I should play it safe, settle back into my seat, resume the serene, graceful façade of the prinzessin. A moment later it vanishes as my breath clouds the pane in the late-November chill. The faint reflection of my grin cuts across the glass. It’s because tonight, the von Eisendorfs are handing me an entirely different sort of opportunity.Īnd I would loathe for either of those opportunities to go to waste. One also might wonder why I care about chimneys, balconettes, and suck-ups. An opportunity to suck up to the margrave’s bride-to-be can’t be missed. I’d bet three solid gilden that they’re heating the guest chambers next door instead, in case I-well, in case the prinzessin needs a respite. One might wonder why the von Eisendorfs would keep a fire going up in their bedroom when they’ll be busy entertaining guests downstairs all evening. That chimney is currently chugging smoke into the dimming sky. Lamplight gilds only one of the balconettes, spilling from an adjacent room that looks to share the fat main chimney with the master bedroom. The real question tonight is whether it’s the only balcony. Lit windows are fewer on the third floor, but I still spot two bracketing the double doors where the master bedroom lets out onto its telltale grand balcony. There was a reason I dawdled in my bedroom at Castle Reigenbach: to make sure we hit peak Minkja traffic when we left an hour ago.īut I have more motive to survey the manor’s scenery than just making sure the Prinzessin arrives fashionably late. Good-a princess ought to be the last of the von Eisendorfs’ guests to arrive. It looks crowded already, even for a Sunday-night party. Shadows pass behind the first-floor windows, turning them to rosy eyes winking into the frosty twilight gloom.

I squint out the gilt-trimmed carriage window, studying the timber-and-plaster blocks of Eisendorf Manor as the horses draw us closer. Soon to be Markgräfin Gisele you-get-the-idea von Reigenbach of the empire’s largest territory, the border march of Bóern, once its margrave gets around to a wedding. Or to be precise: Gisele-Berthilde Ludwila von Falbirg of the Sovabin Principality, Prinzessin-Wahl of the Blessed Empire of Almandy. I don’t have to I learned long ago that princesses don’t owe their servants answers.Īnd for most of the last year, that’s the face I’ve worn: the princess. The driver’s muffled voice carries down to me inside. Two raps of gloved knuckles against the carriage roof.

It has been nearly thirteen years since Death and Fortune claimed me for their own, and I have come far enough through winter and cold that almost no one calls me Vanja now.

Margaret owen little thieves