Chapter 1 - THE HAND THAT REMEMBERED
For the first time in the history of the Kingdom of Avelorne, the crystal hand moved.
It had stood on a velvet pedestal for two hundred years, a transparent sculpture of a woman's hand with five fingers slightly spread. The royal court called it the Hand of Accord. According to tradition, it would recognize the woman whose marriage to Prince Rowan would preserve the kingdom's ancient covenant. The noble families treated the ceremony like an auction where their daughters were the merchandise and the crown was the prize.
Elia had come to replace candles.
Her gray maid's dress was damp at the hem from scrubbing the eastern gallery. A patch covered one elbow. When the master of ceremonies ordered her away, she would have obeyed, except that Lady Celeste Varrick had deliberately knocked over a tray of wine and accused her of stealing a ring that was sitting plainly on Celeste's own finger.
"If she wants to touch something valuable so badly," Celeste said, loud enough to reach the balcony, "let her try the Hand. We could all use a laugh."
Laughter rolled across the court. The queen's face remained rigid. Prince Rowan looked angry, but he had spent twenty-six years learning that palace anger, displayed openly, could make a servant suffer worse later.
"You needn't do this," he said to Elia.
Elia glanced toward the kitchen passage, where the chief steward watched with folded arms. Refusing a noblewoman could cost her position. Obeying might cost it too. She lifted her chin and put her right hand against the crystal.
A perfect fit.
Then a pale light traveled through the glass like moonlight through shallow water. The carved fingers closed a fraction around hers. A bell sounded deep inside the pedestal, though no one was near the ropes.
The laughter died so abruptly Elia heard a woman's pearl earring fall and bounce against the marble.
"Remove her," Lord Chancellor Garrick Varrick ordered.
Prince Rowan stepped between Elia and the approaching guards. "No one touches her."
"Your Highness, the mechanism is defective," Garrick said. He spoke the word mechanism with the relieved conviction of a man who had already chosen his explanation. "The servants have been handling it."
"I have never touched it," Elia said.
"Then you're admitting you were not authorized to approach," Garrick snapped.
The queen descended three steps from her throne. She did not look at Garrick. She looked at the silver pendant resting against Elia's collarbone: a little crescent enclosing a six-pointed star. Its reverse held a shallow engraving of a bird with one broken wing.
"Where did you get that?" Queen Marienne asked.
Elia put her hand protectively over the pendant. "It belonged to my mother."
The queen made a sound that did not resemble any word. Then tears filled her eyes.
"What was her name?"
"Mara, Your Majesty. Mara Fen. She died when I was six."
"That is not possible," the queen whispered.
The chancellor moved forward. "Marienne, this is a spectacle. We should clear the hall."
"You will address me as Your Majesty in front of my court," she replied without turning around. Her voice shook, but every person in the room heard it. "And you will remain where you are."
Elia could feel the hand of crystal warming beneath her fingers. She tried to pull away. It released her, slowly, almost reluctantly.
The queen came close enough to touch the pendant, but she stopped herself. "May I?"
The question startled Elia more than the miracle. Nobody in that room had asked her permission for anything.
She unclasped the necklace and offered it. The queen turned it over and brushed the engraving with her thumb. "There should be three tiny dots beside the broken wing."
Elia had never noticed the dots. Yet when the queen angled the pendant toward the chandelier, there they were, worn but unmistakable.
"I had two made," the queen said. "One for my son. One for my daughter."
Silence settled over the hall.
"Daughter?" Rowan asked.
The queen looked at him, suddenly older. "You were four when she disappeared. The council told the kingdom she died of fever."
"You told me that," Rowan said.
"I was told she was dead. They showed me an empty cradle and a burned blanket. I never saw a body."
Garrick spread his hands. "Grief makes patterns where none exist. A pendant can be copied. A glass sculpture can be altered."
The queen's gaze sharpened. "Exactly. Which means we must preserve both until someone independent examines them."
At the edge of the room, Lady Celeste slipped her ring off and closed her fist around it. Elia saw the movement but did not understand why it mattered.
The chancellor gave a small nod toward the captain of the guard. The captain advanced, his expression apologetic. "The girl must be secured until we verify her identity."
