Chapter 1
Petronela lay in bed listening to her father getting ready to leave: the clank of his armor as he fitted on his arm guards; the high-pitched swish when he sheathed his sword; the rustle of his travel pack as he stuffed it with provisions.
Last night they sat together at dinner eating makowiec, her special dessert, and he didn’t tell her he was going. Ever since Mama died, he hadn’t the heart to tell her bad news, so he acted like nothing bad ever happened. As if not talking about it made it not real.
When he was home, they only spoke of happy things. Butterflies in the meadow. The newly hatched chicks in the barn. Petronela learning a fancy new sewing stitch. It almost made things worse, since they couldn’t talk about their sadness.
Papa’s clunky mountain boots clomped down the hall, but grew quieter near her room. The squeak of the door betrayed him as he entered. He was coming in to say goodbye.
She snapped her eyes shut, playing his game. She’d pretend she was asleep and let him slip out thinking he had spared her another sad goodbye. The servants would tell her at dinner and then spoil her with sweets and attention until he returned from battle.
He stood over her for a painfully long time. Her eyelids fluttered as she almost gave in and peeked.
“Goodbye, Petronela, love,” he whispered.
She remained unmoving, not even breathing. My name means rock.
When he finally left, she felt the tickle of a feather land on her arm, fallen from his armor.
The hussars had the best-looking armor of all the armies with wings made of large feathers mounted on their backs. The wings were supposed to symbolize the eagle, but all the children knew they were angel wings, and that under their protection, nothing would happen to the kingdom. When the men rushed into battle the wind made the feathers clatter together in an awesome noise that petrified the enemy.
The hussars and the beautiful castle watched over the town.
Rising out of the granite mountain, the castle appeared as if it grew there on its own. Only the beloved king and queen and their surviving prince lived in residence, the oldest prince having died in an avalanche one terribly horrible winter. In the shadow of the castle, Petronela could not be afraid, no matter how badly the stable hands or boys in the village tried to scare her.
She snatched the feather and pulled it under the cover before Papa could look back and notice it lying there. He wouldn’t want her to know he was going off to battle. He turned at the door and gave her one last look. He always did, and if he noticed her squinting through her lashes, he never let on.
Sometime later, the maid woke her with a special treat—breakfast in bed. Petronela would have enjoyed it immensely if it were not for the sad eyes with which Filomena watched her.
“Eat with me,” Petronela said.
Filomena tilted her head. “You know the master doesn’t like that. I ate with the others early this morning in the kitchen.”
“How long will he be gone this time?” She and Filomena had an understanding. Petronela would do as she was told—as much as she could—and Filomena wouldn’t talk to her like she was a child.
“Long. He wants me to take you to your aunt’s house so you’ll have your cousins to play with.” She quirked her mouth.
Neither of them liked her cousins.
“Can’t I stay here with you?” She put on her best sad face. The sad face worked really well when she was little, but now that she was “growing into a young lady” it worked less frequently.
“Afraid not, miss. Your aunt is expecting you.” Her look softened and grew conspiratorial. “But we don’t have to leave right way. She doesn’t know when to expect you.”
Petronela grinned. She finished her breakfast with renewed gusto so she could get on with the day, now that she knew it would be a fun one. With father gone, she could play with the servants all she liked and not have to visit with her horrid cousins.
After breakfast was done, she dashed outside to play. Passing by the stables, she called out to the stable boy.
“Aron, I’m going to the creek.”
“Morning, Petronela. Are you setting up for the fairies again?”
“Yes, I have to make them an extra special place this time because I’m forced to go stay with my cousins while Papa is gone.”
“Sorry.”
“Me, too. Find me when you’re finished with your chores.”
Midmorning, Aron joined her in the ravine where she was almost finished building a fairy garden. She had found an especially soft patch of moss near a rivulet of melting snow trickling down from the mountain. Using twigs and tall grass, she’d fashioned a tiny gazebo by the water.
