Claire didn’t mind being behind the scenes. In fact, she preferred it. The only time she had stood alone on a stage was last year, when her fifth-grade teacher had asked her to read out loud the opening remarks at the elementary school graduation ceremony. All week long, Claire had been plagued with nightmares: What if she tripped? What if she messed up? What if everyone laughed at her? The seventh time Claire asked the same question, Sophie had let out an exasperated sigh and said to just imagine everyone in their pajamas.
“How’s that supposed to help?” Claire had asked.
Sophie had shrugged lazily from where she’d been lounging across the old floral armchair. “No idea. I don’t get stage fright! It’s just what I’ve heard you’re supposed to tell people.”
And when the moment finally arrived and Claire had to walk to the podium, she’d looked out into the auditorium and seen … nothing. The lights had been too bright. So instead of picturing the crowd in their pj’s, she just imagined she was talking only to Sophie. That was what got her through it.
Afterward, Sophie had said, “See, it was easy, wasn’t it?”
Claire had looked at her sister, wondering what it would be like if being brave came as naturally for her as it did for her sister.
But, looking back on it now, she had been brave, hadn’t she? She’d done the thing she’d been terrified of.
The memory gave Claire confidence as she followed Kleo through a side door leading them up onto the stage, behind the backdrop curtains, where all the sets were in various phases of construction. Colorful chaos ruled backstage, and Claire and Kleo had to dodge bolts of fabric and assistants dashing around until they reached the far corner of a wing. From here, Claire could be left alone and still watch all that was happening. Near her, a group of younger girls including Lyric giggled as bits of ribbon twisted around their legs like friendly cats and boys made silly faces at one another as they stretched, warming up their muscles.
Onstage, through a series of side curtains, Claire could see the older kids rehearsing, raising their legs high above their heads before dipping down again, always in perfect unison. Though she couldn’t see the musicians in the orchestra pit that sat in front of the stage, she could make out the tops of their heads and a conductor’s wand waving in rhythm.
Making sure Claire had all she needed, Kleo left, promising to come back soon.
Claire picked up a brush and looked at the paints. There was a jar of cerulean, the same color as the water in Needle Pointe’s bay, and another jar brimming with an iridescent white. It reminded her of Mom’s mother-of-pearl earrings and …
A shot of light across a midnight plain.
A glimmering streak in a dark ponytail.
Sophie—becoming a unicorn.
Claire shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the memory, and set the paintbrush down. She wasn’t ready to draw anything permanent yet. She tugged the pencil out of her hair, sat down on the floor with her back against the wall, and sketched a silver line across a scrap of parchment that had been left for her to test out the paints. And as she moved across the wild blankness of the page, confidence swept over her, and she began to feel calmer. This was something she knew how to do.
Letting her pencil fly across the page, Claire began to draw without setting out to sketch anything in particular. Her mind was filled with sharp points and jagged edges. Sketching was the best way of smoothing them out to make sense of what was happening. It was how she’d spent most of the nights when Sophie was away in the hospital and their home felt particularly empty.
She drew a zig and then a zag and finally another zig. It could be the top of a mountain range or … She added a few lines and began to shade it in: a crown.
Claire felt prickly with frustration. She was so close to it. Well, to the first part of it, anyway. The Love Knot Tine was only a few yards away, resting out there in the lobby for anyone to see, and yet it felt as far away as the moon.
She drew another line, thick and heavy—as heavy as the crown must be to wear. Claire could hardly tolerate a headband, the way it pushed on her temples, so she could only imagine how heavy a metal crown must feel.
She added a few more lines to her drawing, her pencil speeding along faster than her thoughts. Usually, magic was in the material, and Claire helped guide it out, but now it almost seemed as though the pencil were dragging her forward, and she let the image, whatever it was, spill onto the paper. A story unspooled within her that felt like a forgotten memory:
“I don’t want to wear it,” the princess complained. “It’s heavy, and it makes my head hurt.” Plus, it was noisy. Whenever she was around the crown, she could hear the hum of the meteorite it had been forged from.
