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  The king pressed his lips together. "That will do," he said. He waved a hand to the constable. "Lock her away, officer," he said. "Lord Coxley will tend to her case. She has pled guilty to theft against the crown. From the prince's very person, no less." He turned to Gregor. "Let this be a lesson to us both, son, that people are often not what they seem."

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  The constable seized my wrist once more and dragged me away. Dog butted him hard in the leg, and he kicked at him savagely. This brought loud laughter from the jury of spectators.

  "Gregor, please!" I cried over the noise. "Let me explain!" His eyes met mine, but his jaw was set. There was no room for me in his eyes.

  "Listen to her taking liberties," Aunt cried. "Calling the Crown Prince by name!"

  My last view of his face, seared across my mind, was cold and rigid and condemning. What warmth there had been was frozen, poisoned, gone. How quickly love can turn to hate.

  How easily the axe is thrown.

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  Chapter 17

  If there ever was a time in my life when I wished I knew how to pray, or to whom I should pray, it was the ride in the constable's wagon from the common to the Hall of Justice. I couldn't fold my hands in supplication; they were tied behind my back, and none too gently.

  My wrists chafed. The constable had stripped off my gloves, announcing that they'd do nicely for his missus. Then he took the reins, leaving me on the bench of the wagon and tossing back occasional insults as if they were comments on the weather.

  No matter. My torment at the hands of this rude constable would be brief. And then they'd hang me.

  Much as I'd resented the prying eyes and blinding lanterns of the crowd at the festival, when the wagon pulled away and left the throng behind, I yearned for those lights and faces. Now I was utterly without help.

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  This was why Peter refused to rob the prince. All that customer nonsense was pure rubbish. This is what Peter knew could happen to me, and he let me go forward with it. He watched my downfall, and as soon as the trouble fell, he disappeared.

  And I had begun to imagine we were--almost friends. What did I know of friendship?

  Why, why did I change my mind and steal the stone after vowing not to? Did I really think by doing so I could have a chance at the prince? Not when there's a real princess about, made of crystal sugar, with a kingdom for a dowry. The driver called out to the horses to stop. The metal wagon wheel rims squealed to a halt. The horses stomped their iron-shod feet on the cobbles and neighed.

  The constable yanked me to my feet in the wagon bed. I tumbled off by way of the landing board, then looked up at the formidable bulk of the Hall of Justice. Torches blazed at its entrance. A tower in one corner made the building's shape remind me of my home, in a frightful, twisted way. The door was set deeply in the thickness of the stone walls. In the darkness it looked like a gaping mouth.

  "Move along." the constable said, shoving my back. I stumbled, almost falling, and shuffled my way through the dark doorway.

  The tunnel stretched long. We emerged in a shadowy foyer lined on every side with rough-hewn stone, with

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  doorways leading off to tunnels in several directions. A pathetic glow came from two hanging iron chandeliers, each with only a few candle nubs apiece. Sounds bounced and echoed down the stone corridors: shouts, complaints, morbid laughter. Male voices, mostly, with an occasional caw that sounded female. With a shock I realized, these were the prisoners. Passing the time, unable to sleep. Someone bellowed a rude song until a chorus of voices protested. There were thumping sounds, and a groan.

  Mother of God. Were they going to put me in there, alone and surrounded by criminals?

  I heard a door shut. Looking up I saw that this foyer contained a wooden staircase leading to the second story and continuing upward into the tower. A bushy-mustachioed officer with large spectacles, dressed in a smart uniform, had exited a room on the second level and now stood leaning over a rail, watching us.

  "What's this, then?" the officer on the landing above called down. "Theft, Sergeant," the constable barked up. "This here young lady was caught in the public square, robbing the Crown Prince of a valuable gem, after dancing with him. Witnesses saw her, and she confessed to His Majesty, the king."

  The sergeant on the landing above straightened. His graying mustache twitched. "Extraordinary." He descended the stairs.

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  The constable continued. "King Hubert says her case is to be overseen by Lord Coxley himself." An annoyed look passed the sergeant's face, but he suppressed it. He pulled a dingy book and pencil from a pocket and prepared to write. "Who're your parents?" he demanded.

