Chapter One
                Queen Jenelyn and King Reynold were the supreme, fair rulers of the lands.  When they were there, the kingdom was lush and green and beautiful.  When they weren’t…well, no one knows, because they always were. 
                The world was theirs, and they admired the world, protected it, had it sweet and kind, the goodness of their hearts reaching into very corner of earth. 
                Okay, can I please stop the act now?  Thank you.  I really don’t like all this fairy tale talk; it’s just not quite my style. 
                I’m Ariana, Princess Ariana, sixteen years old and living a great life.  By the way, you can call me Ariana, no need for formalities.  Even Callie doesn’t call me Ariana.  But then again, between me and Callie, everything is fun. 
                ANYWAY, where was I? Oh, yeah.  The earth.  So it’s great and lovely and all that, and on top of all that were the softest rolling green hills ever.  And on top of that hill was…the castle!
                Our castle, to be specific.  It’s cool, it’s medieval (-ish), and totally my style.  And I have a sense of style, thank you.  Banners, turrets, battlements, flags, you name it, we have it.  Moats with crocodiles? Check (but they’re stuffed crocodiles, don’t worry).  Giant banquet halls? Check (but trust me, the best part is the food).  Cauldrons of boiling oil that we can pour on our enemies? Check (…actually, we don’t, but don’t you dare tell that to anyone). 
                My room is on the fifth floor.  It also is the fifth floor (besides Callie, but she usually sleeps on the ground floor).  I have it all to myself, everything is at my disposal, I can pretend I’m going out with a really hunky guy in private, etc., so I’ve decorated it to sort of…fit my personality…
                Well at any rate, enough about the castle, more about the grounds and finally getting this story going.  (My mother would totally disapprove of how I’m hustling this story along—she’s say something about instant gratification or something.  Sigh.) 
                Since the castle is perched in a triple-basin valley from the slope of six different hills, out gardens don’t have much water in them, besides the man-made fountains.  My mm designed the gardens herself, and she has a sense of beauty.  In the central garden, there are a bunch of fountains surrounded by rows and rows of different flowers and bushes.  Each hill has a giant pine stuck on top which tells anybody in the vicinity “don’t cross the line or we will kill you”.  Garden 1, which is one hill #1, has fruit trees.  Callie and her other friends go and pick them every summer when they’re at their peak of freshness, and Gerda cans them and otherwise use them to make delicious somethings.  Garden 2 has flowers—no surprise there.  Garden 3 has elegant trees and statues.  Garden 4 has hedges and pots full of exotic plants—it really is cozy because of the tall hedges.  Garden 5 deals in willow and honeysuckles, which I always pick despite my mother’s grumbles, and Garden 6 is a kind of mix of them all.  Garden 6 is my favorite because it not only has all of the things I just mentioned, but also because it has a small, marshy pond, lined with reeds and cattails.  The pond in Garden 6 is very important to this story—at least right now. 
                “Are you going to get in?” 
                It was Callie, standing knee-deep in the muddy water, holding up her plain cloth skirts and making a face.  She attempted to wash her mucky hands clean in the water, but the pond was always so thick that this was a pretty lame try, as attempts go. 
                “I really don’t think I want to get in,” I said nervously, probing the marshy with my bare toe and shrinking back.  My hands were clutching at the soft, frilly slip I wore under my dress. 
                Callie, whose real name is Calatha, is my maidservant, but since we’ve known each other since we were three, we’re also the best of friends, and pretty tricky too.  Today we’d decided to play a trick on my brother Samuel; Callie took some convincing but eventually did it. So we’d hung our dresses on a tree and just worn our cotton underdresses—luckily there were no gardeners coming out today—so we could get some…er…things that we needed in the marsh. 
                Unfortunately, I am not a big fan of mud. 
                Callie pulled her long, red-streaked golden hair up into a high ponytail, ignoring the rather scummy water on her hands, and waded even farther into the water.  By now her underdress was floating in a pool around her on the surface if the pond.  “Well, I’ll understand if you don’t want to, Ari,” she said grinning.  She leaned down a little further, peering at the pond, and snatched at a frog, expertly catching it in her hand and pinning it between her palm and fingers.  He croaked and wiggled unhappily, but Callie just grinned and waved him at me. 