“My sweet star, you’re never going to have to wear it.” Her mother, a woman with a sparkling veil pinned to a small tiara nestled in her hair, dropped a kiss on the girl’s forehead. “That’s your brother’s burden to bear.”
The girl gazed at the crown, her gray eyes solemn. The crown was wrought of starfire—meteorite—and sparkled in the dim light of the throne room. “I’m glad,” the girl said emphatically. It seemed impossible that this heavy thing would one day fit her brother’s head. His baby skull still felt squishy in parts. She felt bad for him. After all, how could one ride a unicorn and melt into the morning with something as heavy as the crown weighing one down? As princess and not the heir, she had to wear only a thin circlet of silver while riding about with Papa.
The woman laughed, the smile lines around her eyes crinkling. “Is someone thinking about a unicorn ride?”
The girl dipped her head shyly, embarrassed but also happy that her mother understood. Queen Elaina always did—that’s why much of the kingdom knew her as Elaina the Compassionate.
“Come, Estelle,” her mother said, holding out her hand. “Let us check on the garden pond! Shall we see if the swans aren’t bullying the poor goslings?”
Princess Estelle slipped her hand into her pocket to pull out the bit of cranberry scone she’d saved from breakfast. Even though it was her favorite pastry, she was worried about the nest of baby geese that had hatched a little too late in the summer.
“Great minds think alike,” Queen Elaina said as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a matching scone. Estelle grinned up at her mother just as a horn sounded from the ramparts. How strange. Usually the horn trilled only when her father was spotted on the road, returning to the castle. But Estelle had seen her father just that morning, head bent over the many papers in his study. Which meant that the horn wasn’t calling out a welcome; it was warning them of—
“An attack,” her mother breathed out. Footsteps sounded down the corridor as her mother grabbed her hand, knocking the scone to the floor. “We must move fast,” her mother said as she pulled her to the door. “The Forgers are here.”
“My scone!” Estelle protested.
“We won’t be visiting the goslings today after all, I’m afraid,” her mother said. “You must be brave, my gem.” Estelle felt tears prick her eyes, but she stayed silent. Just as they exited the throne room, she ducked her head under her arm. The crown winked at her in the torchlight, the moontears inlaid into each of its four points glimmering like stars set in a dark, black night.
Something bright was shining in Claire’s eyes. “Elaina, wake up!”
Claire opened her eyes to see Lyric standing over her, tugging her arm. The Historium seemed to have emptied, and now only a few straggler dancers remained, squeezing in one last practice. Claire hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep, and she must have been out for at least a few hours for everyone to have gone home. The last thing she remembered was the smooth way the image beneath her pencil’s tip had blossomed across the page, along with a story … or maybe it was a dream?
Claire gave her hands a little shake. She’d fallen asleep on them, and they tingled a bit. The sketch was smooshed against her face, and she peeled it off. Even though it was a little smudged, the illustration was stil
l clear. She’d sketched a princess and a queen standing in an unfamiliar throne room. Both their backs were toward the viewer, but a crown was on full display. It was a rough sketch, but she could just make out four little symbols, one on each of the crown’s four points, beneath the moontear settings: a hammer, an oak leaf, a love knot, and a gemstone.
Claire studied it. Sometimes scenes came tumbling out of her. And when they did, it always felt a little like magic. As though the pencil had taken control of her fingers. Her eyes shifted to the edge of the page, where she’d drawn a border of geese. She followed their flight down to the corner of the page and paused.
Her fourth-grade art teacher had made a big deal about signing all their pieces with an Artist Signature, which she’d always pronounced with a capital A and a capital S. Claire usually marked her art with clear block letters: C. Martinson. This time, she’d signed her sketch with something that looked more like a scribble, though she could make out a capital letter E, complete with curlicues.
She wondered—had she written E for her fake name, Elaina, or E for Estelle? She shook her head. That made no sense. She’d let herself get too carried away by her imagination.
