Free A Pearl Among Princes by Coleen Paratore

meeting. When he brought me the roses, I was cool to him. Lu has made plain her interest in Sir Richard, and it would be a breach of our friendship to pursue the solider prince. Sir Peter is a different matter. I have a sense that Nuff likes him. I have made a point of inquiring about Sir Peter, things Nuff may have heard or noticed about the ponytailed prince. I’ve studied her face for clues as she responded, but if she likes him, she is keeping it a secret. Nuff is my friend and I love her as much as Lu, but until she professes her feelings, the pirate prince must be fair game.
    After I present the buckets of coal to Nora, I head to the pump, reaching to rub my aching shoulders, foolishly leaving a black smear on my yellow blouse.
    The pump is already well primed, and the fresh cold water fills my washing tub in a few seconds. Reaching for the gritty cake of soap and brush, I scrub the black coal dust from my hands and nails. Coal. Gracepearl Coal. Servants named for the nature of their work. Nora Baker from a line of bakers. Nuff Lundry from a long line of laundresses. Coal for one who digs coal for the kitchens. Gracepearl Coal. It’s a nice enough name, the Gracepearl part, that is. If I marry a prince it won’t matter anyway. I’ll have to take his name. That gives me an unpleasant feeling. Why does a girl have to give up her name? Is a girl’s name less important than a boy’s? I think not.
    Nora is at the door waiting for me with the list of vegetables she needs for today’s meals. “Hurry, child. Yer slow as a turtle. I haven’t got all day.”
    â€œSorry, Miss Nora. I’ll be quick.” I take the paper and look it over.
    â€œI want the small red potatoes, eighty of them, no bigger than a silver dollar,” the old cook says, circling her thumb and finger to illustrate. “And be sure the green beans are the length of a farmer’s finger,” Nora instructs with a most serious expression, as if this is a difficult mathematical lesson to grasp.
    I stifle a laugh unsuccessfully.
    â€œWhat?” Nora says sharply.
    â€œIt’s just I’ve never heard that rule of measurement before.” I giggle. “A farmer’s finger. But it is an apt description, Miss Nora, and one I shall duly remember.”
    I scan down the list, silently noting the misspelled words. Nora Baker never had the benefit of classroom education, but she’s a scholar in the kitchen, for sure.
    â€œThis long,” Nora says, holding her finger up to demonstrate the bean length again, “but not too bumpy and fat.” She smooths her own fat arthritic knuckles to illustrate. “Or the beans’ll be dry inside.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I say. I hook the spade on the loop of my belt, pick up my baskets, and set off to the garden, wishing I was heading to the beach instead. Sir Richard’s handsome face flits into my mind. Had he seen me this morning? A cook is one thing, but how would he feel about me as a coal digger? Stop, Gracepearl. Why are you even thinking about Sir Richard? This is so confusing. I sigh angrily and kick a stone.
    Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
    How does your garden grow?

CHAPTER 13
    Confusing Dreams
    Hark! Hark! The dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town;
Some in rags, some in tags,
And some in velvet gowns.
    With a few minutes to spare before I meet Lu and Nuff for lunch, I feel drawn to Mackree’s stables. As I come up over the hill, I see him, and take cover behind a tree. He is brushing his prize horse, Ransom.
    Mackree’s long, dark, rich brown hair blends perfectly with Ransom’s mane. Mackree brushes the horse’s flanks with long measured strokes, talking to him all the while.
    Suddenly Sir Humpty appears, his protruding egg belly clear evidence that he is enjoying our Miramore cuisine. “I’ll ride that one in the tournament, boy,” he says to Mackree, tapping Ransom’s head with a