The Featherbed Puzzle

Chapter 1“Mother,” Arthur said patiently, “that’s the eighth princess. And the fifth prince. It’s only been two weeks.” Queen Tatiana Amaretta Marguerite de Fleur of Starskeep set down her teacup with a tiny porcelain clink and a frown gathering between her eyes. Sunlight laced the palace’s renovated breakfast room with gold, flying like bird’s wings over blue-striped wallpaper. The paper was new and delicate and perfectly in fashion, as were the chairs and the idyllic landscape paintings and the aubergine silk of her gown. “And you’ve liked none of them. You did say you were willing to consider marriage, darling.” “Consider,” Arthur said. “Not propose on the spot. And this last one informed me that she’d overlook my unfortunate literary tendencies because of our money. While her brother tried to put a hand on my thigh under the table at dinner.” Tatiana considered this. “Did he say it was only about the money?” “Mother…” “I want you to be happy, you know.” She reached for his hand, patted it, gave him the melting smile that charmed courtiers and diplomats into agreement. Starskeep sat at the intersection of three gently flowing trading-hub rivers, and had blossomed into a wealthy marzipan confection of a city-state, full of tulips and canals and prosperity and Tatiana’s chess-master mind behind negotiations and import-export arrangements. Arthur adored his mother, and sometimes thought it was a good thing she’d never harbored ambitions to conquer the world. He said, “I know. And I love you, you know that. But I don’t actually need to meet every eligible person on your list in the span of a single fortnight. How long is your list, anyway?” “Extensive,” his mother retorted without batting an eye. “And exhaustive. Darling, I want the best for you. A proper match. Someone utterly lovely. Someone with impeccable royal bloodlines. Someone who knows how to direct a household and whether the Duke of Oakenwood or the Marchioness of Vervian should have the order of precedence. Someone who brings you a dowry of gold and jewels and roses carved from rubies.” Arthur sighed. “Wouldn’t you like rubies?” his mother inquired, with hope. “I’ve always thought one can never have too many.” “I just thought,” Arthur said, while the sunbeam stretched out to touch the tip of his boot, “that I’d like someone I can talk to. Someone who might be interested in books. Or at least curious about…I don’t know. The world.” “What could be more interesting than ruby roses?” Someone who could carve roses out of gemstones would likely be interesting to talk to, at that; Arthur sighed again, but found himself smiling. His mother meant well. And he did need to start thinking about marriage, as an only son and prince and heir. He’d managed to put it off until his twenty-fifth birthday, two weeks ago. That’d been the catalyst for the onslaught of prospective spouses, beginning the night of the birthday ball his mother’d thrown. There’d been six flattering sugar sculptures of his head, and an entire wall of rare indigo orchids. He said, “I’ll consider whomever you invite, but no promises, all right?” “That’s all I ask.” His mother picked up her teacup again. “That and you settling on a perfectly faultless and advantageous match, of course.” Of course, Arthur thought. Just like that. So easy. He did not expect love, not precisely. He’d always wistfully liked the idea—as a boy reading fairytales and romances, as a young man watching the captain of the Home Guard fall head over heels for their palace’s tempestuous pastry chef—but he’d known that his choices wouldn’t entirely be his own. He knew about obligations, and a prince’s duties, and his mother’s idea of a worthy match. He knew his parents hadn’t been in love. They’d been friends, in a warm and unruffled sort of way; King Consort Victor had been calm and unassuming, a prince who’d arrived as a second son with a splendid dowry and then married the future queen because they both liked art collecting and they got on well enough. Arthur remembered his father mostly as a deep voice and tall height and a hand holding his in the Long Gallery, explaining something about light. His mother had been genuinely sad, twenty years ago, at Victor’s sudden passing; he knew that. But she hadn’t been heartbroken. And she did not seem lonely now. He thought he might be, a little. He had not ever had close friends; he didn’t seem to be good at that. He’d had private tutors instead of going to a public university because his mother’d