Princess of the Silver Woods (Twelve Dancing Princesses) by Jessica Day George Read Free Book Online Page B

with little snow.
    Still, if he made a break back through the trees he would have to cross the road at some point, and he felt certain that Grigori would catch him. So instead Oliver quickly shed his mask and cloak and bundled it into another crook of the tree’s branches. It looked rather like a large, mossy nest. Then he slithered out to the end of the branch, which bent under his weight and dropped him down on the grounds of the estate, hidden from Grigori and his men by the high wall.
    Straightening his leather jerkin, he did his best to look like a gardener off on some serious task, and strode along one of the winding gravel paths where he had played as a small child. If memory served, there were several outbuildings on the grounds. One of them was bound to be empty, and he could hide for a time before slipping back over the fence and on his way.
    He came around a large juniper bush and nearly bumped into two men with a wheelbarrow full of dead branches. Oliver froze for a moment, but the men just nodded and continued on. Oliver managed to fight down the urge to flee, and nodded back. As he passed them, forcing himself to walk with purpose, he heard one of the men say, “Another new one. I wonder which of us got the ax this time.”
    To Oliver’s immense relief, another turn of the path brought him to the hothouses. In his childhood the last one in the row had been a treasure trove of old potting tables and other discarded paraphernalia. Peering through the old, dingy glass he saw that it was not being put to any better use now. He unlatched the door and hurried inside.
    Nothing had changed. Oliver could have navigated the rickety tables and cracked urns with his eyes closed. The floor at the front was remarkably clean, but that was the only improvement. He found the old bench just where he had left it. It was stone, badly chipped, and covered in a thick layer of old burlap sacks. Oliver shoved them to the floor, coughing at the resulting cloud of dust, and settled himself on the bench. He braced his feet on the edge of one of the tables and tried to rest. It would be far easier to leave in the dark. The hunters were rarely out then, afraid of running into four-legged wolves or having a horse put a foot wrong.
    It was late afternoon, and the sky was already beginning to darken, so he knew he wouldn’t have long to wait. But as the purple-gray twilight took over the weak winter day, Oliver fell asleep.

    When he awoke it was completely dark. The darkness was strange and thick, and Oliver thought he heard someone whispering. He sat up very slowly and peered into the blackness. The door opened, and Oliver made himself as still as possible. Every urn in the hothouse rattled, as though there was an earthquake, but Oliver felt nothing. There was a howl of laughter and the hothouse door slammed shut, leaving Oliver feeling distinctly alone. But if he was alone now, what had been in the hothouse with him a moment before?
    Cursing, he stumbled through the darkness. Once he reached the door, he slipped through, pausing only for amoment to listen for someone outside. Shadows seemed to wind through the hedges, shadows that had nothing to do with the moonlight and the pattern of darkness cast by the trees and shrubs. Oliver followed in the wake of the weird shadows, across the lawns, to the great estate house itself.
    It was very late, and all the windows were dark. Oliver found himself praying silently that someone would light a lamp or a candle, even if the light exposed him. What were those things crawling across the lawn? With a mounting sense of horror, he saw the dark shapes reach the house.
    With a terrible laugh, the shadow creatures pulled themselves up the wall to a window on the second floor that was open despite the cold. Oliver hid behind a fountain. The room they had just entered had been his childhood bedroom. Whose was it now? He prayed again, this time that the room had not been given to Petunia.
    His question was