“Lyric, did you find her? Oh, there you are!” Kleo’s voice came from above, and Claire hastily scrunched the sketch into her pocket. She didn’t need Kleo or any of the Royalist Spinners to see that she’d drawn a crown. She didn’t want them getting suspicious of her intentions.
“I’m s-sorry,” Claire sputtered. “I haven’t slept in—”
“That’s fine,” Kleo said, cutting her off. “It’s time for you and Lyric to head home.”
“Wait,” Lyric said with a frown. “Are you not coming back with us? You promised you’d go over the steps with me!”
“I’m sorry, L,” Kleo said, and her eyes shifted to Claire for just a moment. Unease trickled through Claire. “I promise I’ll help you when I can, but something’s come up.”
Lyric crossed her arms, and her eyes flashed. “What’s come up that’s more important than keeping your promise?”
“We just got a message written in the queen’s hand,” Kleo said, offering her own to pull Claire to her feet. As she stood, Claire felt something rough slip into her palm. A note. Claire’s fingers closed around it as Kleo continued. “His Royal Highness has been asked to escort the Diamond Tree Vault and the tine within it to Hilltop Palace.”
Now Kleo was looking directly at Claire. “Prince Thorn will be here at dawn.”
CHAPTER
11
Supper was a simple affair that night. Sharp cheese with grapes and an apple tart that smelled delicious, though Claire couldn’t manage anything more than a few bites. Kleo’s note, though now just soft ash in the Wefts’ stove, seemed to have burned a hole in Claire’s stomach.
At first bells, Claire was to leave the Wefts’ townhouse, and by second bells, she should be on the Weaver’s Bridge, meeting up with Kleo and the narrowboat she’d arranged to slip Claire far away from Thorn’s bright-blue eyes—and the Love Knot Tine … unless she could find a way to break it free in just a few short hours.
Grown-ups always complained about time, but before now, Claire had thought she had too much of it. Long classes about even longer division would drag on for what seemed like days, and boring summer afternoons weeding the garden felt like an eternity. But now … Claire would give anything for those lengthy moments. In Arden, she could feel time slipping past her, rushing her recklessly forward like rivers nearing a waterfall.
The faster it flowed, the closer she was to disaster.
The closer she came to losing Sophie forever.
“Elaina?”
Someone tapped Claire’s shoulder, and she looked up to see Mistress Weft gazing down at her, a worry line between her brows. “I was wondering if I could take your plate, dear,” she said, and from her tone, Claire had the feeling this wasn’t the first time she’d asked.
“I can do it,” Claire said quickly, scooting back the wicker chair. She reached for the other empty plates on the table. “Where should I put these?”
“The sink is just fine,” Mistress Weft said, gesturing to the dishes already stacked there. “We’ll deal with it in the morning.” Mistress Weft glanced at the pile of wool that still needed to be spun before her eyes slid to Lyric, who’d excused herself earlier and was again practicing the steps in front of the fireplace.
As she watched, Lyric rose onto her toes, executing a crisp pirouette. She spun faster and faster, looking for all the world like a top, when suddenly—
Thump.
She was sprawled on the wooden floor.
“Lyric, dear, are you all right?” Mistress Weft asked, setting down the spindle she’d just picked up.
Lyric sat there, seemingly surprised. “Of course I’m not! How can I be? I don’t know the steps. And Kleo—she promised—argggh!”
Lyric leaped to her feet and ran toward the stairs. Claire knew that in any other, non-Spinner household, they would be hearing the stomp of her feet up the stairs, but the cushy carpet completely muted the sound. It was too bad, really, Claire thought sympathetically. Sometimes, the loud declaration of a stomped foot was helpful in getting rid of anger. The sound meant that she was here, and she was important, and she should be paid attention to. That’s what Mom had explained when Sophie had started getting particularly moody and was slamming doors on a near weekly basis.
“Sorry you had to see that,” Mistress Weft said. “I’ll go and check on her.”
