The Princess in the Opal Mask

CHAPTER 1

ELARA

Somewhere in the kingdom of Galandria, someone knows my real name.

When I was a small child I was dumped on the Royal Orphanage’s doorstep, like a sack of rotten potatoes. In return, the orphanage dumped me with the Ogden family and told them to choose a name for me. Mistress Ogden called me Elara, after a girl from her childhood village. (“Dirtiest, most disgusting brat I’ve ever known,” she’s fond of saying.)

One day I intend to find the name I’ve lost. And when I do, I’ll declare the name Mistress Ogden gave me worthless, just as she has always declared me worthless.

Somewhere in this wretched kingdom, someone must remember me.

I tell myself this as I stare at the honey almond cake I’ve baked for Mister Blackwell’s visit tonight. I had hoped to surprise Mistress Ogden with the cake and finally show her that I am not the inconvenience she says I am. I don’t need her to love me. I gave up on that a long time ago. But I do need a place to live.

I woke up early and gathered extra wood for the brick oven. But instead of the masterpiece I envisioned, the cake is lumpy and scorched. Nevertheless, my stomach rumbles. I despise dinners with Mister Blackwell, but at least I will eat well tonight for a change.

“Elara!” bellows Mistress Ogden. “Is something burning in there?”

“No!” Cursing, I brush a lock of sweat-soaked hair behind my ear and sprinkle flour on top of the cake, hoping to disguise the blackened crust. Why didn’t I think to make frosting as well?

Mistress Ogden storms into the kitchen. Her silvery-blond hair is tied back with lavender ribbons, in the fashion most respectable Galandrian women prefer. “It is stifling in here. What have you done?” Her eyes, the color of blue disdain, land on the misshapen lump. “What is that?”

“It’s a cake.” I wipe my flour-coated hands on my skirt, a hand-me-down from Serena, Mistress Ogden’s daughter. “I thought with Mister Blackwell coming tonight that—”

“That what? You’d bake a monstrosity and serve it to our guest?” She props open the back door with a rock. Outside, rain batters the Ogdens’ unkempt yard, turning it into a muddy marsh, and cool air wafts into the overheated kitchen. She picks up the cake and pitches it out the door.

“You didn’t have to throw it away,” I say, and my stomach rumbles again.

She snorts. “That thing was nearly as hideous as you are. . . .”

She launches into one of her tirades, so I carefully arrange my features into a look of penitence. Then, as always, I tune out every word she says. It’s a game I’ve played since I was young. What I do is imagine a poor, starved kitten. I imagine feeding it Mistress’s words, the same words she has repeated over and over throughout the years like an oath. Worthless. Unwanted. Unlovable. I imagine the words are being devoured and stripped of their power, that they are carried away to someplace else entirely.

A place where they can no longer hurt me.

“Besides,” she finishes when she has finally exhausted herself, “have you forgotten how important tonight is?”

As if I could. My life at the Ogdens’ has always depended on Mister Blackwell, the director of the Royal Orphanage, and the four hundred worthings he brings the Ogdens every three months. Their payment for allowing me to live with them.

I turn away and begin stuffing rags into the window sill, intent on keeping my mouth shut. Through the smudged and cracked window, the Ogdens’ untended almond orchard stretches into the fog-laden landscape. The wood around the windows is old and rotting, giving the rain a clear path into the kitchen, where patches of mold fester on the walls.

“Grab the bag of flour and make an apple tart,” Mistress commands. “That should be easy enough for you to do without screwing it up. Are you listening to me, Elara?”

“I can’t make the apple tart,” I say and turn around. “We’re almost out of flour.”

“How is that possible? I gave you plenty of worthings for flour yesterday.” She grabs the nearly empty flour sack and gives it a shake, sending white puff clouds into the air. Then she plucks a wooden spoon from the counter and raises it over her head, as though she intends to strike me.

Without thinking, I reach up and grab the spoon. Mis-tress and I lock eyes, each of us holding either end while we silently mark this moment. The moment where we both understand I am no longer afraid of her.

I remove my hand. “Wooden spoons leave marks, remember?”

She slowly lowers the spoon. With Mister Blackwell visiting she must appear to love me, and a black eye or a bruised cheek won’t fit with the image she wants to project. And tonight she intends to wrangle not just the worthings from Mister Blackwell, but also get tickets to the birthday masquerade for Princess Wilhamina Andewyn, Galandria’s “Masked Princess.”

“Mister Ogden took most of the money,” I continue. “He had a debt to pay at the Draughts of Life. . . .” I break off, because there is nothing more to be said. If Mister Ogden didn’t visit the village tavern, partaking in cards and drinking ale so frequently (and Mistress didn’t love expensive things), the Ogdens wouldn’t need to depend so heavily on the stipend they receive from the orphanage. Ogden Manor might not have fallen into disrepair, and they wouldn’t have had to let go of their servants one by one, until there was only me. The only servant they are actually paid to keep.

“Forget about the apple tart then,” she says. “Go to the Draughts and fetch Harold. You are to return with him immediately and start on the stew.”

“Yes, Mistress. Your every wish is my most desperate command.” I bow sarcastically in her direction. Then I leave the kitchen, before I decide to grab a wooden spoon of my own.

While I’m pulling on my cloak, Serena hollers for me to come to her bedroom.

When I arrive, she is scrutinizing herself in front of a mirror. She has Mistress Ogden’s silvery-blond hair. She’s plump and apple-cheeked from a lifetime of being given the best the Ogdens could afford. Today she is wearing the green silk dress Mistress bought the day after Mister Blackwell last visited.

She holds up first a powder blue frock and then a lavender one, the colors of the Andewyn family crest. “Which do you think the Masked Princess will prefer?”

“She has a name,” I snap. “And I don’t think she’ll care two figs what you’re wearing. You don’t even know if Mister Blackwell can get Mistress tickets yet.”

Serena frowns at her reflection. “Mother will find a way. She always does.” She holds up the lavender gown again and turns her head side to side. “Yes, I think lavender will do quite nicely. I’ll need you to wash it and return it to my room when you’re finished.”

“It’ll have to wait. Your mother has sent me to the Draughts again.”

“Later then,” she says, pursing her lips. “And say hello to Cordon for me.”

I stare blankly back at her. Cordon is the son of Sylvia, the woman who owns the Draughts of Life. He is also my best friend. He has been since I can remember, though lately we don’t talk as much as we used to. And ever since we were children, Cordon and Serena have never gotten along well.

“I will if I have time,” I snap. “Between you and your mother I have quite enough to do already.”

Serena’s expression softens. “Things would go so much easier if you didn’t antagonize her all the time,” she says, and I know she must have heard us in the kitchen.

“Really, you think so?” I say. “You think if I was all sweetness and smiles she’d ask someone else to do the cooking and the cleaning?”

Serena stiffens and her expression of concern vanishes. “You are her servant. What she asks is nothing more than what is proper.”

“Servant,” I scoff. “Most families aren’t paid sixteen hundred worthings a year to house a servant.”

“You’re lucky to be here at all,” she replies coolly, and holds out the lavender dress. “After all, if my family hadn’t taken you in what would have become of you?”

I pluck the dress from her outstretched hand. The word family twists in my stomach like a cruel vice.

When I finally step outside, I pull my cloak tight against the rain and wind. My boots squelch through mud as I make my way from Ogden Manor down the narrow path through the woods leading into town. Overhead, a canopy of almond tree branches blooms with tiny white and pink blossoms. Despite the rain, winter is finally giving way to spring.

I kick a muddy stone as I walk. There was a time when I believed Mistress Ogden was my mother and I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I would have said anything, done anything, to have her smile at me. But over time I realized her smiles—like her love—would never be given to me, and that instead of trying to earn her favor, I needed to learn how to survive her wrath.

And now, all these years later, I have other concerns. One day those bags of worthings from the orphanage will stop coming. And when they do, what is to keep her from tossing me out of Ogden Manor? I don’t know exactly when my birthday is, but I think I turn seventeen sometime this year. I doubt the orphanage will continue paying the Ogdens after I’ve come of age.

One winter when I was very young, the appointed night for Mister Blackwell’s visit came and went and he never appeared. Mistress said she refused to provide a place for me if the orphanage wasn’t going to pay for it, so she threw me out of the manor. I spent the night shivering in the Ogdens’ barn, hoping I wouldn’t freeze to death.

Mister Blackwell arrived early the next morning. A tree had fallen across the road, delaying his carriage. Like the great performer she is, Mistress immediately transformed into a loving and concerned mother. Mindful of how cold it had been in the barn, I played along. After Mister Blackwell left, we never spoke of that night. But the message was loud and clear:

No worthings, no home.

Sometimes when Mistress Ogden has sent me into town to buy food or supplies, I’ve wondered what would happen if I just kept walking? If I walked through the entire village of Tulan and continued beyond it, walking away from one life to find another.

Necessity stops me every time, though. Without a way to provide for myself, where would I go?

The snap of a twig and the sound of something, or someone, shuffling through a bush makes me stop and turn around. I shield my eyes against the rain but see nothing except for a couple of squirrels chasing each other up a tree.

I resume walking and my hand closes over the dagger I keep hidden in the pocket of my cloak. Another twig snaps. I turn around again, hoping to find more squirrels. But this time I see a flash of deep green fabric disappear among the fog and almond trees.

I leave my hand on my dagger and sprint the rest of the way to the tavern.

CHAPTER 2

ELARA

The Draughts of Life sits at the edge of Tulan’s meager town square. Dusty and old, it reeks of ale and desperation, frequented by men who’ve watched the price of grain rise higher and higher while their wages sink lower and lower. It’s not a place that easily welcomes outsiders. But an unaccompanied young woman is another matter entirely, so I reach for my dagger again as I step inside.

But the first face I see isn’t that of a man in search of comfort. It’s the face of a child, one I know well.

“Timothy, what are you doing here?”

Timothy, a small boy of about eight, stares back at me with frightened eyes. He jumps slightly at the sound of a man loudly cursing. “Cordon said he’d try to find some leftovers for us.”

Last month Timothy’s father, a soldier, was recalled to Allegria, Galandria’s capital, amid fears that war with Kyrenica was imminent. Most days his family doesn’t have near enough to eat.

“All right. Stick near the wall and stay quiet.” I raise my voice in case anyone’s listening. “And if someone gives you any trouble, I want you to yell for me or Cordon.”

Sylvia waves me over. She is taking orders from a table of men who look as though they’ve had more than their fair share of ale. One of them smacks her on the rump. Sylvia’s eyes narrow and her lips thin, but she says nothing. Like everyone else in Tulan, she barely makes ends meet and can’t afford to lose customers, no matter how ill-mannered they are.

“Back again, sweetheart?” says a scruffy, unshaven man with oily blond hair, a Draughts regular. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” His arm slithers around my waist. “Care for a friend tonight?”

I pull out my dagger and point it at him. “I’ve got enough friends, thanks.”

That shuts him up and he turns away cursing. Sylvia bites back a smile and points to a table where Mister Ogden sits. “He happened upon a winning streak for once. Good luck bringing him home.”

Mister Ogden is short and squat with a nose the size of a pimply squash, which is flushed beet red. Even from here I can see the shiny gold worthings stacked near his elbows as he examines his cards.

“Are you all right?” Sylvia continues. “You look a bit pale.”

I hesitate before answering, mindful others are within earshot. I’m almost certain someone was following me, but I don’t want anyone in this tavern thinking I’m a scared little girl.

I turn and stare at the tavern entrance, as though I’m expecting a ghastly villain to appear. Instead, the door opens and Mister Travers, Tulan’s schoolteacher, steps inside.

I exhale.

“I’m fine,” I tell Sylvia. “I’m just hungry. We’ve run out of most of the supplies we stored for the winter, so we’ve been saving our food for Mister Blackwell’s visit tonight.” What I don’t say is that Mistress’s idea of “saving food” means forcing me to go hungry while she, Serena, and Mister Ogden eat smaller meals.

Sylvia nods and tells me that Cordon is in the kitchen if I want to see him, then leaves to deliver more ale. I decide I’ll wait to approach Mister Ogden until he’s lost most of his worthings, which shouldn’t take long, and head for the kitchen. On the way I pass two men slumped over mugs of ale, whispering.

“But do you suppose the rumors of the Masked Princess are true?” The man’s eyes dart around, as though he expects the king’s men to appear and pounce on him for the very thought.

“Which ones?” asks his companion. He hiccups and adds, “Took the wife to see the Masked Princess wave from her balcony last year. You ask me, she looked like nothing more than a rich brat.”

Inside the kitchen, Cordon is filling a basket with stale bread and mushy apples. He smiles when he sees me. His eyes are as gray as the sky outside, and his unruly blond hair hangs in his face.

“Figured I’d see you in here sooner or later,” he says as he finishes up with the basket and moves on to stir a pot of bubbling stew. “I already tried to tell Mister Ogden to go home, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Thank you,” I say, stepping closer. The warmth of the hearth is a relief after walking in the rain, and the smell of the stew makes me lightheaded.

“Serena asked me to talk to him. Convince him to cut back on the ale.”

“How nice of her,” I say curtly, although I can’t remember when Serena and Cordon could have had that conversation. Serena is never required to bring her father home, as Mistress Ogden feels that the Draughts is too rough a place for her.

Cordon shoots me a wary look and changes the subject, “How did the cake turn out?”

“Crispy,” I answer. “Mistress tossed it out.”

“I told you I should have helped. I’m a much better cook than you are.” He gives me a sly grin and I smile in return, cheered for the first time all day.

“All right,” I say, laughing. “Next time you’re in charge of convincing Mistress not to toss me out.”

Cordon stops smiling. He looks down and begins stirring the stew with fast, efficient strokes. An awkward silence falls between us and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Ever since he came of age things have been strained between us, and I wonder if he remembers our childhood promise.

“Maybe you should talk to Serena,” he says finally.

“Serena?” I repeat, surprised. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Maybe you can work out a different arrangement with the Ogdens,” he says. “Serena would help you; I’m sure of it.”

“I doubt Her Royal Highness could be bothered to lift one lazy finger on my behalf.”

“She’s not lazy,” Cordon says, frowning. “She’s just used to being waited on. And she’s good with her mother. You should talk to her.”

“Right. And since when do you make it your business to know what Serena’s good at?”

“Don’t be unkind. She’s changed. Serena’s not the girl she once was. She’s grown softer, kinder.”

I stifle a snort. The thought of Serena being a kindhearted girl is laughable. Serena is the kind of girl who once threatened to tell Mistress I hit her if I didn’t stand under a beehive. She wanted to see how long it would take for one to sting me. (Two hours, as it turned out.)

Of course, that was before I toughened up. Before I started studying Mistress and the way she persuaded others to do her bidding. Once I learned the delicate art of manipulation, I found I could convince Serena to do whatever I wanted.

Do you know, Serena, I heard a woman talking in town, and she said that standing in a swamp will give you fairer skin? It must be true because she was beautiful. . . .

“Serena cares for you in her own, complicated way,” Cordon continues.

“There’s nothing complicated about being a spoiled brat,” I say.

His features darken and he picks up the basket. “I need to give this to Timothy,” he says stiffly. “Can you look after the stew?”

He brushes past me, and I’m left wondering why my words angered him.

Just then the door opens behind me, and a shadow casts across the wall. Hot breath brushes my neck and gooseflesh pimples my arms. It must be the oily-haired man, coming to see if I’ve reconsidered his offer of “friendship.” As I reach for my dagger, a hand grabs my shoulder. I give a shout and whirl around and my dagger nearly slices Mister Travers’s arm.

“I’m so sorry, Mister Travers,” I say, sighing with relief as I slide the dagger back into my pocket.

Mister Travers moved to Tulan a month ago and is the best teacher I’ve ever had. I’ve always enjoyed school be-cause it is the one place I can escape Mistress. Yet she always seemed to find reasons for me to stay home to cook and clean, saying it was useless to waste an education on me. In the past my schoolteachers, charmed by Mistress, always overlooked my absences. But Mister Travers makes it a point to visit Ogden Manor every time I miss, which irritates her to no end. Thanks to him, now I hardly ever miss school.

“I’m sorry, Elara,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” I lie, although it looks like Mister Travers is the one who is scared. Sweat pours from his brow and his eyes seem strangely unfocused. I step closer to him and get a strong whiff of ale. “Is there a problem?” I ask.

“Your whole existence has been a problem,” he whispers. His voice sounds haunted. But before I can take in his words, I notice the inside of his cloak.

It’s lined in a deep, emerald green.

I step backward and the heat from the stew warms my back. “Were you following me, Mister Travers?”

He removes a handkerchief from his cloak and mops his brow. Although he doesn’t reply, I realize I have my answer.

