Elster nodded, though her hands released the prince’s neck.
The rara linguato tear the swan maid’s humanity from her slipped between Odile’s lips with one long gasp. Her face felt feverish and damp. Perhaps tears. She called for Papa to take the swan by the legs into the kitchen and return carrying a bulging strudel for the prince.
As a long-eared pother owl, von Rothbart had hoped to intimidate the nobles with a bloodcurdling shriek as he flew in through a window. An impressive father earned respect, he knew. But with the cacophony in the ballroom — courtiers screaming, guards shouting, the orchestra attempting something cheerful — only three fainted.
Von Rothbart roosted on the high-backed chair at the lead table. He shrugged off the mantle of feathers and seated himself with his legs on the tablecloth and his boots in a dish of poached boar.
“I suppose the venery for your lot would be an inbred of royals.”
No one listened.
He considered standing atop the table, but his knees ached after every transformation. As did his back. Instead, he pushed his way through the crowd at the far end, where most of the commotion seemed centered.
He did not expect to find a tearful Odile surrounded by a ring of lowered muskets. One guard trembled so. The prince shouted at her. The king pulled at his son’s arm.
Von Rothbart raised his arms. The faux trees shook with a sudden wind that topped glasses, felled wigs, and swept the tiles free of silk leaves. “Stop,” he shouted. “Stop and hear me!”
All eyes turned to him. He tasted fear as all the muskets pointed at him.
“You there, I command you to return Elster to me.” The prince’s face had become ruddy with ire, his mouth flecked with spittle.
“Who?”
“No lies, Sorcerer. Choose your words carefully.”
The king stepped between them. He looked old. As old as von Rothbart felt. “Let us have civil words.”
“Papa—” cried Odile.
“If you have hurt my daughter in any way—”
A cardinal standing nearby smoothed out his sanguine robes. “Your daughter bewitched an innocent tonight.”
“She flew away from me,” said the prince. “My sweet Elster is out there. At night. All alone.”
Von Rothbart looked around him. He could not remember ever being so surrounded by men and women, and their expressions of disgust, fear, and hatred left him weak. Weak as an old fool, one who thought he could ingratiate his dear child into their ranks like a cuckoo did with its egg.
Only magpies would care for such shiny trappings, and they were sorrowful birds who envied human speech.
He took a deep breath and held it a moment as the magic began. His lungs hurt as the storm swirled within his body. He winced as a rib cracked. He lost two teeth as the gusts escaped his mouth. The clouds painted on the ceiling became dark and thick and spat lightning and rain down upon the people.
Odile stretched and caught the wind von Rothbart sent her as the crowd fled. He took her out of the palace and into the sky. It pained him to speak, so all he asked her was if she was hurt. The tears that froze on her cheeks answered Yes, Papa.
“Von Rothbart!”
Odile looked out the window. She had expected the prince. Maybe he’d be waving a sword or a blunderbuss and be standing before a thousand men. But not the king standing by the doors and a regal carriage drawn by snorting stallions. He looked dapper in a wool suit, and she preferred his round fur hat to a crown.
“Von Rothbart, please, I seek an audience with you.” Odile ran down the staircase and then opened the doors. The king plucked the hat from his head and stepped inside. “Fräulein von Rothbart.”
“Your Majesty.” She remembered to curtsy.
“Your father—”
“Papa is ill. Ever since. well, that night, he’s taken to bed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Your departure was marvelous. The court has been talking of nothing else for days.” The king chuckled. “I’d rather be left alone.”
She led him to the rarely used sitting room. The dusty upholstery embarrassed her.
“It’s quiet here. Except the birds, of course.” The king winced. “My apologies.”
“Your son—”
“Half-mad they say. Those who have seen him. He’s roaming the countryside, hoping to find her. A swan by day and the fairest maiden by night.” He tugged at his hat, pulling it out of shape. “Only, she’s not turning back to a maiden again, is she?”
Odile sat down in her father’s chair. She shook her head.
“Unless, child, your father. or you would consent to removing the curse.”
“Why should I do that, Your Majesty?”
The king leaned forward. “When I was courting the queen, her father, a powerful duke, sent me two packages. In one was an ancient sword, the iron blade dark and scarred. An heirloom of the duke’s family that went back generations, used in countless campaigns — every one a victory.” The king made a fist. “When I grasped the hilt, leather salted by sweat, I felt I could lead an army.”
“And the second package?” Odile asked.
“That one contained a pillow.”
“A pillow?”
The king nodded. “Covered with gold brocade and stuffed with goose down.” The king laughed. “The messenger delivered as well a note that said I was to bring one, only one, of the packages with me to dinner at the ducal estate.”
“A test.”
“That is what my father said. My tutors had been soldiers, not statesmen. The sword meant strength, courage, to my father. What a king should, no, must possess to keep his lands and people safe. To him the choice was clear.”
Odile smiled. Did all fathers enjoy telling stories of their youth?
“I thought to myself, if the answer was so clear, then why the test? What had the duke meant by the pillow? Something soft and light, something womanly. ”
The notion of a woman being pigeonholed so irritated Odile. Was she any less a woman because she lacked the apparent grace of girls like Elster? She looked down at the breeches she liked to wear, comfortable not only because of the fit but also because they had once been worn by her father. Her hands were not smooth but spotted with ink and rubbed with dirt from where she had begun to dig Papa’s grave. Their escape had been too taxing. She worried over each breath he struggled to take.
“. meant to rest upon, to lie your head when sleeping. Perhaps choosing the pillow would show my devotion to his daughter, that I would be a loving husband before a valiant king—”
“Does he love her?” Odile asked.
The king stammered, as if unwilling to tear himself from the story.
“Your son. Does he love her?”
“What else would drive a man of privilege to the woods? He’s forsaken crown for thorn. Besides, a lost princess? Every peasant within miles has been bringing fowl to the palace hoping for a reward.”
“A princess.” Odile felt a bitter smile curl the edges of her mouth. Would his Royal Highness be roaming the land if he knew his true love was a seamstress? But then Odile remembered Elster’s touch, the softness of her lips, her skin.
Perhaps Elster had been meant to be born a princess. She had read in Papa’s books of birds that raid neighboring nests, roll out the eggs and lay their own. Perhaps that happened to girls as well. The poor parent never recognized the greedy chick for what it truly was. The prince might never as well.
If her own, unwanted destiny of doting bride had been usurped, then couldn’t she choose her future? Why not take the one denied to her?
“The rings on your fingers.”
“Worth a small fortune.” He removed thick bands set with rubies and pearls. “A bride price then? I could also introduce you to one of the many eligible members of my court.”