"My name is Elia," she said, suddenly furious. "Not the girl."
Rowan glanced at her, and something like respect appeared behind his alarm.
"You will be housed as a guest," he told the captain. "With a door that opens from the inside."
"That is not your decision," Garrick said.
"Then make it mine," Rowan answered. "Call a council vote before the witnesses. Ask them who wants to imprison a woman for placing her hand on a public relic."
A few nobles studied their shoes. Others looked toward the queen. Garrick lowered his hands, the gracious politician again.
"Of course," he said. "We all want the truth."
Elia didn't believe him.
Neither, apparently, did the prince. As a lady-in-waiting escorted her from the ballroom, Rowan caught up long enough to speak beneath his breath.
"Do not drink anything delivered to your rooms without seeing it prepared. And don't give that necklace to anyone but my mother."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because someone ordered the guards to move before anyone knew what happened."
He looked back toward Garrick. "That's not what surprise looks like."
Elia was taken to a guest chamber in the north wing. It was larger than the entire attic she shared with two other maids. A blue fire burned in the hearth. On the bed lay a velvet gown, obviously prepared for someone else. A young attendant named Tessa brought water and bread, then lingered beside the door.
"You should know," Tessa whispered, "there are people in this palace who lost everything the night the princess vanished. My grandmother was one of them."
"Who was your grandmother?"
"A nursery nurse. Her name was Sabine."
Elia remembered Mara Fen's last illness, when she had gripped Elia's little hands and said, If the walls ever ask your name, tell them you are loved before you tell them anything else. It had always sounded like the confused poetry of fever.
"Where is Sabine now?" Elia asked.
Tessa swallowed. "The prison beneath the old chapel. They say she confessed to helping thieves take the child."
"Is she alive?"
"I don't know. No one is allowed to ask."
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Tessa straightened and left.
Elia waited until the echo faded, then inspected the chamber. There were two windows, a painted screen, a wardrobe with no lock, and a narrow servant's bell cord. She knew the hidden practical geometry of the palace better than any noble. She had cleaned these rooms for four years. Behind the wardrobe was a maintenance hatch leading into a shaft for carrying coal and linens. A person with narrow shoulders might crawl through it.
She was considering whether to test that theory when someone knocked.
"Come in," she said.
No one answered.
She opened the door a cautious inch. The corridor was empty. On the carpet lay a folded strip of parchment.
Inside was a drawing of the same pendant. Under it, written in cramped letters, were nine words:
YOUR MOTHER DID NOT DIE OF THE FEVER.
Elia read them twice. Her chest tightened. She had watched Mara fade through a winter of coughing and weakness. The doctor had called it fever because he said that word explained everything.
The note continued on the reverse.
ASK WHAT THEY DID TO THE WOMAN WHO RAISED YOU.
A crash came from the garden below. Elia hurried to the window. Two guards were dragging a man in a gardener's coat toward the western gate. His face was hidden, but she recognized the limp in his right leg. Tomas, the stable hand, who had once helped her bury Mara beside the river.
He twisted to look up. For one instant, their eyes met.
"Elia!" he shouted before a guard struck him across the mouth. "The seventh stair!"
Then the men forced him through the gate.
Elia backed from the window, pulse hammering. Seven years working in the palace had taught her when not to be seen. Four years watching the powerful had taught her something else: panic was most dangerous when it made you obey the first voice offering safety.
She picked up the parchment and put it beneath the loose sole of her shoe. Then she stepped into the hallway and found two royal guards standing outside.
"Am I a guest?" she asked.
"Of course, miss," one replied.
"Then I would like to visit the chapel."
"Not tonight."
"You mean I'm a prisoner."
Neither answered.
From the far end of the corridor came a sharp metallic sound. The guard nearest her reached for his sword. The lamps flickered once, twice, and went dark.
Someone seized Elia's wrist in the blackness.
She raised her other hand to strike.
"Don't," a woman's voice whispered. "I held you when you were born."
May you like
The unseen woman pressed something into her palm: a brass key, warm from being carried close to the body.
"Your Majesty thinks she lost one child," the woman said. "What she doesn't know is that the palace lost two."