“Why were you following me?” I reach my hand back into my cloak and grasp my dagger. It occurs to me that although Mister Travers seems kind, I don’t know him well at all.

“I am sorry I scared you . . . I had wanted to . . . that is, I thought I should—” He breaks off, and closes his eyes. When he opens them he says, “They’ve found me.”

“What?” I step forward. “Who’s found you?”

“The Guardians. Ever since I came to Tulan I have wanted to speak with you. But I had to wait, I had to know for sure, and now it seems I have waited too long to tell you. . . .” He breaks off and his eyes stray to the door.

“The Guardians?” Sighing, I release my dagger and place a hand on Mister Travers’s shoulder, as though he is a confused child. “I think you’ve had too much to drink. No one is coming after you. Let me make you a cup of—”

“No! You must tell no one you saw me today,” he whispers intently. “I have something important to give you.” Quickly, he reaches into his cloak and removes a book. An expen-sive one, judging by the brown leather-bound cover. He hands it to me and I read the title: Eleanor of Andewyn House: Galandria’s Greatest Queen.

Eleanor Andewyn was Galandria’s founding queen. She grew up in a family of miners and it was she who first discovered opals in Galandria’s soil. She used her newfound wealth to unify all the villages and form our kingdom. Her family, the Andewyns, built the Opal Palace in Allegria and has ruled Galandria for centuries.

But why this should matter to me, I don’t understand.

“Take it,” Mister Travers says in response to my confusion. “I shall be going away, and the time has come for you to keep it.”

“But why?”

“Because it was your mother’s,” he answers. “And she intended for you to have it.”

CHAPTER 3

WILHA

From my chambers in the Opal Palace, I hear the people chanting my name. It is not my birth name they chant, but the other name. The one that has always overshadowed everything else. Their cries pelt in through the open window, insistent and demanding, like a nettlesome song that you cannot get out of your head.

Masked Princess!

Masked Princess!

Masked Princess!

A gust of wind blows into the room, and I bring a hand to my face. Instead of skin, my fingers brush the smooth, painted metal of my mask. It is cold and wet with stray raindrops.

Behind me, Arianne, my father’s secretary, runs through my itinerary for the rest of the day, while my maid, Vena, begins tugging at my corset. I gasp as it pulls and puckers tight.

“How’s that?” Vena grunts. She doesn’t wait for an answer and begins fastening up the buttons on my gown. Her movements are hurried, as I know she hates touching me.

“It is a bit stiff,” I murmur. “Could you—”

“Princess, try to concentrate, please?” Arianne says with annoyance. “Matters important to Galandria require your attention. After your appearance on the balcony, you have your training session with Patric. After that the king has asked you to visit the children at the Royal Orphanage. . . .”

Vena finishes buttoning my gown. I turn around to face Arianne, who peers at the parchment she holds and continues. “In addition, the daughter of the king’s physician is having a wedding in three days. His Majesty feels it would be best if you attended.”

“Please tell the king that if he wishes me to be there, I shall. But if he leaves it to my discretion, I should like to remain here.”

Vena gives Arianne a look that says I told you so.

Arianne continues as though I have not spoken, “Master Welkin delivered your new mask today. He says it is his greatest work yet.” She grimaces her disapproval, to remind me that I should have met with the mask maker myself, and holds up a large lavender velvet box.

I open the box and sigh. The metal mask is painted in gold leaf and encrusted with red, orange, and yellow fire opals from Galandria’s wealthy opal mines. Small diamonds line the holes cut for my eyes. As I lift the mask from the box, the opals catch the candlelight and sparkle like a sunset. The mask is beautiful, yet I cannot see it as anything more than a sentence I must carry out.

I only wish someone would tell me what crime I have committed.

Although this mask is much brighter than the one I am currently wearing, they are identically shaped. Every mask I own covers my entire face, with the exception of my chin, my lips, and the top of my nose. When I was younger, I would stare at the shape of my masks and try to comfort myself with the thought that at least they left me enough space to breathe.

“Master Welkin is designing several more masks,” Arianne says. “They should be ready in a week so you will have your pick for the birthday ball.”

I utter my thanks and gratitude, for I know it’s expected of me, then turn and enter my closet. I take a few uncomfortable steps and turn back to tell Vena my corset really is too tight, but stop when I hear Arianne whispering.

“Spoiled is what she is. Doesn’t appreciate anything the king does. He gives her the world and asks that she only make a few appearances.”

“Spoiled freak, you mean,” Vena whispers back. “If my family didn’t need the worthings, you wouldn’t catch me anywhere near her. The palace pays good money after what happened to Rinna. I’ll bet you under that mask she’s just as ugly as they say she is.”

A true princess would not allow her servants to speak about her so. But at hearing the name of my former nanny, I draw back so they cannot see me. The fear that Vena may be speaking nothing less than the truth steals my voice.

Quietly, I turn back and move deeper into the closet. Rows of golden gowns and jeweled silken dresses seem to go on for ages. Glass cases holding every mask I have received since birth line the wall in front of me.

The cases are made of thick glass that is said to be unbreakable, and can only be opened by a jeweled key, a key which always hangs around my neck. Dozens of other decorative keys hang from the chain as well, forming a thick jeweled necklace. The keys clink and jingle as I remove the necklace and open a case. I place my new mask inside the case and close it again.

I stop to look at myself in the mirror next to the cases. The mask I am wearing is painted black, and black opals that shine with veins of sapphire trail like tears down either side.

I glance backward to make sure Arianne and Vena have not stepped into the closet. When I see they haven’t, I untie the mask and stare at my reflection. My eyes are green, and my nose is small. My hair is brown, the same color, I am told, as my mother’s. There is nothing remarkable about me. Yet surely, there is nothing horrendous either?

“Princess!” Arianne snaps. “It is nearly noon!”

I sigh and tie the mask back on. Every Friday at noon, I appear on the palace balcony before the crowd. The stares are agony. People look at me, not as someone they may wish to know, but as a macabre curiosity, a freak that both intrigues and repulses them. Men hold their children tighter, fearing that the rumors may be true, and I have the power to harm their family. Beautiful women glare at me, feeling upstaged by the grandeur of my jewels and dress. The peasants worship or revile me, calling out their well wishes or ill will in equal measures.

None of them want to look past the Masked Princess’s costume and see the girl underneath.

T he chanting grows louder, until it seems the palace walls shake in anticipation. I hurry down the corridor with Arianne and Vena following closely behind. A group of nobles who have come to call on my father sweep out of our way. One woman discreetly brings her hand to her eyes as we pass, in case I suddenly decide to rip off my mask and curse everyone with my abominable face.

Patric stands in front of all the other guards at the entrance to the balcony. His black hair, broad shoulders, and strong arms and legs give him the distinct build of a soldier.

“Good afternoon, Princess.” His voice is formal and he bows appropriately.

I nod. “Good afternoon, Patric.” I am careful to match his tone.

“Will you be joining us on the balcony today?” Vena, standing beside me, tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear.

“Not today,” he answers, though he looks at me as he speaks.

“Pity,” Vena says in a lilting voice. “A stray arrow might be worth the risk if it were you coming to a lady’s rescue.”

“Stray arrows are nothing to joke about,” Patric says curtly. “Especially while the princess stands beside you.”

“Of course. Please forgive me.” Vena curtsies in my direction, yet I read the irritation in her eyes.

“Forgive me for detaining you, Madame Arianne,” Patric says with a brief glance in her direction. “I have come with a message for the princess. We will have to cancel our training session today.” He pauses, and I read the slightest disappointment in his eyes. “After your appearance on the balcony, the king requests your presence in his study. We are instead to have our lesson early next week.”

I nod briefly, as though he is just another guard.

Patric bows and leaves, and while Arianne gives instructions to the other guards, Vena leans in close, her eyes lingering on Patric’s retreating figure. “During your training sessions, does he mention anyone? He is of age. Is he betrothed?”

“I wouldn’t know. I do not make inquiries of his personal life,” I say, dismayed to realize this is the truth. I turn away, unwilling to discuss Patric any longer.

Arianne orders the guards to open the doors to the balcony, and we are greeted with the smell of rain and wet cobblestones. Cheers from the crowd below mix with the roaring of the wind. Vena holds a parasol over my head and I step forward.

Even with the rain, the courtyard is packed. People are still streaming through the gilded gates, past the gardens and water fountains, and up to the stone steps, where a line of palace guards stand.

Peasants dressed in simple clothes mix with rich Alle-grian noblewomen, who carry their own pastel-colored parasols. Several men and women appear to be on a pilgrimage judging by their foreign-looking robes. At the very front of the crowd are several men dressed in brown cloaks and masks made of gold thread. I know them to be “Maskrens,” a cult devoted to the Masked Princess.

I look, too, at the masks some of the women in the crowd wear: simple costumed ones for the merchant class, and jeweled—but less ornate than mine—ones for the noblewomen. A scream wells in my throat, clawing for release. But I swallow it, because who will ever understand?

“Smile and wave, for Eleanor’s sake,” Arianne hisses in my ear. “Stop standing there looking like you are facing the chopping block.”

I obey and force myself to wave. The crowd parts for two men, each of whom hold the arm of a third man. All three of them look ragged and dirty. But the third man has a bloody nose. His left eye is swollen shut; his lips are bruised. His shirt is torn, and he is fighting to free himself from the other two.

The first man says, “Masked Princess, we have a crime to report,” and he gives the third man a shake. “This man stole grain from a family in our village. One of the little ones got sick from hunger and died. This man is guilty of murder!”

“We have come here to demand justice!” The second man raises his voice. “Take off your mask and curse him. Give him the punishment he deserves!”

A hush falls over the crowd. Even the wind ceases its wailing. Horror twists my insides as his words register. I grasp the balcony railing and look down at the bruised and bleeding man, who stares back at me with terrified eyes. The men who hold him are superstitious. Yet they are not asking for healing or a blessing, as some have before.

They are asking me to kill this man.

A few women gather up their children and hurry away. Several other citizens cover their eyes.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone,” screams the bleeding man as his captors shove him to his knees. “I was hungry!”

“Everyone is hungry,” shouts a peasant woman in the crowd. “Everyone except the Andewyns and the rich!”

Arianne’s grip on my shoulder is vice-like. “Say something!” she hisses. “Before this turns ugly.”

I look out at the crowd. The air is thick with silent expectation. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

Arianne curses under her breath and then shouts down at the men. “Take him to the courthouse if you feel he has wronged you.” She begins ushering me back into the palace. “Get back inside, unless you want to be the cause ofanother death.”

There is a sharp intake of breath from Vena and the guards. Arianne goes pale as she realizes she has just uttered the unspeakable.

“Your Highness,” she says, for once using my proper title, “I apologize. I was out of line.”

I nod blindly and follow her back inside the palace. Vena hurries away, muttering something about errands.

After she is gone, I lower my voice and ask Arianne, “Did she die? After what happened, did Rinna die?”

Arianne refuses to look me in the eye. “Your father has asked to see you in his study. You don’t want to keep the king waiting.”

“Please,” I beg. “No one will ever speak to me about her.”

Arianne sighs. “It is not my place to ask questions,” she says carefully. “But shortly after . . . the incident, Lord Murcendor told me Rinna had to return to her village due to family obligations.”

“And did you believe him?” I whisper.

Arianne doesn’t answer. But I read the truth in her eyes and know that she, just like so many others, believes I am a monster.

CHAPTER 4

WILHA

All my life I have been forbidden to show my face. Yet I don’t know why. All I know is the scandal surrounding my birth. While my mother Queen Astrid lay laboring in her bed, my father ordered the Opal Palace be emptied of all its staff. A few members of the Guardian Council were summoned to the palace, and no word was heard from them, or my father, for two days. Everyone in Allegria assumed my mother had died, and possibly, the baby she carried as well.

Yet on the third day my father, King Fennrick the Handsome, appeared on the palace balcony. Tired and care-worn, he declared that Queen Astrid, though severely sick, was alive and had given birth to a healthy baby girl, who they named Wilhamina. When my mother finally reappeared in public she was unrecognizable. Gone was Astrid the Regal, the strong queen who bore the monarchy with grace and compassion. Instead, I am told that she seemed a pale, haggard shadow of her former self. My father said she had been weakened by child birth and did not fully recover.

Most citizens in Allegria would have believed him, had it not been for the page who had been sent to summon the Guardians. The following night he got drunk at a tavern and swore loudly to anyone who would listen that he had heard the king shouting about the birth of his first child. That the child was not a blessing, but a curse.

When I was finally shown to the public, I was wearing a tiny, opal-encrusted mask over my face. No formal explanation for the mask was ever given. Royal officials—who themselves seemed bewildered by my father’s decision to cover my face—assumed that it was a stunt, a device for King Fennrick to gain even more glory and fame for Galandria.

But many remembered the words of the page, who had disappeared shortly after his drunken confession, and other rumors began to circulate. Some believe that I was born with a facial defect and my father, brokenhearted his good looks had not been passed on, decreed I should wear a mask to hide my ugliness. Others believe that my mother looked upon me and became seriously ill, surviving just long enough to bear a son, my brother, Crown Prince Andrei, and that the mask is to ensure the protection of everyone else, lest they suffer the same cursed fate as the queen.

And one rumor that some desperately want to believe is that one look from the Masked Princess can bless or heal those in need. But I know my face can help no one.

Over the years, these rumors of the Masked Princess have spread far and wide, perhaps just as my father intended. Most sensible people in Allegria take no notice of them. Yet still, the most superstitious believe any one of them.

My father and his advisors have always assured me there is nothing wrong with me or my face. Yet it is difficult to believe them, as they never offer a real explanation for the mask. Once when I was a small child I took off my mask in front of Rinna, my favorite nanny. It was summer, and I didn’t understand why I still had to wear the mask, even on the hottest of days, when all I wanted was to press my cheek to Rinna’s cool palm.

I can still remember the shock and sorrow on Rinna’s face, and her strangled voice crying, “But Princess, you know the rules!”

“Rinna, please,” I sobbed, clinging to her. “I forgot. No one has to know. Please.” Back then, I believed I would receive a good lecture and a paddling from my father, whose wrath was a fearsome thing to behold. Yet the punishment was far worse. Rinna, too noble to lie, even by omission, went to my father and reported the indiscretion.

And that was the last I ever saw or heard from her.

Lord Murcendor, one of my father’s Guardians, visited me the next morning. “Rinna became seriously ill last night. Unfortunately, she can no longer be of any service to the royal family.”

He paused, and added, “Is it true you took your mask off in front of her?”

“Yes,” I replied in a little girl whisper. “Did that make her sick?”

“Of course not.” Lord Murcendor said quickly. “But Wilha, you know what your father says. Be a good girl and keep the mask on.”

After word spread in the castle about the incident, most other nannies and servants in the Opal Palace kept a careful eye on me, making sure I never again lifted my mask. And for several years afterward, I would ask what had become of Rinna, but no answer was ever given. As I grew older, and began to understand why some people would cover their eyes upon seeing me, and the whispers that always followed, I stopped asking about her. I was not sure I could handle the answer.

Oftentimes when I am alone I remove my mask and spend hours gazing at my reflection. And I cannot help but wonder . . .

Is this the face of Death?

My father’s private study is located just off of the Eleanor Throne Room, a large hall where he receives visitors and conducts state business. At the end of the hall on the north end is his gilded throne. On the western end, as though she is watching over the room, stands a white statue of Galandria’s founder, Queen Eleanor the Great. In each of her hands she holds one of the two Split Opals she dropped during her coronation. Fifteen palace guards surround the statue and they bow as I pass through the hall.

As I enter the study my father and Lord Quinlan, the Guardian of Defense, are standing over my father’s desk examining a stack of parchments.

“. . . Gathered enough information and they are in pursuit of him as we speak,” I hear Lord Quinlan saying. “We should have word very soon. And as for the other matter . . .”

“As for the other matter, my mind is already made up,” my father answers sharply. “I will not hear—” He stops abruptly when he sees me standing in the doorway.

Lord Quinlan turns to look at me, his thick jeweled necklaces glinting in the candlelight, and he quickly gathers up the parchments. “Have a care, Fennrick,” he says, as he exits the room. “Done right, war can be quite profitable.” He sweeps past me with a brief bow.

My father scowls in response and signals that I should wait while he scribbles on a strip of parchment. Though still handsome, he seems to have aged overnight. I wonder if what everyone is saying is true, if war with Kyrenica is now inevitable.

My father rolls up the parchment and begins to speak. “Daughter, you are aware I have been negotiating a treaty with Sir Reinhold, Kyrenica’s ambassador?” He removes a pigeon from its cage and attaches the parchment to the bird’s leg. Then he releases the pigeon and it flies out the open window and into the rain.