thought that more fitting; he’d had fencing lessons and riding lessons and language lessons, but if he went out to a bookshop or fencing salon and tried to say hello, everyone knew who he was, and they also knew how his mother wished to be treated. The shops and salons generally lapsed into awkward silences. He knew the acceptable topics for polite conversation and how to dance and how to escort a lady or gentleman to supper. But he’d never been sure how one moved from that to anything of substance. He could handle Cabinet meetings with ministers easily enough, because they had a set agenda. He was good with facts and history and clearly laid-out goals. But a fashionable young prince or princess would likely be bored to tears by budget estimates. And he couldn’t very well start rambling about the books he might be currently reading, a hundred-year-old recipe book or translated classical play, while he ought to be assiduously asking whether a supper companion had found the weather pleasant or might prefer a sweeter wine. Still, he hoped he could at least find someone he got along with, even if love was only true in those childhood fairytales. Someone kind, perhaps. Someone thoughtful. Someone who would not be bothered that their future husband stayed up late to read fascinating histories of ancient banquets, or enjoyed assembling little wood-cut puzzles, or found more satisfaction in planning new bridges and canals than in dinner-parties and glittering balls. He wouldn’t mind escorting someone to those glittering balls, if it made them happy. He’d hope, in turn, that the person might not mind occasionally visiting a bookshop or library. They could be friends, the way his parents had been. Getting along. Supporting each other. Sharing a life. That would be enough. That would have to be enough. Surely at least one of the prospects would be kind. Somewhere on his mother’s extensive list, someone must have a good heart, not simply seeking the Starskeep money or attempting to seduce an eligible prince and woo his prosperous estates and investments. He picked up a lavender biscuit. Decorated in white chocolate swirls, it turned simple teatime sugar into beauty; Chef Pierre must be extraordinarily happy, Arthur thought. In love with his profession, and with his husband. He ate the biscuit. It tasted delicious. * * * * The next name on his mother’s list arrived the following evening. Princess Elsabeth Amorata Gloriana of Woodlight came with six coaches in her baggage train, eight maids, and a lap dog that Arthur’d assumed was a pillow at first glance. It had pink-dyed fur, dusted with some sort of glitter. She was lovely. From the window, Arthur watched her float up the front steps in a swirl of pure grace; her gown matched her dog’s fur, rose-hued and shimmering. She had wide blue eyes and a slim golden crown, and her corn-silk hair fell to her shoulders in perfect curls. She walked as if thoroughly used to palaces, and footmen, and doors being opened for her entrance. His mother said encouragingly, “She’s fond of dogs. And she has a marvelous eye for fashion, and that does matter, you know.” “That’s a dog?” Arthur said. “It sparkles.” “Honestly, darling. She’s had four offers from three kingdoms—young Willem of Daxonburg asked twice. But of course he’s only a fifth son and has freckles to boot.” “I collect wooden puzzles,” Arthur pointed out. He did not have freckles—not that he personally considered their presence a flaw—but he did not think of himself as particularly dazzling, either: dark brown hair, scholar’s shoulders, eyes that shifted perplexingly between green and brown depending on what color he wore. Generally average. Not sparkling. Unlike the princess’s dog. “And I have to count time in my head when I try to dance.” “Princess Elsabeth can be graceful enough for both of you. Come along. And smile.” Princess Elsabeth did like dogs. And knew about good impressions and public appearances. That might be promising. Arthur came along, and smiled, as directed. The princess curtseyed prettily when he bowed. He thought he’d managed that well enough; she accepted his escort inside. He asked about her journey; she answered pleasantly and unremarkably. She praised the sparkling fantasia of crystal that embodied the new entryway chandelier; he told her which craftsman had made it, and she nodded as if taking notes. All right, he thought: not a brilliant life-changing start, but not dreadful. He asked whether she might like a tour of the house before dinner, or