The Piano Girl - Part One (Counterfeit Princess Series) Read online

  The Piano Girl

  Part One

  Counterfeit Princess Series

  Sherri Schoenborn

  MURRAY

  Visit my website:

  www.christianromances.com

  Sherri’s Christian romances:

  Fried Chicken and Gravy – a romance

  Available in audio

  Sticky Notes – lighthearted romance

  Available in audio

  The Piano Girl – for ages 7 to 107

  Available in audio

  (Part One and Two are combined in audio.)

  A Wife and a River

  Copyright © 2015 by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  All rights are reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, without written permission from Sherri Schoenborn Murray.

  This is a work of fiction, all characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead is completely coincidental.

  The Piano Girl - Part One

  www.christianromances.com

  Cover photo of Alia by Clari Noel Photography

  Edited by: Cori Murray, Kristi Weber and Carolyn Rose Editing

  ‡

  To my daughters—

  Eilee and Cori

  I promise to never serve you chalky milk.

  Tune your ears to wisdom, and incline your heart to understanding.

  PROVERBS 2:2.

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‡

  Prologue

  Blue Sky Kingdom – 1869

  To listen well can be a gift.

  My father distinctly remembered the first time that I discovered the keys of our grand piano. I had just turned three and happened upon them by chance. The sound the keys made under my fingertips startled me, and I cried. Father scooped me into his arms and comforted me while Mother laughed softly.

  I soon wiggled out of his embrace and bravely plodded back to the huge black beast. On tiptoe, I pressed down on one of its ivory teeth and, turning one ear to the sound, stared wide-eyed at Father. He watched in amazement as I listened. One by one, I played each key, turned my ear, and listened to the beast.

  “You’ve heard of my great-aunt Victoria?” Father addressed Mother.

  “Yes, of course, but you can’t possibly think? Why, Alia’s a toddler. She’s simply curious.”

  Father strode to the piano and picked me up. I whimpered, holding my arms out toward the beast. Yet, instead of sweeping me away, he sat down in the middle of the bench, providing me a view of the beast’s teeth. I stopped crying. Using the forefinger of my right hand, I pressed down on the center white key. It made a pleasant sound. Turning my head, I smiled up at him. I leaned my ear and listened until the sound faded.

  I proceeded to play each key and listen to each sound. Father said I reminded him of our piano tuner, who was blind. I listened deeper than the normal person can, and I relished the unique tone of each key.

  “She is being unusually patient,” Mother said.

  “She is entranced. Call in Louise,” he addressed one of our servants.

  “Francis!” Mother giggled at my father’s enthusiasm.

  Louise was our royal pianist. She had tar-black hair, which she wore spiraled on the top of her head. She played whenever my parents desired—during meals, banquets, my mother’s coffee parties . . .

  “Play something simple for Alia,” Father told Louise, and then he carried me away from the piano. “Now, do not fuss, Princess. I want you to listen.” He ran a hand through my auburn curls. “Something simple,” he repeated to Louise.

  Something simple to Louise was six notes, three on each hand. She played “The Ballad of Blue Sky,” our national anthem, and I stiffened in Father’s arms. I listened so intently that when Louise finally stopped, I lay exhausted against him.

  I was supposedly asleep on the settee when my parents took supper in the dining room that same evening. Father heard the music first. Someone was playing a two- and three-note tune, something familiar, but half of the melody was missing. Father chewed slowly and listened intently. Mother said that his face paled a bit as he strained to hear, and then he pushed back his chair.

  In the Great Hall, he saw that I had climbed up on the bench. Kneeling, I was able to see the keys as I stretched out my wee fingers. It was a simple version of Louise’s song, “The Ballad of Blue Sky.”

  Mother joined Father in the doorway, leaning her head against his shoulder.

  “You were right, Francis. She has a remarkable gift.”

  When I was growing up, this was my favorite story about Father and me. The war started the following year, shortly before I turned four, and lasted until two weeks before my sixteenth birthday. Much is required of a king during war; and my father, a strategist at heart, thrived on it.

  ‡

  Chapter One

  Thirteen years later . . .

  In Blue Sky, it is tradition for a maiden, on her sixteenth birthday, to choose the recipient of her first kiss. I, Princess Alia Dory Vankern Wells, intended to follow tradition.

  Over four hundred distinguished guests gathered in the ballroom for my party. I knew only a handful by name. While many discussed the conclusion of the Twelve-Year War or enjoyed fine hors d’oeuvres or one of the sixteen different layer cakes, I danced with my father.

  “If the war is over, Father, why are you still studying maps?” I smiled up into his hazel eyes. “I saw you today in your study.”

  “It’s very important, Alia, to focus on the moment. Right now, I am dancing with my lovely daughter.” He waltzed me about the ballroom. The layered hems of my sky-blue dress teased the floor, and auburn curls spilled out of my high bun.

