She moved to the door while pulling the knives free. She slipped the short one with the thin blade between the door and jamb, feeling her way and wishing she had a magic spell for opening latches. She remembered the way the door locked. A bolt fell into place, using only gravity, but then it rested in a metal recess.
She worked the bolt aside, feeling it move slightly and overcoming her fears that it had rusted in place in the six years since she’d stood here. The tension on the bolt slipped, and it slid back into place. She tried again, and again, and again. Twice she had it almost to where she could lift, but it slipped away.
“Need help?” Brice asked.
“Yes. I need you to be quiet so I can concentrate.”
She almost had it when Brice shushed her. They froze in position as an old woman pushed a wheelbarrow down the alley, her eyes never once looking up. When she was out of sight, Hannah tried again, and on her first try, the bolt slid aside, then the knife pushed it up. She pulled on the door, and it squeaked open.
She went inside, Brice at her heels.
The room was almost dark, but they pulled the door nearly shut, so hopefully, nobody outside would see it had been opened. She went to one of the few windows and pulled back the heavy black covering. Light filtered in through a window so dirty the sunlight barely penetrated. She did the same with the other two windows, then pulled the door firmly closed.
“What is this place?” Brice whispered.
“My father’s workshop.”
“The one the King promised to keep locked until your return?”
“Yes.”
Their eyes were adjusting to the dim light. Brice was wandering around, but as a mage, even a beginner, he knew enough to look and not touch. She went to his side, and they examined what lay on a work table: vials of minerals, slivers of wood, knives and pliers, a tiny hammer, and a round lump of crudely made glass, or what looked like glass.
Brice asked, “Is there a reason why you came here?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know where it’s at?”
“Outside the door.”
Brice paused. “The door?”
“Not the one we entered through, but the other.”
He looked, clearly puzzled. “Isn’t that a hallway inside the royal quarters?”
“It is. And if things are as they should be, there is a Royal Palace guard who is charged with keeping people out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Brice was confused, and Hannah was amused. It wouldn’t hurt to keep him in the dark for just a little longer. “We need to turn me back into a woman.”
“Do you have a spell for that?”
“I wish I did, but I guess we’ll have to do it the old way. I will need a long gown, and while you slip back into the market and find me one, I’ll wash the spell out of my hair.”
“Me? Find you a gown?”
“And shoes.”
“I don’t know how big your shoes are.”
“I’ll give you a piece of string that measures from my heel to my toe.”
“Why me?”
“I’ll be too busy. I like blue dresses, you know. Better get going before all the good ones are sold.”
Brice tried to smile and failed. “I’ll say it’s for my sister. Not for me.”
“Of course, you will. And I’m sure the seller will believe you, but no matter. If I don’t like it, I’ll send you out again for another.”
Brice turned and headed for the balcony. “No matter what others say, I have my doubts about how good a queen you’re going to be.”
She started to laugh, but he held his finger to his lips and pointed to the other door. A guard was supposed to be standing out there all day and night until her return. She didn’t need him hearing sounds inside and reporting them. Brice slipped out.
Hannah removed the straw hat, allowed her hair to fall from under it, and used her fingers to comb out most of the powder. A glance at her reflection revealed the spell still hid her real hair, so she bent and shook her head, while running her fingers repeatedly through her hair, and watched the fine dust accumulate on the floor. She finally decided it looked better but needed both time and more cleaning.
Water was a problem, or the lack of it. Clear liquids in the workshop were suspect so it would have to wait. She had located several hidden places in the workshop the only time she’d been there, so she methodically started near one corner and worked to her right, examining everything from the construction of the table, the floor under it, and ceiling above. She searched every inch of the wall behind, both with her eyes and her fingertips to make sure they agreed. She looked under the table, behind it, and then on it. Her eyes and fingers probed, touched, felt, and prodded each item.
Or course, that didn’t mean she hadn’t missed anything. It simply meant that if there was something there, she hadn’t found it. What she had found could keep her busy for years, especially the rows of books on two shelves. Each was the personal account of a mage, most long dead. Inside each was the life and trials he faced, the politics of the time that helped or hindered, and most importantly, details of their work.
With those at his fingertips, no wonder her father had become one of the greatest mages of all time. She read the author’s names on the inside covers, the dates, and often subtitles that foretold of the contents. Dust had settled on them in the years she’d been gone, although in a closed room she wondered where all the dust had come from.
All but one. The last book on the second shelf was as pristine as the day it had been made. The leather on the cover was bright blue, and the white top was free of the pervasive gray dust coating everything else in the room. It stood out like a beacon.
Her hand reached for it and tingled as her fingers touched it. She instantly knew that only she could see it—and that it had been her father’s. When she had last visited the room, the other books hadn’t been dull with dust, and she hadn’t noticed the one with the spell. As she held it, she expected to find it blank, or unreadable. However, when she opened it to the first page, she found, instead of a name, his image peering at her.
Hannah dropped the book. The surprise, fear, and unknown, combined with the other contents of the room had her nerves on edge. She knelt and reverently lifted it in both hands, then placed it on the table and opened it to the first page again.
Her father was smiling at her, forgiving. The image gave a slight shrug. The page had no depth, but from what she saw, it was as if a miniature man stood there, as tall as her hand, and if she could have moved behind him, she would had seen his side and then back, the same as if she circled a statue.
When she looked at his face again, he had raised his eyebrows, as if wondering why she hadn’t turned the page. She did. There were words on the next page, squiggles and curves, writhing about like a can fishing worms. As she watched, they moved to their proper locations and formed words.
I OFFER HUMBLE GREETINGS TO MY ANCESTOR
Nothing else appeared on the page. She turned it, wondering what the greeting meant. The next page also contained unreadable marks and lines, but they quickly resolved into words. She read and understood. The book was enchanted, of course, not by her father, but by her mother, for her father. It was the work of a sorceress, the only work she knew her mother, who hated magic, had performed.
That in itself told more than any book could. In addition, it was meant to be read only by their direct ancestors. She suspected that the book survived in another plane of existence, somewhere in another realm of reality and that accounted for the lack of dust and the new appearance.