a walk through the rose garden, or tea in the library. He hadn’t meant to say the library, but his brain temporarily forgot the existence of all three parlors and only remembered about books. Princess Elsabeth regarded him with dainty astonishment. “Oh, dear, no. I’m afraid I’ll already be late coming down; of course I’ll need to change clothing, and hair-ribbons as well, and I haven’t brought the proper gloves for being in a room full of dirty dusty books, you see.” “Ah,” Arthur said. He tried to take good care of the library; there were certainly old volumes, and he was lovingly cautious with them, but there were shiny new printings as well, romances and sensational novels and botanical studies. “Yes. Of course.” The princess went off to change clothing and hair-ribbons. Arthur, at the base of the grand staircase, considered a trail of diamond glitter, and the portrait of his parents at the turn of the steps, and the sway of the chandelier. The crystal light danced back at him, effervescent and carefree. * * * * Princess Elsabeth’s dinner gown managed to be even more pink and even more sparkle-laden than before. Arthur saw the expressions worn by palace staff after she passed by, as everyone looked at newly glittery rugs and tapestries. He made a mental note to give everyone bonuses. And possibly a week off, with pay. They settled in to dinner. The princess complimented everything readily—a blackberry sauce, a creamy sweet potato and pepper soup—but the compliments seemed odd, given that she barely ate anything at all: a spoonful of soup, a sliver of salmon, a nibble of custard. She fed the fluffy bejeweled lapdog, and smiled in Arthur’s direction quite a lot. Arthur’s mother beamed. “Er,” Arthur tried, since it was probably his duty to begin some sort of conversation, “how are you finding your rooms? Is everything to your liking?” “Oh, yes,” she agreed sweetly, “they’re lovely. Though we could use more closet space, of course. Perhaps after we’re married, we can improve upon that.” “The closets?” “Surely you must find them a bit small? Perhaps that guest room might be remodeled into a closet, to begin. And then of course the two next to it as well.” Arthur blinked at her, forgot he hadn’t picked up salmon on his fork, and accidentally took a bite of nothing. The princess inquired, “You don’t really have many balls, do you?” “…pardon?” “Oh, of course you’ve hosted some beautiful occasions.” She turned to smile at Tatiana. “Always such exquisite decorating sense, and those lemon eclairs your chef whips up are divine. But obviously we’d have to have more social evenings. More events.” “Er,” Arthur said. “Would we?” “It’s important,” the princess said, very earnestly, “to show one’s people just how prosperous one’s kingdom is! My father lets me arrange weekly grand balls. It’s always such fun, and there are always delectable cakes, and everyone dresses their best, even the servants, naturally, since we always tell them what to wear.” Arthur, who had once spent an instructive afternoon in the below-stairs domain of the palace—until his mother had found out and swooped him away—wondered whether she had any idea of the enormous activity that was required of the staff even for the day-to-day routine. He could only imagine the demands of such lavish occasions on a weekly basis. His mother glanced at him, across fig and vanilla bean custard. Her expression was somewhat apologetic. Thunder boomed, a cheerful eruption of noise and passion and energy. The rain leapt up to play along, bouncing from towers and turrets and windowpanes. “Oh dear,” Princess Elsabeth said, “does it rain often? Honey simply loathes the rain.” Honey, with the air of a long-suffering canine companion, did not seem to be bothered; she stole and ate the princess’s custard instead, tongue licking the dish with enthusiasm. Arthur had always liked rain. Vital, vibrant, elemental, alive, it drenched the world and brought out scents and colors. He said, gingerly, “It does rain quite a bit, I’m afraid.” * * * * The Princess Elsabeth Amorata Gloriana of Woodlight departed the following afternoon, once the weather’d cleared at least somewhat. Arthur politely bowed to her, handed her into a gem-encrusted carriage, and resisted the urge to exhale in relief as the entire retinue rumbled down the wide lane. His mother came up beside him, and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ve got so many more options.” “Yes,” Arthur said. Relief, clearly not among those options, tiptoed away.