financial advisor," and for quite some time I have suspected that he was taking more advantage than was his due. Of course, I have little evidence besides my own suspicions, which have been increasing with recent events. Lately, Luka has been spending more and more time on the palace grounds, even when His Majesty has no need of his counsel. He has intruded upon the royal family's nighttime meal, even seeming to take it for granted that he is a welcome guest. Also, I have seen him talking secretly with individuals around the castle, including Horace (one of the guards) and Eileen, Judith's bunkmate in her servant's quarters. I suspect that he is bribing Horace for information on the princesses, and I don't even like to consider how he is paying Eileen for the same. Often I have wondered just how far he's willing to go to gain even a little bit of power.

His Majesty has tolerated Luka for his service to the crown, and it's no wonder, considering how he has hidden his true nature from his sovereign. However, I have always said that you take the measure of a man not by how he treats his equals or superiors, but by how he treats his inferiors—and Luka is one of the cruelest men I have ever come across. I'll never forget the bruises that covered Chip's back when Luka punished the stable hand for neglecting to properly oil and adjust his stirrups. And Gwen's eye was black for a month after she spilled wine on his trousers. Thus far, he's succeeded in keeping these activities from the ears of the king, but he hasn't been so successful in hiding them from the princesses. He's tried in the past to ingratiate himself to them, particularly to Callia, but now I fear that his failure in this respect and his desire to elevate himself at all costs may lead him to drastic measures. On the one hand, I certainly don't want him getting that close to the princesses…or the crown. On the other hand, I would give much to be able to see the princesses get the better of him as they have every other candidate. Not to mention, this would present an expedient way to rid him from the land for good.

Ty paused in his writing, considering anything else that he might need to write. Putting his pen down, he rubbed his eyes tiredly, feeling the strain of the early morning and the task of writing. Having determined to just end his entry there, he picked up his pen again, reached to dip it in the inkwell…and jumped from shock, upsetting his ink and sending a stream of black liquid across the smooth desk.

A rather odd individual stood before his desk, staring at him with a penetrating gaze. Her hunched stature and wrinkled face was familiar, and it only took Ty a few moments to remember her name: Rosetta. If memory served him correctly, she was the castle's newest employee, having only been hired as a washerwoman a few months prior to the start of the princesses' mystery. She had been largely unnoticed by many in the castle due to the fact that she couldn't speak English, though she understood it well enough and could make herself understood through hand signals. In fact, Ty was the only one who was actually able to speak to her in her native language, Uvegian.

Rosetta also possessed the uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere and disappear just as silently and quickly; she rivaled even Petra in stealth. In fact, Ty was still recovering from her latest exhibition of this talent. As he worked to slow his heartbeat back to a normal pace, he righted his inkwell, accepted a rag from the washerwoman, and began the process of mopping up the mess.

"Good morning, Rosetta. Can I help you with something?" he greeted her in Uvegian.

Rosetta was a woman of few words. Silently, she placed a bundle wrapped in plain brown paper on the edge of Ty's desk, far enough away from the spilled ink. Then she stared at him with a piercing gaze full of such meaning that he was sure he had missed something.

"They need you. Remember. Things are not as they appear." And with those short, cryptic phrases, she patted his cheek, giggled and glided out of the room. Completely nonplussed, Ty stared after her, his mouth hanging open slightly. What in the world…?

Dragging himself from his reverie, he glanced down to the ink-soaked rag under his palm. He painstakingly wiped the last vestiges of black streaks off his desk before turning his attention to the brown package left by Rosetta. It was a decent-sized bundle, not very sturdy or heavy; it was even a bit flexible, as if the thing contained inside had no definite shape. When he opened it, all he found was a rather threadbare cloak made of green velvet. Despite its ratty appearance, the strands were woven so tightly together that the light of his candle could not penetrate it. Ty didn't recognize it, so it couldn't be a cloak that he had mislaid in the wash—yet it seemed an odd gift. What did it have to do with Rosetta's cryptic advice?

Things are not as they appear, he thought. What in the world could that possibly mean?

Ty picked up his pen once more, dipped it in the thin layer of ink still in the jar, and settled in to write about this new mysterious occurrence.