Free Palace of Lies by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

assuming they were not just filthy beggar children, but stupid as well. Why hadn’t they protested?
    Oh. Because that would have made it harder for them to rescue me, I realized.
    I had plenty of experience with people pretending to be something they weren’t. But usually they were pretending to be richer, wiser, craftier, prettier . . . better. Everyone at the palace always pretended to be better than they were.
    So Tog and Herk pretended to be worse than they are to rescue me because . . . because . . .
    For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why they wouldcare. It was as big as mystery as what Madame Bisset wanted to use me for, or what had actually happened to all the other princesses.
    â€œOh, that lady would never have suspected me of anything,” Herk was bragging. “I make my voice go like this”—it shot up, high and innocent—“and people think butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.”
    â€œWe’d have to have some butter, first,” Tog muttered. “Anyhow, Mam always sees through you.”
    Herk didn’t argue with this.
    Mam, I thought. So even these beggar boys have what I’ve always been missing. A mother.
    The front of the rug dipped down, and even with my face wrapped tightly in the rug, I could tell by the deepening shadows that the boys were stepping out of the sunshine and into a darker area. Perhaps they were descending stairs into a basement?
    They stopped and there was a creaking noise—a door opening? And then I felt the rug around me sliding lower, lower, lower . . . Was I on the ground now?
    â€œWe found her, Mam!” Herk cried, his voice so jolly that I could imagine him doing a jig for joy. “We found her! She’s alive!”
    â€œPraise the Lord!” a woman’s voice called back to him. “Where? What are the fortifications like? Would it be possible to rescue—”
    â€œMam, we already rescued her!” Tog said, and his voicewas even merrier than Herk’s. “She’s right here! In the rug!”
    And then I found myself spinning out of the rug. Eager hands rolled me out into the light. The last bit of the bristly, reeking rug came off my face, and I found myself practically nose to nose with a beaming young woman. She crouched down and threw her arms around my shoulders, lifting me up into a seated position to be swallowed in a huge embrace.
    â€œI’ve missed you so much!” the woman cried. She held me at arm’s length for a moment, then drew me back into an even tighter hug. “And you’ve grown so since the last time I saw you . . .”
    When had this woman ever seen me? From high overhead, on the balcony of the palace? And why would that make this woman think she had to right to touch me, let alone hug me? Nobody hugged me in the palace. Actually, Cecilia and one or two of the other sister-princesses had tried, but it always felt strange. Unnatural. The last time someone had pulled me this close, it had been Lord Throckmorton trying to strangle me.
    I pushed back at the woman, shoving her away.
    â€œWho are you?” I demanded.
    The woman looked . . . hurt. Was she some sort of lunatic who didn’t understand the rules of polite society? Or was she just as much of a beggar as Herk and Tog, and that was why she didn’t understand how to behave?
    Her clothes were clean but awfully ragged. She was dressed as simply and poorly as the boys, with a threadbaredress and apron and kerchief. Her long dark hair seemed to be tied back with a raveling string.
    â€œDesmia, don’t you remember me?” the woman gasped. She still had a hold on my shoulders, but it was shakier now. Less certain. “I know I’ve changed in the past ten years, but . . . I’m Janelia.”
    Something about that name burrowed deep into my brain. Or sparked something in my mind. But it was just a momentary