The Castle Behind Thorns by Merrie Haskell Page B

trembled. “My father doesn’t even seem to want my little half sisters around. During our last fight, he said not going to university was selfish, because after a few years, I could find educated men to marry my sisters to.” He shook his head.
    â€œParents never make any sense,” Perrotte said, almost to herself.
    Sand wanted to disagree, but the specter of his last fight with his father hung before him, and he had no heart to argue otherwise right then.
    Perrotte put aside her mostly full bowl. “Have you tried contacting the outside world?”
    â€œI build a fire every day. If anyone has noticed the smoke, it hasn’t led to any sort of rescue or even basic investigation that I have seen.”
    Perrotte looked thoughtful. “We could hang a sheet from a tower window,” she said. “In case . . . in case for whatever reason they aren’t seeing the smoke, or are just imagining some silly reason for it to exist. A sheet from a tower window would look too strange to ignore or explain away. I think someone would see it and know we wanted rescuing, if we did that.”
    Sand shrugged. Hanging a sheet couldn’t hurt, although he didn’t think it would help. He’d lived in sight of the castle his whole life, and no one ever really looked at it, except maybe small children. In addition to the sundering and the thorns, the determined ignoring of the place by the outside world was like part of the castle’s curse. “We have sheets aplenty, and no shortage of tower windows,” he said.
    â€œGood! Let’s go.”
    â€œAre you done eating? I’m not done eating.”
    â€œI’m full.”
    He was dubious. She’d had barely five bites.
    â€œYou could fetch a sheet while I finish,” Sand told her, and she went off.
    He grabbed his spoon back. He chewed an astringent chunk of turnip, chasing it quickly with a bite of venison. He did not look forward to a time when turnips might figure more prominently in their diet.
    He was licking the last bits of stew from the bowl when Perrotte returned with half a bedsheet. Sand took her to the smithy to scrounge up some nails, then led the way upstairs to the strange little room at the top of the tallest tower.
    He went directly to the window overlooking the valley, inhaling the fresh breeze from the fields. But when he turned to ask Perrotte to hold one end of the sheet, she was standing stone-still at the edge of the stairs.
    â€œPerrotte? Are you all well?”
    â€œThis room,” she whispered. He drew closer, and saw tears brimming in her eyes. “This was my most favorite room in the whole castle. This room was my observatory.”
    â€œObservatory?”
    â€œI used to study the stars from here. Until she took it all away. What did she do with my things?” She made a half-hearted gesture, as though waving at objects that were no longer there.
    â€œShe who?”
    Perrotte shook her head confusedly. “My father’s wife.”
    Her stepmother? Sand could not imagine Agnote taking away his favorite things. Not more than temporarily, as a punishment for a true misdeed. It was against her nature.
    But the suddenness of Perrotte’s stone stillness and her tears made no sense to Sand. “Did you just remember that all your stuff was gone?” he asked. “Had you forgotten about it until we came up here?”
    â€œNo.” Perrotte twisted her hands together. “I remembered that. I wanted to see this room again anyway. What I didn’t remember . . .” Her breath caught on a deep, shuddering sob.
    Sand’s heart wrung itself for her. He didn’t think he had cried that hard since he was a small child, but he still remembered how it felt.
    â€œWhat I didn’t remember ’til now,” Perrotte said at last, “is that this is the room where I died.”

13
    Forge
    â€œI ’ M SORRY ,” S AND SAID, HIS VOICE