I nod. “I am.”

He rubs his temples and opens his mouth but seems to be at a loss for words. In that moment I see him, as I suspect many do, as merely a second son, never properly trained to rule. Crowned king only after his more competent older brother died of the same fever that took my grandfather the king.

“I am convinced the Kyrenicans mean to attack us. Yet Sir Reinhold plays his role well. He says King Ezebo believes Galandria is poised to invade Kyrenica. I have assured him that, so long as I am king, Galandria is committed to peacefully coexisting with Kyrenica.

“Kyrenica’s strength grows each year,” he continues. “So we must not be idle. We must secure peace now, when we can offer what the Kyrenicans desire. Rather than waiting until they are strong enough to take it by force.”

I am unsure where my father is going with this. He does not often discuss politics—or anything else—with me. Mostly, he seems to prefer pretending I do not exist.

“And what is it they desire?” I ask.

“Mining rights over the northern range of the Opal Mountains. They have demanded that we allow them passage without interference from our army. If we do not grant them this, then they shall eventually engage their own army. In exchange, they will remove their trading restrictions on Galandria, which has been crippling our economy. And . . .” He pauses to clear his throat. “And King Ezebo demands your betrothal to his son, the crown prince of Kyrenica.”

I feel the blood drain from my face and my body goes rigid. Marry into the Kyrenican royal family? There could be nothing worse.

A century ago, Kyrenica, Galandria’s premier seaport, declared independence from us. The revolt in Kyrenica was led by Aislinn Andewyn, the twin sister of my great-great grandmother Queen Rowan the Brave. Aislinn was said to be bitterly jealous that Rowan, older by a mere seven minutes, was crowned queen of Galandria instead of her.

Queen Rowan traveled to Kyrenica to resolve the dispute. She was betrayed by Aislinn, who came to be known as the Great Betrayer, and was taken prisoner inside the Kyrenican Castle. Rowan was sentenced to death. However, the night before she was to be beheaded, she miraculously escaped. Aislinn was held responsible for Queen Rowan’s escape and was executed instead by King Ezebo’s great grandfather, Bronson Strassburg, the nobleman who helped Aislinn incite the Kyrenicans against Queen Rowan. War began in earnest and continued for several years until Galandria was forced to admit defeat. Bronson Strassburg declared himself king of a newly independent Kyrenica and annexed several other coastal regions, leaving Galandria virtually land-locked.

And what was once a vast Galandrian kingdom, was essentially split in two. Many believe it was the fulfillment of the omen foretold in the Legend of the Split Opals, on the day of Queen Eleanor’s coronation.

All my life I have been taught to believe that the Kyrenicans and their royal family, the Strassburgs, are brutal, desperate people. That they are a threat to my family, and to everyone else in Galandria.

Several seconds go by before I can respond, and when I do, my voice is high-pitched and quaking. “You would have me marry a Strassburg? A Kyrenican?”

“You would marry Crown Prince Stefan, the future king of Kyrenica.”

“I have heard you say that the lowest servant in Galandria is more worthy than the greatest lord in Kyrenica. You have called them dogs. You would have me marry a dog?”

“I would have you save lives. It seems that King Ezebo does not fear the rumors of your mask, and is eager to see you married to his son. He has asked for your immediate departure. You are to leave in three months.”

“Three months?” I repeat. “But I am not to marry until I am seventeen.”

“You will marry at seventeen. In a year.” He nods. “But we agreed that as a gesture of goodwill, I would send you sooner. And it will give you time to become acquainted with Kyrenica before the wedding.”

“But . . . I thought I had another year. . . .” I feel faint and I sink into the chair in front of his desk. Why is he so eager to get rid of me?

My father shuffles the parchments on his desk, and when he looks up at me he sighs. “Be a good girl, Wilha. A good princess. Kingdoms need someone to believe in. Let them believe in you.”

He stands then, as though the matter is settled. And I suppose it is.

“I will go,” I say, also standing. “You know I will. But give me one thing before I go.”

“A gift? Certainly. All the jewels and dresses—”

“No, not that. I want you to look at me. If the rumors are untrue, as you say they are, then please, look at me.” I move to untie my mask.

“Wilha, stop!” His voice is firm. “Don’t make this more difficult.”

“Don’t make what more difficult? You say that the rumors are rubbish. If that is true, then why will you not look at me?”

He does not answer. Instead, he exits the room without another word. And I am left alone with the sinking fear that has been my constant companion.

Because if my own father refuses to look at me, there must be something horribly wrong with me.

CHAPTER 5

ELARA

I cannot breathe. I cannot speak. I can only stare blindly at the book.

This was my mother’s?

Before I can ask any of the thousand questions churning in my mind, the din in the tavern suddenly ceases and a loud voice calls out. “I’m looking for the man you all know as Travers.”

Mister Travers pales. He seizes me by the arm and shoves me into an alcove just off the kitchen where Sylvia keeps her supplies.

“But who wants—” I begin.

“Hush!” He grabs my shoulders and stares at me with an intensity I’ve never before seen in his eyes. “Stay in here until I’m gone, do you understand?” he whispers fiercely, gripping my shoulders tighter until I nod. “Tell no one we have spoken.”

“We saw him come in here,” the voice outside the kitchen continues. “We will reward anyone who can deliver him to us.”

“I saw him go into the kitchen,” calls another voice.

Quickly, Mister Travers strides to the door and opens it. With a grim determination he declares: “I am the one you are looking for.”

Once he disappears into the main room, I slip the book into my cloak, cross the kitchen, and crack the door open an inch.

The room is silent. A palace guard wearing a breastplate with the Andewyn coat of arms binds Mister Travers’s hands with chains. Several other guards stand nearby, eyeing the men warily, many of whom have risen from their seats and have their hands near their belt, as though they intend to grab their weapon.

“Our business is only with this man,” a guard calls out. “The rest of you can resume your activities.”

The guards usher Mister Travers out the door. Just before he leaves, the guard who bound Mister Travers’s hands holds up a large black velvet bag. He opens it and tosses a handful of worthings to the floor. “A present from King Fennrick.”

The hush that has fallen over the room breaks and the men are on the floor, scrambling over one another for the worthings. And though I haven’t forgotten Mister Travers’s words, the sight of the golden coins makes me plunge into the crowd, scratching, pulling, and kicking, until I’ve collected twelve worthings. I walk over and give eight of them to a watery-eyed Timothy.

“Take these,” I say, pulling him out the door quickly. “Take them and hide them in your pocket. Don’t show them to anyone, and run until you get home.”

After Timothy flees, I turn in the other direction and see a guard is pushing Mister Travers into a gilded carriage.

“That’s a royal carriage from Allegria,” Cordon says, joining me at the door.

The curtain in the carriage parts, and a pale hand adorned with a large opal ring holds out several worthings to the guard, who accepts them and bows.

“What could King Fennrick possibly want with Mister Travers?” Cordon asks. He turns to me, looking concerned. “When he went into the kitchen, did he say anything to you?”

My hand slides down my cloak. I feel the edge of the book, hidden in my pocket. I glance back at the carriage and make a decision. “Nothing. He said nothing at all.”

After I finally pry Mister Ogden away from the Draughts and we begin our walk home, I wonder how Mister Travers came to be in possession of a book belonging to my mother. I consider every possibility I can think of until one of them fits.

Mister Ogden, though incapable of managing Ogden Manor, has been able to sustain a side business by systematically selling off the contents of the manor. He’s made some-what of a name for himself as an antiques dealer. Few of his customers realize it’s his own possessions he sells.

If my mother left a handful of items to be passed on to me, I have no doubt the Ogdens would see it as nothing more than their right to sell them. And I’m sure Mister Travers, being a schoolteacher fond of history, would have jumped at the chance to own such an expensive-looking book. Though how he could’ve found out the book was my mother’s, I don’t know. And if she left me a book, what else did she leave? Had there been other items that would have given me a clue to my family’s origins?

But that doesn’t explain why palace guards were after Mister Travers or his insistence that I not be seen with him. And the guard had said they were looking for the man we know as Travers. Is that not his real name?

“Harold, you’re drunk!” Mistress Ogden cries as I drag him into the kitchen.

“Not a bit, dearest,” Mister Ogden says and sways before sitting down heavily on the stool I pull out for him. “I’ve just had a wonderful run of the cards.” With a flourish, he produces several worthings. “And you’ll never guess what just happened at the Draughts—”

“I don’t care,” Mistress Ogden snaps. “You’re late. Mister Blackwell will be here soon.” She glares at me. “I had to start the potato stew myself.”

“Mister Blackwell, bah!” Mister Ogden says, belching. “Never liked the look of that man. Calculating, like a snake—though perhaps that’s why you like him so, dearest. Don’t like his sneaky black eyes glaring like he thinks he’s better than me.”

“He is better than you. He’s the one with the worthings.”

While they bicker, I quickly hide the book in the pantry and promise myself I’ll look through it later.

“Worthings? What did I just say—” Mister Ogden leans back—and promptly tumbles off the stool. His worthings scatter across the kitchen floor.

“Harold, get up this instant!” Mistress Ogden practically stamps her foot in frustration.

“The candles in the dining room are lit,” Serena says, glowering as she enters the kitchen. Upon seeing Mister Ogden on the floor she rushes to his side. “Father, what’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you what’s happened, my love!” Mister Ogden picks up a worthing and brandishes it like a sword. “I’ve just won at the Draughts of Life! Don’t need creepy Mister Blackwell coming into my house telling me what’s what. Am I not Ogden of Ogden Manor?” He spreads his hands wide, as though Ogden Manor is a grand palace, instead of the rotting dump it actually is.

Mistress and I glance at each other. She may despise me, but when she really needs something done, it’s to me—and not to Serena—that she looks.

“Come Mister Ogden,” I say in my most humble voice. “Dinner will be soon and I feel you should be dressed in a manner befitting your station. After all, you are the lord of Ogden Manor, are you not?”

Serena stands up. “Don’t you dare talk to him like he’s a fool.”

“Serena!” Mistress Ogden snaps. “Accompany your father upstairs and help him clean up.”

Serena lowers her voice so only I can hear. “I don’t know how you can claim to hate her so much, when you’re exactly like her.”

She stalks from the kitchen, practically dragging Mister Ogden away by the arm, and I grab on to the counter, fighting the urge to vomit. I am nothing like Mistress Ogden. I stop and take a deep breath, and imagine myself feeding Serena’s words to the starved kitten.

“Set the table,” Mistress Ogden commands. When I don’t move she says, “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“When the orphanage brought me to you, did they give you anything from my mother?” I ask. “A keepsake, something to remember her by?” I don’t mention the book, or Mister Travers, as I wouldn’t put it past her to steal the book a second time.

She removes a vase from a shelf. “Your mother was probably nothing but a dirty whore who abandoned you the first chance she got. You really think she’d leave you something?”

“Please,” I say, forcing the anger from my voice. “Did she leave me anything?”

“I haven’t got time for your nonsense.” She begins polishing the vase. “Mister Blackwell will be here in just a matter of—”

“Tell me the truth!” I move to grab her arm. My aim lands low, and my hand knocks the vase from her hands. Glass shatters on the stone floor.

Mistress Ogden stands very still. “You will pick that up immediately, or—”

“Or what?” I interrupt. “You’ll beat me? Deny me more meals? Lock me in the barn again? If you’re going to do something, you’d better make sure it doesn’t leave any marks, otherwise Mister Blackwell may decide not to pay you tonight.”

“I don’t wish to play your games.” She fetches a broom and holds it out to me.

I grab the broom and then hurl it across the room. It smacks the wall and clatters to the ground. I step closer to her, and for the first time ever, I see a shadow of fear flicker across her face. “And maybe I don’t wish to play your games. Maybe it would be worth it to me to tell Mister Blackwell who you really are.”

Mistress Ogden reaches out. Her long nails sink into my bare forearm, piercing my skin, and I gasp in pain. “Mister Blackwell will come tonight,” she hisses. “And you will play your role, do you understand?” She rakes her nails down my arm, leaving small red rivers in their wake. “And if you do not, you will find yourself chained up like a common thief, as I’ll have to tell the sheriff how you’ve been stealing from us.”

“I’ve never stolen anything from you!”

She bends low and whispers into my ear, “It would be my word against yours. Do you think anyone would ever believe you over me?” Her nails dig deeper. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” I gasp in relief when she finally releases me.

“Now,” she says, smoothing her skirts, “you will clean this mess up. You will scrape the grime off yourself. And you will make an effort to look like a respectable girl.”

She turns around to leave, but turns back. “And Elara?” Her gaze flicks to my bleeding forearm. “Make sure you wear long sleeves.”

CHAPTER 6

ELARA

When it comes to deception, attention to detail is everything.

The table is set with silver bowls and goblets (the ones Mistress Ogden keeps locked up so Mister Ogden can’t sell them). White candles are placed before each setting and their flames flicker in the drafty dining room. It looks as though we’re about to sit down to a nice family meal, instead of a performance carefully crafted by Mistress Ogden.

When Mister Blackwell arrives and Mistress Ogden shows him into the dining room, I feel a cold, cutting pain. Like a jagged piece of ice has wedged itself in my chest.

“Good evening, Elara,” Mister Blackwell extends his hand, which I take.

“Good evening, sir.”

He raises my hand to his lips, and it’s all I can do not to snatch my arm away. Something about Mister Blackwell repulses me. He is thin. Skeletal, almost. His long black hair hangs down his back and his eyes are dark, unreadable orbs.

We take our places around the table. Mistress and I sit next to each other. She fills our goblets and nods in my direction. It’s a slight, almost imperceptible incline of her head, and like an apprentice taking orders from his master, I understand. It’s time to begin.

“How are things in Allegria?” I ask Mister Blackwell. I force myself to take a small, controlled bite of stew, not letting on how hungry I am.

“Well,” Mister Blackwell replies. “The city is preoccupied with preparations for the princess’s masquerade ball.”

“Yes, I admit I have been thinking of nothing else myself,” I say, affecting a breathless voice that sounds nothing like my own.

“Oh yes, the ball is coming up isn’t it?” Mistress Ogden says, as though the thought has only just occurred to her. “Do you know that when she was little, Elara used to pretend she was the Masked Princess? She cut up one of her dresses—a really nice one, mind you—and tied it like a silk mask to her face.”

“You did?” At this, Mister Blackwell looks at me. For once, his grim manner has vanished and he seems amused.

“Yes, sir,” I lie. And for good measure I add, “I also used to stand at the top of the stairs and wave, like it was a balcony.” I mimic a grand wave with a smile. Serena rolls her eyes but says nothing.

“I used to live in Allegria very briefly.” Mistress gets a wistful look on her face. “I performed with the Royal Theatre Company. Once upon a time, I was quite the actress.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Mister Blackwell casts an unreadable look at Mistress Ogden. And for a moment, I wonder if he knows we’re all just a bunch of pathetic liars.

“I tell the girls all the time that Allegria’s the most beautiful city in the world. Though it is difficult to describe to someone who has never been there.” Mistress Ogden sighs. “I have so wanted to show the girls the Royal Opera House and Eleanor Square, and take them to see the Opal Palace.”

“Do you intend to visit Allegria soon, then?” Mister Black-well asks.

Mistress Ogden shakes her head. “We’ve had a tough few months. And a trip to Allegria costs money. Though it would be a good lesson for the girls, a bit of living history, don’t you think? Something a schoolteacher just can’t explain.” Mis-tress leans back in her chair, looking utterly defeated. Her gaze finds Mister Blackwell, and I know she is gearing up for her grand finale. “I don’t suppose—”

“As it happens, Elara and I saw the girls’ teacher today.” Mister Ogden, who, up until now has seemed content to silently drain his goblet, suddenly rouses himself.

“What?” Mistress Ogden frowns, caught off guard and clearly not happy he has changed the subject. But she doesn’t let it phase her. “You mean Mister Travers?” she asks, feigning interest. “However is he?”

“Well, it was quite strange,” Mister Ogden begins, and relates what happened at the Draughts of Life.

“Where do you suppose they were taking him?” Serena asks once he’s finished.

“Perhaps he was a convict,” Mister Blackwell speaks up. “Many criminals flee Allegria, hoping that the farther they get from the Crown, the surer they will be able to evade the justice that is due to them.”

“A criminal?” Serena says. “I wouldn’t have taken Mister Travers for a criminal. But then he didn’t grow up in Tulan. I wonder why he chose to settle here?”

