“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.”