                “Ew, ew, ewwwww,” I moaned, scrabbling back onto he soft grass by the shore. 
                “The frogs were your idea,” Callie reminded me.
                “Yeah, well, I never expected the pond to be so clogged after it rained yesterday,” I replied, rather shortly.  Immediately I felt bad that I’d said something so sniffy, but Callie just let it breeze by in the way she always does when I act like that. 
                She shrugged and held the frog out.  “Do you want to hold him while I get some more?  I really don’t think I can hold that many if you don’t want to come in—”
                I shuddered at the sight of the speckled brown-green creature flapping its legs and staring wildly at me with huge, bulbous eyes.  I’m not really that much of a squeamish person, and I’m brave if I do say so myself, but slime is really not my cup of tea.  Neither are amphibians.  “No, thanks, Callie, really I think that I’m good.” 
                Callie squeezed the frog under her arm, making her look really awkward.  “Okay, in that case, give me a moment and let’s get to Samuel’s room. “

Samuel is my big brother.  He’s nineteen, with floppy brown hair, and he’s tall, (I say that because I’m actually a bit short—but really, I swear, he is taller than average).  And I suppose he’s handsome, but I don’t like-like him because that would be gross.  (Callie has a not-so-secret crush on him, ha ha.  Really, I can kind of see why, but no one should be doomed to chase my brother’s heart.)  And he’ not…annoying directly, but he is annoying in the fact that he acts like an older brother should and not the way most brothers are, because if he was directly annoying, then I could directly annoy him back.  But I can’t.  Which is annoying. 
                Did that even make any sense? 
                Anyway, since I can’t annoy him directly, I annoy him indirectly.  For example: putting spiders in his desk (I had to ask Callie to get the spiders because I am freaked by them), hiding tickly fuzzy plants in his slippers, unplugging his lamp so it wouldn’t turn on when he wanted it to.  And the best thing about us doing it is that he knows it’s us, or at least me, but he doesn’t have proof. 
                Callie, being a maidservant, knows a lot of secret passageways in the castle, most of them she’s already shown o me.  One leads to my room another leads to the kitchens, and so on, but today Samuel’s room is the target.  Just keep the secret passageways in mind; they come in an important role later!
                We took the passageway, which is a series of narrow stone steps surrounded by stone walls on either side.  It’s not in the greatest condition (meaning some steps may be missing, depending on which passage you’re using), but I’ve learned to deal with it, especially since my love of pranking my brother overcomes my disgust of the dark, dusty stairwell. 
                Callie pushed open the trapdoor a tad and peered out into the open o see if any other maids were there cleaning or something, and I patiently waited to hear her report. 
                “All clear?” I whispered. 
                “All clear,” she confirmed with a mischievous smile.  She shoved the trapdoor up and climbed out, a stack of croaking frogs under one arm, her legs caked with grit and dried mud from the pond.  Blech.  I could never be a maidservant myself.  Funny how easy it is to be the princess, but how hard it is to be the maid. 
                I pulled a sticky strand out of my fiery orange hair and frowned.  “Gro-oss.”  With Callie holding the trapdoor open for me, I awkwardly climbed out the rectangular hatch, lifting the edge of my pale purple skirts to avoid any more dust, or, even worse, creepy crawlies.  “Go ahead and do that thing that we were talking about.”

We emerged from the hidden door in the wall onto the ground floor hallway of the castle, which was decked out in red velvet carpets, rich purple hangings—oh! They still make me ache with hunger—and brightly lit chandeliers dangling from the cavernous ceiling amid the other thousands of sparklingly vivid candles and the glowing torches in their braziers.  Feeling satisfied that out secret deed was done, I strode purposefully past the open doors at the end of the hall, Callie following me, and headed into the ballroom, where we were greeted by no less than ten glossy grand pianos, tiled and yet smooth floors, and a plump woman wearing an apron and a stern expression. 
                “G-Gerda?” I said, stopping in surprise so quickly Callie almost ran into me.  Behind me, Callie's mouth fell open in sheer horror. 
