Misfit Princess Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Summer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Autumn

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Winter

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Spring

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Misfit Princess

  Nadia Jacques

  Copyright ©2017 by Nadia Jacques.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Summer

  Chapter 1

  Princess Grace stormed out of the ballroom before her parents could say anything. She had just punched the junior ambassador from Arrosa. Again.

  It was his own fault, she thought darkly to herself. Perhaps no one else had noticed Dylan’s subtle insults during the horrible state meeting, but she had. Then, that evening, the ass had asked her to dance, and she accepted because she had wanted to give him a piece of her mind.

  He’d swept her out onto the dance floor. It had already grown hot from too many bodies moving in too little space. The murmur of voices lowered in small talk rose loud in Grace’s ear, and words caught in her throat. Dylan twirled her into the very center of the room before hissing, too close to her ear, that he did not care for the role she had played earlier that day.

  “Really,” he had whispered, smiling winningly. “Everyone knows your gift is so weak you’ll never be of any use. Your family will figure it out some day.”

  She formed her mouth into a saccharin smile and hoped no one else could tell how fake it was. Usually, they didn’t. “How would you know how to make use of a gift? No one can read you. It’s a wonder they trust you.”

  He dipped her. “I, unlike some other people, possess interpersonal skills.”

  Her stomach swooped unpleasantly as she got her balance back. She could feel heat rising under her collar. “I only bother with the people who matter.”

  “Oh? Then why do you spend so much time playing guard with your crew of misfits and outcasts?” He laughed, an oily sound slick as a tin of painstakingly-rendered grease tipped all over the floor in a fit of pique, and whirled her around the next couple over. “Everyone knows Coura would fall first in a war.”

  Grace tamped down the rising nausea. Heat and bile rose in her throat, and she breathed out in relief when the song ended. She allowed herself the luxury of snapping her hand away from his as they parted. Looking him dead in the eyes, she replied: “No one else can do what I do.”

  It was true for what little it was worth, she reflected as she edged toward the ornate double doors at as sedate a pace she could bear.

  It was still the beginning of summer, and the evening air would be cool in her lungs. The trellised garden would surround her with its quiet soothing scents.

  She reached the doors and found Dylan standing directly in front of them.

  Gritting her teeth, she conjured up something like a pleasant tone. “Please excuse me, I’d like to get by.”

  Dylan shifted to more effectively block the doors. “Running away?”

  “Knock it off,” said Grace, pushing by him.

  He followed her. “You need to learn some respect for your betters, Grace.”

  She breathed in the air, and found it contaminated with his scent. “What is it to you anyway?”

  Dylan sneered. “You couldn’t help Coura if you tried.” A globule of spittle flew from Dylan’s mouth, and it took Grace a horrified second to realize that he’d spat on purpose.

  She had punched him. There was really nothing else for it.

  She knew she needed to support her family in maintaining diplomatic relations, but there was only so much she was willing to take from slimy worms who used playground tactics to try to gain advantage.

  And now, she realized with slow dawning horror, she would have to make nice. Well, it could wait until morning, because if her parents caught up with her and forced her to apologize, she would punch him again.

  She wiped the spittle off her cheek with the sleeve of her tunic and walked out into the night. Her knuckles sang with the force of the impact they’d made on his cheek, and she shook her hand out, easy in the night. The breeze gave her cool reminders of the insult, but now she could breathe. The sky spun above her as she walked, stars sprinkled like sugar crystals over the sweetest cake now that she’d left the lights behind.

  It had been fifteen years since she’d punched him last. Things could be worse.

  The first time she’d punched him, she’d been ten. They’d been relegated to playing in the garden, and she and her friend Derrick had beaten him and his friend Rudy soundly at tennis.

  “All Courans cheat anyway!” he’d shouted, throwing the racket on the ground. “You’re just reading where the ball is going to be!”

  Grace had flushed, anger and shame churning in the pit of her belly. “I don’t need a Gift to be good at sports!” To prove it, she’d grabbed the other tennis ball and made certain that it hit him square in the nose.

  He’d shouted and rushed at her. She waited, patient, until he ran in range. Then she put her fist right where she’d hit him with the tennis ball. It took Derrick’s best effort and five sweaty minutes before they could be pried apart.

  Her parents, who hadn’t been there when it happened, had played it off as childish foolishness and given her a stern lecture about why she mustn’t hit people that evening when they’d tucked her into bed.

  They’d explained, firmly and patiently, that she had to uphold her position and that she couldn’t just punch people– no, not even if they were being really annoying.

  Grace dawdled as late as she could, not looking forward to the inevitable scolding. The early summer sun had woken her before six. She had run for a punishing hour, showered and dressed. Her stomach started growling by eight o’clock.

  When she couldn’t stand staying in for any longer, she made her way along the hallway. She could hear voices from the hall, breakfast chatter in full swing. The heavy doors had been flung open in invitation.

