Princess at Heart (The Rosewood Chronicles)

Part 2: The Kiss

1907 painting by Gustav Klimt

To the Man in the Goat Mask,

I do hope this address will suffice, for I’m afraid I know you only as the man in the goat mask who tormented my Partizan on the roof in Tokyo, or perhaps you’d prefer the ‘Master of Leviathan’? Or do you only let those you deem useful enough refer to you in that way?

With regard to the new puzzle pieces you have so generously gifted me, I find the image of the wolf admittedly disturbing, although it’s not hard to remember that they are also hunters when you yourself are one. In spite of this, I feel I am getting nowhere with these clues and would hope you would see it time to give me something more substantial, perhaps a corner piece? Something to build the rest of the puzzle from?

Your ever-curious and increasingly frustrated niece

PS I understand the story you weave to your lackeys about Partizans, but, I assure you, Jamie is content in his position, which you will undoubtedly learn soon enough.

In spite of the light-hearted wordplay, the handwriting had an almost unnoticeable quiver, a secret hidden in the words that told of nervous shakes or agitation; either way, it meant the princess was scared.

Sipping his bitter coffee, Claude traced the letter with bemused satisfaction, feeling the parchment under his fingers like butterfly wings, pinned down and exactly where he wanted them.

‘May I get you anything else, sir?’ The valet finished placing the breakfast items on the table, his voice sounding odd and hollow, a typical side-effect of the Hamelin Formula.

Claude didn’t even know the man’s name, though that was no concern to him. All that mattered was that he’d wanted this cabin and he’d wanted a servant to ensure that his sojourn would be comfortable, and, most importantly, he could get all this and more with just a drop of poison. The only problem was it was terribly boring. Claude much preferred when people did what he wanted because they revered him, as it had been when he was a prince.

‘No,’ Claude replied, watching where the housekeeper stood corpse still, constantly waiting to be told his next move with a plastic smile on his face. ‘Go and clean the cabin.’

The morning mists that clung to the mountain lakes of the Bavarian Alps spread up to the tips of the ferns, trapping the landscape in the illusion of a wildfire. The air was fresh; the cold had never bothered Claude, having grown up in the snowy landscape of Maradova. He was perfectly content to welcome the brisk dawn barefoot on the decking of the cabin. It reminded him of the palace, waking to eat breakfast on the balcony, nursing away whatever trouble he’d found himself in the night before. In those days he’d had the whole world at his fingertips, and he wanted it back. The palace, the adoration that gave him unlimited control, everything owed to him as the rightful king of Maradova, and he knew the country would not be whole while that mangy lying pack was in charge. The country needed the true wolf to lead the pack.

Holding the princess’s letter up to his nose, he could smell roses. It was the one thing that threw him each time. The delicate scent did not fit with his memories of the palace, as if his brother’s daughter had been grown from a different garden. He folded the letter away. ‘I’ve always detested roses.’

A soft tapping on the glass screen of the decking let Claude know that Ingrid had arrived. The sound was muffled, as if she didn’t want to disturb him, even though he’d requested her presence.

Without looking behind him, he gestured for her to come.

‘You wanted to see me, Master?’

There was always a neediness to Ingrid’s tone like a mewling cat, a hungry longing for his favour that both pleased and irritated Claude depending on his mood. In truth, he didn’t want to see her at all, after what she’d done in Tokyo, pushing too hard at Jamie until he had been forced to throw himself to the ground just when Claude had him in his clutches.

‘Did you bring what I asked for?’ He still didn’t turn round, focusing on the writing set he’d laid out on the table.

Ingrid was clearly trying her best to stay composed, but Claude could always sense the quirks and twitches, glances and fidgets that most people would miss; they were as clear as the mountains before him, screaming the person’s weaknesses.

‘Here.’ Ingrid laid a wooden box beside him on the table. Claude could tell that she was desperate to have his attention, but looking at her right now would only annoy him, so he waved her back a few steps. ‘I’m going to make it up to you,’ she uttered, a venom in her voice that he knew was only poisoning herself.

‘You are,’ he replied simply, and this time he did turn to look at her, locking on to those furious grey eyes with sharp focus that made the girl flinch.

Ingrid was short for a Partizan, hair black like an oil spill, and since her tantrum in Tokyo she’d not been caring for it. The strands fell in cobweb clumps over her delicate feline features. It bothered Claude immeasurably to see someone who served him looking so unkempt, shivering and red-nosed in the cold air, and he made a note to have his valet fix her appearance.

‘Come,’ he demanded, gesturing to the wooden chair on the other side of the table. ‘I want to show you something.’