  I would not oblige him by looking him in the eye. "Dead."

  "Names?"

  "August and Olivia Chapdelaine." Immediately I wished I'd said nothing. I would die before I'd dishonor their names and memory. Now I'd simply die afterward. With a withering heart I considered that their names held no honor for anyone, tarnished as their reputations had become.

  "... Chap-de-laine," the sergeant murmured, apparently spelling it as he went. He finished and peered at me The spectacles gave him a watery look. "Right. In that case, your parents being dead, who's your next of kin or party to be notified for the disposal of your remains?"

  On the landing of the stairs stood a pile of moldering dust someone had neglected to sweep into the dustbins. "Miss? Did you hear me? I said, "Who's your--"

  "I heard you," I said. "There is no one to notify."

  The sergeant made a grunt of irritation. "In that case we'll have to put a notice in the bulletins," he said, "to see if anyone steps forward to claim you."

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  To claim me. If no one wanted me living, who would claim me dead? "Shall I put her in an overnight holding cell, sir?" the constable asked. The sergeant shook his head. "All full of festival drunks and rowdies. Our little royal thief is in luck tonight. Lord Coxley's here, in his office." He gestured to the staircase behind him. "Had to sign off on a list of executions. But this takes priority. We'll tend to her case right now." He made a sweeping gesture with one arm, a mock display of gallantry. "Right this way, miss, if you'd be so kind." The constable, with a crude laugh, shoved me toward the stairs.

  Waves of exhaustion fell over me as I lifted one weary leg after another to climb. I shook myself. Why now, when I needed every scrap of wits about me, when faced with my death, why did I want nothing more than a corner to fall down in and sleep?

  The stairs wound on and on. Finally the climb ended at a small landing with a single door. Light crept out over the doorsill. The sergeant seemed to need to prepare himself to enter this sanctum. He wiggled his shoulders, threw out his chest, and brushed at his uniform before rapping on the door.

  "Come in," called an indifferent voice.

  The sergeant swallowed, then stepped inside. I followed.

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  The light inside the room blinded me. When my eyes adjusted, I found myself in an opulent office, quite unlike the dungeon atmosphere of the Hall of Justice. A vast Persian rug spread before me, and plush leather chairs dotted the room. Lamps gleamed on small tables, and a fire burned on a hearth behind a polished wooden desk. A lush bouquet of red roses stood on one corner of the desk, filling the room with suffocating sweetness.

  Behind the desk, not yet looking up at us, sat a long, angular man, fastidiously dressed and poring over a stack of papers, a quill pen in one hand. He signed his name to a document, replaced the quill in its holder, and carefully blotted his signature. Then he placed the document aside, folded his immaculate fingers together, and raised his languid eyes to us. The sergeant was nearly beside himself, waiting. When at last this Coxley graced us with his attention, the sergeant's tongue bolted like a racehorse out of its stall.

  "Got a special case here, sir, sent by His Majesty himself! She--" Coxley raised an imperious hand, silencing the sergeant without a glance. His attention was all on me.


  He was younger than I'd have guessed, clearly not yet forty. Smooth-shaven face, thin blond hair combed to one side, clear and penetrating blue eyes. Handsome, I realized with surprise, in a cold, reptilian way. I stared, wondering

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  if I'd ever seen him before, or if that was simply the effect of his powerful presence.

  The trappings of civility all around his chamber might have made me hope his justice would be merciful, but there was something crystalline about him. Like glass, or ice. It chilled me. Though it surely meant death either way, I'd far rather trust my fate to the sergeant's mercies than his.

  His eyebrows bowed slightly. "Who are you?"

  There seemed to be no evading his questions. "Lucinda Chapdelaine." "Ah." He nodded knowingly, as if his suspicions had been confirmed--as if he knew Lucinda Chapdelaine, and had an appointment with her two minutes hence. "You've grown, I see. Naturally, you would."

  This remark invited no reply, so I made none. What could he mean? "How old are you?"