Outwardly I give no sign that the conversation troubles me. But inwardly I feel faint and my stomach churns. A possibility I hadn’t considered earlier enters my mind. Why would an outsider choose to settle in Tulan, a small, insignificant village, unless he had a very good reason for doing so? To what lengths would a hunted man go to protect his family? If he’d had a daughter, would he hide her? Would he have gone so far to deliver her to an orphanage, only to find her later when he thought he would be safe now?

Is Mister Travers my father?

Mister Blackwell turns his dark gaze to me. “Did you see him in the tavern as well? Did he say anything to you?” His words seem casual enough, as though he’s just making po-lite conversation. I’m considering my answer, weighing each word carefully, when I notice something that makes my blood run cold.

The large opal ring on Mister Blackwell’s pale hand. Exactly like the one the man in the carriage wore.

Mister Blackwell is the man who had Mister Travers taken to Allegria? And yet just a few hours later he sits here, acting as though he’s only just arrived in Tulan, in the shabby carriage we’ve always greeted him in, not the royal one bearing the Andewyn coat of arms.

“Did you see him?” Mister Blackwell repeats.

My face becomes still. “I never noticed him until the guards arrived. I was talking to my friend Cordon the whole time. What will happen to him in Allegria?”

Mister Blackwell’s face is a veil of shadows in the flickering candlelight. “If your schoolteacher is in some kind of trouble, he will be put in prison to await trial.”

Mistress Ogden grabs my hand and squeezes it. Hard. I know I should drop it and steer the conversation back to what she really wants. But what I want is answers. Mister Travers knows something about my mother and somehow, I need to find him.

And suddenly, it occurs to me that I can.

“Well, I suppose there is no use talking about it anymore then,” I say with a wave of my hand. I turn to Mistress Ogden and give her such a look of sunny adoration that she seems momentarily confused by my sudden change in attitude. “I know things are difficult, Mother”—I force myself to choke out the word—“But isn’t there some way we could go to Allegria? I so want to see the Masked Princess.”

The confusion on her face vanishes, and it’s replaced by a look of approval. I know she hates me. But I think a small part of her grudgingly respects me for learning to be somewhat of the performer she herself is.

She shakes her head before smiling sadly. “I’m sorry, but tickets to the masquerade are just impossible to get.” She turns to Mister Blackwell. “Aren’t they?”

“Actually,” Mister Blackwell says, “many of us in Allegria were given invitations. Perhaps the orphanage could sponsor your trip to Allegria, as well as provide you with tickets.”

“Why Mister Blackwell, that would be just lovely.” Faster than I’ve ever seen her move, she reaches across the table and snatches the four tickets and bag of worthings Mister Black-well holds out. From the look in her eyes, I can tell she thinks she’s gotten the best of him.

Yet as I listen to them speak, I’m not so sure. He knows more about Mister Travers than he is letting on. And he just happened to have exactly four tickets to a ball that’s supposed to be nearly impossible to get into? I look at Mister Blackwell, at his shadowed face, unreadable black eyes, and his opal ring glinting in the candlelight. I can’t help but wonder if it hadn’t been his plan for us to travel to Allegria all along.

I don’t care about the Masked Princess, or her masquerade ball. But if Mr. Travers is still in Allegria by the time I arrive, somehow, I’m going to find him.

CHAPTER 7

WILHA

The gardens surrounding the Opal Palace are famous for their beauty. My favorite has always been an apple orchard known as the Queen’s Garden. Off limits to everyone but the royal family, it is located on the southwestern end of the palace grounds. Interspersed between the trees are white stone statues of every ruling queen of Gal-andria, from Eleanor the Great to my mother, Queen Astrid. Next to my mother’s statue is an empty space, which is to be filled once a new queen is crowned.

It is a place I come to when I need to be alone, away from the whispers and the rumors. A place where, except for the guards keeping watch along the garden’s wall, the only eyes that see me are made of stone.

A weak spring sun shines upon my mother’s statue, and I try to find within her stone face some resemblance to myself. There is no law in Galandria, with its rich history of strong queens, decreeing the crown must pass to the firstborn son. No law saying that I, as the eldest, cannot be the crown princess of Galandria and one day have my own statue in this garden, right next to my mother’s. Yet I have always known, from the time such thoughts could enter my head, that my brother Andrei would one day rule Galandria. That the next statue to grace the Queen’s Garden will be of Andrei’s wife.

A breeze stirs up, sending blossoms swirling from the apple trees, and for a moment it seems my mother’s statue weeps pink flower petals. Her lips are pressed together. Her hair is coiled on her head, her chin is raised, and her arms are at her sides. She looks strong, as though she could stare down an entire army by the sheer force of her will.

I see nothing of myself in her.

It is several minutes later, when I am staring at the empty space where a statue of me will never be, that I hear something behind me. I turn, and see Lord Murcendor approaching. He wears a thick emerald green robe identifying him as a member of the Guardian Council.

Lord Murcendor’s appearance is oft-putting to many. His sleek dark hair, pale face, and grave manner make others uneasy. But they do not know him like I do. As the Guardian of the Opal Mines, and therefore the protector of Galandria’s wealth, the safety of the Andewyn family rests heavily upon his shoulders.

“You called for me, Your Highness?”

“Please do not call me that,” I say. “Not today.”

“Very well, Wilha.” He pauses. “The last time I saw you, you were sitting here as well.”

“I have a training session with Patric soon,” I reply, touching the lightweight red velvet mask I am allowed to wear during our lessons. “Besides,” I motion to my mother’s statue, “I wanted to look at her while I still could.”

“I see.” Lord Murcendor settles himself on the bench next to me. “Your father told you then?”

I nod, and the tears I have been holding back the last few days start escaping. Lord Murcendor waits patiently for me, as he always does. “Father says I serve Galandria by marrying the Kyrenican crown prince,” I say when I regain my composure.

“The Kyrenicans are dogs,” he retorts, and I read the anger in his eyes. “Their rightful place is under Galandria’s boot.”

I turn to him. “Please, can you not change his mind?”

“You overestimate my influence, Wilha. It is Lord Royce who has your father’s ear on this matter, and as usual he will only tell the king what he wants to hear. And what your father wants to hear, like many kings, is that he is right. During our sessions in the Guardians’ Chambers, Lord Quinlan made an excellent case for declaring war and the wealth it could bring us. But your father is a fool. He is so keen to avoid a war—a war I believe we have every assurance of winning—because he and Lord Royce are too cowardly to risk going into battle. I alone argued your case and told him it was madness to hand you over to our enemy without any regard for your safety or happiness. You are the Glory of Galandria. It kills me to see so great a treasure as you pass into the hands of such despicable men.”

I look away from his fiery gaze. I know he means well, but his words bring no comfort. The Glory of Galandria is the same thing as The Masked Princess. A nonperson.

I swallow. “I have been dreaming again.”

For years I have been plagued with nightmares. Right after Rinna died, I used to dream that all the boys and girls in Allegria would surround me. They would slap and grab at me, and when one of them would succeed in pulling off my mask, they all promptly fell to the ground, dead.

Or I would dream that I was playing by the banks of the Eleanor River and slipped into the water. But when I tried to surface, I found I could not because my mask was too heavy. And no matter how much I thrashed about, it kept pulling me downward, until I could no longer see the sunlight.

“What do you dream of this time?” he asks.

“I dream that when the crown prince and I meet he decides the mask is not enough.” I close my eyes. “I dream that he decides to lock me away in a crypt, where I am hidden from others, unable to cause harm.” I breathe deeply and open my eyes. “Please, tell me what I should do.”

“Do not give up so easily.” His voice is sharp. “There is still time.” His gaze strays to my lips and his voice lowers. “I will do everything in my power to prevent this. I will not let you go.”

He continues staring, and then quickly stands up and straightens his robe. “I am afraid I must be going,” he says, calmness returning to his voice. “It seems your brother has been giving his new tutor trouble. Your father has asked that I speak with him.”

“Of course,” I say, blinking rapidly. “Of course you must.”

He leaves and I continue to sit on the bench, feeling more disoriented than before.

I give myself a small shake, trying to clear not only the fog in my head, but the unease that has suddenly sprung up in my heart.

CHAPTER 8

WILHA

The day I had my first training session with Patric, my arms shook from the weight of the sword and we had to end the lesson after only several minutes of practice. After that I swore to myself I would not be the weakling I am sure everyone believes me to be. Most nights I practice with my sword, trying to memorize the footwork and techniques Patric has taught me.

In my imagination I battle an unknown, shadowy enemy. An enemy who assumes the freakish Masked Princess will be easy prey, but is shocked to discover a warrior just as capable as the fiercest palace guard.

In these moments I feel less like the Masked Princess and more like someone else. A dawning glimpse of someone I could be. Someone who is real and solid, made of flesh and sinew, blood and bone.

Of course, I win each of these imaginary battles with ease.

But in my real training sessions with Patric, he often has to repeat his instructions two, three, sometimes four times. Despite all my practicing, the techniques do not come easy.

“That was sloppy,” Patric says, his mouth set in a firm line. “You are distracted today.”

I do not reply. Instead, I adjust my mask and step toward him. He blocks my lunge and slaps my sword away. “Mind your position!” He takes a menacing step forward. “You’re being clumsy. You’re not a circus performer, though right now you look like one.”

I stop, taken aback. “What is the matter with you?” I lower my sword. “Why are you being so mean?”

Patric sighs and lowers his own sword. “Princess, I wasn’t being mean. I was trying to distract you and it worked. When you are facing an opponent, never pay attention to his words. Use them to your own advantage if you can, but your attention should be focused only on his weapon.”

As he speaks, he raises his sword and points it at my neck. “See? What if I had been your enemy?”

“But you aren’t my enemy,” I say.

“You can’t afford to think like that.” He shakes his head. “Not now, anyway.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, stepping back and looking from the tip of his sword and into his eyes. “Are you saying I am in danger?”

“No,” he says quickly. “That’s not what I said.”

I stare at him, unsure if I should believe him. Patric may be my friend, but he is also one of my father’s most valuable soldiers, and will follow whatever orders are given to him. Even if that means keeping things from me. “Then why have I been required to take these lessons? How many princesses are trained to defend themselves?” I gesture to the soldiers standing along the wall. “Isn’t that why we have guards?”

“The lessons are for your own education, Wilha. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Fine,” I say, knowing it is useless to question him further. “But can we please take a break? I am feeling tired,” I add, although I could easily train for another hour.

I fake a yawn for the benefit of the guards, in case any of them are watching. “Please, just give me a minute. Come sit with me.” I lead him over to the bench in front of my mother’s statue. I arrange my skirt over the bench and hide my hand underneath. Patric’s hand finds mine and our fingers lace together.

“I passed Lord Murcendor on the way over here,” he whispers. “Did he visit with you today?” When I answer yes, his hand tightens on mine. “I do not trust him. And I do not like the way he looks at you.”

“He has devoted his life to protecting my family.” I think of the unease I felt with him earlier, but quickly dismiss it. “And he is the only Guardian who has ever bothered to speak to me.”

And he is also the only one trying to stop my betrothal, I add silently.

We sit in silence for a while until he whispers, “I heard a couple of noble boys talking in the city the other day. They are both attending your birthday ball. One of them was trying to pluck up the courage to ask you to dance.”

“I envy those who don’t have to go,” I say. “I don’t want to endure the stares.”

“And I envy those who will dance with you,” he says quietly, turning to look at me.

My heart thumps in my chest and I am keenly aware of the pressure of his hand in mine. And of his green eyes, and the longing I read in them.

“Vena was inquiring about you the other day,” I say suddenly. “She wanted to know if you were, well . . . if there was someone else in your life.” I fumble over my words, aware that my voice sounds far from casual.

“Are you asking me if there is anyone whom I care for?” he says, still staring at me.

His question hangs over us like a storm cloud and we are silent. For all my family’s wealth, love is the one luxury royalty cannot afford. Something we both know well.

Our gazes hold, until he sighs and looks away. “I heard you met with the Kyrenican ambassador a few days ago,” he says in a normal tone. “Do you think it is possible to avoid war?”

“I believe my father and King Ezebo will figure out an agreement that is suitable to both of them,” I answer carefully.

I know it is wrong not to tell Patric of the betrothal. Yet these last few months practicing with him have seemed like an iridescent bubble: beautiful, but without tangible form. Hard to hold on to, but easy to destroy. And to speak the words aloud, to whisper of a marriage contract, will do exactly that. And then Patric, always honorable, will see our whispered conversations as disrespectful to the crown prince of Kyrenica.

Patric squeezes my hand. “Let us get back to training, before the guards become suspicious.”

Frustrated, I stand and follow him. We take our positions and he says, “All right, Princess, this time, I would like to see more aggression. You haven’t learned how to properly attack, and you are too quick to assume a defensive posture.”

He raises his sword. I raise mine, and he motions for me to attack.

I slash once and then twice at Patric, who easily parries my thrusts. “Wilha, wait. You aren’t hacking at shrubbery. This wouldn’t work in real combat. You’re exposing . . .”

I continue coming at him with my sword; lunging once, twice, three times, and again. I am not fighting Patric now, or even the shadowy villain of my imagination. Instead I am slashing at the peace treaty, which marries me off to the Strassburgs as though I have no will or desires of my own.

Patric backs up as he continues to silently block my thrusts, until he trips and falls over the root of an apple tree.

Coming back to my senses and breathless from the exertion, I smile and point the tip of my sword at his chest. “I’ve won.”

“Have you?” he asks. “Look down at your left foot.”

I look. Without my noticing, Patric has drawn a dagger from his boot. If I had stepped any closer, the dagger would have pierced my ankle.

“Your strength is growing,” he says. “But if I were a real enemy you would have been dead after your first lunge. You cannot just lash out without protecting yourself. And you must pay more attention to your side vision.”

“I can’t.” I drop to my knees and lay aside my sword, suddenly tired. “The mask cuts off my side vision.”

All of a sudden there are sounds of swords being drawn and a guard is yelling from the garden wall, “Protect the princess!”

Patric leaps up and seizes my arm. He jerks me to my feet and drags me behind the statue of my mother.

“Kneel down,” he says. I do what he says and Patric leans over me, shielding me from view.

“What is happening? Is someone out there?”

“If so, they won’t be there long enough to get close to you.”

My vision is obscured by the statue, but I hear the sound of horses galloping and guards yelling. Several minutes go by. My heart hammers in my ears, and dew from the wet grass seeps through my dress.

“What is happening?” I repeat.

“I don’t know, perhaps nothing. The guards have been testy lately.” After a few more minutes Patric crouches down behind me. I feel his heartbeat thudding against my back as he leans close and whispers, “The guards have been forbidden to tell you or Andrei this, but things aren’t going well for your father. A potential war with Kyrenica is not his only problem. The people in the villages are unhappy because food is expensive and wages are low.” He pauses and adds, “Anger and hunger are a dangerous combination. Add in a little fear and it’s a breeding ground for evil and unrest. And murder is the easiest way to separate the House of Andewyn from a crown they have claimed for centuries.” He pauses. “This is why we have been ordered to train you and Andrei.”

I look down, touched that he actually told me the truth, yet sobered by his words. We are both quiet for several more minutes until a guard calls out, “All clear!”

Patric helps me to my feet, and I brush grass from my dress. I move to step out from behind the statue, but he pulls me back.

“Wait.” He stares at me, his green eyes roaming over my mask.

“Yes?” I say, very much aware that we are hidden from view.

He raises a hand, and for one horrific moment I think he intends to cover his eyes. Instead he traces a finger down the side of my mask. He leans closer until our lips are nearly touching. But then he sighs and pulls back. “Come on,” he says, “we still need to practice.”

I nod, thankful that the mask covers my disappointment.

He picks up my sword and holds it out to me, the look in his eyes grim. “You need to concentrate better. One day, these lessons may save your life.”

CHAPTER 9

ELARA

A carriage leaving Tulan at daybreak can reach Allegria just before nightfall if the horses are strong. But between the Ogdens’ overloaded coach and their half-starved horses, it takes us two and a half days, most of which I spend squashed in between two trunks of Serena’s dresses—two of the many she just had to bring to Allegria. By the beginning of the third day I’m ready to explode.

“Serena, couldn’t you have brought just a few less trunks?” I rub my sore side. “There would be more than enough room then.”

“I’ve told you this several times,” Serena says. “I don’t know what the girls in Allegria will be wearing, so I can’t possibly know what dresses I will need until we get there.”

Mistress Ogden, who has spent most of the last two days dozing and complaining of a headache, now opens her eyes long enough to say, “Right you are, Serena.” She looks at me. “If you don’t like it, you can get out and walk.”

“What’s the matter?” Cordon says when I call out to him to stop the carriage. Mistress Ogden hired Cordon to accompany us to Allegria and serve as our coachman, thereby leaving Mister Ogden free to drink himself into a stupor.

