Free Palace of Mirrors by Margaret Peterson Haddix

Stephen taught me; I just can’t think of all of them right now.
    “Okay,” Harper says mildly.
    I stomp past him anyway. It is easier to walk now that I have fury fueling my pace. But I can’t help thinking about the spots in
A Royal History of Suala
where the authors seem to be trying entirely too hard to find something nice to say about a particular monarch. King Dentonian the Third, for example, was most notable for his absolute lack of ear wax. Queen Rexalia is credited with discovering excellent fertilizer for the castle daffodils, because she had a habit of spilling things when she strolled through the gardens. And then there were all those kings with their silly excuses for starting wars. . . .
    Not funny,
I think.
Not funny at all.
    My pace slows again, and Harper catches up with me.
    “I think . . .,” I say slowly. “I think it was something about the war that led to my parents’ deaths. I don’t know what it was exactly, because Sir Stephen never would tell me. He was always . . . squeamish talking about the murders. I think maybe he was friends with my father. Itwas too painful for him to discuss.” Too painful for me, too, really. I certainly never pressed him for hard answers about my parents.
    “Then why do you think the murders were connected to the war?” Harper asks.
    “Sir Stephen always got this look on his face anytime anybody said anything about the war. It was like it hurt him just to think about it. And he’s a knight and all, but he never once told any war stories.”
    “Maybe that’s just because you’re a girl,” Harper says, hesitantly, as if he’s not quite sure he wants to point out that fact.
    “But I’ll be queen someday,” I remind him. “I’ll be ordering people into battle; I’ll be deciding whether or not to declare war, whether or not to stop it—shouldn’t I know what I’m talking about?”
    If Harper gives me an answer, I don’t hear it. All I can think about suddenly is the information I
don’t
know. Who sent the horsemen to Nanny’s cottage? Were they intending to kill us or just scare us? Who else is working with the horsemen? Who else is working with Sir Stephen? Whom will I be able to trust in the castle? How should I reveal my true identity? What should I do once I’m in charge? What can I do about my enemies?
    “Cecilia,” Harper says. “You’re
swaying.
Let’s stop for breakfast before you fall on your face.”
    This time I don’t argue. We wade into the grasses onone side of the path, sit down, and are instantly hidden. We gnaw on the stale, crumbly bread that Harper filched from his mother.
    “She’s really a better cook than this,” Harper says. “If we’d just been able to wait until dawn, when she always starts a new batch—”
    “It’s fine,” I say, though I’m not really tasting the bread. I’m barely alert enough to chew.
    Harper gives a harsh laugh.
    “This isn’t exactly typical palace fare,” he says.
    “I’m not exactly your typical princess,” I murmur, but my eyes are closing on me. I force them open just far enough to see that Harper is gazing at me with an odd expression—squinting his eyes and furrowing his eyebrows and studying my face as though he’s never seen me before in his life. He looks . . . what? Doubtful? Awed? Curious? Confused? Worried? My eyes slide shut again, and I slip off to sleep, still trying to understand.

  10  
    When I wake up, the sun is beating down on us from high in the sky. I’m still wearing the heavy felt cloak that protected me from the dawn chill, so my whole body is prickly with sweat. And I’m a little puzzled about why I still have half-chewed bread in my mouth.
    “Harper?” I whisper. I sit up dizzily and see that he’s asleep by my feet, his body precisely perpendicular to mine. “Now, why would you sleep there?” I mutter. “Do you like the smell of stinky feet?”
    Harper’s eyelids flutter. I’ve never seen his eyelids flutter before; I’ve never seen