  I ground my toe into a spot on the carpet. A weak display of defiance. "Fifteen."

  He shook his head, like one toying with a small child. "Fifteen already? Where does the time go?" Condescension dripped like venom from his falsely smiling teeth.

  "You speak as though you know me, and as though I should know you," I said stoutly.

  He sneered. "Do you not?" He altered his voice to imitate a woman's. "...Lucy-lu?"

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  My breath caught in my throat. For an instant Mama was there, I could feel her, I could smell her. It was her voice that spoke. I hadn't heard it in ten years. My vision grew blurry at the edges.

  Dear God, I'm going to cry, or faint. I closed my eyes and thought about breathing. Out. In. While I still could. "What's the charge, Royer?" asked Coxley.

  "Theft against the crown, sir," the sergeant said. He explained everything and added, "His Majesty says you're to handle her case personally." Coxley began to laugh, a long, cruel noise that rumbled deep in his throat. "Precious!" he said. "Simply brilliant."

  Sergeant Royer and I exchanged a glance. In the presence of this enigma, even he and I became allies of sorts. Who was this snake, and how did he know so much?

  Coxley's laugh ended. "Leave us;' he said to Royer. "Untie the girl first." The sergeant ripped the cords off my wrists and left without a sound. Being untied should have been good news. Instead I felt like a mouse trapped by a cat who wanted to play first before eating me.

  While Coxley kept his malevolent gaze trained on me, I looked around the room. No windows. No exit but the door behind me, which the sergeant pulled shut. My only hope was the man behind the desk. I rubbed my aching arms. I would place no hope in him. That was

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  what he wanted me to do, and I'd give him no such satisfaction. Hot anger welled up inside of me.

  The pretend laughter vanished from Coxley's face. "Where did you get those clothes?" he demanded.

  Of all the questions he might ask, why this one? How could my clothes possibly matter?

  I matched his gaze, or tried to. "Someone gave them to me."

  His piercing eyes dared me to stare back. He doesn't blink, I realized with a start, at all.

  "Who gave you access to your mother's things?"

  How could he possibly know about my mother's things? Even if he'd known her, what kind of man remembered a dress after ten years?

  Beryl. If I told him about Beryl, would he contact her? Would she come to my aid? Or would I be luring her into a trap?

  "Who gave you access to your mother's things?" The razor's edge in his voice told me he wasn't used to being ignored.

  Not even the king had such an air of power as this man--power that had nothing to do with yellow epaulets and gold chains.

  Nevertheless, I thought, staring into his snake eyes, I do not have to answer him.

  He shifted in his chair. "Are you acquainted with the woman called the Amaranth Witch?"

  He knew about Beryl.

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  Reveal nothing with your face. Neither ignorance nor surprise. Though this man be the devil himself, tell him nothing.

  He shifted slightly in his chair. Clearly determined not to let my composure exceed his own, he was a picture of calm detachment, but I knew I had unsettled him.

  The clock ticked. The fire snapped. The roses gushed.

  "What did you steal from the prince?"

  I trained my thoughts on Mama, Papa, and home; on Beryl, and the home she yearned for.

  "Miss Chapdelaine, it will go better for you if you cooperate with me. I have the power to oversee your sentencing. Did you know that?"

  Red roses. Red flowers. Love-lies-bleeding. It does tonight.

  "Royer!"

  I head the door open behind me. It jolted me back to this place and moment. "What did the prisoner take from the prince?" The prisoner, ropes or not. "Rare jewel, sir. Quite large, so Cuthbert tells me."

  "Did Cuthbert see its color?"

  A pause. "White, I believe he said, sir."

  A wolfish smile passed across Coxley's lips. He nodded. "You may go." The door closed again.

  It hit me. He knew about Beryl's stone.

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  Coxley's long white fingers drummed with excitement on the desk. "You have put on a pretty display of defiance, Miss Chapdelaine. Shades of your father, with much of your mother's spirit about you, too. But stubbornness will not avail you. Even in your silence, you have told me everything I need to know." He was the someone Beryl had warned me about! Only Beryl never knew that Lord Coxley, head of Saint Sebastien's Hall of Justice, was the one searching for her stone.