“I’m walking the rest of the way,” I say, climbing out. “We’re almost there anyway.”

Next to Cordon, Mister Ogden is passed out and drooling. Cordon urges the horses onward. “Just don’t fall too far behind,” he says.

While I walk, I think through my plan. Somehow, I have to find a way to elude the Ogdens long enough to visit the prison and find out if Mister Travers is being held there. We’re staying in Allegria for a week, so it should be an easy enough thing to do. I’ll make up an excuse, or get myself sent on an errand. More difficult, is what I’ll say to Mister Travers if I manage to find him. Tucked between two of Serena’s trunks is a satchel I filled with the book from Mister Travers, my dagger, and the four worthings I picked up from the floor of the Draughts. I’m hoping the worthings will make a suitable bribe for the guards at the prison.

But I’m smart enough to know I have to have a backup plan. What if I actually do manage to find Mister Travers and discover he is nothing more than a crazy old man?

I stare at the Ogdens’ rickety carriage. I had hoped our two days on the road would give Cordon and me an opportunity to talk, yet Serena has always seemed to be underfoot, preventing us from having any time together. It hasn’t seemed like Cordon has minded as much as he would have when we were younger. Is it because he does remember his promise, and wishes he had never made it?

It was many years ago and he found me crying by the Eleanor River. Serena had struck me and called me a worthless servant who would never amount to anything—words she heard Mistress repeat thousands of times. I cried on Cordon’s shoulders and he swore Serena had no more sense than a drunk dingbat.

“But she’s right,” I cried. “I have no one. I can’t ever expect to marry, not without a dowry. I’ll spend my whole life here, if Mistress doesn’t throw me out first.”

“You don’t have no one,” Cordon protested. “You have me, and I won’t let anything happen to you. When I turn seventeen, I’ll marry you. I promise.”

I glance ahead at the carriage again. Cordon turned seventeen a few months ago, and from the growing tension between us I think he remembers his promise just as keenly as I do. But still, he hasn’t asked. And I’m not quite sure what I’d say even if he did ask.

I know I feel more than just affection for Cordon. But love? Sometimes I wonder if I’m even capable of loving another. I learned early on that if I was going to survive Mistress’s abuse, I would have to take the little girl who cried and craved another’s love and tuck her away, somewhere deep inside of me, where no one could ever find her.

All these years later, I wonder if that girl even exists anymore.

As the morning passes, the forest thins out and gives way to farmland, which soon yields to gently sloping hills. I climb another hill, always keeping the Ogdens’ carriage in sight, and suddenly, I’m in Allegria proper.

I’ve grown up hearing tales of Allegria’s grandeur. But nothing prepares me for the sight that greets me as I pass through the city gates. Gray stone buildings with golden spires rise up into a blue sky; and the cobblestone streets, inlaid with shards of common lavender opals, glitter in the sunlight.

Gargoyles perch on the tops of iron lampstands and stone buildings, watching the crowd below with evil grins. The streets are packed with carriages, and the city reeks of roasting meat, horse manure, unwashed bodies, and the warm, sugary smell of fresh apple tarts. Strung across the streets are banners wishing Princess Wilhamina happy birthday. Ladies wearing costume masks and pastel-colored dresses look into shop windows. A few brown-cloaked figures wearing gold-threaded masks stand on a street cor-ner, and I stop short when I see them. They appear to be Maskrens. I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one before.

Vendors call out to passersby, begging them to buy their wares. A plump man carrying a stack of colorful fans jumps in front of me. He holds up one made of peacock feathers and white lace and shouts, “Official birthday ball fans! Cover your eyes and protect yourself from the curse of the Masked Princess! Only five worthings!”

Everyone, it seems, is trying to capitalize on the prin-cess’s birthday. One vendor parades a cart of costume masks up the street, calling out that it would honor the Masked Princess if women wore them. Another sells hair ribbons in shades of milky lavender or iridescent powder blue, calling out “Get your hair ribbons in the official colors of the House of Andewyn!”

All around me noblewomen are feverishly snatching up the trinkets. And I can’t help but wonder if any of them know how many families in Tulan will go hungry tonight.

Mister Blackwell arranged for us to stay at a place called the Fountain Inn, named for its proximity to the King’s Fountain, where water sprays out of the mouth of a stone statue of King Fennrick.

By the time I catch up to the carriage, Mistress Ogden has already checked in at the inn.

“Elara, get the trunks,” she commands. “Our rooms are on the second floor. Mister Blackwell only reserved three, so you’ll have to sleep on the floor in Serena’s room.”

“I’ll get the trunks,” Cordon says, hopping down from the carriage. “They’re heavy and then Elara can—”

“Nonsense,” says Mistress Ogden, “Go inside and rest up with Harold. Elara’s strong as an ox, and not much prettier.”

“Better strong as an ox than dumb as a donkey,” I retort, reaching into the carriage and yanking out my satchel. “Go on in,” I say to Cordon, shooing his hands away, “I don’t need your help.”

“You never need my help,” he answers. With a sigh he leaves, and a seething Mistress Ogden follows behind.

My opportunity to go to the prison comes a day later, when over a dinner of rabbit stew and cheese, Serena complains that she wants a decorative fan for the birthday ball.

“The entire city is already sold out of them,” she pouts. “We should have bought one when we first arrived. I don’t want to be the only girl who doesn’t have one.”

“Really? That’s odd,” I say, thinking fast. “I heard a couple of Allegrian women talking today—noblewomen, by the look of them—saying they were sending their servants across town to a shop that still had them.”

I stare down at my stew. I’m planting a seed, letting them believe their next thoughts will be their own.

“Elara will go for you in the morning, darling,” Mister Ogden says, drowsy from his third mug of ale. “The king is giving an address tomorrow in Eleanor Square; you won’t want to miss it.”

I ignore Cordon, who is looking at me suspiciously, and steal a quick glance over at Mistress Ogden. I’ve spent my whole life studying her. If I give any indication that I actually want to get sent on an errand, she’ll see to it that I spend the rest of the trip staring at the walls of the inn.

“But that shop was on the other side of the city!” I protest. “It will take me all morning to—”

“You will do exactly as we say and fetch that fan,” Mistress snaps. “Serena asks one small thing, as she is quite within her right to do, and you turn up your nose and sniff, just as you’ve done all your life—” She stops suddenly, realizing that several tables around us have fallen silent.

I give a grunt of frustration and mumble my assent to Mistress Ogden. Nothing on my face shows the triumph I feel.

Later, as I’m turning in for the night, Cordon meets me at the foot of the stairs. “What are you planning for tomorrow?” he whispers.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now the Ogdens think it was their brilliant idea to give you free rein in the city tomorrow.”

“It wasn’t my idea that I spend all morning looking for some blasted fan to satisfy Serena’s latest whim.”

Cordon grins, and his gray eyes twinkle. “It was, actually. And I don’t think you have any intention of helping Serena tomorrow. You’ve got something else planned entirely. I just want to know what it is.”

“I’ve just got a few things I need to take care of,” I say.

Cordon’s grin vanishes, as though I’ve let him down. “When will you learn to trust those who care about you, enough to tell them the truth?”

I look away. “I do trust you, Cordon.”

I leave him standing at the foot of the stairs, aware I’m telling a lie neither of us believe.

CHAPTER 10

ELARA

W hen I wake up the next morning, I quietly pull on my boots and grab my satchel, careful not to disturb Serena, who is still sleeping. Downstairs, I’m just about to step outside when Marinda, the innkeeper’s wife, asks me to follow her into the kitchen, where a man in a black cloak waits.

“This is Gunther from the Royal Orphanage. He is here to see how you’re getting on.”

Gunther nods. He has a pale, pockmarked face and aloof brown eyes which travel dispassionately up and down my body. “Is your stay in Allegria going well?” he asks once his gaze finally lands on my face.

“It is, thank you.”

Gunther continues to study me, his eyes moving over my features, and Marinda and I glance uneasily at each other.

“Perhaps you’d like to stay for breakfast?” Marinda asks, gesturing to a pot of porridge bubbling over the hearth.

Gunther finally tears his gaze away from me. “No, thank you,” he says to Marinda. And with another nod of his head he departs, leaving us to stare after him.

Marinda frowns. “That was odd.”

“Yes, it was,” I agree, “but Mister Blackwell, the orphanage director, is a bit odd too.”

“That’s the thing of it,” Marinda says. “I don’t understand this business with the orphanage sending you here. I’ve never met Mister Blackwell. I had never heard of him before he sent us his letter and the payment for your rooms. But I’ve seen the outside of the orphanage, and I just don’t see how they can afford to sponsor a trip for you to visit Allegria.”

I hesitate, unsure how to respond. I still don’t understand why Mister Blackwell pretended to know nothing about Mister Travers. But after all these years, experience has taught me he won’t answer any questions he doesn’t want to.

Before I can answer, I hear the stairs creaking and the Ogdens’ bickering voices.

“Could you at least make an attempt to look presentable while we’re here?” Mistress Ogden rants. “My father paid you a hefty dowry because he thought he was sending me into a proper noble family.”

“Or maybe he was just desperate to be rid of you, dearest. Did you ever think of that?”

I hastily bid Marinda a good day and leave before the Ogdens see me and change their mind about sending me on an errand.

Outside, I make my way toward Eleanor Square. Bright morning sunlight glints off the opals inlaid in the cobblestone streets, giving the day a hazy, rainbow-colored feel. The city is even more crowded today. Several men huddle together in groups, speculating about the king’s address and hoping he’ll have something to say about the rising price of grain and the rumors of a brewing war with Kyrenica. I pass a group of women wearing glittery costume masks who debate over what Princess Wilhamina will be wearing during the address.

Eleanor Square is a large open area bordered by the Galandrian Courthouse on the west and the Clock Tower on the east. The Allegrian Historical Library marks the north side and on the south is the Royal Opera House. The Opal Palace, a monolith of creamy stone and twisting turrets is visible from the Square, rising up on a hill over the southernmost section of Allegria.

I buy an apple tart from a vendor near the Clock Tower and ask him to point me toward the prison.

“It’s just over that way,” he answers. “Make a left at the next street, and you can’t miss it.”

The prison is several stories high, topped by a watch tower. I approach slowly, finishing off my apple tart and watching as a man and woman knock on the entrance gate, which is opened by a palace guard. They speak with him briefly before being shown inside.

This is it. If I’m ever going to find out what Mister Travers knows about me and my family—or if he is my family, the time is now. I pound on the gate. When it opens, a guard with bristly black hair peers out at me.

“Yes,” I begin, “can you help me—”

“State your name and the name of the prisoner you wish to see,” he interrupts, leaning against the gate.

“My name is Elara, and I wish to visit Mister Travers.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “There is no one here under that name.”

He begins to close the gate, but I put my hand out to stop him. “He may have come in under a different name. He would have come from the village of Tulan, approximately two weeks ago.” I tilt my head and let my hair fall over my shoulder. Give him my most charming smile. “Surely there must be a way to find out if you’re holding someone of that description?”

It works. He returns my smile, revealing a mouthful of gray teeth. “Maybe. What’s it worth to you?”

I open my satchel and remove my four worthings. Wordlessly, he snatches them out of my hand. “Stay here,” he says, and shuts the gate.

While I wait, I imagine all the questions I will ask Mister Travers. Several minutes later, the gate opens and the guard emerges. “I spoke with the warden.”

“And? What did he say?”

He looks pointedly at my satchel, until I open it and hand him the three worthings Mistress Ogden gave me the night before. I tell myself I’ll think up a good excuse for why I came back without the money or the fan. “That’s everything I have. Now what did the warden say?”

He stuffs away the coins. “He said no prisoners from Tulan have been admitted in the last month.”

With that, he slams the gate shut.

His words settle over me like heavy chains. Chains that will keep me bound to the Ogdens. Blindly, I trudge back up the streets, pushing angrily against the crowd of people making their way to Eleanor Square. I drop onto a bench next to the fountain of King Fennrick, open my satchel and yank Mister Travers’s book from it. Of all the things my mother could have left me, there has to be some reason why she chose this dusty old history book.

I flip through the dog-eared pages. Just like I’ve done a hundred times in the last two weeks, whenever I was out of sight of the Ogdens. I’m searching. For what, I don’t know. A sign from my mother, maybe. Something to tell me who she was and who she might have been—who I might have been—if she hadn’t given me up. The only memory I have of my mother is a vague, hazy image of a kind-faced woman, her curly red hair tickling me as she sang a lullaby. Or at least, I’ve always assumed she was my mother.

I settle on a page and begin reading:

The Legend of the Split Opals weighed heavily on Eleanor in her final years. Indeed, she called for her physicians often and said she was haunted by nightmares. She claimed that in these dreams she saw who would eventually cause the Opal Split. “Me,” she was said to have confessed. “She looked just like me.”

I stop reading at the sound of Serena’s voice, coming from a nearby bench. A rose bush sits between the benches, shielding us from view of each other. I can barely make out her words. Something about a fan and a new dress, I think.

I slam the book shut. For Eleanor’s sake, what more could she possibly want? Slippers made of pure gold? Hair ribbons blessed by the Masked Princess herself?

“I don’t care about a silly fan,” she says.

“You could’ve fooled me,” comes Cordon’s teasing voice. “I think your mother’s not the only fine actress in the family.”

“Yes.” Serena laughs. “But worthings or not, Mother would never send her away, not as long as she thinks I have need of her.”

Their voices are drowned out by children splashing in the fountain. I lean into the rose bush—nearly getting stung on the ear by an irritated honeybee—and strain to hear them. My stomach tightens. Why are Serena and Cordon resting together on a bench?

“We’ll have to tell them soon,” Serena is saying. “We can’t wait forever.”

Cordon is silent for a moment. “You’re right. But let me tell Elara first.”

Fed up with being able to only hear half of what they’re saying, I stand up and step out from around the rose bush. “Tell me what?”

But when I see Cordon and Serena’s clasped hands, the meaning of their words becomes all too clear. Small details click into place: the growing distance between Cordon and me, his insistence that Serena has changed. . . .

I am a blind fool.

The shock in their faces mirrors my own. “You two? You’re . . . together? How long?” I sputter at them.

Cordon jumps up. “Not long, Elara. And I wanted to tell you—Serena told me from the beginning I needed to say something.”

Serena rises and nods. “Yes, Elara. I was unkind to you when we were children, and I’m sorry for that. But I swear I—”

“Do you love her?” I ask Cordon, ignoring Serena.

Cordon grabs my hand, his eyes pleading. “I’m so sorry, Elara. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but . . .” He says a bunch of words, of how they ran into each other one day and suddenly things between them were just . . . different.

“But . . . I thought you loved me?” My words come out plaintive, and I hate myself for it.

“When we were children, I did love you. As much as you’ll let anyone love you. But sometimes I’m not sure I even know you, Elara. I need someone who will tell me how she really feels, someone who will let me in. Someone who will let me love her.”

I nod blindly because I understand. I am not like other girls. I am broken. I am not normal.

“But I still remember the promise I made to you,” Cordon is saying. “And Serena and I have been trying to figure out a way to—”

“What?” His words rip me out of my reverie. “You told her? You told her of your promise?” I look at Serena. She does nothing to hide the pity in her eyes. How pathetic I must seem to her. All this time while I’ve wondered why Cordon hasn’t asked me to marry him, they’ve been meeting secretly and discussing me. As though I’m a problem the two of them have to solve.

“Once we’re married, you can come live with us,” Serena says. “You don’t have to stay with my parents. I know my mother can be—”

“I would never be your maid,” I hiss at her.

Cordon pales. “That’s not what she meant.” He looks at Serena. “Right?”

Serena pauses before she nods. “Right.”

“Not as our maid,” Cordon continues. “You could be—well, I don’t know what, exactly, but not our maid.”

“How kind of you,” I say.

A thousand knives stab at my heart, and I envision the pain as a small, ugly box—one that I crush with a mallet. Then I imagine stuffing the broken box somewhere deep within me where I won’t have to feel it.

Tears are prickling my eyes. But I refuse to let them see. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.” I manage to choke out the words.

And then I run.

CHAPTER 11

WILHA

Guards flank either side of my family and the ten Guardians as we travel the narrow underground tunnel which connects the Opal Palace to the Galandrian Courthouse in Eleanor Square. The palace is full of such passageways. Centuries ago my ancestors decided it would be safer for royalty to travel secretly underground and they built several tunnels connecting the palace to key sites in Allegria.

Lit torches line the passageway, casting dim shadows on the stone walls, and I shudder at thinking of all the stone and packed earth above us.

