Beside it stood a white carriage, not as ornate or beautiful at first glance, but newer in appearance, and it gleamed, almost as if the sun entered the barn and shown only on it. The carriage had two facing seats for passengers, with a higher seat for the driver, and a step on the back for a footman. In front of the footman was a flat section for carrying trunks and luggage. The carriage had a thin roof of silk with green tassels hanging at each corner. The roof shielded passengers from sun, rain, or snow.
“Isn’t that something to lay your eyes on?” Hannah asked.
“That’s not all,” Cleanup said, moving closer to the carriage after a quick glance up and down the garage. “See the shiny paint and how clean it is?”
“Yes.”
Cleanup leaned closer to her. “We have not yet washed it. It came to us like that.”
She said, “The road is dusty, and it rained two nights ago. There are puddles it must have splashed through.”
The boy made scraping motions with the blade of his shovel for show. He bent over and scooped a handful of soil from the floor. He turned, allowing his hand to trail out over the rear wheel spokes as he released the dirt. Without looking, he moved away a few steps and used the shovel to scoop up more imaginary horse apples. “Look at the wheel where I sprinkled the dirt.”
Hannah did. The gleaming white paint had bright brass tacks, all sparkling in the dim light. The white spokes of the wheel held no dirt, despite her watching Cleanup drop a full handful where her eyes looked. “It does not get dirty?”
“Nope. Dirt, sand, dust, mud, animal droppings, and nothing else sticks to it.”
“How?” Hannah asked.
“He’s your father. Ask him.”
Hannah spat on her finger and wiped it on the wheel. It didn’t stick or smear, and an odd sensation made the wheel feel slick as if she hadn’t touched it, but only near it. She gently moved her fingers to touch where her eyes told her the wood was rough. It too felt smooth, almost as if coated with the olive oil the cooks use.
“What are you two doing in here?” A gruff voice demanded.
Hannah turned to find the stablemaster and spoke first. “Sir, I was so excited to be going to get my new serving uniform from the seamstresses, I interrupted Cleanup to tell him about it. Please forgive me.”
“Well, this is going to be your first time serving, is it?”
“It is, sir. I’m old enough.”
“That’s an important step up for you, Hannah. Go on, and get your uniform. And you,” he pointed to Cleanup, “I saw two piles waiting out in the courtyard. When are you going to get to them?”
Cleanup grabbed his bucket and shovel. “Right now, sir.”
Hannah followed him outside, where Cleanup searched for the work needed, but she stayed right behind him. “I think the carriage is enchanted.”
“Really? You think so?” Cleanup rolled his eyes as if she had said that the sky is blue. Despite his lack of formal education, the boy was one of the more intelligent and observant people Hannah knew.
“I felt the enchantment on the surface. Like I wasn’t touching it.”
“That’s what I was trying to show you. It can’t get dirty. If I wash in the creek can you get your father to put a spell like that on me?”
She grinned and said, “Maybe there is a spell I can put on you?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “A spell from a little girl?”
Hannah stormed off. If she knew another skill besides making a flame, she might have used one on Cleanup just to put him in his place. If she could make a pile of horse manure large enough, she’d drop it on his head. Then she would have no friends, but he would know not to mess with her. She giggled at the thought and then again at the image of that girl running past him with her dress on fire while Cleanup stood under a pile of horse apples. Then she cautioned herself about such thoughts. All it would take is a single instance of letting her angry mouth relay what her mind thought to put her in deep water.
As she crossed the courtyard in the direction of the seamstresses, her eyes found a familiar, tall, young man on a second story terrace lounging against an iron railing, his eyes following her. He was the Young Mage that served the Earl. He wore black silk instead of normal clothing, a robe that reached down to the floor. His long, black, shiny hair hung to his shoulders. He stood absolutely still, but his eyes followed as she crossed the flagstones twenty steps in front of him.
Hannah made a quick count. There were at least ten other people moving about the courtyard, yet his eyes had singled her out. Why? Why did the Young Mage watch her as if she walked alone in the castle—and he had not seen another person in days or weeks? She had seen him many times before, but not once had he paid her any attention. She kept her eyes averted, only allowing a quick glance in his direction. Is that a scowl on his face?
Had his expression been scowling? Or friendly? Angry? She didn’t know and refused to turn and look at him again. But the idea that of all the people in the palace, a mage singled her out and watched only her made her uncomfortable. No, more than uncomfortable. It made her scared.
CHAPTER THREE
Hannah passed through the servants’ entrance to the palace and turned to close the door. She peered through the dwindling crack looking up at the terrace. The Young Mage still stood there, watching her as if he could see her through the thick oak of the door. She firmly pulled the door closed the rest of the way and raced to the third floor.
Her uniform waited with the seamstress, hemmed and folded, and she carried it back to her windowless room by a route that didn’t pass the mage’s terrace. She couldn’t help trying on the uniform once again. Then she danced around her small room as she practiced carrying a pretend food tray overflowing with treats from one imaginary person to another until she faced the man she believed to be her father. When she finally faced him, she said . . . Nothing.
No words filled her mouth or formed on her lips. What would she say to The King’s Mage if they came face to face? The same man she suspected was her father. What she would say was a question she didn’t wish to ponder because she had no ready answer. Her orders were to serve sweets and not speak to guests under any circumstances. She was not going to have a conversation with him, other than perhaps a few whispered words if the opportunity arose.
But even if she did speak, what would she ask? Are you, my father? No, she could never ask that. Did she expect him to take one look at her and realize she was his long-lost daughter, whom he’d been searching for all this time? No, more likely he’d look at her in the eyes and ask her to come closer so he could select a sweet from her tray.
Tomorrow the other women in the morning kitchen were sure to be ready with their sharpest barbs. Finally, Hannah decided to be content with seeing the Old Mage from a distance, even if he had no idea of who she might be, or worse if he did know and didn’t want to recognize her. That was the best she could hope to achieve. Perhaps she could get close enough to hear him speak. Would his voice sound like hers?
Hannah lay down on her sleeping mat and cried herself to sleep. When she woke the light streaming through the single small window told her she’d slept the afternoon away, but tonight she needed to serve sweets for the celebration. She pulled on her uniform, ran her fingers through her hair like a comb, stuck the white feather in her hat at a jaunty angle, and pulled on the slippers.