  He’d evaded my question, but he’d given me a rare compliment, a gift. Lovely. Though I was known throughout the land for my creamy complexion and for never having a blemish, such a compliment from Father was more precious than the jade ring he’d surprised me with that morning.

  Next, I danced with an elderly man, the king of Nearton. In his frail arms, I scanned the ballroom. Decorated war generals and latent kings, but no man under the age of fifty appeared to be at my party. And I looked so beautiful. Not even Pierre was anywhere to be seen. Not only was he my French tutor, he’d taught me the krassant. After dancing with others, I’d known that he was gifted.

  As I scanned the periphery of the room, a red braid caught my eye. The tail of my younger sister’s hair stuck out from the edge of the floor-to-ceiling drapes. The little spy! At this hour, she was supposed to be in bed.

  “Happy birthday, Princess Alia.” Without turning my head, I knew it was King Lorenzo’s oldest son. Dell bowed before me, hiding his liverish complexion. If he was under fifty, it was just barely. “The first rose of summer is in bloom. May I show you?”

  “Ohh!” I was delighted. For the first rose to open on my birthday was a very good sign. “Where did you see it?”

  “Allow me.” Dell escorted me toward the French doors. I was only too happy to accompany him. If a rose had indeed opened on my birthday, it meant a year of blessings. In the courtyard,
I searched Mother’s rosebushes, which bordered the bronze statue of my grandfather, King Francis I. There were only tightly closed buds.

  “Here,” he said, his attention on a section I had not yet inspected. I neared, craning my neck to see, and then with the swoop of a hawk, Dell grabbed me by the shoulders and clamped his clammy mouth on mine.

  My kiss! I slapped my hand across his cheek and screamed—one of those heart-wrenching, blood-curdling screams telling everyone a maiden’s first kiss has been stolen.

  “You are a vixen.” Dell smiled with two large rows of teeth.

  “You are revolting!”

  Three guards rushed into the courtyard, accompanied by my father. I ran to him, and pressing my cheek against his chest, I sobbed. “He stole my kiss!”

  “Dell, you are to leave immediately.” Father turned to our guards. “Escort him to his carriage, and be certain he leaves the grounds.” Patting my arm, Father led me back inside the ballroom, with its marble floors and infirmary of well-dressed guests.

  “My first kiss,” I mumbled.

  “There will be other first kisses, Alia.”

  Though I was shaking, he led me toward the piano. With a clap of his hands, he drew the attention of our guests. “My daughter Alia will now play.”

  “No.” I grimaced. I played piano purely from emotion, and our guests did not want to hear of a stolen kiss, lies, and broken dreams.

  “My daughter will now play.” With a sweep of his hand, Father motioned for me to take a seat at the Great Beast.

  I smoothed the layers of chiffon behind me, sat down, and stared straight ahead. At the far end of the room, my sister’s red braid poked out from the left side of the curtain, within feet of where Mother stood speaking with the queen of Nearton.

  I inhaled deeply and focused on one truth: never let a warmonger plan your birthday party. Sobs bottled in my throat, but still I was to play, to bare my soul in front of all our guests.

  I sighed and began at the right side of the piano, where the octaves are high, and recalled my innocence, turning sixteen, kissing Mother, looking in the mirror as the servants dressed me, fashioned my hair, and added my jewels. The melody went from simple to layers of beauty. I added searching notes for when I’d waltzed with Father and elderly kings, while I looked for Pierre. There was a gentle bliss. And then without restraint, I remembered Dell and plunged my fingers deep into the beast’s darkest tones.

  Our guests stepped back in alarm, as they often did when I immersed myself.

  The memory would not scar me, because I would expose the lie before my soul believed. The kiss was stolen, not given; therefore, it was not my first. Dark notes took on monstrous intonations. Dell’s kiss was now a distant memory and, due to the catharsis of the beast, one I prayed I would never relive.

  While the crowd clapped around me, I glimpsed my parents at the far side of the room. Tears glistened in their eyes. They loved me. Of this, I was certain.

  ΦΦΦ

  I slowly made my way across the room to where I’d earlier seen my little sister hiding. As I strolled, greeting guests and exchanging pleasantries, I spotted no sign of Wren anywhere in the blue velvet drapery. But I knew she was there. She was sly, clever, and very keen of hearing.

  Near the punch bowl and behind Mother, who was deep in conversation, an elderly woman dropped her serviette. I bent to retrieve it, and I spotted three toes in the ebb of the curtain where the hem met the floor. Who knew all Wren had overheard from her station.

  “Ducky, I know you’re there,” I whispered. “Meet me in the hallway, and I won’t tell.”

  The toes disappeared, and she made her exit without a ripple in the velvet. A flash of light green silk pajamas and red braids slipped from the end of the drapery into the corridor.

  I hurried after her. “You sneaky little duck. Come along.” Taking her hand in mine, I marched her up the back stairwell.

  “I have something to tell you. I wasn’t just spying.”

  Wren was always spying. “Don’t worry, you won’t miss a thing. In the morning, I’ll tell you all about tonight.”