Lord Murcendor falls back at my side and puts an arm on my shoulder. “Just a few more minutes, and we will reach the courthouse. Remember, the guards will enter first, then the Guardians, then Andrei, and then you and your father.”

“Why does Wilha get to enter last with Father?” comes my brother’s petulant voice from behind. “I am the future king of Galandria, not her.” I glance backward and see Andrei’s mouth pursed in displeasure.

My father either does not hear Andrei or chooses to ignore him. He is laughing and jesting with Lord Quinlan while Lord Royce walks quietly behind them. Besides a good feast, my father loves nothing more than a grand entrance and a captive audience.

“Hush, Master Andrei.” Lord Murcendor drops farther back, drawing even with Andrei. “Your father has an important speech to deliver and Princess Wilha is needed. When you are king of Galandria, you can make your own decisions.”

Lord Murcendor, who has taken it upon himself to pay Andrei the attention my father does not, is the one person my brother listens to. Andrei quiets down and says, “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lord Murcendor answers. “Royalty should never apologize.” He drops his voice and says something else, and Andrei whispers in return.

Patric, who has been walking at my other side this whole time, takes the opportunity to whisper, “What does he mean by that, that you are needed in the king’s speech?” He glances around. “Apart from your father, everyone seems unusually grave. We are announcing a peace treaty, after all.”

I smile faintly. “A treaty with your enemy is not always cause for celebration.”

Now I wish I had told Patric the terms of the treaty. Because this moment will be the one that punctuates all the others, dividing our time together into the before and the after.

“Whatever happens,” I whisper to him, “know that these last few months have been the best of my life.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” he says. But thankfully, Lord Murcendor falls back into step with me, preventing us from speaking further.

When our procession reaches a dead end, a guard holds up his torch and inspects the stone wall. My ancestors marked the entrance and exit to each passageway by a small opal inlaid in the wall. The tunnels, and the methods of opening them, are known only to my family, the Guardians, and a select number of the palace guards.

“Here it is,” he mutters and presses on the opal. The wall slides back, sending a wave of fresh air into the passageway, and my anxiety recedes slightly as I step into a small hallway in the Galandrian Courthouse.

The guards extinguish their torches and we silently walk up the hallway and to the double doors that open out to Eleanor Square.

The Clock Tower starts to toll and somewhere outside the royal trumpeters begin to play. When they finish, a guard addresses my father. “Your Majesty, it’s time.”

The doors open out to Eleanor Square and sunlight falls upon our faces. With one last glance at Patric, I step outside.

CHAPTER 12

ELARA

My satchel slams against my hip as I flee, and I hear Cordon running after me, calling my name. I push through the crowd and pass Gunther, the man from the orphanage, who is heading toward the inn.

“Elara!” he calls out. “I must speak with you.”

“Not now!” I shout back.

Behind me, Cordon continues to call after me and I let myself get carried along by the crowd into Eleanor Square. Rose petals fall from the rooftops, and palace guards are stationed along the edge of the square. Trumpets begin to sound and I steal a glance backward. Cordon is scanning the crowd, still looking for me. I elbow my way toward the courthouse, hoping to put as much distance between us as possible. I’ll hide in the crowd while the king gives his speech and slip away afterward.

With a final ringing crescendo, the trumpets cease and the doors to the courthouse open. Soldiers file out and surround the steps. The Guardians come next, clad in emerald green robes. I pay them little mind, though, as we all wait to see the royal family. Crown Prince Andrei comes out next, followed by King Fennrick, who wears an ornate crown bristling with opals atop his head. And finally, Princess Wilhamina emerges from the courthouse.

Like the rest of the crowd, I gasp in awe. Her mask and dress, adorned with more jewels than I can begin to count, glitter in the sunlight. A thick necklace made of jeweled keys hangs around her neck. As she steps forward to take her place next to her father, several people raise their fans to cover their eyes.

“Please, Masked Princess!” The man next to me holds a gaunt little boy over his head. “My son is ill. Only look at him, and he shall be healed!”

“Healed?” shouts a haggard woman with stringy white hair. “The princess can heal no one. A curse is what she is! Raise your fans! Protect yourself from the Masked Princess!” She holds her fan over her face and continues railing against the princess until two palace guards appear and drag her away.

I cast a look back into the crowd. I can see Cordon, but he hasn’t located me yet. I push forward, until I’m standing behind several Maskrens who are lined up only a few feet away from the row of soldiers.

Silence falls over the crowd as King Fennrick raises his hands. “Citizens of Galandria!” he says, “It is my great honor to celebrate the sixteenth birthday of Princess Wilhamina with you in our esteemed capital, the illustrious city of Allegria! To all of you who have journeyed many miles, I bid you welcome and I thank you, for it does me great honor.

“Today I come to you with the most joyous news. For months you have been hearing of an impending war with Kyrenica. Yet I say to you this day, fear not! For I have secured peace for our great kingdom. King Ezebo and I have pledged our mutual determination to avoid an escalation in hostilities. As a symbol of our goodwill, King Ezebo has pledged his son, and I have pledged my daughter—your own Princess Wilhamina—in a commitment of holy matrimony. Now the House of Andewyn and the House of Strassburg, at odds with each other for a century, shall be bound together for all time!”

I look around and see many shocked faces. “The princess should never have to marry a Kyrenican dog!” shouts a wo-man nearby. But most people in the crowd don’t hear her as they erupt into cheers, drowning out the king. My attention strays from him to Princess Wilhamina. Her shoulders quake and I wonder if she is happy over her betrothal. Or has love been unkind to both of us today?

I’m still wondering when I hear a whizzing sound above my head, and something small and red lodges into the banner hanging above King Fennrick.

It’s not until a red arrow strikes the palace guard in front of the king that I understand what is happening.

“It’s an attack!” a guard shouts.

His cry is followed by the screams of hundreds of terrified citizens trampling each other as they attempt to flee the packed square. Not too far off I hear the sound of an apple cart being upended and crashing onto the cobblestone street. The palace guards quickly form a wall and cover the Andewyns, pinning them to the ground. A guard is screaming that they need to get the royal family back into the courthouse.

More arrows fly toward the Andewyns. While everyone panics around me, I am frozen where I stand. Through a gap in between the guards I see the Masked Princess. Her jeweled mask is hanging askew, exposing half her profile. Instinctively, I begin raising a hand to cover my eyes, but stop when it strikes me that her face, feared by so many in our kingdom, reminds me of—

“Elara!”

It’s Cordon’s voice I hear. But when I turn, it’s Gunther from the orphanage I see. His steps are determined as he advances toward me. The fear that’s kept me from running away must have done something to my vision as well. Because when Gunther removes a sword from beneath his cloak, I get a glimpse of what looks to be the uniform of a palace guard.

An arrow lands at my feet. I stare down at it and blink stupidly. Are the attackers aiming for me?

“Elara—LOOK OUT!”

Pain explodes in my head, and the ground rises up to meet me. The last thing I see before blackness closes in is Gunther’s pale, pockmarked face, and his aloof brown eyes, staring into my own.

CHAPTER 13

WILHA

“Get them up! Get the royal family back into the courthouse!” screams a guard.

Arrows fall like angry red raindrops. Like the rest of my family, I am pinned to the ground by guards. Their shi-elds are up, hoping to deflect the arrows. I moan, feeling like the side of my ankle has just been scraped against the stone steps.

“Don’t move.” Patric’s breath is hot against my neck. The second the first arrow struck, he was at my side and covering me with his shield.

“The arrows are coming from the Clock Tower! Get someone up there!”

I feel the unfamiliar sensation of air directly on my face. In the confusion, my mask must have come untied, and no one seems to have noticed. I straighten it quickly. Through a gap in the guards I see people fleeing Eleanor Square. At the foot of the courthouse steps, several Maskrens and guards lie dead. Not too far away a guard is punching a boy with dirty blond hair. Nearby lies a peasant girl who seems to have fainted.

“Wilha,” Patric says, “you need to get up. We’re moving you back into the courthouse.”

He helps me to my feet and I wince. The pain in my ankle seems to be getting worse. Arrows continue to fall as guards surround me, and we move swiftly up the steps, away from the screams of the crowd, and into the courthouse.

Inside, several guards crouch over my father. He is on the ground, writhing in agony. Blood spurts from an arrow embedded in the side of his cheek.

“Someone call for the king’s physician!” screams Lord Royce.

Two guards sweep from the room, back down the hallway leading to the secret passageway. I lean on Patric, dizziness washing over me as I stare at my father. “Will he be all right?” I call out to the guards.

Patric grabs my arm and checks me for wounds. “I’m fine,” I say, yanking my arm away. “Help the others.”

Two Guardians are on the ground. One is unmoving and the other is crawling on his hands and knees, spitting blood. Blood seems to be everywhere. Near my ankle, a scarlet river runs down the white marble floor.

“Lord Quinlan,” Patric says, “Are you all right? There’s blood on your hands.”

Lord Quinlan stares at his hands as though they belong to someone else. “I don’t think this is my . . .”

His words are drowned out by the sound of someone falling to the floor.

“Another Guardian has been hit!”

The pain in my ankle grows. I must have scraped it hard on the stone steps. I walk unsteadily toward Andrei to see how he is doing.

“Are you all right, Andrei?”

Andrei, paler than usual, looks at me with his clear blue eyes. “If father dies today does that mean I will be king?”

“Father is not going to die.” I reach out my hand, but he sidesteps me.

“But if he does die,” he insists, “that means I get to be king. Right, Wilha?”

“Yes, Andrei,” I say quietly. “If Father dies, you will be king.”

Andrei nods. “Excellent.”

I turn away, nauseous from my brother’s matter-of-fact tone and my father’s anguished moans. I hear Lord Mur-cedor and Lord Quinlan shouting at each other. “I thought your men checked every building in the square!” Lord Mur-cendor rages.

“They did! Multiple times! No one could have gotten into the Clock Tower without them knowing.”

“So you’re saying your men just welcomed Kyrenican assassins into our city with open arms?”

“We don’t know where those arrows came from!”

“Don’t we? What other kingdom dyes their arrows red and wants to get their hands on Galandria’s wealth?”

“It wasn’t the Kyrenicans!” Lord Quinlan shouts back at him. “You know who wanted the king dead—and you assured us he and his men were taken care of! If someone is to be held responsible for this, it should be you!”

Lord Quinlan rushes over to my father, who appears to be going in and out of consciousness. “Your Majesty! I swear we checked the Clock Tower. You know I protect you as though you are my brother. You and I were boys together!”

“Lord Murcendor, Lord Quinlan, hold your tongues!” Lord Royce admonishes them and glances at me. “You are upsetting the princess.”

Patric comes over. “Princess, you’re pale. Come sit down.” He tugs at my arm, but I don’t move. My eyes are drawn to the red trickle by my ankle.

“Princess? Wilha”—I feel Patric shaking me—“Are you all right?”

Just as Patric lifts the hem of my dress and shouts, “The princess has been hurt!” The weight of Lord Murcendor’s words sink in.

If he is right, if Kyrenica is behind the attack, then that means the Strassburgs, my future in-laws, have just tried to assassinate me.

CHAPTER 14

ELARA

A strange clanking sound awakens me. Darkness meets my eyes and my head throbs. I remember Cordon screaming my name, and red arrows flying toward the royal family. Was I struck by an arrow? But a quick hand to the back of the head tells me no. The ache is from a lump on my scalp.

A fire hangs in the dark sky. At first I assume I’m lying in Eleanor Square, and that the sun is setting. Or maybe it’s rising? Yet my eyes don’t adjust in the surrounding darkness, and the ground beneath me feels soft, like hay. When I take a deep breath and my lungs fill with air that is both dank and musty, I realize I’m indoors. But how did I get here? And where is my satchel?

I roll over—and promptly fall to the floor. I sit up and my head starts pounding. Panic rises in my chest. “Cordon? Cordon are you there!”

“You shouldn’t scream.” A faint, hoarse voice echoes from behind me. “They will only hit you harder.”

“Who’s there? Where am I?” I call, but the darkness swallows my words.

“We’re in the place where it all started,” answers the voice. “And the place where it all ends.”

“What?” I stand up shakily and move toward the voice. “Where are we?” I say again. I stare at the faint orange glow and realize it’s not the sun, but the last flickering embers of a mounted torch. I take a few more steps, and cold metal brushes my hand. Bars. I’m being kept in a cell?

In Eleanor Square I remember guards screaming. I remember Cordon telling me to watch out. But there was something else, wasn’t there? Before the world went dark, I had seen something. What was it?

In the dim torchlight, I see someone huddled in the cell next to mine. And when my eyes adjust, I realize it’s someone I know.

“Mister Travers?”

He is slumped against the bars and his clothes are torn. I crouch down to get a better look at his face. His cheeks, once full, are now sunken. Dry blood crusts his face and his hands, and purple bruises shadow his glazed eyes. “Are you a ghost?” he whispers.

“It’s me, Mister Travers. It’s Elara.” I give him a small shake and then touch his forehead. He’s burning up.

“Elara?” he says dreamily. “Lord Finley wasn’t sure where she was, but we knew if we watched him close enough, we’d eventually figure out where he hid her.” His eyes flutter closed.

“Lord who? What are you talking about?” He’s not making any sense. If we are being kept in cells, are we in Allegria’s prison, despite what the guard told me earlier about Mister Travers not being here? But why am I here?

“I failed her,” he says and begins to weep. “The guards are coming for me. The order has been signed. They only kept me alive this long so I would tell them where the others are. And to my everlasting shame, I told them.” He weeps harder.

The sound of clanking metal and jingling keys followed by rough laughter makes me jump. Flickering torchlight appears in the distance. This may be my last chance to talk to him.

“Mister Travers, listen to me!” I shout, as he weeps louder. “You haven’t failed me. I’m right here. You did find me, remember? You said you knew my mother. Who was she?”

The clanking grows louder. It seems to penetrate Mister Travers’s delirium. He stops weeping and his eyes clear. “Elara?” He glances in the direction of the brightening torchlight, and grasps my hand tightly. “Whatever you do, don’t trust the Guardians.”

“I don’t understand. What are you—”

The door to Mister Travers’s cell opens and two guards step in and seize him. Just before they drag him away he shouts, “Don’t trust the Guardians! The king’s secret has poisoned them!”

CHAPTER 15

WILHA

I sit by my father’s bedside and hope he will awaken. His face is pale and his breathing is labored. An arrow only grazed my ankle. Although it bled a lot, it is already healing. But my father has not been so fortunate. His physician was able to successfully remove the arrow from his cheek, but he has lapsed into a fevered unconsciousness. If I listen carefully, I can hear the cries of the people echoing from the palace gates, as the city waits to hear the fate of their injured king.

Eight Maskrens, four palace guards, and two Guardians have died in the assassination attempt. The masquerade ball has been canceled. Sir Reinhold has sworn an oath that, despite appearances, Kyrenica had nothing to do with the attack and that they have every intention of honoring the treaty. King Ezebo himself has sent pigeons carrying messages reaffirming his commitment to the treaty.

As I sit here and wait, the Guardian Council is gathered for an emergency session to determine Galandria’s response, as well as my future.

I take my father’s slackened hand. The physician did a remarkable job, but the wound has puckered into an angry welt. For the rest of his life, however long or short it is, my father will bear a jagged scar upon his cheek.

What will he do when he awakens and sees his new face? Will King Fennrick the Handsome dare to appear in public? Or will he, too, wear a mask?

A firm knock hits the door and it opens. The remaining members of the Guardian Council file into the room.

“Has the council reached a decision?” I ask.

“We have,” answers Lord Royce.

I need not listen to his long, formal explanation. From the seething anger I read in Lord Murcendor and Lord Quinlan’s expressions, and the way the other Guardians look everywhere but in my eyes, I know the answer.

“. . . The council is inclined to believe that the assassination attempt was perpetrated by men still loyal to Lord Finley, not the Kyrenicans, and so we will move forward with the treaty,” Lord Royce finishes.

I nod. No one has spoken to me directly about Lord Finley, one of my father’s former Guardians, but I have heard servants whispering of his treachery. Many of them attended his execution.

“Lord Finley’s men were disorganized and stupid,” Lord Murcendor interjects. “I have no doubt the Kyrenicans were behind the attack.”

“Your views on this matter have already been heard, and were overruled.” Lord Royce stares impassively at Lord Murcendor. “You will forgive me, but no one in this room believes you can be objective when it comes to the princess.” Lord Murcendor glares at him, but says nothing.

I offer the Guardians no protest, no indication that, in deciding to send me to Kyrenica, it feels as though they have just signed the order for my execution. Instead I nod and offer them my thanks for their quick handling of the matter.

