Free Palace of Lies by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page B

flash and then it was gone, and I could do nothing but stare blankly at the woman.
    The woman slipped her hands down to clutch my arms, one on each side. It was hard to say if she was trying to steady herself or me.
    â€œI’m Janelia,” the woman repeated. “Desmia—I’m your sister.”

10
    I jerked back, breaking the woman’s hold on me.
    â€œI’m an orphan,” I said numbly.
    It took me a moment to realize that that wasn’t a denial—orphans could easily have brothers or sisters.
    â€œAll my sisters are the same age as me,” I said. I resolutely kept myself from wondering how many of my sister-princesses were still alive. They’re all fine , I told myself. They’re all fine, and you’re going to find them. . . .
    I went on with my explanation.
    â€œWe all came from the orphanage,” I said. This part of the story had not exactly been released to the public, but somehow I felt I had to tell it now. “The queen secretly sent her servant girl out in search of little baby girl orphans she could pretend were the true princess, because her own baby had died—”
    â€œDesmia, you should know the rest of that story,” the woman—Janelia?— interrupted. “I was that servant girl.”
    I blinked. Was it possible? Could the servant girl herself have been from the orphanage too? A month ago, when I had learned the truth about my origins, there had been twelve other fake princesses to keep track of, along with twelve knights who were so protective of each of their princesses. I had had no time to think of minor players in the story. Or, really, I hadn’t believed the servant girl was worth thinking of, because undoubtedly Lord Throckmorton would have had her killed to keep her from ever telling her story. He could have done that before I lived more than a day in the royal nursery.
    I peered more intently at Janelia. The woman’s ragged clothes and too-thin face made her look older, but perhaps she had lived only a dozen or so years past my fourteen. She was the right age, then, to have been a servant girl when I was a baby.
    â€œBut . . . but . . . how—” I sputtered.
    Janelia’s expression shattered. The hollows in her cheeks sagged; her heavy eyelids dropped, shuttering the joy that had been glowing forth from her gray eyes.
    â€œYou forgot,” she whispered. “I tried so hard to make sure you remembered—well, as much as I could safely tell you—and you . . .”
    â€œMam, she was only four,” Tog interrupted. “You tell Herk and me things all the time that we don’t remember.”
    â€œBut she knew this was important,” Janelia said, speaking slowly, as if still dazed. Or horrified. “I was so sure that she understood. . . .”
    â€œSo what you tell us isn’t important?” Herk said, plopping down on the floor in a cross-legged position. “Hurray! We don’t have to listen anymore!”
    I was glad that Herk at least thought this was funny. He started giggling. And there was something about the sound of a child’s laughter, something that went with Janelia’s voice. . . .
    Do I remember her? I wondered. It was like I almost did, or almost thought I did, or almost could be convinced that I did. But the almost-memory kept slipping away, like a fish that couldn’t be caught.
    Why would I even think about catching fish? I was a princess. I’d never gone fishing. I’d heard Cecilia and Harper talk about their fishing exploits, but for myself—never.
    Unless, maybe, with Janelia, when I was almost too young to remember . . .
    The almost-memory was gone again. I winced and closed my eyes momentarily.
    â€œMam, maybe you should look at her wounds first?” I heard Tog say. “I think she’s still bleeding.”
    Janelia gasped. I opened my eyes and looked