The Sapphire Broach

Chapter 1 (rough draft)

"Ivy! You must run!" Aunt Maurie's pale green eyes shone with fear and the wrinkles stood out among the wisps of silver hair on her forehead—the look Ivy had feared to see these past nine years. "The king's soldiers know you are here. You must leave. Now!"

"Where are they?" Ivy's voice sounded foreign, even to herself, when it rose in pitch. With one hand, she pulled the packages she had purchased in the neighboring town tight against her chest, and used the other to lift her floor-length forest-green dress off the ground. She stepped onto the rickety steps up to the porch and jumped when the wooden stairs creaked beneath her laced boots.

"Searching the village." Aunt Maurie's gaze darted about and she ushered Ivy inside the little cottage that had been Ivy's home since her parent's death. "The blacksmith just came. He said the soldiers asked of me and my nineteen-year-old niece. They are on their way. You must hurry!"

Ivy rushed inside, set her packages on the table, and hurried into the room she shared with Aunt Maurie. She nearly tripped over her dress in her haste. She opened the cedar chest between their beds and rummaged through it until she found the velvet box that held her most prized possession: the sapphire broach—the symbol of her right to the throne. Though little light filtered in through the warped glass of their one small window, the broach caught it all and the circle of blue ovals sparkled brilliantly.

Memories—powerful and painful—swirled within its depths, but Ivy had no time to dwell on them. She tucked the broach safely in the secret pocket Maurie had sewn into the skirt of her dress for just that purpose, then raced back into the kitchen where Maurie had prepared a bundle of food.

"Take this, dear Ivy." Aunt Maurie handed the bundle to her and kissed her cheeks. "You have the broach?"

The tightness in Ivy's chest made it hard to speak. "Y-yes," she managed.

"Good." Maurie paused and searched Ivy's flushed face. "You look so much like your mother whose name you bear. Queen Gertrude would be proud of you, Gertrude Ivynona of Berryann. Now be off with you."

"What of you?"

"Do not fret for me. It is not me they seek. All they will know is that I found you as an orphaned child and took you in. I know not who you truly are."

Ivy swallowed. Would Maurie be safe? Surely the soldiers would believe her story and wouldn't harm her. But what if they learned that Maurie had worked at the palace?

As though reading her thoughts, Aunt Maurie replied, "They have erased every memory of your parent's reign. They will not know that I served for the true family of Berryann. Now go!"

Ivy threw her arms around Maurie, kissed her cheeks, then fled. She wiped at the moisture in her crystal-blue eyes—the only resemblance she bore to her father.

Without another word, she ran from her home and the woman who had become like her mother. The crisp wind whipped her copper-blond hair into her face. She brushed it out of her eyes and ducked behind the row of shrubbery that lined the edge of their property. Then she peaked through the bushes, grateful for the protection of the thick leaves that had not yet fallen like so many others. She had to know that Maurie would be all right.

Only a moment later, she heard boots crunch around the bend in the dirt and pebble road that led to the cottage. Seven soldiers appeared dressed in full Berryann garb and fixed their gazes on her home.

"That is the house." One soldier's voice drifted to her on the autumn breeze.

Another replied, but she couldn't hear his words.