  Because she had arrived late, the room already had thinned. Earlier in the morning, it would have been elbow-to-elbow full of the staff and official visitors; now it only held a core knot of people. The room was too big without the bazaar crowd: if she shouted, it would echo off the solid back wall that her ancestors had hacked out of the mountain many years ago. At some point, someone had carved the family tree into the wall starting at the very top.

  Once, Grace had enlisted her younger sister Petra to drag in a ladder so she could trace the branches. Later, her mother had told her that there were kings and queens in Coura long before they had begun the carving, when Coura spanned the continent and life was simpler and sweet.

  Now her mother sat in the middle of the room, her back to the wall, with the names of hundreds of ancestors around her. Once a year the masons came in with their record-books and carved all the new names of babies that had been born the previous year. Over time, the tree turned into an almost abstract piece that nonetheless dr
ew the eye directly to the ruler of the land. Even at breakfast, Queen Maura knew how to command attention and respect.

  The Queen’s Diadem shone brightly atop her mother’s dark curls as she sat in the very center of the knot of remaining people. Her tunic shimmered in a glossy, fashionable bright pink. It drew people to her table. When they walked away, they murmured amongst themselves with a hum like bees taking nectar from a flower.

  Grace’s father, wearing a thin circlet of gold, sat to the queen’s right; her older brother William sat to her left looking every inch the royal heir. When Grace walked through the arch, Petra broke off from holding court in her own group and met Grace partway across the room.

  As Grace and Petra crossed the room, space cleared at the head table, and Grace took her place with anticipation churning. Thin crackers accompanied a spicy porridge made from oats and lentils, and she dolloped some onto her plate with half a thought that she might get away with it. She hadn’t gotten the spoon halfway to her mouth before she was interrupted.

  Her mother spoke both kindly and quietly. “We're disappointed in you,” she said.

  Grace thought this was probably worse than yelling, the way her parents still tried to understand her. She could feel them radiating empathy on the very edge of her awareness, trying to foster a bond. It probably worked well for them on anyone else, Grace thought. To her, it felt invasive, and always had. She sat in silence and busied her hands pushing bits of her breakfast around on her plate.

  After another few moments, the itchiness faded, and Grace caught the meaningful look that went from Petra to her parents. Petra had always understood her aversion to the connection. Possibly it was because Petra was so gifted herself, or possibly Grace had just gotten used to Petra as they grew up together, sharing all the same lessons.

  So Petra had interceded with her parents, then, had reminded them that Grace couldn't connect and didn't want to try.

  Her parents sighed. “You must not punch Dylan again.”

  Grace buried her face in her hands. “I know, Mom. He just… ugh.”

  Her mother walked around the table to lay a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “You could try participating in court a little bit more,” her mother suggested. “Perhaps you could collaborate on a project and get to know each other better.”

  Grace groaned and tried to sink deeper into her hands. “Is it so hard to believe that I just don’t like him?”

  At that point, she could practically hear the bafflement spread over her parents' face. It happened like this every time she said she didn't like someone. She was a Couran. Courans liked everyone, and made it their business to like everyone.

  Well, Grace was a Couran, and Dylan the Twit could stuff it.

  Finally, her mother sighed again. “We don't need you here today,” she said. “Take the day, and be there for the gallery opening tonight.”

  “Thank you,” said Grace, and bolted.

  Grace welcomed the assault of colors and smells that the bazaar offered: it meant that everything else went quiet. Everyone else was focused on making a sale, so no one was trying to get into Grace's head. Better, it sold wine.

  She ducked between the stalls, ignoring the streaming fabric tendrils that charmed newcomers and obscured the alleyways between the booths. Grace, like most Courans, could tell where the goods in each booth came from the color of the wood of the stall: everyone brought everything they needed for the bazaar with them on long, shallow barges oxen pulled up the river that ran through the center of the capital. Anyone with bulky or heavy goods built their walls out of their packing crates to save space and weight. The crate-builders themselves had a particular section of the bazaar. As the crates sold and inventories depleted, the walls got shorter and the prices went up. Today, the walls would be tall.

  On another day, Grace might have taken the long way around and let the noise of strangers conversing wash over her, let the crowds break around her, alone in the middle of all the people with the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. Lost in the crowds, Grace could appreciate the best of Coura without the pressure she felt in more formal settings.

  Today, though, Grace lacked the patience for walking. She had a destination.

  The winesellers coveted the spaces at the center of the bazaar: lost and increasingly thirsty tourists passed them there more often. As the day wore on and the sun grew hotter, the mix of customers shifted, and lost and increasingly tipsy tourists began wandering by. It didn't matter much to the winesellers, who did brisk business in either case.

  The other merchants benefited as well, and the tourists always enjoyed themselves, so no one fought the winesellers for the coveted spots. Over the years, the jockeying for the best spots had become a friendly ritual rather than a true competition, even amongst the winesellers themselves.