  He pulled a sheet of parchment from a drawer and dipped his quill in a reservoir of ink. With a well-controlled hand he wrote on the leaf. I waited while he finished, blotted his work, folded it, then turned a candle on its side to drip hot wax on the seal.

  "You are in league with the woman called the Amaranth Witch, who occupies your parents' former home. In some way Prince Gregor obtained possession of her"--he waved a hand in the air--"magical stone. You dared to steal it from him. Alas, your effort was unsuccessful, and now here you stand before me"--he let a snicker escape--"the daughter of my former employer, convicted of capital theft, and sentenced to die by hanging at dawn." He smiled his serpentine smile, then shuffled together some papers as though finished with me. "Though waiting till dawn is a tiresome convention that I aim to see abolished in time."

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  His former employer? Papa?

  Who could this man have been? Clearly not the gardener's helper. "The lawyer." As I spoke it, I knew it was true. "Hmm?" he said. "You're the solicitor. The one Papa didn't like. The one who had oversight of all his papers and properties."

  Suppressed surprise, then irritation flickered across his face. "Your father trusted me implicitly," he said. "You were too young to know anything at all about his dealings with his associates."

  "I know he didn't trust you," I insisted. "He was planning to dismiss you. I heard him say so to Mama."

  His eyes narrowed. "How would you remember such a thing?" He relaxed. "As if it mattered. The worms have long since finished with your parents. And soon they shall with you."

  He rose and reached out an arm to me.

  "Come, Miss Chapdelaine. You've given me no end of pleasure for the evening. To see August and Olivia's brat swing from the gallows is a perfect finale to a job half-done. Chance has favored me with a way to finish my work." He almost shivered with pleasure. "And delivered into my hands the one thing I need most."

  He steered me toward the door, for all the world as though leading me to a dance floor. "And now, let me

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  introduce you to your chamber mates for the remainder of the evening." I shrank back. How could there be yet more to fear? Only two hours ago I was in Prince Gregor's arms. From bliss, to this, in a moment.

  What would happen to Beryl, with him knowing so much about her? Coxley op
ened the door. The sergeant stood there, blinking at us. "Take Miss Chapdelaine to the holding cell, Royer," Coxley said. The sergeant produced a note with a seal ripped open. "Messenger just arrived from the palace," he said. The palace!

  Coxley reached for the paper. He noted its open seal with a dark look at Royer.

  "It wasn't addressed to anyone in particular," Royer said innocently. Coxley glanced at the note, then at me.

  "Their Graces," he bit off the words, "King Hubert and Prince Gregor, have seen fit to bestow a favor upon you."

  My heart raced. I couldn't conceal it. A pardon! Gregor loved me still, and that would save me. He'd never let me die! He knew there was a mistake. Coxley, who had seemed annoyed by this intrusion, saw my reaction and smirked. "They send a special request on your behalf, that you be incarcerated in a private cell,

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  for your protection and comfort while you await your execution." That was all?

  No. It couldn't be.

  I looked to Royer to refute this travesty. His spectacled eyes showed no emotion.

  It was so.

  "Sweet dreams," Coxley said to me, then, to the constables, "Take her away." He retreated into his office and pulled the door shut.

  Royer bound my wrists. I made no resistance. He took a torch from the wall and led me down the stairs. I followed dumbly, unable to see in the dark through my tears.

  Oh, I'd made an impression on the prince, all right. Better had he forgotten me utterly than send me this cruel half kindness, this private passage on my way to death.

  At the bottom of both flights, Royer led me down a corridor to its end, past barred doorways from which the snores and groans of uncomfortable sleepers issued forth. He opened the last door on the left with an evil-looking key, and gestured me into a narrow cell, not wide enough for two people to stand abreast. There was one small window and a rough wooden bench. Little more than a stone coffin standing on end.

  The door clicked shut behind him. I watched, wishing even he wouldn't leave me alone. His face appeared

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  once more, making the lock fast. His brief glance my way held only resignation and indifference.