The Clockwork Dagger by Beth Cato

Stout—this plump, pleasant woman—wasn’t the reason for fifty years of intermittent conflict?
    Octavia sank into the carpet, her legs suddenly boneless.
    â€œThe princess was said to have a magic-inlaid tattoo between the toes of her right foot,” said Mr. Garret.
    â€œOh my. You really . . . you really want me to check?” she asked faintly. “The stories never mentioned that.”
    â€œâ€…’Tis not public knowledge, but something known to those who work with the family.”
    â€œAnd what will we do if it’s there?”
    He closed his eyes, his expression pained. “No one would want her alive. Queen Evandia would see her as a direct threat. Others would use her as a rallying point for a civil war, elevate her as the true heir, here to re-create the Gilded Age we knew during the reigns of her father and grandfather. And the Wasters . . .”
    There was no need to say what the Wasters would do. Their motivation to kidnap the princess had been straightforward: marry her to the son of their grand potentate and use the ancient royal lineage of Caskentia to found their own dynasty, their own Gilded Age.
    Kidnapping and rape were well in character for those men beyond the mountains. Subsequent generations of Wasters had continued those dark methods in their fight for independence. Octavia still recalled the cacophony, both in music and digestive agony, of a thousand soldiers at the northern pass as they died in their own cots, victims of toxic zymes planted within the water.
    Feeling half ill and eager to prove Mr. Garret wrong, she shuffled to Mrs. Stout’s feet. There was no aura of magic, no spark, but such tattoos were meant to be subtle. Valuable horses or house pets were marked in such a way in case of theft; she had never heard of the technique being used on a child.
    Opening herself to the Lady, she brushed her pointer finger between each white and wrinkled toe. Beside the pinkie, three pinprick-size moles lay in a line.
    At her touch, the sudden buzz was slight, like the split-second vibration of a bee passing by her ear. Then came the burning. The heat crept up her finger, testing her endurance, testing her skill. Any lesser magus would shriek and pull away; an untalented person would feel nothing at all. Octavia breathed through the pain, remaining stoic, and the heat withdrew like a tide.
    She had passed the test.
    â€œThis is the Princess Allendia, true daughter of King Kethan and Queen Varya.” The voice was raspy, the magic in vapors after so many years. “Guard her well, fair magus, and treat her as your liege.”
    This must be a sham.
    Mrs. Stout could not be the princess. But why construct this enchantment so long ago if she wasn’t really Princess Allendia?
    â€œIs that it?” asked Mr. Garret. “Did you get any response?”
    She didn’t hesitate. “It’s nothing.” It was bad enough that Mr. Garret knew Octavia’s secrets. At the very least, Mrs. Stout’s identity could remain in doubt.
    He frowned, brows knitting together. “It looks like a tattoo.”
    â€œWell, fifty years without maintenance will erode most enchantments. Maybe something was once there, or maybe it’s a peculiar birthmark and this is all footle.”
    He continued to study her, and Octavia looked at Mrs. Stout instead, fearing he would see through her deceit. Could this truly be the princess? The daughter of King Kethan, a man her parents spoke of with a reverence otherwise reserved for God?
    There must be some other reason, some justification.
    Octavia finished buttoning Mrs. Stout’s gown and grabbed the fresh sheet from the floor. How would Mrs. Stout react when she knew they suspected?
    A heavy hand lay on Octavia’s shoulders. Mr. Garret’s hands were broad and strong, his fingernails groomed with care. “I will keep your secrets,” he said, his voice soft and lilting. Everything he