One by one the Guardians begin bowing themselves from the room, and I try to still my shaking hands.

Behind me a throat clears. I turn around again and see that Lord Murcendor, Lord Quinlan, and Lord Royce remain in the room. Lord Murcendor pulls a chair close and sits down next to me. “They are fools,” he says, casting a furious look at Lord Royce. “Mark my words, if we send her to Kyrenica, only treachery and loss can come of it.”

“The king himself ordered the betrothal,” Lord Quinlan says. “I would like nothing more than to declare war on the Kyrenicans, but we must move forward.” He turns to me. “The council has ordered me to oversee security arrangements as you travel to Kyrenica, and I have a plan in place to insure your safety.”

I glance over at Lord Murcendor. Judging from his scowl, whatever this plan is, I know he does not approve of it.

“What is it?” I ask.

At this, Lord Quinlan glances at Lord Murcendor.

“Leave us,” Lord Murcendor says to the guards stationed at my father’s bedside.

After Lord Royce has closed the door behind them, Lord Murcendor continues. “The plan is only known to Lord Quinlan, myself, and Lord Royce,” he says carefully. “It is not something known to the rest of the Guardians, nor to anyone else.” He pauses, before adding, “Do you ever wonder why you have been made to wear the mask?”

“Of course,” I answer, startled at the change in subject. “I recall asking you many times when I was a child.”

“You are not a child anymore, Wilha.” The look he gives me appears to be an invitation, one that has never before been extended.

I whisper the words and my voice carries the question. “Why have I been made to wear the mask?”

In response, he glances at Lord Royce and Lord Quinlan. Lord Royce says, “It is time.”

Lord Murcendor nods and turns to me. “A long time ago, the three of us—as well as Lord Finley—had to make a difficult decision. One that we kept from the other Guardians. Indeed, we concealed it from the whole world.” He pauses, glancing again at my father.

And then Lord Murcendor begins to tell me a tale so unbelievable, I have no doubt it is true.

CHAPTER 16

ELARA

What is the king’s secret? I spend my days in darkness. I never see Mister Travers again and I am left alone pondering his words.

My days fall into a hazy routine. In the morning (or what I assume is morning), a guard appears and brings me a bowl of broth that faintly tastes of onions. A few hours later I am given stale bread and small hunks of moldy cheese.

The fear of being taken to wherever Mister Travers has been sent to fades after the first few days and is replaced by several other concerns. Small creatures skittering around and biting at my feet. Fleas that seem delighted with my blood. The unimaginable cold of the cell, and a deep, gnawing hunger.

At first I tell myself this is nothing. There were mice and fleas in Ogden Manor. And I know what it is to be hungry. But the guards begin to withhold water as well as food. My throat rots, and I’m not always sure if I am waking or sleeping. Mis-tress Ogden appears to me often, whispering, “Worthless . . . Unwanted . . . Unlovable . . .”

On what I believe is my second or third week here, a guard carrying a torch enters my cell. I feel his foul breath on my face. “Someone wishes to speak with you.” Rough arms close in around me. A bag smelling of grain is yanked over my head and all is black again. The guard shoves something into my back as we walk, and I suck in gasping, grain-smelling breaths. A stitch pierces my side, and all I want to do is sit back down.

We continue walking for what seems like miles, and the air around me begins to change. It feels lighter and less damp. I hear the creak of a door opening and then closing. The guard shoves me forward and says, “As you requested.”

A deep voice replies, “Thank you, Wolfram. You may go.” Wolfram grunts and the door shuts again. Soft foot-steps approach.

The bag is jerked off my head and sunlight scorches my eyes. I hear sharp gasps around me, but I can’t see anything. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I raise my arm to cover my face.

“Give her a moment,” says the voice.

When my eyes begin to adjust, I see that I’m in a circular room. The late afternoon sunlight streams in through high windows and a large crystal chandelier with several lit candles hangs from the ceiling. Carved into the walls are ten marble thrones with plush pastel cushions. Three of the thrones are occupied, and as the men’s faces come into focus I do a double take, for I know one of them.

“Mister Blackwell?” My voice is dry and raspy from lack of water.

The men ignore me. The two I don’t recognize stare at me in a kind of awe.

I look at Mister Blackwell. “What is going on?”

“Lord Murcendor,” says one of the men I don’t recognize. He’s bald with severe-looking eyes and wears several rings and necklaces. “Make introductions.”

Mister Blackwell casts a dark look at the bald man, and I shake my head in confusion. What did he just call him?

“I wasn’t aware I took orders from you, Lord Quinlan,” Mister Blackwell says.

The bald man—Lord Quinlan—flushes and his eyes narrow. “Make introductions, please,” he says.

“Perhaps we should start by telling the girl where she is,” says the third man in an annoyed tone. He is barrel chested and has thick, gray hair and an equally thick gray beard. He looks less polished than the other two. His face is tough and tanned and grooved, like weathered wood. He stares back at me with impassive blue eyes.

“Indeed you’re right, Lord Royce,” says Lord Quinlan. He turns to address me. “You are in the Guardians’ Chambers in the Opal Palace.”

For the first time it dawns on me that all three men are wearing thick emerald green robes. I remember seeing the Guardians wearing them in Eleanor Square. My stomach clenches as I remember, too, Mister Travers’s feverish words.

“What do you want with me?” I murmur, glancing from Lord Quinlan to Mister Blackwell. “Why am I here?”

“You are here because in some sense, you belong here,” says Mister Blackwell. “You are not an orphan as you have been led to believe, and I am not Mister Blackwell, nor do I work for the orphanage. I am Lord Murcendor, Guardian of the Opal Mines.” He pauses. “And you, quite simply, are the daughter of King Fennrick.”

The three Guardians look at me, but I stare back at them, unmoved. I don’t know what game these men are playing, but I don’t believe it.

“You’re mad,” I say.

“Am I?” Mister Blackwell—or Lord Murcendor—says. “Have you ever wondered why the Royal Orphanage paid for your care all these years? Do you really think such an arrangement was made for every orphan in Galandria? Do you have any idea how difficult it was to find a family desperate enough to accept you and the money, and too stupid to ever question it?”

His words stop me short, and blackness creeps at the edges of my vision. Everything seems to fade away, except for Mister Blackwell, sitting on a marble throne and draped in a Guardian’s robe.

Don’t trust the Guardians. The king’s secret has poisoned them.

“But that can’t be,” I say. “I remember my mother. She was a villager with red hair. She used to sing to me—”

“What you remember,” he interjects, “is the wet nurse we placed you with until I located a family to take you. The Ogdens.”

I swallow and open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. Because his words make sense. The arrange-ment with the Ogdens is unusual, isn’t it? Why had I never thought to question it?

Am I the king’s secret?

I am the daughter of King Fennrick, I try the words out in my mind, but they don’t seem to fit. Yet I can’t help remembering every evil word Mistress Ogden said about my mother, all the dirty names she called her. Was my mother such a woman? A woman who thought her life had changed for the better when she caught the king’s eye, only to be cast aside later, after she had served her purpose?

But why wasn’t I allowed to stay with her? Why the wet nurse? Why couldn’t the treasury have paid my own mother to care for me somewhere in obscurity? Was it because she knew the king’s shameful secret was considered a threat? Is she even alive now?

“Did you kill her?” I ask, swaying slightly.

“I am afraid you will have to be more specific,” Lord Murcendor says.

“My mother. After she gave birth, did you kill her? Because you were afraid one day she’d proclaim her daughter the bastard child of King Fennrick the Handsome?”

The Guardians glance at each other, seemingly perplexed. “You misunderstand,” Lord Quinlan answers. “Your mother was Queen Astrid. It is pure royal blood that flows through your veins.”

I am poised to argue. If I am a princess, why was I given to the Ogdens? Why haven’t I grown up in the Opal Palace?

Before I can ask them this, Lord Murcendor rises and knocks on a door behind him. “You may come in now.”

The door opens, and a golden statue enters the room.

CHAPTER 17

WILHA

The Guardians bow as I enter the room. The girl across the room remains standing. I read the confusion in her eyes and realize they have not told her. Lord Murcendor’s kindness in telling me a couple weeks ago, and giving me time to understand and accept it (in so far as that can be possible) has not been extended to her.

The girl glances from me to the Guardians. She is dirty and her hair is matted. Deep purple circles hang under her eyes and flea bites dot her arms. Covered in all that grime, it is almost too hard to believe she is who they say she is. Almost, but not quite.

“Your Highness,” Lord Murcendor says, bowing again. “You may proceed.”

All my life I have waited for this invitation. All those nights when I stared into my looking glass, I longed for the day when I could do this one small thing, and know truly, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could hurt no one.

I reach behind my head and untie the mask. With shaking hands I remove it.

There are several sharp inhalations and the girl’s face whitens.

Lord Murcendor introduces us. He says the words. He gives her the explanation she probably never suspected, but the one I have searched for my whole life.

The girl’s face twists in disgust. Her rejection is sharp like an arrow.

And for the briefest of seconds, I want to put the mask back on.

CHAPTER 18

ELARA

I am staring at my own face. Except not quite. The girl standing before me has my exact features, but with slight differences. Her skin reminds me of cream and roses. The way she carries herself is different. As though her shoulders and waist are tied to an invisible post, forcing her to stand straight. She wears a gold dress and her necklace of keys make a tinkling melodic sound as she steps forward. And in her hands she carries the jeweled mask she just removed.

The Guardians, except for Lord Murcendor, stare at us in awe.

“So alike,” Lord Quinlan murmurs. “For so many years I have wondered.”

“For sixteen years, we have all wondered,” answers Lord Royce.

“Elara, may I introduce Princess Wilhamina Andewyn.” Lord Murcendor pauses, and adds, “Your twin sister.”

“That’s imposs—” I begin, but stop as the memory I’ve been searching for finally surfaces. In Eleanor Square, just before I was knocked unconscious, I had seen Princess Wilha-mina’s mask come undone. And it had occurred to me that her face reminded me of another.

My own.

I can’t tear my eyes away from her. Our height, our green eyes, our brown hair—we’re identical. But this girl, this other me, she’s quaking. As though our stares are too much for her to bear.

Lord Quinlan says to me, “There is a stool behind you.” To Princess Wilhamina he says, “If you would care to sit down as well, Your Highness.”

Princess Wilhamina looks quickly at Lord Murcendor, who nods, before she settles herself on a marble throne across from where I take a seat on the stool. Seeing a girl with my face huddled on a throne makes my neck prickle.

Lord Quinlan saunters to the middle of the room with a grand smile on his face. He circles around, taking his time, clearly enjoying the moment.

“Where to begin?” he says. “When it was discovered that Queen Astrid had given birth to twins, the king summoned four of the Guardians: myself, Lord Murcendor, Lord Royce, and another to witness the occasion. When we arrived, the king was almost mad with grief. The last time twins were born to the ruling Galandrian monarch was a century ago, with the birth of Rowan and Aislinn Andewyn. Back then, it was simply assumed that the older twin would rule, and that the line of succession would continue on peacefully. No one could have foreseen that Aislinn Andewyn—the Great Betrayer—would become a bitter woman. Bitter enough to betray her own sister and cause the splitting of our kingdom, thereby bringing about the fulfillment of the Legend of the Split Opals.

“But this time, the king had the advantage of his own family history. There was much unrest in Galandria in those days. Many feared revolution, just as they do now. And another set of twins could be seen as yet another premonition. Another split of a great and glorious kingdom by two heirs both bent on ruling.

“The king feared, and the three of us agreed, that if the birth of twins was announced, factions would immediately develop, supporting one girl over another, with the likely result one day being civil war. And so, the decision was made: There would be only one child born that day. Only one recognized princess of Galandria. And if the queen could conceive another child, the princess was to be removed from the line of succession. With neither of the twins knowing about the existence of the other, and neither of them in line to rule, it was thought the kingdom would be safe.”

I sit there numbly as Lord Quinlan explains how the midwife was sent abroad, and how one of the twins—myself—was smuggled out of the castle to be raised anonymously by a wet nurse until they could locate a suitable home. How Lord Murcendor was appointed to watch over her and keep her location a secret.

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “How did you decide?”

“Decide what?”

“How did you decide which twin would go and which would stay?” I need to hear him say it.

Lord Quinlan’s eyes meet mine. “Birth order. Princess Wilhamina was born seven minutes earlier than you.”

I nod. So when my father looked upon the second twin, he didn’t see her. He didn’t see me. He saw another Aislinn Andewyn. An act of treachery a century before I was born stole my future.

“So you decided to hand me over to an anonymous family to be treated as their servant?” I address my words to Mister Black—to Lord Murcendor.

Lord Murcendor stares at me from his marble throne. “It was better than the alternative.”

“Which was?”

“Seclusion,” Lord Murcendor says and rises from his throne. He stands in the center of the room, facing Lord Quinlan, who glowers back at him, seemingly unhappy to have someone steal his thunder.

“We could not have you wandering around the castle. And so we considered, when you were old enough, transferring you to a remote location and forging a mask to conceal your face,” Lord Murcendor begins. “Yet it was thought by the king that such a mask would create a mystique. And the king and queen wanted the chance to know their younger daughter. So a second decision was made: Wilha would wear a mask. And if the queen was able to bear another child, not only would Wilha be removed from the line of succession, she would also marry a foreign suitor and be sent away. And in turn, you were to be brought to the Opal Palace. Though the king could never tell you of your true parentage, he would arrange for you to be given a life here in Allegria. As no one would have ever seen the princess’s face, it was thought you could safely reside in Allegria after Wilhamina left the kingdom.”

I glance over at Princess Wilhamina. Her face has drained of color. Is this new information to her, too?

“The King was eager to reclaim you,” Lord Murcendor continues, “and so Gunther was tasked with making sure you were safely brought to the Opal Palace and—”

“You call a blow to the back of the head being safe?” I snap.

“The attack in Eleanor Square forced his hand,” Lord Murcendor replies impatiently. “Admittedly, he became overzealous.” He turns to Lord Quinlan and Lord Royce. “And he has been dealt with.”

The two Guardians nod at him, but my stomach clenches. What does that mean, Gunther’s been “dealt with”? And how exactly do they plan to “deal” with me?

“Why tell me this now?” I ask.

“The attack on the royal family has changed everything. And now we have a proposition for you. Your sister is to leave very shortly for Kyrenica.” Lord Murcendor pauses, and says, “We need you to serve as the princess’s decoy on the journey to Kyrenica.”

“Her decoy?” I choke out, stunned.

Lord Murcendor nods. “Sir Reinhold, the Kyrenican ambassador, has had several meetings with Princess Wilhamina. He has returned to Korynth, Kyrenica’s capital, and will no doubt want to welcome the princess upon her arrival. He would recognize an imposter immediately, even if she wore Wilha’s mask. But a twin sister whose hair, build, and voice is virtually identical is a different matter.”

I stare at him while he speaks, but I don’t really hear him. All I hear is that they believe Wilhamina, the twin that’s been given everything, may be in danger, and they will do everything in their power to protect her.

The rage that’s been bubbling in my heart now floods my veins. Where were these Guardians, so concerned with Wilha’s well-being, all those years when Mistress abused me? Where were they all those nights I had to fend off drunken men in the Draughts?

And if King Fennrick is so eager to “reclaim me”—like I am nothing more than a piece of property he can annex or cut loose at will—then where is he now? If I have been missed for sixteen years, shouldn’t I have been welcomed back with open arms? Instead, I’ve been thrown into a cell and denied food and water. Were they hoping to starve me into submission?

I look at Princess Wilhamina huddling on her marble throne, and a thought occurs to me. When the door opened and she walked into the room, I saw no guards standing in the hall behind her.

“What do you say?” Lord Murcendor asks when he has finished speaking. “Will you protect your sister?”

She is not my sister, I almost blurt out. I won’t risk my life for her, this paler, pampered version of me. But if I refuse, what will become of me? The Guardians have already proven my life means nothing to them.

No, I will not entrust my fate to them. I have one chance, and I must use it well.

Quickly, I bottle my rage, and stopper it with a look of tired resignation. With as much grace as I can muster, I rise to my feet and step forward toward Princess Wilhamina. I lift my skirt, as though I’m about to sink into a curtsy—and then I make a mad dash for the door.

By the time Lord Murcendor yells for the guards, I’m already through the door. The hall beyond isn’t narrow and deserted as I had hoped, but wide and circular, with white stone statues lining the back walls. Several guards lounge nearby, their expressions startled as I streak past them.

“Get her!” comes Wolfram’s voice.