                Gerda is the head cook.  She’s a big lady, to put it mildly, with a booming voice and gray-brown hair tied up in one of those white baking bonnet things on the back of her head.  She’s nice, and makes great food—don’t turn it down if she offers you some, no matter how funky it looks—but, well, she’s a bit blunt and doesn’t know it. 
                “Good heavens, where have you been, Calatha?” Gerda said, planting her hands on her hips as she addressed Callie with an iron stare.  “We’re all busy making supper, God knows that we must make so much tonight—and our finest dishes, too!—but of course, here you are, pulling dear Ariana everywhere.  Really, you ought to know better—has ten years in the palace kitchens not taught you anything? You were working in here since you were a tiny child!”  Her eyes landed on Callie’s muddy legs, and her eyebrows scrunched down in a definite, severe frown.  “Hurry and go wash up, and be quick about it, you hear me?” Gerda snapped.  “Or you’ll be scrubbing the kitchen floors alone tonight.  I’m already letting you off easy, for your five hundredth offense. Now go, and hasten!” 
                “Yes, ma’am,” Callie said obediently, and scurried off.  Gerda glowered after her, muttering something rather obscene under her breath. Well, not really, but it would’ve been kind of offensive if it were said to me. 
                “Gerda, really, it’s not her fault,” I began quickly.  “Really, I don’t mind at all, it was my idea after all, and it’s okay, really, please.  You don’t need to—” I thought about asking her to not discipline Callie, but decided that wasn’t the most tactical approach.  “You don’t need to bother yourself over Callie,” I soothed in my best therapeutic voice.  Urgh.  Not very convincing.  “I know you’re busy, don’t worry about trivial matters.” 
                “Bless your heart, child,” Gerda said fondly, ruffling my hair.  “There’s no need to say anything more, sweet pea.  Go to dinner, you don’t want to be late, do you? I’ll make sure Calatha has learned her lesson.”  She smiled at me.  “Dear me, what was she thinking? At least you’re clean, my dear girl.  No go on, I don’t want to hold you.”
                “No, Gerda, I meant—” I stammered. 
                “Don’t you worry about it, child,” Gerda boomed, apparently not registering a word of what I was saying.  She turned on her heel and marched off.  “We’re having your favorite dishes tonight!” she called over her should as she disappeared out the door. 
                I sighed.  Nice as Gerda is, she can’t tolerate the least bit of slacking off, which normally gets Callie in trouble even though she didn’t do anything wrong.  Luckily for Callie, Gerda normally forgets about consequences along with all the other useless punishments in her mind, so she can get off easy. 
                I ran off towards the dining hall—like Gerda said, I didn’t want to be late.  And I certainly was glad that I was clean, because if my mother ever found out that I was in a state less than perfection, she would’ve thrown a screaming fit (—“for your benefit, Ariana,” she’d say.  Urgh. That wasn’t what I wanted, especially if we were having something fancy tonight—Gerda had made a big point of saying how much food they had to make). 
                Past countless halls, doors and rooms, I slowed as I neared the doorway o the dining hall.  I peeked in, wondering if they had already started.  My father was a firm believer in that once a meal has started, all people must be present, or else it can’t finish. 
                Samuel, Mom, and Dad were already seated at the table in their gilded chairs.  Samuel looked a little terse, Mom was bubbly and excited, and Dad had this quality of weariness to his face that made him seem much older than he actually was.  Another guy was sitting next to Dad.  He had blonde-ish hair that didn’t quite match his distinctive Italian features, and his nose was long and pointy.  I stayed at him for a moment. 
                Unfortunately, Mom spotted me right then.  “Ariana, sweetie, we thought you got lost!  Come, sit, we’re about to start first course; you already missed the appetizers.”  She waves me over to my chair, so I obediently trotted over and plopped down.  The stranger dude’s eyes locked on my face, so I pointedly looked past him at all the maidservants lined up against the walls, wringing their dry dishcloths or clutching the hems of their aprons.  Callie’s smiled at me, but she looked a tad shaken by the Gerda episode. I privately agreed.
