The Amaranth Enchantment (13 page)

Not this girl who'd been arrested for theft.

Angelica Peters, I thought to say. But Aunt spared me the trouble.

"Lucinda Chapdelaine," she announced to half the city.

Voices and laughter stilled. Even the music had stopped. All was silent, save for a rustle of whispers like wind through grass. The wolves and vixens stood in an accusing circle around me that stretched to the edge of the city common.

If the sky had fallen on me, I could not have felt more suffocated.

The constable turned, surprised. "You know her?"

I felt a nudge at my ankles. It was Dog. My only friend. Hot tears spilled from my eyes.

"What's all this?" came a new voice. I looked. There stood Gregor, and beside him, to my great shock, was his father, King Hubert, whose image I knew from every coin that ever passed through our shop. It was he who spoke. "What did you say her name was?"

"Lucinda Chapdelaine," Aunt said, swelling like a bullfrog.

"Swiped this off the prince," the constable said, holding up Beryl's gem for all to see. A ripple of admiration ran around the ring of watchers.

Gregor's stricken face leaped out at me.

The king strode forward. The crowd parted before him.

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He lifted my chin and looked into my face. "Chapdelaine, he said. "Not...

August and Olivia Chapdelaine's child?"

"The very same," Aunt said, nodding.

My dream flooded back upon me, the memory of the banquet my parents hosted, where the king had promised me two dances with the prince. The sticky-faced prince who'd drunk too much punch.

His promise had been kept.

"Your Majesty," I said. "Please, let me explain."

King Hubert paid me no attention but turned and looked at Aunt. His face was puzzled. Aunt's shabby gray dress and shawl did not, apparently, fit with Mama's fancy clothes.

"How do you know this young lady?" he asked her.

She curtsyed deeply. "If it please Your Highness, she was my dear departed husband's niece, by marriage. I raised her up ever since her parents died bankrupt and left her penniless."

Beat me down, more like. It was only Uncle who gave me any hope worth living for.

"And you say that you saw her stealing something from my son?"

She nodded. "She's a thief by nature. I kicked her out of my house two days ago for stealing right out from under my nose at my goldsmith's shop. She didn't have a penny, Your Highness. Those clothes she's got on are stolen, sure as anything."

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I watched Gregor. At the words "goldsmith's shop," he blinked. I saw his lips
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form the word "Lucinda." At last. He remembered the amusing girl from the shop. His eyes were full of bewilderment and betrayal.

"You kicked her out without a penny?" King Hubert asked.

Aunt cleared her throat. "She'd stolen from me, sire. Family heirlooms, and all the gold in the till."

"I did not!" I cried.

The constable seized the purse of gold from my waist and ripped it off.

"Got a sackful of it here," he said, fingering the contents of the bag.

Aunt gasped. "Why, that's my purse and all! Robbing the widow what cared for her when she was a poor orphan. Have you ever heard the like?"

The king looked at me. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

His face was unreadable, but at least, unlike Aunt's and the constable's, it wasn't full of loathing for me.

I looked at Gregor as I spoke.

"I never stole a thing from this woman in my life," I said with all the force I could summon. "I am wrongfully accused. A thief broke into her home and took some heirlooms, and she accused me. Nobody robbed the till. There was nothing in it to take."

The king gestured to the constable, who handed him Beryl's gem.

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"Gregor," he called. The prince stepped forward. "Is this yours?"

Oh, please. You could save me, Prince. I begged him silently to look at me, but he would not.

"Yes, my lord," Gregor said after a pause.

So be it, then.

The king waved the gem under my nose. "Now, young lady, in the presence of all these witnesses, tell the truth. It will go better for you. Did you steal this from my son?"

I tried to moisten my tongue. I closed my eyes to block the hateful sight of all those accusing eyes. All evidence was against me, and there were no friends to rescue me. No Peter. My only friend was a goat.

I opened my eyes. "I did steal it, Your Highness," I said. "But if you'll permit me, I can explain."

The king shook his head sadly. "I can't tell you how this pains me, Miss Chapdelaine," he said. "Your parents were my good friends. To see their child come to this end is a deep source of grief."

"Her parents were dishonest, too," Aunt piped up. "Died in default on spurious loans. All that high living on credit and fraud!"

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
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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.

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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.