Princess of the Silver Woods (Twelve Dancing Princesses) by Jessica Day George

my father’s temperament, but I do have all his powers.” He threw back his head, his black-and-silver hair rippling down his back, and laughed.
    Petunia’s heart turned to ice. Lily sank to her knees.
    “You bastard,” someone screamed. To Petunia’s shock, it was Hyacinth. “I will see your head mounted on the front gate!”
    Hyacinth made a run at the king but was caught by Pansy and Daisy, who had gathered near to help Rose with Jonquil. Jonquil now appeared to have fallen unconscious, and Rose sagged beneath Jonquil’s weight, her face bleak. Poppy stood by Rose’s side, watching the king with calculating eyes, and Petunia wondered if there was some way that Poppy could bring her beloved pistols into this nightmare.
    “Let her go, Daise,” Poppy said. “I, for one, would like to see him torn apart. And if Hyacinth is willing …”
    “You can’t do a thing,” the King Under Stone said lightly. He raised Lily to her feet and kissed her on the cheek. She shuddered and tried to pull away, but he held her all the more tightly, both arms winding around her. “After all, it’s just a dream.”

    Petunia woke in her bed, sweating even though the window was open.
    She got up, closed the window, and lit the candle on herbedside table. She took a moment to look at the flame as it grew and steadied; fire always soothed her. Then, holding her candle before her like a weapon, she marched across the corridor in nothing but her nightgown.
    Petunia entered Prince Grigori’s room without knocking. She yanked the bed curtains aside and looked down at the sleeping prince. He was terribly handsome, but Petunia didn’t stop to stare, just grabbed his shoulder and shook.
    “Wake up,” she said. “Wake up, Grigori!”
    “Hmm? What is it?” He blinked around sleepily, but then his eyes widened when he took in Petunia in her nightgown, her candle held just over his head. “My petal, what has happened?”
    “I need to go home,” Petunia said tersely. “Now.”
    “What time is it?”
    “I don’t care,” Petunia said. “I need to go home.”
    Dodging out from under her candle, Prince Grigori struggled upright. “Have you had a bad dream?”
    Petunia started to laugh. She laughed so hard that the prince had to take the candle out of her hand before she dropped it on the bedclothes. She laughed until she was crying, sobbing, in a heap on the floor by his bed.
    The prince set the candle aside and climbed out of bed. He scooped Petunia up in his long arms and carried her back to her own room, where he tucked her into her high bed and summoned Olga to sit with her. Then he sent for his grandmother’s physician, who brought extract of poppies to help her sleep.
    “No,” Petunia gasped as the physician held the cup to her lips. He tipped a little down her throat. “No! Not poppies!” He forced her to drink a little more. “No! Not unless Poppy can take her pistol! And where’s mine? I don’t want to sleep without my pistol!”
    “She’s delirious,” Petunia heard the physician say as she slipped into the grayness. “You’d better send a letter to her father.”
    And then she heard the sound of a valse being played, shrill and just slightly out of tune.

Prisoner
    Things had not gone as Oliver had hoped, but they had certainly gone as he had expected.
    He was being held in a tiny attic room at the palace while Karl and the others had been taken to the Bruch jail. King Gregor didn’t believe Oliver was an earl, but apparently being the leader of the bandits, the abductor of Princess Petunia,
and
the claimant to a divided earldom made him too interesting for the regular jail.
    But not interesting enough for immediate questioning. Oliver sat in the little room until evening, when the door was unlocked and a dinner tray shoved inside. An hour later the door opened and a hand groped around for the tray. Oliver obligingly pushed it closer to the door with his foot.
    “Every compliment to the royal chef,” Oliver