                Mom stroked my hair, commanding my attention, so I tore my eyes away from Callie and looked up at her.  She’s beautiful—at least, a lot more beautiful than I could ever be, with her locks of curly, wavy copper hair, streaked with gold and strawberry red, a fine face with delicate but intentionally sculpted features—expressive blue eyes like the ocean under the sun and long, pronounced lashes, a small nose, full lips pink with lipstick. 
                “How was your day, sweetie?” she asked. 
                “It was nice,” I said politely.  Mom and I don’t always see eye to eye on what ‘nice’ means, so I thought it best not to clue her in on what we were doing by blurting out our whole frog scheme.  “Cal—er, I had lots of fun in the gardens.” 
                Mom ran a hand through her perfect locks. “Everything was all right today?” She looked a bit worried.  “Do you need more interesting things to do?  Maybe some painting, perhaps? I saw what conservatory artist showed you—that oil painting of the gardens is just fantastic, Ariana, just wonderful.  I think you should consider trying it for a while—well, ah, everything is all right, honey?” she added, flustered by her own babbling. 
                “No, everything was perfect, Mom,” I protested, pretending not to notice her mini-speech.  Accidentally, I blurted, “Except for the frogs.”
                Mom’s eyes widened in shock.  “Did you get attacked by frogs?” 
                “No!”  I rolled my eyes.  Honestly, Mom is always thinking I’m going to be killed, or kidnapped, or mugged, or something catastrophic like that.  Really, I don’t care.  If it did happen, well, it’d be scary, I’m sure, but thrilling, and I wouldn’t be in much danger because Dad would send out a cavalry and come after me in a snap. 
                She looked disconcerted for a second, then her face became stern. Uh-oh.  Time for the mom talk.  “What were you doing with the frogs, honey?” she said, exhaling heavily. 
                “Er…”  I wasn’t sure how to respond.  Oh, crap.  I’d forgotten how strict Mom was about playing around, especially with “disgraceful creatures, those amphibians, all slimy and not refined in the slightest”, as I could imagine her saying.  To gloss over the sticky moment, I jerked my head in the stranger’s direction and asked, “Who’s that?” 
                That definitely diverted Mom’s attention.  “That’s Vincent Snarvosk, dear.  He and your father have some business to conduct over supper.” 
                “Oh.” I couldn’t help staring. There was something fakey about his hair, and his nose was just really peculiar.  He and Dad were talking animatedly.  Apparently, it was a friendly encounter, because Dad was guffawing so hard his long beard shook like a tambourine.
                Dad has sparkling green eyes with smile crinkle lines, brown hair, and a neat, long beard.  He has a good sense of humor and always knows how to lighten the mood, but he knows when to be serious and take the lead.  It’s one of the reason he’s such a good king—instead of ruling with an iron fist, he tailors himself to the needs of his kingdom. 
                Next to me, Samuel dug around for a moment in his special hiding spot in his right leather boot and came out pulling his MP3 (special! No one else in the kingdom has these beauties except for us royals—the others have to do with records and other whatnots) and stuffed the earbuds into his ears—I mean, obviously, right?  I poked him, and he scowled at me, pulling one out.  “What?” he asked, not sounding very happy with me. 
                “I wasn’t to listen, too.”  This is when I go into little sister mode, because if he doesn’t let me do what I want when I’m in little sister mode, I complain to Mom and Mom makes Samuel do what I wasn’t him to do. 
                Ah, life is good.
                Samuel looked at me suspiciously, like I might rig his MP3 to blow up or something (which I wouldn’t have known how to do anyway.  Jeez.  He can be so surreptitious.  Big brothers are always a pain in the royal butt). 
                “Please?” I said sweetly, looking at him with big puppy eyes.  This was my surefire, best card, pulling out the big guns.  Though wide, cute eyes are not the picture of big guns, it’s extremely effective, I must say.
                He handed me an earbud.  “Okay,” re relented.  “But I’m choosing the songs.” 
                We worked out way through some classics and some pop songs, like ‘Fireflies’ and ‘Dynamite’, and we were on the third line of ‘I Just Haven’t Met You Yet’ when Gerda strolled out of the kitchen, pushing a ginormous silver cart on wheels, the entire two-rack surface taken up by covered silver platters.  Samuel, noticing this before I did, hurriedly plucked out our earbuds and turned the MP3 off, stuffing it back into his boot.  Part of me wondered how it felt to have something stuck in your shoe all day long.  I shoved one toe into my other shoe and winced.  Ooh.  Uncomfortable.  Oh, well, it must be easier when you’re wearing boots and not dainty little satin slippers. 