Seeing her friend coming, she tucked her mussed hair behind her ear. She’d gotten it caught in a tree when she’d climbed up to get a closer look at a bird’s nest filled with chirping babies.
“Nela, you’re too old to believe in fairies,” Aron said, bending down to look at the gazebo.
Petronela continued her work. “I want to make sure they don’t forget about me.”
“It won’t be that long, will it?”
“Don’t know. Papa’s never sent me away before.”
“Well, don’t worry about your animals, I’ll take good care of them.”
“I know you will, Aron.” Aron was the closest thing she had to a brother. His parents worked on the estate, so they’d practically grown up together.
The dinner bell clanged, calling Petronela in. “It’s not time to eat yet,” she said with a frown. “Maybe Papa left me a surprise. Race you!”
Running and laughing, she sped to the house. She arrived first and bounded up the porch before bursting through the door. “I win!” she called, looking over her shoulder and running smack into the stiff form of her aunt.
Petronela gasped as a coldness traveled through her veins all the way to her fingertips, turning her hands to ice.
“Back straight. Chin up,” her aunt said. “Your mother would be ashamed if she knew how wild her child has become since her death.” She picked a twig out of Petronela’s hair. “I had no idea how bad things had gotten here.”
She kissed Petronela first on one cheek, then the other, and back to the first. Then she sent a cool look in the maid’s direction. “Where are her bags? I haven’t got all day.”
Her aunt stood tall, stretched tight enough she might snap at any moment. Her hair was pulled back in a severe updo and tucked into an outrageously flowered hat. She wore her very best dress, white with red poppies; it almost looked like the traditional wedding dress of the highlands.
Petronela had lost her voice. “I-I” she stammered, looking to the maid for help.
“We’re almost ready,” Filomena said. “Won’t be much longer now.”
“Well then? Off with you.” Aunt Marzena clapped twice in dismissal.
The maid smiled an apology to Petronela while curtsying to the aunt. Petronela followed after the maid, but her aunt called her back, pinning her with her dark eyes.
“There’ll be no nonsense at my home. You will act properly and obey instruction. You are obviously lacking a woman’s direction. My daughters will be excellent examples for you. We’ll have you turned around in no time. Your father won’t even recognize you when he returns.”
Petronela stood gaping. “Papa likes me the way I am.” For that matter, so did she. She wouldn’t be turned into a mini version of one of her cousins.
“Enough. There will be no talking back.”
“Papa’s groomsmen were going to bring me to your place later this week,” Petronela said in a futile attempt at putting off the inevitable.
“I had business to attend in town, so you can come with me now.”
Aunt Marzena walked around the room, touching a painting here, pressing a cushion there. “I’ll leave my buggy in your stables and we’ll take the coach. There’ll be more room.”
Petronela tried to think of another excuse to delay the trip, but the shock of it all had dulled her brain.
All too soon, her trunks were packed and the servants began loading them into Father’s best coach, the fancy one trimmed in gold that he bought for Mama for their first wedding anniversary. Aunt Marzena had always hated that coach, so it was an odd choice for her to take to her cottage.
Petronela waved goodbye to the stained-glass window above the door depicting a majestic oak tree, a ritual she’d developed after her mother died. Father said oak trees had always been Mother’s favorite, so that’s why they’d chosen to make that particular scene.
Remembering the feather, Petronela ran back upstairs. She stopped short at the top of the landing. The door to her mother’s room was open, which was curious because Father liked it to stay closed. He went in late at night sometimes and stayed for hours. She, herself, liked to go in and play whenever father was gone. Mama’s perfume, a sweet blend of the garden flowers was already starting to fade. Maybe that was why Father insisted they keep the door closed. So Mama’s smell wouldn’t go away.
Aunt Marzena stood inside.
“What are you doing in here?” Petronela said, a pit forming in her stomach. “Father won’t like it.”
“She was my sister,” said Aunt Marzena. “I miss her, too.”
But the way Aunt Marzena sized up the room like she was taking inventory didn’t look like she was missing her sister. It looked like she was making plans.
