Free The Barefoot Princess by Christina Dodd Page A

forward to put her eye to the knothole again—and accidentally bumped the door. With a click, the latch opened. The door swung open. Amy scurried to catch the edge with her fingers. The anteroom flashed before her gaze. Lord Octavio, Lord Alerio and Lord Silas stood with their backs toher, facing the king. Grandmamma paced away from the little group, her cane tapping on the floor. Only Poppa could see Amy. His gaze flashed toward the wardrobe, but he didn’t react.
    He seemed preoccupied with her crime.
    “She blackened Prince Rainger’s eye!” Grandmamma repeated, as if the report was so dreadful it needed to be reiterated.
    Amy got the door closed with barely a sound. She leaned back among the cloaks and calmed her racing heart. It was stuffy in here, but so much better than the alternative—an open door and exposure.
    The silence drew out so long that Amy at last cautiously looked out again.
    Grandmamma’s blue dress was without wrinkle. Her white chignon rested in perfect order on her head. Her thin lips pressed together as she considered her son. “Do you understand, Raimund?”
    “I believe I do. You’re saying that my seven-year-old daughter punched—I assume she punched?” He looked to Grandmamma for guidance.
    “What difference does it make?” Grandmamma demanded. Then, “Yes. Yes, she punched him.”
    “My seven-year-old daughter punched Prince Rainger—”
    “My godson!”
    The courtiers backed away from the scene as if fearing incineration.
    “Yes. I know who he is. Rainger is your godson and my eldest daughter’s betrothed. He is also sixteen years old, and you’re saying my seven-year-old daughter punched him inthe face hard enough to blacken his eye.” King Raimund laughed briefly and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “What a fighter she is!”
    “I did not bring this to your attention so you could admire the child!” Grandmamma’s voice did not rise with irritation. Rather it grew colder.
    Amy huddled back in the wardrobe among the ermine trimmings. She shivered.
    “No, of course you didn’t. And I’m not admiring her.” Poppa laughed again. Cackled, in fact. “I’m wondering what we should do to toughen up Prince Rainger.”
    “Toughen up…! I never!”
    Amy had never heard Grandmamma sputter before, and she rather enjoyed it.
    Poppa got control of himself. Stopped laughing. “You have my word.” Putting his arm around Grandmamma, he led her toward the door. “I’ll take of the matter.”
    The gentlemen of the antechamber all nodded pontifically.
    “But Raimund.” Grandmamma’s thin, penciled-in eyebrows winged skyward. “I’ve always taken care of disciplining the girls.”
    “You brought me this problem. Obviously you want me to handle this,” Poppa said. “I’ll take care of the matter.”
    Oh, no. Amy sat back in the wardrobe. Poppa was going to take care of the matter, that matter being her. He had never taken care of the matter before. Now Poppa was going to…oh, no.
    The gentlemen of the antechamber waited until the footman had shut the tall door behind Grandmamma before they broke into speech. All of them. At the same time.
    Amy couldn’t understand a word, but she didn’t care. Shewas too busy rubbing her cheek against the silk lining of Poppa’s Christmas cape and sniffing the scent of cigars on his clothes. She associated the scent with rare moments spent with a kindly father who had too many duties and too little time for his daughters. Now she was a matter to him.
    Vaguely she heard Lord Octavio say, “Sire, did I detect a threat from the emissary from France?”
    “I think you can safely say that was a threat.” Poppa sighed.
    “And another threat from the emissary from Spain?” Sir Alerio asked.
    “We pay a steep price for living on the spine of the Pyrenees between two old foes,” Poppa said.
    Something about the tone of Poppa’s voice made Amy edge forward and look into the room. “Yet sire, I don’t think Spain or France are