                Dad took a deep whiff as Gerda wobbled closer; apparently satisfied with what he smelled, he smiled.  “Excellent cooking as you usual, Gerda.” 
                “It is my pleasure, King Reynold.”  Gerda performed her best curtsy, but it looked like she was doing squats instead because of her plumpness.  “Leah! Faline!  Where are you, help me put these dishes out so our guests can dine in peace.” 
                Two pretty maidservants broke ranks from the wall and rushed forward to help Gerda, heads held low in respect.  I inhaled to taste the smell of what was under the silver domed plates, but I could only taste the gentle spice of peppers, the sweet aroma of buttered corn, the spike of smoked beef on my tongue.  I wasn’t sure what was farther down the table, but oh did it feel like heaven.  As usual.  Gerda’s the best cook in millennia, my dad always jokes.  And he’s totally right. 
                After loading all the plates onto the dining table—and there were so many that I was surprised the table didn’t collapse—Leah and Faline scurried back to their places in line, and Gerda personally lifted the covers off the plates one by one, handing the lids to a girl behind her. 
                Okay, you have to understand that Gerda is not just a fantastic cook, but she’s also a perfectionist in the art of arranging her food (not to mention she somehow makes it healthy at the same time).  We’ve had some pretty weird-looking dishes, like that time she put jellybeans—made out of some agar-y substance—and a twist of rainbow-colored candy—also agar-y—arching out of it.  (As you can imagine, it was a dessert, and a good one, too; tasting it gave me a flavor that I can only describe to you as sunshine after a rain.)  She can make ANYTHING taste good.  It’s baffling. 
                And yet when she took the cap off a small, ugly-looking brownish-green soup bowl, I wasn’t too excited. 
                “This, er, looks great, Gerda,” I lied, scooting away from the soup. 
                Samuel wrinkled his nose.
                Vincent Snarvosk murmured something to Dad, who murmured something back.  Snarvosk gave him a panicked glance. 
                “What’s in this…ah…lovely soup?” Mom asked, apparently trying to keep some composure. 
                “Mushrooms and cabbage, Your Majesty,” Gerda replied.  “Though it does have a sprinkling of seasoned poppy seeds, a dash of olive oil, peanut oil, and several other nutritious ingredients. Would you like the list?” 
                “Um,” Mom said faintly. 
                “Enjoy, Your Majesty,” Gerda said cheerfully, not picking up on the gloomy, apprehensive silence dominating the table.  She curtsied/squatted again and backed the lid-full cart through the kitchen door. 
                I looked over at the servants.  Many of them were holding back giggles. Callie had her hand over her mouth to not laugh, but her eyes were dancing with mirth as she looked right back at me. 
                Mom used her pinkie to move the tiny soup bowl to the other side of the table, near Snarvosk, whose face turned in an unpleasant frown. 
                “Can we eat now?” Samuel asked, drumming his fingers on the bottom of the table.  “I’m starving.” 
                “Go ahead,” Dad said absently.  Samuel immediately ditched me—I’d been trying to make small talk—and made a beeline for the clam chowder. 
                As we loaded our plates full, Dad turned to us.  “Kids,” he began in a very Dad voice.  “This is Vincent Snarvosk.  He’s a…mmm…sculptor, and he’s here so he can sculpt some of you so he can put some statues in the city.” 
                “Greetings,” Snarvosk said smoothly.  He inclined his head slightly.  His voice was rich and definitely Italian, so what was with the blonde hair?  And he smelled like…vanilla?  “It is my pleasure to meet such dignified royals.  You are Prince Samuel and Princess Ariana?” 
                “That’s us.”  Samuel stuck his hands in his pockets and burped. 
                “Sammie,” Mom chided him, while I had to bite my tongue so I wouldn’t burst out in giggles.  Snarvosk’s face hadn’t changed at this strange turn of events, but his eyebrows had scrunched down a little and there was a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth.  “Sammie, that’s no way to greet our guest.” 