She hesitated, but Claude caught it. Usually she jumped at the chance to be near him, and he knew exactly what this meant. Despite his continuing irritation with her, it was time to bring her back in, remind her why she served him. He’d learned from Saskia that it was better to let them in than keep them at a distance.

He’d always suspected Saskia would be the weak chain in their group. She was never loyal only to him. Her heart belonged to her Parisian master, and it’s precisely why he was wary of letting her in on their plans, demanding that she prove herself first.

His first clue that she’d never truly be his was her desire for payment in exchange for adhering to his list of demands, and there was always the expectation that when she had acquired the money he’d offered to lure her in, she’d leave them to run away with her girlfriend. Having factored this into his plan, he’d kept her in the dark about most of their operations, eventually deciding that the pros of having someone close to the princess outweighed the cons.

Claude hadn’t expected Saskia to turn on them so soon and was now left wondering if she might have stayed had he not alienated her from the group. Her betrayal was still a humiliating mark on Leviathan, one that he would be sure to make her pay for. He would not be making the same mistake with Ingrid.

Lifting the lid, Claude reached into the box, careful not to disturb the rest of the items, and pulled out the two new clues he intended to send his niece.

‘Do you know who this is?’ Between his fingers, Claude held out an old photograph. The colour had faded with time, yet the faces in the picture remained clear, their purpose sharp and vibrant.

Ingrid swallowed, her eyes flicking over the photo with nervous speed. ‘Yes.’

‘I’m going to send this to the princess,’ Claude explained. ‘It will be my second-to-last letter to her before the truth comes out. Do you understand why I am doing this?’

Ingrid nodded, and Claude raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to say it out loud.

‘You want to give her a chance to put things right,’ she said quickly, looking down at her lap like a petulant child.

‘I can see that you are once again doubting my choices.’

Ingrid’s hands began to bunch the fabric of her skirt up so tight in her fists that it looked as though she might claw through her skin. ‘I don’t think she deserves it,’ she finally spat out, her mouth closing quickly to lock in anything else that might spill over.

Occasionally Ingrid was able to say the right thing; it was rare, and usually unintentional, but nonetheless it pleased Claude immensely when he was able to coax her into doing what he wanted, especially when she believed it was her idea.

The truth, of course, was that Claude had no intention of giving them the chance to make amends, but it was important that his followers believed him to be a benevolent and forgiving master.

‘I agree – she might not deserve it,’ Claude said, and his lips twisted at Ingrid’s whiplash response. Like putty in his hands, she softened so easily, and her fingers uncurled. ‘I do not do this because she deserves it. I am doing it to prove our point.’

As if on cue, his valet set down two cups of coffee between them. Gently pushing one towards Ingrid, Claude signalled for her to join him, knowing the gesture would be the last bit of bait to reel her in. ‘Once she knows the truth about her family, and she inevitably chooses to side with them, Jamie will come to us of his own free will.’

Ingrid swallowed down the bitter coffee and the effect was instant. Her eyes widened like a cat focusing on her prey, and that impulse was precisely what Claude needed to keep in check.

‘I am giving you a chance too, Ingrid,’ he began, and, from the way her lips parted in hunger, he knew she needed a reminder that his favour would not be easily won back. ‘Not because I think you deserve it, but because you still have lessons to learn.’

As expected, she flinched, the words getting the message across without alienating her.

‘Now, if Jamie should choose to come to me, what will you do to fix the awful impression you’ve made that has not only damaged your relationship with him but mine too?’

Ingrid’s shoulders lifted, and she shrank in on herself.

‘I’ll be good.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘I’ll be quiet and stay out of the way. I can do that.’

That was not the answer that Claude wanted.

‘No, no, Ingrid,’ he said, tutting, shaking his head with a weary sigh one might expect to give a child. ‘Jamie needs to see that we are a family, that we are patient and make amends.’ Ensuring that Ingrid was really paying attention, Claude dropped his voice until it was almost a growl, a clear sign that what he said next was an order. ‘When we bring Jamie in, you will be present; you will cook for him, clean for him, be helpful and accommodating. Can you do that?’

In the distance a murder of crows set off from the high top of a tree, their rasping, haggard cackle taunting Ingrid over such a humiliating demand, but Claude knew she’d agree, because it was the only way to get back in his good books.

‘Yes, I can do that.’ Her voice had diminished, weighed down with defeat, the only indication of her usual gutsy attitude coming through in the way her jaw tensed as she spoke. Another subtle twitch that did not escape Claude’s attention.

‘Very good.’ He clapped his hands together for good measure, applauding the behaviour he wanted to see. ‘Feel free to take the coffee tray to the kitchen when you go.’