Free A Farewell to Charms by Lindsey Leavitt

studio.”
    “Studio?” Spy or no spy, I could not help the worry that crept into my voice.
    “Of course. Your art is of great interest to your people. I’m sure they’d love to see what you create using raw clay.”
    I leaned back in my wheelchair and sighed. Tumbling out and breaking my wrist probably wasn’t an option. Which meant I’d have to rely on my next asset if I was going to display Vanna’s “talent” for sculpture to her whole country.
    Magic time.
    While the camera crew set up, another team got to work fixing my hair and applying my makeup. I was changed into a high-necked floral blouse paired with slim jeans. A burly man in the camera crew scooped me up and arranged me on a sculptor’s stool, in front of a slab of muddy clay. The studio had finished pieces lined up against the wall. Vanna’s work consisted of birds of prey—sharp angles, fierce poses, all lifelike. These were museum-worthy, not something I could whip up on the spot. Not something I could whip up with years of training.
    The director bowed at me from behind the camera. “So this first shot will be basic. I want to get a glimpse of your creative process. Then we’ll show some art you’ve already done, add some music and voice-over as you work. We’ll save interview questions for later.”
    “So I just need to make something with this clay,” I said.
    “Yes, Your Highness. Pretend we aren’t even here. Let your creativity guide you.”
    I stared at the clay and bit my lip. T-shirts. T-shirts were my artistic medium. The best I could make out of this clay was a ball, maybe a snowman if I got really inspired.
    I stuck my fingers into the clay. A cameraman stepped closer in anticipation. I shot a look at Janin, who mouthed, “Create.”
    Create. Gah. Sub spotting here I come.
    I unstuck a piece of clay and rolled it into a tube, like I used to do with my Play-Doh. When I was, oh, five. I stared at the tube, hoping it would transform into something resembling art. Maybe a scary snake?
    I was saved by a quick rustling. Everyone dropped to the ground in a flurry of low bows. I glanced up to see the crown prince—a somber man with a penetrating gaze that probably inspired Vanna’s sculptures. He gave my shoulder a quick but firm squeeze.
    “Daughter, I came as soon as I was able. I’m so sorry about your injury.” His forehead wrinkled in concern as he looked down at my ankle. “It’s not like you to stumble, given your athletic training.”
    “I know,” I said. “Bad luck.”
    “I’m sure you’ll be equally impressive displaying your art.”
    “I’ll try.”
    “I know how you feel about the press, but”—he lowered his voice—“this documentary is important for our family, and thus, important for the country, important to me—” He looked past me and his eyes lit up. “Aha! There’s my little prince. Come, come. It’s been ages since I’ve seen my boy.”
    His wife, the crown princess, laughed as she entered the room and handed her son to his father. They didn’t seem aware of anyone else in the room or of the cameras turned to capture this moment.
    I sat there on my stool, poking the clay. The wave of empathy, of magic, was instant and natural. Oh, Vanna. Perfect little brother, perfect family, and here she was trying to prove that she was something—someone—besides a princess. I knew that feeling so well, that twisted mix of love and jealousy and confusion. I’d lived that when Gracie was born. Not to mention, I knew what it was like to be different—I had a beauty queen mother who loved me, but often didn’t understand me. Which is different than wanting to be a spy instead of a royal, but the emotions were the same.
    The tingling worked down into my fingers as I molded the clay. I closed my eyes, not listening to anyone else, just tuning into the intensity of the moment. I don’t know how much time passed, but when I opened my eyes, I had the beginnings of a bird. A crane, actually, with