The Ghost of Adsophel

Five.

For his seventeenth birthday, deep in the belly of winter, Zach invited me to ride the train. "We'll be in the royal car," he said. "No civilians."

He'd tracked me down in the kitchens, where I was kneading a ball of dough into submission. I'd found that I enjoyed cooking. I'd already learned to make all manner of things, from bread to stews and cream sauces. The palace hosted foreign guests on a revolving basis. I met none of them, but the other cooks, a half-dozen women and a handful of boys, would gossip all day about this noble from this city or did you see what his wife was wearing? I didn't care to get involved, but the kitchens were warm, and I got a portion of whatever we made, so there were no more hungry days.

"I'm a civilian," I'd said, flicking a flour at him. He jolted away, protective of his finely pressed clothes, then laughed at himself.

"Yes, I suppose you are. Just us, then."

"What's the occasion?"

"I have somewhere I'd like to show you. For my birthday."

When the day arrived, I woke in my quarters to find a large box sitting beside my bed. Inside was a dress - black lace, with a corseted bodice and billowing skirt - and a red hooded cape to match. I removed both items from the box with caution, as if they might startle and run away.

I tried not to think much about my appearance. I'd always been tall, all spindly limbs and spidery hands. My skin was bone-pale and bruised easily. In protest against myself, I'd taken to keeping my hair - the same white-blonde as my mother's - long and unwieldy. It flowed down my back and hung over my face, my sharp elbows, the insufferable lines of my ribcage. "You're a pretty girl," my mother had always said. "My water lily." I never believed her.

This time, though, I tried to. I took a long bath, tracing the pale purple clouds that took permanent residence atop my kneecaps. I brushed my hair, braided the strands around my face. I pinched my cheeks to make it look like I was blushing. Then I slipped on the dress, which was form-fitting. When I checked myself in the mirror, my heart fluttered. With the red cape, I looked like forest witch. Perhaps it suited me.

I found Zach waiting by the palace's main, gargantuan doors. He beamed and held out his hand. I laced our fingers together. "You look lovely," he said. He was dressed in his favorite wool cloak, with heavy leather boots and dark slacks beneath.

"As do you," I said. We headed down the wide front steps. The gardens were piled high with snow, and I had to squint against the bright assault, but the cobbled walkway had been cleared and salted. We wound around to one of the tall ivory gates, where a horse-drawn carriage waited to take us to the station. A woman in uniform opened the door for us, and Zach helped me climb up.

I squeezed my hand cautiously along the plush bench. Zach sat opposite to me, stretching his legs out so his boots almost bumped mine. I studied them. The leather was worn in some places, a softer, brighter brown than the rest, but they gleamed like they were brand new.

"Happy birthday," I said.

He hummed a thanks. "Seventeen, now. Same age my father was when he took the throne, you know."

"He was that young?" I asked. The carriage jostled and bumped along the cobblestone.

"Yes. My grandparents died in a bout of plague that was sweeping around the city at the time."

"I'm sorry."

"I never met them," Zach said. "That was before I was born."

"Were you told stories of them?"

"Eric is a quiet man," he said. I was still unused to the way he referred to his father and late mother by their first names. "He takes death hard, I think. He doesn't talk about my mother anymore, either. He's level-headed, though."