right question, venturing a little-known detail of her own explorations—she began to be included, welcomed into their discussions.
And now, she thought with wonder, digging the disk out of her pocket before the chambermaid disposed of her dirty clothes, she worked for Jonah Cle.
Showered, freshly coiffed, and dressed in what she called her marzipan clothes, pastel and sugary, she put the disk back into a pocket, where it sagged in the thin, creamy silk frock like cannon shot. She took it back out; she and her lady-in-waiting studied it doubtfully.
“A ribbon?” she suggested.
“Must you, Princess Beatrice?”
“Yes, I must. Or else back into my pocket it goes.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” She picked a thin gold chain out of Beatrice’s jewel box, threaded it into the disk, and clasped it around the princess’s neck, where it hung gracelessly within her rope of pearls. They studied it again, the tall, rangy Beatrice with her gold-brown hair and lightly freckled face, her calm cobalt eyes, and the willowy, elegant Lady Ann Never, with her critical green eyes, her black, sleek hair, and her unfailing sense of fashion.
“Can’t you hide it in your shoe?” she asked, pained. “It’s really dreadful.”
Beatrice laughed. “My father will love it.”
Her mother did not. Queen Harriet, standing next to the king in the reception line, looked at it incredulously, then closed her eyes upon it and her daughter. It was a rather moldy shade of green, Beatrice knew, and it had fallen chicken-track-side up above her beaded neckline. The frothy afternoon frock didn’t show it to its best advantage. But the king didn’t care.
“Happy birthday, Father,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“What in the world is that?” he asked, his eyes already riveted.
“I have no idea. Curran unearthed it with his shovel this morning.”
“I hope you are giving it to me as my birthday present.”
“I would love to, but I believe Master Cle should make that gesture.”
“He’s not here yet,” the king murmured, turning the disk to its hidden side. “He’ll never know.”
The queen cleared her throat, indicated the long line of wellwishers that Beatrice had effectively brought to a standstill. She moved out of the way, joined the group of her siblings, their various guests, mates, and children.
“Hello, Bea.” Harold, oldest son and heir, handed her a glass of champagne off a passing tray. He was quite tall, big-boned, and red-haired, a throwback, their father said, to the primitive Peverells. “Been digging up the city again? And wearing it, I see.” He raised his own glass toward the latest of the succession of appendages on his arm. “Do you know Lady Primula Willoughby? My sister Princess Beatrice.”
“Yes, of course,” Beatrice and Lady Primula said together, both smiling hugely and both wondering, the princess guessed, where on earth they had met. Lady Primula, with apple cheeks and corn-silk hair, looked alarmingly full of crisp country air, and Beatrice, who spent her life in holes, could barely find her way out of the city. They were diverted by the young son of Beatrice’s sister, Charlotte, plopping himself abruptly on the floor and beginning to crawl away between feet.
“Marcus!” Charlotte cried, making a dive for him. “Come and kiss your auntie Beatrice.” She swooped him up and deftly plunked him into Beatrice’s hold, where he promptly began teething on the disk. “Ah, no, Marcus!” Charlotte chided ineffectually. She took after their mother: ivory skin and hair, all cheekbones and fluttery blue eyes. She took a swallow of champagne and a closer look at what her son was biting. “Nasty thing—whatever is it, Bea?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Something we just dug up.”
“What a peculiar thing to have around your neck. Do you mind Marcus chewing on it?”
“Well, it’s been buried in a hole under some plumbing pipes for at least decades,” Beatrice answered amiably. “I doubt that much could hurt it now.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. She downed her champagne, plucked the boy from Beatrice’s arms, and winced at the sudden bellow in her ear. Beatrice drank what Marcus hadn’t kicked out of her glass and looked around for Jonah Cle.
The hall was filling rapidly. Musicians played softly in the gallery above the hall, sweet notes from flute and violin echoing purely within the ancient walls. Only the vastness of the room and the massive stone hearth, big enough to hold hundred-year-old oak logs and guarded by dragons, was left of King Irion’s great hall, where his knights had tossed bones to the hunting dogs as they ate their supper. The walls had gone through various transformations through the centuries. They were overlaid with wood now, painted, and hung with the framed faces of every ancestor the present royal family possessed, it seemed. Past watched the present goings-on with varying degrees of interest and approval. Couches and chairs and potted plants were scattered everywhere; everyone stood around them, talking across them with a great deal of vigor, clusters growing deeper as the reception line dwindled. A tiered cake half as big as the hearth stood on a table at the other end of the room. An army of servants, bearing trays of champagne and elegant little savories, followed their own mysterious patterns through the crowd. Beatrice, listening absently to her other brother, Damon, and his beautiful, garrulous betrothed describe endless wedding plans, finally saw Jonah’s harrowed, sardonic face across the room. His charming wife, Sophy, hand on his arm, was drawing him toward the end of the reception line. Phelan flanked him on the other side, his expression imperturbable while his eyes searched the room for escape. Only Sophy, tossing comments to friends as they passed, sailed with oblivious good humor through the crush.
Beatrice waited a few minutes, until they had greeted the king. Jonah lingered there; Phelan, his face loosening as he sighted a friend, plunged one way into the currents; Sophy, waving, went another. Beatrice moved then, as the long line finally came to an end, and the king turned to speak to Jonah.
The king had evidently asked about the peculiarity adorning his daughter; they were both looking for Beatrice before she reached them.
“Princess,” Jonah Cle said a trifle tiredly, as she came up. He looked very pale and very well scrubbed. “You look lovely. I would scarcely have recognized you.”
“Thank you, I think, Master Cle. And so do you.”
“What have you found for me?”
“Curran found it,” she said, feeling for the chain clasp. “He asked me to give it to you.”
“I was hoping,” the king interposed, “you might consider it my birthday present.” He had his own fine collection of oddments, many given to him by Jonah. “It would be a gracious gesture and very much appreciated.”
“We have already left a very expensive present on your gift table.”
“But this is merely a trifle, I’m sure. You probably have dozens of them.”
Beatrice slid the stained copper disk off the chain, put it into Jonah’s hand. The runes were up; he studied them silently a moment, then turned it over to reveal the hooded face.
Beatrice saw his eyes widen. Then his fingers closed abruptly over the disk; he threw back his head and laughed, an open and genuine amusement that caused heads to turn, Phelan’s startled face among them.
He opened his hand again, offered the disk to the king. “Take it, with all my good wishes. Happy birthday, Your Majesty.”
“But what is it?” he demanded.
“What does it say?” Beatrice pleaded.
Jonah was silent again, weighing words along with the disk on his palm. Then he gave up, flipped the disk lightly in the air, caught it, and held it out again to the king. “You both enjoy a challenge. The weave is there, the thread is there. Find and follow.”
“But—” Beatrice and her father said at once. But the queen was suddenly among them, drawing the king’s attention to the Master of Ceremonies at her side.
“Your Majesty,” he said softly. “The guest bard from the school is about to sing. Then Prince Harold will make his toast to you, and you will speak after. Then the Royal Bard will sing his birthday composition to you, after which they will cut the cake.”
“We all must gather near the table,” the queen said.
“Yes, my dear.” The king took the disk, dropped it resignedly into his pocket, and held out his arm to her.