  “Father is up to something,” she breathed.

  “He is always up to something.”

  With her hands on her wide hips, Maid Kimberlee waited for us at the top of the stairs.

  “I overheard him in the study talking to someone,” Wren whispered.

  Wren had already made a career of eavesdropping and profiting from vital information. Her ears were perhaps even more sensitive than mine, though we both had the gift of listening.

  “We’ll talk about it in the morning,” I said.

  “Father said, ‘Nothing is to happen to her… nothing.’”

  Prior to tonight, nothing had ever happened to me.

  “And why do you think they were talking about me?” Setting a hand to the polished balustrade, I paused beside her on the stairwell.

  “Father said, ‘She is the future of Blue Sky.’ I’m not old enough to be the future.” Even as she said it, Wren had the posture of a queen.

  “Anything else?” I asked as we continued up the stairs.

  “Oh, so much! Tonight when Maid Kimberlee’s not watching, I’ll slip into your bed.” Wren’s eyes widened. “After the party, you’ll tell me about everything and I’ll tell you.”

  “No, Ducky.” I laughed. “You are to stay in your own bed. Tomorrow morning, after a good night’s sleep, we’ll talk.”

  I kissed the top of her head, and she sighed as I transferred her hand to Maid Kimberlee’s.

  Determined that my father would not spoil my party, I returned downstairs.

  ΦΦΦ

  After the party, Father and Mother kissed me good night while Dr. Krawl stood near my bedside holding a glass of milk. “It’s warm, Alia. It will help you sleep.”

  I yawned. “I will have no trouble sleeping.”

  “After what happened with Prince Dell, Alia, you are to drink this.” Father took the glass from Dr. Krawl’s hand.

  I sat up and studied my father’s eyes. There was only tenderness and love, no signs of plotting or deception. I took a large gulp of the warm milk. Something tasted chalky. Wrinkling my nose, I set the half-empty glass down on the side table.

  “Finish it, Alia.” Father used his stern commander-of-war voice.

  I tried to sit up, but my canopy bed floated about my chamber like a ship in gentle waves. I relaxed deeper into my feather pillow and never wanted to wake up.

  ‡

  Chapter Two

  I awoke to slits of light directly above and around me, and something smelled like a barn. My body ached from being in a prolonged fetal position. I tried to straighten, but found myself confined in a wooden box. In the narrow space between the slats, I saw birds stacked in wooden cages on both sides of me. We were in the back of a wagon being jostled over a rutted road. A reddish-brown chicken clucked and grunted as if she were in great pain. With her bottom positioned toward me, she squeezed out a large brown egg.

  I gagged.

  “Helllp!” I cried. “Helllp! I’ve been kidnapped! Help! It’s Princess Alia and I’ve been kidnapped! Help, I’m claustrophobic.” The louder I cried, the louder the chickens clucked around me.

  The wagon rolled to a stop. The bench seat creaked loudly. Footsteps crunched in the pebbly road as my captor walked around the side of the wagon to my crate.

  Please let him be handsome, young, and strong, with nice teeth and dark hair. I whispered my ideals to God and held my breath as reality approached.

  Overhead, large fingers slid back the metal bolts and then lifted the lid.

  I sat up, straightened my legs, and breathed in the bright sunlight. My captor was not young and handsome, but Father’s age. He was balding and, from the rags he wore, a poor chicken farmer. His clothes did not properly fit his large bones. His pants were inches too short, and so were the arms of his shirt. He should have fired his tailor, if he had one.

  There was no hope for him.
r />   Standing behind the wagon, he swished his hand. “You may get up and walk for a while, if you desire, Dory.”

  “My name is Alia. Princess Alia.”

  “I am to refer to you as Dory—your middle name.” He simply nodded instead of bowing.

  I disliked frowning. Mother said it made any face ugly, even my beautiful one. I roused myself to my feet and bunched my arms by my sides. I was wearing the most hideous common clothes. They were even soiled. And my shoes were ugly, brown, square-toed plain Janes!

  The worst part about the dream was that I wasn’t waking up. I pinched my arms and my cheeks and blinked my eyes. I was still in the back of a foul-smelling wagon. I didn’t care what the farmer thought of me—I screamed as far as my lungs would take me.

  Other than short stubbles of green, the land lay barren. Not a rooftop or even a tree.

  “Who are you? Why have you kidnapped me?”

  Without showing teeth, my captor smiled. “I am Felix,” he said slowly and deliberately, like I was dim-witted. “I was hired by your father because I know the way to the kingdom of Yonder like the back of my hand. For your safety, we are disguised as commoners, as father and daughter, until Yonder.”

  Nothing made sense.

  “Your father wrote you a letter.” From the pocket of his soiled shirt, he handed me an envelope. “You are to read it twice, and then tonight I must burn it for our safety.”

  My father was a brilliant strategist, and now with the end of the war, he was bored and creating one between us. I stared at the royal paper in my hand.

  “You may read it up front or remain here.” He nodded toward the box.