Palace of Lies by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

doesn’t that make it more likely that Cecilia and Harper and all my other sister-princesses managed to survive the fire and whoever might have been trying to kill them?
    Janelia dabbed at my right foot with a dampened rag.
    â€œOh good, a lot of this is just dried blood on unbroken skin,” Janelia said. “It looks worse than it is—you don’t have wounds everywhere .”
    I winced anyway.
    â€œBut, oooh, here’s a cut and there’s still glass in it and it’s deep . . . Brace yourself,” Janelia said. She seemed to bespeaking through gritted teeth. A moment later, she looked up. “How is it that you aren’t screaming?”
    â€œSometimes when you know things are going to hurt, you just make yourself stop thinking about them,” I said.
    And once again I had the sensation that Janelia might be familiar, that I might remember her . . . but then it slipped away again.
    Would there have been any reason that I might have made myself forget? I wondered.
    Janelia was watching my face too carefully. I felt the same kind of squeamishness I’d felt listening to Tog breathe. Janelia was too close. It was like she actually knew me, knew me so well she didn’t even see me as a princess anymore.
    Nobody knew me that well.
    â€œGo on taking the glass out,” I said, and without meaning to I sounded imperious, with a tone of, Do as I command, servant!
    â€œI’ll tell you the story I’ve always wanted you to know,” Janelia said. “While I work. It might . . . distract you.”
    â€œAs you wish,” I said stiffly.
    Why did I feel like hearing the story might be as painful as having my wounds cleaned?

11
    â€œâ€Šâ€˜Twas odd that I was given over to serve the queen,” Janelia began.
    â€œOdd?” I murmured, holding back a wince. Just when I had bragged about how good I was at not thinking about pain, the tactic failed me. Maybe it didn’t work as well on physical pain as on other types. It was starting to feel like Janelia was rooting around under the skin of my feet with razors and knives and swords.
    â€œBefore that I’d only ever been a scullery maid,” Janelia said. “Plucking feathers from chicken and geese, scrubbing dirt from potatoes . . .”
    â€œThe lowest work a servant girl could have in the palace,” I agreed.
    â€œOh, no,” Janelia corrected me. She paused to brush away a curl of hair from her forehead. “Cleaning out chamber pots is much worse.”
    â€œBut a royal person’s own maid or butler does that,” I protested.
    â€œRight, and so in the palace , everyone acts like it’s a better job,” Janelia said. “Because you’re close to the royalty, see? If they like you, they give you treats and favors, they tell you secrets. . . . You’ve got prestige .”
    I tried to remember if I’d ever given servants any treats or favors. I was certain I’d never told them any secrets.
    Secrets shared had a way of escaping, of spreading further than the secret-teller wished.
    â€œSo you agreed to be the queen’s servant girl for the prestige?” I asked.
    â€œNo,” Janelia said. She reached back for a rag that wasn’t covered in blood. “I was chosen to be the queen’s servant girl because everyone else was afraid. And . . . I was too stupid to know that I should be afraid too.”
    I flinched, and I couldn’t have said if it was because of what Janelia had said or because of the way Janelia was digging into my wounds.
    â€œBut the queen—everybody loved the queen,” I protested.
    This had always been treated as gospel truth around the palace. The queen’s universal appeal had played a huge part in the lies I’d originally believed about myself, as well as the fuller story that emerged once all of us “true princesses” got together and began