Free Princess Ben by Catherine Gilbert Murdock Page A

even a puff. My attempts at earth were equally futile. Perhaps I managed a dozen grains of soil, but my hands by this point were so filthy that I could not separate old dirt from new. Furious at my imbecility, I returned to my one success and produced a flame so powerful that it singed my hair. With a yelp I dropped the fire, snuffing it, and studied again the minuscule printing, only to learn that emotion played as strong a role in these spells as speech or gesture. I could control the volume, and to a certain extent the contents (specifying the type of earth, say, or that dangerous ice), with my mind. The writer further explained, as if reading my thoughts, that self-control was the very foundation of spell work. I could not resist a heartfelt snort. At the moment I had far too many critics of my self-control; I did not need another.
    Nonetheless, I paid close attention to my mood, ignoring the stench of burnt hair. If I could not manage earth or air, perhaps I might at least produce water. This, too, required great concentration. At one point my hands grew damp, which I considered a great victory. Reinvigorated, I wiped my palms on my dress, leaving two long black smears across my middle. My swollen fingers ached, growing stiffer with every movement I forced from them. Finally, after what must have been the twentieth attempt, I again clasped my cupped hands together and to my astonishment found them brimming.
    "Oh!" I cried out, clapping with joy. Water sprayed everywhere, further marking my gown. I raced to wipe the book, but of course it rested dry and unmarred. Again, and again, and again I created water, using the first two handfuls to clean my hands, scouring them with my undergarments, which I am sorry to report never fully recovered from this abuse. The third handful I drank. Doubtless I should have wondered whether magical water might be less than potable, potentially even poisonous. But after hours in that room,
dust caked my throat, and however poisonous the water may have been, it tasted sweet as a mountain spring.
    Now I noticed the first beams of morning glowing through those delightful gemlike windows. I must depart this room, ere my empty cell be discovered! Hastily I scanned the chamber. Was there anything I had left, any single item or object of importance I should note? But for my footprints and the drops of water surrounding the lectern, the room looked as it had for years untold.
    I snuffed the candles and raced down the stairs, now panicked as well that the magic doorway might be sealed. To my heartfelt relief, however, the portal presented the same tangible doorjamb, with only the faintest hint of a filmy barrier. No one had yet arrived; that was one fear eased. I took the last steps two at a time and then, with the overwhelming sensation that my life would never again be the same, I stepped through the veil. Oh, how I now loved this wretched little room! How powerful my gratitude to the queen for imprisoning me within this cell!
    Filthy though I was, I threw myself down on the mattress, my mind racing with a great storm of ideas, plans, and notions. I had so, so much to consider.

SEVEN
    Half an hour later, deep in dreamless sleep, I found myself being shaken awake in the rudest possible manner.
    When Queen Sophia relegated me to this tower cell, she instructed Lady Beatrix to tend to my attire that I be clothed appropriately for classes, dance lessons, riding, meals, and the formal dinners I so abhorred. Utilizing the ever-growing wardrobe in my Peach Rooms, Lady Beatrix would select a seemly ensemble. Yet the lady discovered soon enough that the climb to my cell taxed her greatly. Moreover, I believe she suffered from claustrophobia, so profound was her reaction to that dark and narrow staircase. Thus, with the queen's blessing, she delegated the actual task of dressing me to Hildebert, a formidable handmaid who had little interest in my rank or susceptibility to bribes and was not above the