When he filled the paper with two lines of tiny letters, he set the quill aside and blew to dry the ink. Then he pointed to a stack of blank paper and said, “You can say the letters, now you will learn them. Print each letter in order and say its name out loud. Make them look exactly like mine. When I return later, I expect to find letters on both sides of the papers and I will test your memory.”
“Will you bring food?”
He laughed as if she said something funny and headed for the door. “A caution. Make no noise that might be heard outside these walls.”
She watched him open the door and slip outside before sitting on the same stool at the table as he had. When will I eat? She lifted a quill and examined it. The feather felt odd in her hand. Instead of dipping it in ink, she moved the pointed nib over the first letter that William printed, realizing she hadn’t followed the lines. If there had been ink, she would have an unrecognizable letter to begin. She traced it again. And again.
Then she moved to the next letter. It grew boring by the third letter, and she reached for a piece of paper. With the ink on the quill, she drew the first line of the first letter. The slant needed to be more, and the first stroke of the A was too long. Her letter was twice the size of that she copied. She tried again. The ink smeared. Again.
Half the page was filled with attempts before she managed a reasonable likeness to the first letter, as she said it out loud each time she made it. Her hand cramped and she shook it to relieve the pain. But she knew how to make a letter, and she knew which one it was. It was a start.
Standing, she shook her hand again and decided to examine the bedroom closer before working on the second letter. If she lived here, she would hide anything personal in the room where she slept so sneak thieves couldn’t enter and find it without waking her.
The bedroom had its own smells, unlike those in the other room. It smelled of old stone, soap, and a man. She stood near the center of the room and made a slow turn, looking at everything carefully. This was the room her father had slept in for years—she didn’t know how many. It also smelled of oak, pine, and the soft male scent was almost hers. Familiar, but slightly different. He was a mage and consorted with Kings, but blood-related. She knew he held many secrets, and part of his occupation was dealing with secrets. Within his apartment would be where he would conceal them, the bedroom even more so.
Hannah had once hidden a broken copper clasp she’d found, and the nail from a horseshoe in her room. Others shared the room, and most were not above stealing from her. She had used the nail to scrape away old mortar below the window where water seeped in when it rained. The mortar had turned soft and came away easily. After placing the nail in the slot she’d carved out, she wet the mortar she had removed with spit, mixed it and smeared it back into the crack. The clasp went on the lintel above the door, just a small ledge barely wide enough to hold it. But who would climb on the broken chair to look?
She went to the chest of drawers and searched the contents of each, placing each item on the bed after she unrolled or unfolded it and felt along each seam. She found nothing, but that only encouraged her. It meant her father was careful and hid his secrets well.
She removed the drawers, one at a time. Each was felt for secret compartments, turned over to look at the bottom and back, and examined the inside of the cabinet itself. Hannah found no compartments or hidden objects. She shoved the empty cabinet aside and examined the floor and the wall behind.
Standing back at the center of the room again, she said, “I didn’t expect to find anything there, but the chests are next, then the bed. Then the rest of the room.”
The first chest held linens for the bed. The second was locked. She had choices. Breaking the lock would make noise, trying to pick it might take days, but finding the key would let her in right away. “The Old Mage would keep the key nearby,” she mused, allowing her eyes to do her searching. Searching for the key was different than searching the entire room for who knows what.
The bed. It stood on legs that rose taller than she could reach, but her father was short, barely taller than her. Smiling to herself, she realized anyone else searching for the key would come to the same conclusion. The room lacked a chair to stand upon, but the bed itself would allow her to reach the top.
Before stepping on the white linen, she removed the blue slippers and stepped up. A quick scan of the four posts revealed nothing, so she slid her hand up the first post, fingers wrapped around it to feel her way. The second post, the other one at the foot of the bed, held nothing either. She went to the third post, and as her hand reached near the top of the post, her fingers found a cavity facing the wall.
Inside the cavity felt cold, like the chill of iron. Her fingers deftly removed the key, and she returned to the chest. Delicately designs flowed on the leather covered wood, with thick iron bands rusting around either end. It looked old but well made by a master craftsman. The lock hung in front, large, intimidating, and promising security with its size.
The key turned easily. Hannah removed the lock which was almost as large as her palm and set it on the bed, then drew a breath before lifting the top. It lifted as if it weighed nothing.
Inside were unknown items, none looking important or valuable. She muttered, “He probably hid the good things at the bottom.”
She pulled out a book with tiny scribbles for writing and instantly recognized the first letter that she’d been practicing. She removed other books and a fancy scroll of heavy parchment. Then a necklace made of shells rattled and drew her attention. It held no value as far as she could see, but yet he’d stored it in a locked trunk. A child could make a similar necklace if he visited a beach. There was an old worthless knife, poorly made and coated with rust. A leather bag held promise until she dumped out several stones, which looked like plain old rocks found anywhere.
Flat, rectangular items wrapped in white linen drew her attention. She placed the first on the bed and removed the cloth. Inside was a detailed painting. About to put it aside, she hesitated. The painting was a young man, a woman of the same age, and a child. The child drew her attention.
She carried it to the only window and pulled back the drapes enough to allow a beam of sunlight to illuminate the painting. The face of the child was hers.
No, she decided. The child was a boy, and he shared features with the man, and with the woman. He was their son.
But he looked like her. As she peered at the three closer, she realized the boy was the Old Mage, the other two his parents. The family resemblance was clear. Her hands trembled. She held a picture of her father—and his parents. In her whole life, she had never thought about family beyond a mother and father.
She placed the small picture reverently to one side and unwrapped another painting. This one was larger and held two people, her father, and mother. She instantly recognized both. She had almost forgotten what her mother looked like, but in the painting, she was young, vibrant, and beautiful. Her gown was blue, the same snapdragon blue color Hannah liked, and her father wore tights and a darker blue blouse. A gold chain hung from his neck and supported a yellow pendant.
She held the painting close to her and cried. The chest did contain treasures, but only those meaningful to her, and her father. Instead of state secrets, the locked chest held his past, his personal treasures. She could believe the ordinary rock were picked up on a family trip from the shores of a favorite lake. The tears flowed as Hannah remembered her mother’s face, and now she had something that would remind her of the two as long as she lived. She cried until she fell asleep.