Free The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) by Andrea Cefalo

breath clouds. I wrap the blanket about my shoulders and peek through the shutters. Night diminishes. I sigh, and tip–toe through the rushes on the cold floor to see what the dolt of Bitsch wants from me now.
    Galadriel’s hair is plaited. The tawny chainse linen and her matching surcote is velvet, trimmed in gilded ribbon. The color highlights the flecks of gold in her flaxen hair and contrasts with the blue–violet of her eyes.
    “Good morning, Adelaide,” she says.
    I don’t reply.
    “You’ll have to work on your manners if you’d like to see your peasant boy again.”
    “His name is Ivo. Does saying it make the idea of murdering him harder for you?”
    Her eyes are stone. “He threw his life and soul away the day he burned that cathedral, and you tempt me to expose him with every quip. For someone who is so in love, why can’t you bite your tongue to protect him?”
    The truth in her words smarts. “Good morning, milady.”
    “That’s better,” she says. “Take these.” She hands me a folded pile of fine green wool, topped with green ribbons, green jewelry, and, God forbid it, another cobbler’s shoes. “You will wear this.”
    “Father never allowed us to wear another cobbler’s shoes,” I say. Her lips pinch, and head tilts. I heed the warning. “Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.” Let the witch explain to Father why I wear another cobbler’s shoes, I think ruefully.
    “Make sure to scrub your hands and face well,” she commands before eying my forehead. I reach for the lump. It’s gone, though still tender to the touch. “I shall give you my brush. A hundred strokes each side. Then, plait it neatly.”
    “Yes, milady.”
    “My people know little of you and your father. I shall tell them that you are a wealthy merchant family, trading in leather and fabrics like my father once did. Schumacher shan’t be a fitting name, so it is to be von Cologne,” she says. My hand darts to my lips, stifling a cry. “Adelaide von Cologne and Ansel von Cologne.”
    She takes our name!
    How could Father let her do this?
    He would never.
    He must not know her plans.
    “Milady, I fear this is folly,” I offer, and her face darkens. “Do not be angry. I say this for your benefit. Cologne is home to tens of thousands of people. The only people bearing that name are those who are from there but no longer live there and—”
    “That is exactly what you and your father are. People who used to live in Cologne that no longer do,” she concludes. “The matter has already been discussed and decided.”
    My hands shake and tears pool. “But milady—”
    She grabs me hard by the wrist. “Listen hard, you insolent imp, for I shall explain this only once more to you. You are far below my station. You do not question my orders. You do not make requests of me. You simply say ‘Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.’ Do you understand?”
    I want to snap my hand from her. I want to smash it against her pretty nose, but I do not. “Yes, milady,” I reply weakly.
    “Good. And if anyone asks questions you do not know the answer to, play at being shy. If it comes out that you and your father are cobblers, I shall send you back to Cologne—so you can bear witness to Ivo , roasting like a pig on the spit.”
    “Yes, milady,” I reply. She turns on her heel.
    I run Galadriel’s brush through my hair as commanded, though my thoughts flit to memories of my fifth winter. I sat beside Father at his work table, the edge level with my chin. He stacked piles of folded leather on the chair, and propped me upon them so my little arms could rest on the table.
    A needle, awl, scraps of leather, and a spool of thread lay before me. We hunched over his table many nights, squinting against fading candlelight as he stitched shoes, and I perfected my stitching. My little fingers blistered, until finally hardening with calluses. I rub my forefinger and thumb together. Father was so proud of those silly calluses.
    I’ve earned those