                “Mom!”  Samuel’s face reddened.  He looked like a tomato.  “I’m already nineteen now.  Don’t call me Sammie.”  He glowered a little at Snarvosk, who was doing his best to look okay.  “That goes for you, too, Snark Off.” 
                “Samuel, where are your manners?” Dad broke in, sounding a little irritated.  “This young man is doing very important business with me.  This behavior that you’re displaying is completely unacceptable.  Do you hear me?”
                Samuel glared at Dad.  “Yeah,” he muttered. 
                Dad smiled pleasantly, once again all smiles.  “Very good.  Vincent, would you like some of this brisket?  It’s delightful, absolutely delightful.” 
                “Thank you, sir,” Snarvosk said politely.  “I feel graced by your offer.  But really, I should not.  This is your meal, after all.”  He shook his head firmly as Dad opened his mouth to protest, and held his hand up.  (I thought this a little rude because no one interrupts the king, especially if you’re just a sculptor, but Dad didn’t seem to mind at all.  Well, good for Snarvosk that Dad was in a good mood. Or else he would’ve been booted out.  Even Mom didn’t say anything, her lips pursed tightly closed and her blue eyes aggravated.)  “But,” Snarvosk continued, enunciating each letter carefully, “Since your son seems inclined not to talk, I would like a word with the young lady.” 
                I blushed a little as everyone turned to look at me.  Snarvosk calmly folded his arms on the table, all cool and collected.  I wanted to punch him for some reason—his over-formality really struck a chord with me.  Trying not to seem too miffed, I set my fork down on my plate and wiped my mouth with my napkin.  “Well? Go ahead.” 
                “You are the youngest in your family, yes?” he inquired.  Every syllable was uttered very precisely, which only made me grind my teeth.  Since I felt like I couldn’t speak without exploding, I nodded, and he continued, “Do you sometimes feel…bored?  After all, your family seems very…. busy.”  There was something about the way he lingered on the word ‘busy’ that made me think of him as a stalker.  Busy, huh?
                Well, he got that right.  If there’s one word to describe all of us, it’s busy.  Dad is always doing his kingly duties that I have no clue about, Mom is doing her queenly duties—most of which include dressing up, going out of town, and taking little visits to cities and signing autographs.  Samuel—well, he wants to be a knight even though he can’t because he’s the prince, but he still goes and trains with them every day—swords, jousting, archery, and even some more random skills like CPR. 
                “I don’t feel bored,” I replied coolly.  “Ever.  There are plenty of things in my room and the castle to keep me preoccupied for weeks.  Plus, I play with Callie a lot—we really do get along well.” 
                Snarvosk raised her eyebrows slightly.  In that one movement, my gaze was attracted towards his eyes—a very dark, piercing brown that sent jolts of electricity up my spine.  “Callie, is it?  May I see this young woman?” 
                Behind him, Callie locked eyes with me, looking baffled.  I sent her the silent question: Should I?  She shook her head ever-so-subtly. 
               I didn’t blame her.  There was something about Snarvosk that made me feel that if I exposed my best friend to him, there’s be a gap between us forever. 
                “Does she have anything to do with you?” I asked rudely, then bit my lip and wished I hadn’t said that as Mom shot me a don’t you dare take a leaf out of Samuel’s book look.  (Samuel, on the other hand, grabbed my hand and gave it a congratulatory squeeze.) 
                Snarvosk didn’t look ruffled at all; in fact, this was one of the things that made me so frustrated.  “I merely though it would be nice to sculpt you two together,” he answered quietly.  Again with the careful pronunciation.  I was going to stomp on his foot under the table if I didn’t get out soon.   “But if it disrupts you in the slightest, well…”  he trailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence in our minds.  Truth was, I had no clue what that sentence ending was supposed to be.  Snarvosk clearly stated that he wanted to see Callie, though in a way that made me feel like the undisputed victor.  I’m sure that if he finished that sentence though, it wouldn’t be in my favor. 
                “Not at all, not at all,” said Dad heartily.  “Calatha?  Come on up.”