The order I received from the queen is in the trunk. I rush to grab it and carry it back to the desk so I can compare the official seal with this one.
They’re nearly identical. Sure, the official seal is cleaner and a touch bigger, but at a glance, the average person would not notice. A sloppy seal could simply be the result of a hasty hand. A distracted guard wouldn’t take the time or effort to worry about it, not for this.
The only difference is that my wax is red. The royal wax is purple. Only the royal wax is purple.
I look around, trying to find a solution. My eyes land on the inkstand. I drip some wax onto paper again, then open the top of the jar and dip the end of my pen into the dark bluish-black ink, then let a drop fall onto the melted red wax. I swirl the ink into the wax, quickly, so it doesn’t set, and as it blends together, it becomes purple.
My heartbeat quickens and happiness bubbles into my throat. I want to scream. I want to dance around my room. It worked. It worked!
I place a fresh sheet of paper over the queen’s order. Dip the end of my pen into the ink again. Carefully, I trace the letters: HRM LILIANNA, QUEEN REGENT OF RENOVIA. Then the next line: REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE. Under that, in my best formal cursive: as Stable Hand at Deersia.
After I make more purple wax in as close a hue as I can, I use a gold coin to forge the royal seal. This is a serious crime, and I know it. But then that vision of Mother flashes in my mind, the one I had in my dream the other night, and determination crystallizes in my veins. I must live my own way . . . or not at all. Follow your path, she had said.
I intend to do just that.
Next problem: Women are prohibited from the prison grounds. In “The Adventures of Landy,” the heroine figures out ways to disguise herself. I glance around the room, chewing on my thumbnail. Gowns and frippery everywhere. I have black pants and something that could pass as a boy’s jacket well enough, but I don’t think that will suffice.
My eyes fall on the bedsheet.
I pull it off the bed and tear a long strip from the bottom so that I have a generous length of soft linen. I stand in front of the mirror and tie that around my chest to flatten it, turning sideways to consider my new shape. With the right shirt, I think it will work fine. I use an even longer one to thicken my waist so I look less curvy, which also helps me shift my walk from my hips to my shoulders. My voice and face could probably pass for those of a young boy, but my hair might be a problem. It isn’t unusual for boys to have long hair, but mine is longer than any stable hand’s I’ve ever seen, and thick. I also have a habit of twisting it with my fingers and fussing with it in ways that could give me away.
A heavy pair of silver shears sticks out of my sewing basket. My heart skips a beat as I glare at them.
I take a deep breath. I don’t think of myself as a vain person, but my long, thick hair is as much a part of me as my brown eyes or the trio of freckles on my left hand. I pick up the scissors. I set them down again. But I know I have no choice—I have to do this.
I yank my hair back into a ponytail, pick up the shears, close my eyes, and chop it off in one swoop. I open both eyes and run my hands through what’s left. I’m a little shocked, and a little saddened.
But the worst is done, so I trim the rest. Closer to my head, but still a little shaggy, leaving some curl at the nape of my neck and at the top. Like a boy who needs a haircut.
I get dressed in black pants and a loose tunic with a tighter shirt underneath and put my sturdiest boots at the side of the bed, ready to go. I have the forged work order and all the coins in a pouch at my hip. I’d leave now but I don’t want to spend too much time out in the dark. If I wait a few more hours, the rising sun will provide enough light for a journey.
All the potential problems with my plan repeat in my mind over and over again, endlessly. It’s impossible to quiet my nerves. I review my preparations, certain I’m forgetting something, though everything seems to be in order. As soon as I get to Deersia, I’ll find a way to help Caledon escape, and he’ll be so grateful, so impressed with my bravery and cunning, that of course he will take me on as his apprentice.
At the first sign of golden light at the horizon, I jump up and lace my boots. When I get to my bedroom door, I stop to take one last look at the dresses hanging on their hooks, at the girl I could have been. It may be my imagination but they look a little forlorn.
I creep down the stairs, edging as close to the wall as I can to avoid those creaks. I hear Aunt Mesha snoring. Moriah is a quiet sleeper. They’re going to be absolutely furious when they wake up. In the end I hope they’ll be proud of me, though.
Before I slip out the back door, I leave ten gold coins and a short note on the kitchen table: You know that I need to do this. Tell my mother I am safe. I love you both.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Shadow
I MAKE IT TO SERRONE—TORSO bound, hair shorn, clad in stable hand’s garb—just after the sun rises. The crisp morning air chills the back of my bare neck. I hadn’t thought to bring a scarf.
The palace looms over the village. I feel as though it’s watching me. Like it knows I am escaping, and does not approve.
The Brass Crab is closed and won’t open for hours, which is a good thing. The proprietor buys honey for mead all the time. I’m certain he would recognize me. Otherwise there are few people up and about. I see the baker through his shop window; he doesn’t look up or notice when I walk by. The glove-maker’s wife sweeps the walk in front of his workshop and though I pass less than a yard from her, she offers no more than a polite nod of the head.
I was nervous coming into town, but it turns out young men don’t garner much attention at all. It occurs to me they probably believe I’m a page or errand boy, the background of their daily routine and nothing more.
After the row of shops, there is the town square, where I set up our market stand a few times a week. From there the main road forks left toward merchants’ homes and farms beyond; it forks right toward other towns in northeast Renovia. And it continues straight to the palace. The stables, along with the prison tower—a temporary holding cell for housing the accused before they go to trial—are situated on the west end of the property. That’s where I need to go.
Before stepping any closer to the castle grounds, I pause. If I go back right now, I can fix everything. My hair can be covered with a wig. I won’t miss the royal carriage that has been sent for me. It’s not too late to change my mind.
Except, it is. My decision has been made, and I know that this is what I have to do, risks and all.
I follow the ancient stone wall, once tall, now a ruin barely to my waist, that runs through the grassy field toward the stables. Once there, I linger alongside the building, collecting piles of hay. I need to look like I belong.
A couple of boys show up for work, their breath steaming puffs in the frigid morning air. One of them shoves the other, both laughing. Birds land in the grass searching for their breakfast. A mourning dove sits on a fence post; it coos back and forth with others hiding in the trees of the garden.