The Castle Behind Thorns by Merrie Haskell Page A

bowl’s broken lip, over and over.
    â€œWhat happened here?” she whispered. “The castle is so empty, and so many things are broken . . .”
    Sand shrugged with one shoulder. “I don’t know. There are stories—stupid ones. Everyone says that there was an earthquake, and the castle was abandoned—but!” He leaned forward a little. “I don’t believe that story anymore, not any of it!”
    â€œWhy?” she asked.
    He gestured at the bowl. “ That could have been broken in an earthquake, certainly—fallen off a shelf, lost a big chunk . . . But there is so much else here that could never have been damaged that way. Sheets torn into pieces! Saddles and blankets rent in two. And . . . whole anvils, just torn in half! Something happened here, but it wasn’t any simple earthquake.”
    Perrotte stirred restlessly on the bed, then subsided.
    â€œWhat?” he asked.
    â€œNothing,” she said. “That memory of a memory . . . Or maybe a dream.”
    She couldn’t remember the sundering, Sand thought. She had already been dead—hadn’t she? But on the other hand, she had been the only thing in the castle that wasn’t broken into at least two pieces, so maybe she had been alive when the castle broke—or maybe she had died in the sundering, and they had left her in the crypt and then fled?
    He hadn’t checked on the other bodies in the crypt, though. He’d been afraid to.
    He didn’t want to say these things to her, however. It seemed, well, rude, to refer to her dead body, or to mention how he had found her in the crypt, and returned her to the niche and straightened her in her resting place. It felt like touching someone while they slept without their permission. Agnote had many rules in their house, but only one was truly insurmountable: Keep your hands to yourself .
    Sand suppressed a shudder and forced himself to stop thinking of dead Perrotte. She was alive now, as alive as he was. Though, whatever magic had done this, whatever magic had resurrected this girl . . . it was as powerful as anything he’d ever heard of, outside of the miracles performed by saints. In fact, it was rather on par with those miracles, and Sand didn’t know what to think.
    Perrotte appeared to be done with her thoughtful meditation over the damaged bowl, and had picked up a spoon, finally eating the porridge he had prepared. He watched her carefully, waiting to see if she made a face, but she kept her expression smoother than ironed silk.
    She met his eyes. “Well?” she said sharply, through a mouthful of porridge.
    â€œWell?!”
    She swallowed her bite and put the bowl back on the floor. “Why are you here, son of Gilles Smith?” She stared, her eyes catching the afternoon sun in a way that made them look more green than brown. A small vertical crease appeared between her brows, and she pursed her lips. “Gilles . . .”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œThe shoemaker’s boy, his apprentice . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “You look a lot like him. His name was Gilles.”
    Sand almost fell off the stool. “That—that was my father! He worked in this castle when he was a boy.”
    â€œMy Gilles was no smith.”
    â€œNo! After the castle was sundered, he apprenticed with my mother’s father.”
    Perrotte shook her head. “I don’t think that was him. He would never have given up shoemaking for something as brutish as blacksmithing.”
    â€œI beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “But I think I know my own father. And—” Angry words in defense of blacksmithing leaped so quickly to his tongue that they choked themselves off.
    â€œNo, you don’t understand—he wasn’t really strong enough to be a smith. Not that you look strong enough, either.” She eyed his arms critically.