  Grace watched a gaggle of young Myriarans stagger by in the opposite direction, stumbling even though it was barely ten in the morning, and knew she was getting close. Shaking her head, she ducked under a banner and turned right to find a Picaran stained-glass artist right where Jack and Nell had put up their wine booth by the third day of Bazaar every year Grace could remember going, even when Grace was thirteen and Molly had been an infant, even when Grace was eighteen and Nell had been hugely pregnant.

  The booth was full of the intricate craftsmanship that had earned Picara its place on the continent. Tiny golden gears animated fanciful sculptures of colorful birds and fish, splintering sunlight into rainbows that danced like magic over the pale iridescent skin of the Picaran peddling his wares.

  It should have been made of solid dark wood and filled with no-nonsense bottles, with Nell wearing a smile and a sensible, sturdy dress that had gone out of fashion two decades ago.

  Jack, clad in unfashionable sturdy overalls that gained a new garish patch every year, should have been helping to haul the cases of wine into carts and onto barges as they made sales. When the day ended, he would pull additional stock from the area they’d staged at the edge of the river.

  Molly, the older sister, should have been helping her mother, solemnly taking cash and making change as she grew into her role in the family.

  Her younger brother, Pook, should have been scampering in the broad paths between the booths, brown eyes gleaming with the company. He would be seven now, Grace thought, growing into the charm that made people stop to talk to the little boy with the warm brown hair and the warm brown eyes.

  As far as Grace was concerned, they formed the heart of the bazaar. Other booths came and went, but Jack and Nell had always been there, steady and reliable. She’d found herself her at their booth after the first time her older brother William had told her he was too busy learning statecraft to play with her.

  Nell had dried her tears, and Jack had let her help him carry some of the smaller crates. Molly had watched her with big eyes, and she’d felt truly useful for the first time in her life. William was smart, and Petra had flashes of wisdom beyond her years, but Grace could lift a crate with twelve wine bottles and carry it without breaking any of them.

  Her parents had explained that a princes and princesses did not need feats of strength to get what they wanted: a carefully-chosen word worked better. Grace arranged the bottles on the rough hewn wooden shelf and thought that strength worked well enough for this.

  When they’d moved everything they’d needed to, Jack had ruffled her hair and Nell had called Grace a good little helper. Molly had wrapped chubby toddler arms around Grace’s leg in a clumsy hug. Grace felt tears sting the corners of her eyes again and found she could bury her face in Nell’s clean white apron and pretend she wasn’t crying.

  After that, they hadn’t just been a fixture of the bazaar. They’d become hers. She went to them for comfort, and then, as she grew up and had money of her own, she learned they made her favorite wines, flavored with wild mountain elderberry or tart cherries. The taste of oak on the back of her tongue felt like safety.

  She enquired with the Picaran and got a
sales pitch in return. Didn't the pretty lady want a pretty lamp to go in her pretty bedroom? How about a pretty necklace to go with her pretty eyes?

  Grace counted it as a success when she didn't throw the salesman through the wall of his booth.

  “No, thank you,” she told him, walking quickly away before he could begin extolling the virtues of the his wide selection of sun-catchers.

  Grace continued on through the bazaar for the rest of the day, checking with the other wine merchants. Her search turned up two bottles of wine she wanted to try, a small flask of the golden wine Petra liked best, and altogether too many winesellers who hadn't seen Jack and Nell since the previous year.

  By the time the sun had begun a slow descent towards the horizon, Grace had run out of both winesellers and patience. Someone should had heard from them. No matter how remote the communities in the mountains were, there should have been some communication. No Couran family lived alone.

  It was odd, thought Grace to herself as she made her way back to the palace, and she wanted an answer.

  There wasn't very much odd in Coura. Back when Coura spanned most of the continent, Courans had hewn the capital city where Grace lived into the base of the mountain. The palace itself took its warmth in the winter and its cool in the summer directly from the bulk of the mountain that formed its windowless back wall. It nestled behind the town, encircling the bulk of the capital city like an embrace and taking all its strength from the very earth itself.

  Grace had spent hours as a child imagining that goblins had tunneled through the mountain, that they would accidentally break through the wall of her bedroom and she would have great adventures in the depths of the mountain with a stalwart band of goblin compatriots, fighting back fungus-creatures who would ooze into goblin towns to steal the scarce food one could get so far away from the sun.

  Coura itself was full of broad fields with rich soil planted prudently with grains and vegetables and, to the east, fruit. Grace had spent mornings as a child with her family learning the basics of the fields, the shapes of the leaves, the rich colors of the produce. Petra had been a star pupil and could recognize over three hundred vegetables by their seeds alone; Grace had mostly dug her fingers into the dark brown dirt and thought: mine. She could see bits of tan and ochre in the soil that reminded her of the ceramic tiles that formed key parts of most of the buildings in town. Other buildings were made up of stones speckled with the same minerals.