But Claire again saw how the woman’s eyes sized up the amount of wool still left to be tamed.
“I’ll go,” Claire said, quickly placing the plates in the sink and wiping her hands on a nearby towel. Sometimes when people were upset, they wanted to be left alone, but from the expression in Lyric’s eyes … Claire thought that maybe just the opposite was happening.
And if she was really going to run away tonight, she’d at least have to say good-bye to Lyric first.
Claire climbed the stairs and stopped in Kleo’s room to grab something from her Hollow Pack before she tapped on Lyric’s bedroom door. “Lyric? Can I come in?”
There was no response, which Claire took as a good sign. She let herself through.
Lyric had flopped onto her bed and was staring wide-eyed up at her canopy, while her braids and loops hung over the mattress’s edge, nearly brushing the floor.
“What do you want?” Lyric asked. She didn’t sound mad, only glum.
“I just wanted to see how you were.” Claire replied with the truth. “And to say, I think you looked really good during practice. I think you have a chance.”
Lyric sighed, and the sound wrapped around the room. “I don’t know about that. Maybe if Kleo were here to help …” She rolled onto her belly and looked at Claire. “She left us earlier than she had to, you know. She had an entire summer she could have spent with Mama and me before she started on her journeyman trials. She has her whole life to be a historian!”
Claire was confused. “But you’re also rushing away to something,” she pointed out. “You want to go be a part of the queen’s court.”
“So I can see Kleo!” Lyric said, flopping again into the pillows. “She was Historian Fray’s former apprentice. Historian Fray will make sure she’s at court. She’ll probably be the youngest royal recorder and I’ll just be … silly little Lyric, stuck at home.”
Though Lyric’s story was different from Claire’s, the words were familiar to her. There had been so many times—even before the ladder—that Sophie had gone off and left her.
“She’s just spreading her wings,” Claire said, repeating what Mom had often said to her about Sophie.
Lyric snorted, and Claire remembered how useless those words had first sounded to her. What had actually cheered her up was when Mom said that she could invite her friend Catherine over, and they’d spent a fun afternoon together, watching movies that Sophie would have called babyish. There were no screens in Arden, but that di
dn’t mean she and Lyric couldn’t do something fun. Claire reached into her pocket and pulled out what she’d stopped to collect from her room: a bit of chalk.
“Hand me your Flyers?” Claire said, and when Lyric looked at her, startled, Claire just smiled and shook her head. “It’s a surprise. Trust me.”
With the chalk, Claire began to draw lightly on the underside of her dance shoe. A comfortable silence settled over the room, but with Lyric around, the quiet never lasted long.
“I’m sorry,” she said unexpectedly from her pile of pillows.
“For what?”
“For your thoughts getting Gathered. If I hadn’t been caught, you wouldn’t have had to turn around to rescue me.”
“True,” Claire admitted, and paused her sketch. “But then I wouldn’t have known how to ask the Spyden my question.”
“Do you remember what you asked?” Lyric said, sitting up. “Are your memories coming back?”
“Uh, no,” Claire said, trying not to feel too bad about deceiving Lyric. Because technically they weren’t coming back. She’d always had them.
Again she began to draw, and the images flowed, as if they’d always meant to exist …
“Oh, wow!” Lyric grabbed the shoes from Claire moments later. “It’s beautiful!” She held the soles out so Claire could examine her own handiwork. Two unicorns now pranced on the bottom of Lyric’s Flyers. One reared up, his horn piercing a crescent moon Claire had just managed to fit in the corner, while the other unicorn jumped over a curtained stage.
“When my sister had a dance recital, she’d always ask me to draw something lucky on the soles for her before she went out to perform,” Claire explained. “And the chalk should stop you from slipping again.” It wasn’t Gemmer magic, though chalk was made from crushed stone—just something useful she’d learned at Sophie’s dance classes as she’d watched the students rub the dust onto their slippers. Okay, maybe she’d done a little Gemmering, just to make sure the chalk would stick longer than usual and hold its design, but that was it.
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