Page 51 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

I’m fourteen. Picking apples in the convent’s orchard, singing “The Poor Lady Who Lived in a Pot.” Sister Rose passes through, hunting for morels for supper, and stops to rest at an apple tree. Plucking one of the fruits, she bites it mockingly and says, “Poor Lady in a Pot? Why, that might as well have been written about yourself. Poor Lady Sabine has never had a home, have you? You’d probably be grateful for a tin pot to call your own.”

I fall silent as I grab apples off the branch.

“No home,” she continues. “No mother. A father who’ll sell her to the highest bidder the moment she’s of age. I do wonder what depressing ditty the school children will sing about you years from now.”

Sister Rose chuckles as she throws the apple core against the back of my head.

My muscles tense.

I tell myself to hold my tongue. I still have welts on my back from the last beating.

But when the apple tree Sister Rose stands under suddenly drops a branch, crashing down right on her head and sending her to the infirmary for a week?

Then, I smile.

That night, I impatiently wait until the maids bring me supper in my room, then for the sounds of the party in the Hall of Vale below to reach a fever pitch, when I’m certain everyone is sloshed and thinking of anything but me.

I shrug out of my robe and fold it on the bedspread. My nightdress hangs loose around my knees, letting the chill kiss my bare ankles. My preference wouldn’t be escaping in only a shift, but from what I can tell of the crawlspace, any beads or lace on a gown would snag immediately. Not to mention, whatever I wear will get covered in ashes.

I drop my bundle on the hearth—a bedsheet containing a dress to change into, a pair of shoes, and all the jewels from the gilded jewelry box.

As I lay flat on my stomach, the floorboards vibrate from the dancing below. A violinist strikes a high chord, making my stomach tighten.

Ready?The forest mouse pokes her nose up from the tin ash box, soft gray ashes covering her head until she sneezes.

Ready.I shove the bundle ahead of me into the crawlspace, then cast one final glance over my shoulder at my bedroom’s gothic elegance, with its towering archedwindows overlooking the high Vallen Mountains, the sumptuous dark furnishings, the intricately carved wooden bed frame, all bathed in the soft glow of candlelight.

In another life, I could imagine feeling safe here, wrapped in the cool embrace of this wondrously strange place. The cold, dark stones call to me with the same pull as the eventide chants to the gods. Something about this castle, with its ethereal, dark beauty, whispers in an unlikely way ofhome.

Coming?The mouse asks insistently.The feast below is well underway—you must go now when no one will notice you leave!

I brace myself to crawl into the ash box, only to glance again at the door.

I’m sorry, Father. I’m not leaving because of you.

Hurry, mouse-talker!the mouse chides.

I lay on my belly and wriggle down into the ash box. It’s deeper than I expected, and my hands sink into soft ashes that clot at my nose like goose down, making me fight the urge to sneeze. It takes some contorting to crawl down into the rotted-out section.

Once I’ve fully wriggled into the crawlspace, I lie flat and squint as I take my bearings. The space is barely a foot high. Once, it was probably stuffed with straw for insulation, but that’s all long since disintegrated, and the space is empty now except for cobwebs. It’s dark except for weak lines of light that filter in from gaps in the floorboards overhead.

In that faint light, I see the forest mouse dart ahead.

“This is…substantially…easier…for you,” I groan as I scoot forward over rough-hewn boards that tear at my nightdress. Pushing the bundle ahead of me, I fight to crawl without collecting splinters in every inch of my palms.

The boards groan beneath me as, inch by inch, I arduously follow the mouse’s path through the maze-like crawlspace.

My knowledge of Drahallen Hall’s layout is fuzzy. Judging by the quiet overhead, mixed with the occasional scent of perfumed linens, I assume we’re passing beneath more sleeping chambers. Below me are the muffled sounds of voices and clomps of shoes. The Hall of Vale is one floor down from my bedroom, but I can’t be sure of its exact location. The party’s music vibrates the floorboards, seemingly coming from all directions at once.

How much farther?I ask the mouse.

Not far now!she responds.A loose stone ahead gives way to the roof above the Twilight Garden. You’ll be able to climb down the gables.

I pass over a shed snake skin in the crawlspace and suppress a shiver. My ears are pricked for the slightest sound of danger. For the music to stop. Boots stomping down the hallway over my head. The guards to shout that I’ve gone missing.

I have to wonder: Have I completely lost my mind? Once I reach the Twilight Garden, where will I go? All I can think is to run to the stables. Sneak an apple to one of the horses and beg it to help me.

The same plan that worked for my mother twenty-two years ago.

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