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My hands want to shake with excitement, but I hold them firm. I need to be sure that it’s not just real but lasting. Tipping the liquid into the mold I have ready, I notice it’s already cooling—the reaction unreasonably fast for metal that was glowing hot a moment before. I can’t hold back the tremors in my fingers any longer as I lift the final product before my face.
A single, golden disc, marked with Albrecht’s initials. It’s beautiful. Brighter and richer in color than any gold I think I’ve seen. And just moments before it was nothing but dull, black lead.
The soldiers who have watched the whole process, making sure I’m not cheating their king, go dead silent as they crowd in close, staring at the disc in mingled shock and awe. Despite everything—the danger and fear—pride swells within me. I knew I could do this. And maybe this gold has Albrecht’s name on it now, but if it buys our freedom, then I can finally help my village in the way I’ve always dreamed.
King Albrecht is nearly as pleased as I am, a rare smile forming on his glowering features as the gold and I are presented to him in his throne room. The other prisoners have been cleared away, and the room is now filled with his court. Thatch is brought in from wherever they’ve stashed him for the past few hours as I hand over the shining coin.
Albrecht immediately hands it to a little man with huge eye glasses perched on his nose.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” the bespectacled man says, his voice pinched and nasal, before turning to announce to the room, “I shall now examine the metal for authenticity.”
I don’t miss the way his eyes fall in my direction, heavy with skepticism. Metal, he said. Not gold. He doesn’t believe it’s real.
My pulse quickens all over again in the silence of the chamber, everyone waiting to see whether I’ll be praised for my success…or executed for my failure. I get the sense that this crowd—and the king—would be equally happy either way.
“Rest assured,” the king says, as if reading my mind, “if this proves to be some ugly trick, I’ll enjoy seeing you swing.”
Thatch makes a noise like a mouse that’s just been stepped on, but my attention is on the jeweler. He holds the coin up to the light, taps it with a metal pin, then even pulls a small ceramic dish from his pocket and drags the coin across it. He blinks and then his magnified eyes seem to grow even bigger. He turns to Albrecht and offers a weak nod. My heart soars, and Albrecht’s smile becomes a grin so wide it feels like he might swallow me whole.
“Excellent. Then the peasant boy’s debt is paid.”
My knees nearly buckle with relief, but something stops me short. This was just a test—the first proof of what I can do. Surely Albrecht doesn’t want just a single coin in return for pardoning a poacher? I picture my workshop at home, expanded and upgraded. Maybe I’ll have to work there day in and day out to complete the king’s order, but would that be so bad, as long as I had at least a little time I could use to help the villagers as well?
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Thatch sounds like he might cry with happiness. I think about seeing Dad again, about hugging Sanna, and tears prick at the edge of my vision. But I’m not silly enough to let them fall. I’m still in the presence of wolves, after all.
“Au contraire, peasant boy,” begins Albrecht. His dark eyes are like deep, empty wells. “It’s not me you should be thanking.”
Does he actually mean to give me the credit? That seems out of character for him. I suddenly sense that a trap is coming, ready to snap me up. I just can’t see the exact shape of it yet.
The king leans forward in his throne. “You should be thanking your new queen.”
For a second, I can’t possibly imagine who Albrecht’s talking about. Then I see how the hungry, gleeful look he gave the coin has now transferred to me. The gathered court rustles with surprise, and the king rises and beckons me to him with thick, red fingers. My body fights me every step of the way, but my survival instinct wins out. I approach the throne like I’m wading through mud. My ears are ringing, and for a second, I feel strangely detached from it all, like I’m watching the scene unfold from the audience.
Albrecht licks his thin lips and my skin crawls, while my stomach flips with fear and disgust.
“I, King Albrecht, shall be the only ruler in the world who possesses the secret of the gold weaver.” He sounds delighted with himself, like a child at Christmas. “Because you, Eleanor Thorn, shall be my wife.”
“Come on,” I whisper to myself, my hand slipping once again. They’re red and raw from twisting the strands of gold together all day, feeding it into the spinning wheel to turn the whisps into thick, golden thread. Each movement sets the nerves at my fingertips burning, but I can’t afford to take a break.
Not with my wedding just a few days away and my escape plan far from ready.
There’s a knock at the door of my new workshop, but it opens before I can answer. I freeze, knowing this can only mean the arrival of one person.
“Why weren’t you at dinner?” Albrecht snaps behind me, petulant as always. But I suppose when your choice for would-be wives is ‘do what I want or hang,’ then you don’t really need charm.
I set down the thread in my hands and turn, blinking innocently.
“I got so wrapped up in preparations, Your Highness, that time must’ve gotten away from me.”
I’ve proven myself to be a better actress than I ever thought I could be in the last few weeks. The truth is, I’d rather eat rats than dine with Albrecht.
He scowls and places his thick hand on the back of my neck. I clench my teeth tight and resist the urge to jam the needle of the spinning wheel into his arm.
“I expect my bride to be where I want, when I want,” he says, his eyes roaming over my body. He’s made it very clear over the last few weeks exactly where he “wants” me—though I have, thank God, been able to put him off till the wedding night. I offer him a tight smile.
“Indeed, but Your Highness, for a king such as yourself, I must look a fitting bride.”
He glowers at the coils of cord in my lap. On its own, it could be part of anything, and that’s the key. No one can suspect that the wedding trousseau I insisted on crafting myself consists of tools I’m going to use to escape—or die trying.