My movements are jerky, and my breathing comes in ragged gasps. After so many days in a cell my muscles are already cramping. But adrenaline fills my veins and I push forward, fleeing the hall. The sound of heavy footsteps and clanking metal follows behind me. If I doubted the Guardians’ words, I know now they were telling the truth. The white columned hallways, the crystal chandeliers, the gilded walls and the arched windows—this can only be the Opal Palace.

I round a corner and rush down a narrower corridor. When I turn another corner, I enter a large hall and realize I’m running straight for a golden throne.

I pull up short when several guards, who had been standing in front of a tall statue, unsheathe their swords and start running after me. Suddenly, I’m pushed from behind, and for a moment, I’m flying forward. I hit the stone floor with a thud and a guard lands on top of me. “I’ve got her!” Wolfram shouts. “Run like that again, and I’ll gut you like a pig,” he says to me.

My lip has split on the hard floor, and I taste blood in my mouth as the guards yank me to my feet. When I look up, I see I’m standing in front of a statue of Eleanor the Great. She holds two large, colorful opals in her hands.

The circle of guards around me parts for Lord Murcendor; his dark eyes are glowering. “Take her back to her cell,” he commands. “And be careful with this one. She is not right in the head and has an unhealthy obsession with Princess Wilhamina. Pay no attention to whatever lies she may tell you.”

CHAPTER 19

WILHA

Lord Murcendor returns to the Guardians’ Chambers and dismisses me. “I would like for you to wait in your room. Lord Quinlan, Lord Royce, and I need to speak privately.” He motions to my mask. “We will also need you to put that back on.”

I obey and tie the mask back on my face. I leave the room, but as soon as the door closes behind me, I sink to the ground. Lord Murcendor told me only of Elara’s existence. He said nothing of my father’s plan to bring her to Allegria once I had left the kingdom. I bring a shaking hand to my mask.

All this time, has my father been counting the years until he could marry me off and be reunited with my sister? Did he ever wonder if he had made a mistake, if he should have sent me away and kept her instead? Given how quickly he has intended to hand me over to the Kyrenicans, I assume he must.

I think back to Rinna, the person I loved most when I was a child. Once she saw my face, did my father decide it was better if she—like the midwife before her—was sent abroad, so she couldn’t one day identify Elara?

On the other side of the door I hear the low rumble of the Guardians’ voices. No doubt they expect me to obey Lord Murcendor’s orders and return to my room. All these years, the Guardians and my father have always required my obedience, and I have always given it.

Yet what if this time I didn’t?

I rise and approach a maid passing through the hall. “Do you know where I can find Patric, the palace guard? I need to speak to him about our training sessions,” I add hastily in case she says something to the Guardians.

“He’s usually standing guard at the western turret this time of night,” she answers, and hurries away, looking relieved to get away from me.

I see no one as I make my way down the corridor and up the staircase spiraling to the top of the turret. When I find Patric, he is staring out the window. For a moment I study him silently. His face is shadowed and his jaw is set in a firm line as he watches the sun set over the kingdom. My stomach lurches. I haven’t seen him since the attack. I sent word to him that I was not ready to train because of my ankle. But in truth, I have been too scared to face him.

“So this is where you spend your nights,” I say as I walk over to him.

Patric jumps and draws his sword, but sheaths it when he sees me. “What are you doing up here?”

“I have just come from a meeting with the Guardians, and I thought well . . . I just wanted to see you,” I finish lamely.

“A meeting discussing plans to depart to your future husband’s country?” The coldness in his voice is unmistakable.

“Yes,” I answer, aware that I cannot tell him the full truth. “I should have told you the terms of the peace treaty. I am sorry.”

“That’s it? That’s your apology?” he says. “Do you have any idea how it felt, hearing of your betrothal? Don’t you think that was something I might want to hear from you, Wilha, and not from your father, as if I was just another guard?”

“I know I should have told you, but I was afraid,” I answer, and my voice sounds desperate. “I didn’t want our time together to end. And it doesn’t have to, not yet. Lord Quinlan is seeking guards for the journey. You could volunteer and—”

“Volunteer?” Patric looks as though I have slapped him. “You want me to escort you to your husband’s country? Would you like me to witness your wedding, as well? Shall I stay long enough to watch you give birth to his child?”

“No, that is not what I meant!” I reach for his arm, but he draws back. “I just . . . I wish things could be different.”

“Don’t you think I wish things were different, too?” he answers, his green eyes blazing. “That I could untie your mask and see the girl who—” He turns away and grips the edge of the window.

I step closer to him and take a deep breath. “You could untie my mask. If you want to . . .”

At this, he seems to forget his anger and turns to look at me, surprised. “It is forbidden. You know this.”

“No one has to know. For once we are alone, and I would never tell anyone. None of the rumors are true—”

“I have never believed the rumors—”

“—and I promise, no harm will come to you.” I place my hand on his and he tenses. “Please? I have to go to Kyrenica. Neither of us can change that. But before I go, I want you to look at me.” I take his hand and place it on my mask. “Please? I want you to see me. Just this once, before I have to leave.”

His hand moves up and tangles in my hair. I read the temptation in his eyes. But just as quickly as it came over him, his expression hardens and he drops his arm. “Let your new husband look at you. I will not.”

He turns away and looks out the window. When he speaks again, his voice is hollow. “I cannot see you anymore. If you wish to continue your training, I will assign someone else for your remaining time in Galandria.”

I wait, hoping he will turn back and tell me he has changed his mind, and that he really does want to see me. When he does not, I pull a gold ribbon from my hair and place it next to him on the window sill. “Something to remember me by,” I say quietly. “If you care to, that is.”

Before I descend the stairs, I look back at him one last time. Patric is still looking out over the city. The ribbon next to him stirs in the breeze like it is unwanted and already forgotten.

CHAPTER 20

ELARA

Seven minutes sealed my fate. Seven minutes sentenced me to a life with the Ogdens. Seven minutes separated me from the life I could have had. The life I would have had if I had been born first.

I spend a dark night in my cell, trying to sort out my thoughts. It seems that I’ve always been viewed as a disposable daughter. Hidden away, when my existence was judged as too much of an inconvenience. And now that they feel their precious Wilhamina is in danger, they see me as nothing more than a body to take the arrows for her.

In the morning, I awaken to the sound of my cell door clanking open and Wolfram thrusting a mug at me.

“Breakfast,” he grunts and leaves, slamming the cell door behind him.

I slurp down the broth hungrily and tell myself it won’t be long until he returns with bread and cheese. But hours pass, and no one comes. I think of the last thing I ate that wasn’t stale or moldy. The apple tart I hastily gobbled on my way to the prison . . . how many days ago was that?

That day in Eleanor Square, Cordon had been calling out for me to be careful. When Gunther struck me and carried me away, did Cordon try to stop him? Or did he turn away, happy that he and Serena’s problem—What to do with Elara?—had been solved?

After what seems like almost a full day later, Wolfram finally opens my cell again. “Get up,” he says.

Like yesterday, a bag is dropped over my head and I am led through a series of twisting halls. Only this time the air seems to grow darker and thicker with each turn. Finally we come to a stop and a voice that I recognize as Lord Mur-cedor’s dismisses Wolfram.

The bag is yanked off my head and I instinctively raise my hand to shield my eyes. But it’s unnecessary because I’m in a dark room lit by only a single candle sitting on a wooden table. Lord Murcendor and Lord Quinlan sit at the table with a large feast spread out before them.

“Please, join us,” Lord Quinlan says, sipping from a golden goblet inlaid with opals. He gestures to an empty chair.

I look from Lord Quinlan, the candlelight glinting off the jewels he wears, and into Lord Murcendor’s dark gaze. “Where is the other Guardian?”

“Lord Royce is the Guardian of Trade and has business to attend to.” Lord Murcendor inclines his head to the empty seat. “Sit down.”

I take an unsteady step forward. My head swims at the smell of roast lamb and my stomach growls.

“Hungry?” Lord Quinlan says.

“What is this place?” I ask, ignoring him.

“This is where we take those accused of treason,” Lord Murcendor replies.

“Treason? How is it I’m accused of treason?” I ask as I sink into the empty chair in front of the two Guardians. Now I’m a traitor, as well as the Masked Princess’s twin sister?

Lord Murcendor fills a goblet and pushes it toward me. “Drink,” he commands. “You are in no danger here.”

I suspect I am in the most danger of my life. I wouldn’t put it past either of them to poison me right here. But if they truly want to send me to Kyrenica, then they wouldn’t hurt me. Not yet, anyway. Not while they still need me.

I gulp the wine. It tastes bitter and I nearly spit it out. I wish they would offer me water.

From across the table Lord Murcendor watches me with his dark eyes. “I have something for you.” From under the table he produces a brown satchel. My satchel.

“I believe you will find everything in order,” he says, handing it to me.

I open the satchel, hardly daring to breathe. Inside, just as I hoped, is my mother’s book. And so is my dagger.

I reach in and slowly tighten my hand around it and look up. Lord Murcendor has a dagger of his own, and it’s pointed at my neck. “Your property was returned to you as a gesture of goodwill. But I would think carefully before you try anything foolish again.”

I glance around the room and see there is only one exit. No doubt Wolfram is just on the other side of the door. I release my grip.

“Tell me, the man you knew as Travers,” Lord Quinlan says, “did he ever say anything to you of his purpose in locating you?”

Instantly I become stone. My face is a mask, as impenetrable as the one Princess Wilhamina wears. “Is Mister Travers not his real name?”

“No. It is not.” Lord Quinlan looks at me suspiciously and says no more. He is waiting for an answer.

It’s all I can do to keep my eyes from straying to my satchel. If they returned the book, then they must not realize it came from my mother. “He said nothing to me. I never had a reason to doubt that he was anything more than a schoolteacher,” I lie, and tuck my satchel under my chair, safely out of sight.

“I find that hard to believe,” Lord Quinlan says. “All those weeks in Tulan and he said nothing to you of his plans?”

I decide to give him a portion of the truth. “In the tavern, the day he was taken, he was talking crazy and said he had wanted to tell me something but that he had waited too long. He said something similar in the dungeon, before the guards took him away. But he was sick with fever by then, and I assumed he had gone mad.”

“He was not mad, at least not completely,” says Lord Quinlan. “Mister Travers was a spy working for Lord Finley.” He pauses and stares at me expectantly.

“I don’t know who Lord Finley is or what he would want with me,” I say, but I can’t help remembering Mister Travers’s words. Lord Finley wasn’t sure where she was, but we knew if we watched him close enough, we’d eventually figure out where he hid her.

“Don’t you? Lord Finley was a former Guardian. He was, in fact, the fourth Guardian who was summoned to the palace the day you and your sister were born. Over the years, it seems his devotion to the king died. He had been plotting to overthrow King Fennrick. What others outside this room do not know is that he did not plan on claiming the crown for himself, but for another.”

“Who?” I say.

“You.”

Me? The wine, combined with gnawing hunger and lack of sleep is making me dizzy. Lord Quinlan’s features blur together, making him seem like a bejeweled slug.

“It makes sense, does it not?” he says. “Replacing one Andewyn with another? After all, it was out of fear that something very much like that would happen, which caused you to be sent away in the first place.”

“What have you done with them?” I ask. “Where did you take Mister Travers and Lord Finley?”

“I took them here,” Lord Murcendor speaks up. “I had a nice talk with Travers and Finley, and they both swore on their lives they hadn’t had enough time to tell you of your true identity. Appropriate, as it was their lives we eventually took from them.”

I feel nauseous, and not just from lack of food. I swallow back the bile rising to my throat.

“We had been under the impression we had captured all of Lord Finley’s supporters,” Lord Quinlan speaks up. “This of course, was before the assassination attempt in Eleanor Square.”

At this, Lord Murcendor opens his mouth as if to disagree, and then seems to reconsider and closes it again.

“We know Lord Finley intended to place you on the throne,” Lord Quinlan says. “What we don’t know, is if you decided to join them.”

“Absolutely not,” I answer. “He never asked me to join him, and I never agreed to anything. I have no idea if some of Lord Finley’s men were behind the attack. But I do know I had nothing to do with it.”

“I see,” Lord Quinlan says. He stands up, walks to the door, and opens it. Wolfram enters, holding a lit candle.

“Light them,” Lord Quinlan commands.

Wolfram nods. He raises his candle and begins to light torches mounted along the room. As the light grows, pictures on the stone walls come into focus.

They are pictures of death. Death by strangulation. Death by hanging. Death by fire. A hundred paintings, rendering a hundred brutal deaths. What artist was commissioned to paint such scenes? I turn away, unable to continue looking.

Wolfram, finished with lighting the torches, exits the room.

Lord Quinlan looks at Lord Murcendor. “See that she is properly persuaded.” And with that, he steps out.

Properly persuaded? I swallow thickly, thankful I haven’t eaten anything yet. “Where did Lord Quinlan go?”

“He prefers to let others do his dirty work,” Lord Murcendor says as he refills my goblet. “The king is currently unconscious. But if he awakens, how do you think he will feel when he discovers his long-lost daughter may have been working to depose him in order to see herself crowned queen?”

“I told you, I didn’t know of Finley’s plans.”

“There is no way for us to know that. The only way is for you to prove your loyalty.”

“Prove my loyalty?” My stomach roils as the meaning of his words becomes clear. “By posing as Wilha’s decoy, you mean?”

He nods. “With the assassination attempt, there is great concern over the princess traveling to Kyrenica.” He picks up an apple and begins slicing it with his dagger.

I take a small sip of wine, trying to stall for time. He starts eating the apple slices, and I look longingly at the feast. My mouth waters, and I wish he would invite me to eat. But I shake myself. I know what he is trying to do, and I can’t let myself become distracted. I need to stay alert. I saw the arrows flying toward the Andewyns myself. This is no small thing they are asking.

“Won’t the king object?” I ask, trying to think of a way out of this. “If he wanted me back so badly—wouldn’t he object to sending both his daughters to Kyrenica?”

“I think not. Sixteen years ago, the king and queen sent you into obscurity to protect the kingdom. If he were conscious enough to do so, I believe he would be the first to volunteer you now for this task.” He sips his wine and continues. “There are two ways to look at this. One is that you were working with Lord Finley’s men to assassinate your own family and attempted to flee when we brought you to the Guardians’ Chambers for questioning. The other is that upon learning of your true identity, you immediately agreed to protect your sister in her time of need.” He leans back in his chair. “Which scenario do you suppose will sit better with the king?”

“I know nothing about being a princess,” I say.

“You can learn. I have watched the games you and the Lady Ogden have played. I am certain you can assume any role required of you. If you arrive safely in Kyrenica, you are to serve as the Masked Princess and Wilha will pose as your maid until it is determined that the Strassburgs mean no harm to your sister.”

“But if Wilha serves as my maid,” I say, thinking fast, “they will see her face. Won’t they think it strange that my maid looks exactly like the Masked Princess?”

“Royalty rarely pays any attention to their servants. And you will be wearing the mask, which you are not to remove. They should have no indication of what the Masked Princess looks like. And your stay in Korynth will be short-lived. King Ezebo is planning a masquerade to formally introduce Wilha to Kyrenican society. Lord Quinlan, Lord Royce, and I have agreed to attend. Once we have seen for ourselves that the Strassburgs mean Wilha no harm, you two can switch back. Serve your sister, and when we return you to Galandria you will be given a new life, filled with more wealth than you could possibly imagine.”

“You mean, you’ll give me a new life, if I’m not assassinated on the road or in the Kyrenican Castle.”

His lips curl. “Yes. If.”

I rack my brain frantically, searching for another reason to object. When I can’t find one I say, “And what if I refuse?”

“You could,” Lord Murcendor says, glancing around the room meaningfully, “but of course, Lord Quinlan and I would have to figure out what to do with you.”

It’s not much of a choice. Impersonate the princess, or die. Of course I will do it. But there is one thing I want in return. One thing I want so badly I’d escort Wilha not just to Kyrenica but across the Lonesome Sea and back again if I could obtain it. “I’ll do it, on one condition.”

Lord Murcendor seems amused by this. “I was not aware you were in a position to issue any conditions.”

“What I’m asking for will cost you nothing.”

“And that is?”

“My name. Before the king and queen sent me away, what did they name me?”

“They didn’t,” he answers flatly. “Your father handed you over to me and said that as far as he was concerned, only one child had been born that day.”

“What?” It takes a moment for his words to register. “They didn’t name me?” My chest is heavy, and I curse at myself when I feel wetness on my cheeks.

How could they have denied me the simple courtesy of a name?

“I will leave you to your meal,” Lord Murcendor says and stands up. “When you are finished, Wolfram will escort you to your new room.”

Several minutes later when I am finally myself enough to eat, I take a bite. But the rich, colorful food tastes rotten, and I spit it from my mouth.