Burning Kingdoms. Lauren DeStefano

other if we don’t act at least a little crazy?”

      “What are you blathering about?” Celeste mumbles from under her blanket.

      “Nothing,” Pen says. “I got lost trying to find the water room. Woman troubles.”

      “Thank you for that charming announcement,” Celeste says.

      We stand still until we’re sure she’s asleep, and then Pen opens the door, wincing as it creaks.

      It’s still early and the hotel is silent. The soft floor helps to conceal our footfalls, but we move slowly anyway. “Would you look at these colorings?” Pen says. “The frames are taller than we are.”

      I tug at the lapels of my coat, struggling to adjust to the weight on my shoulders. “Do you think they’re portraits of real people?” I say.

      “Look at the colors,” Pen says. Her fingertips hover over the portrait of a woman whose shoulders are cloaked in fur, but Pen doesn’t dare to touch. “They’re so rich. If I had colors like this, I’d want a canvas this size to work with too.”

      The next step creaks under my foot, startling us both, and we hurry the rest of the way to the door.

      Overnight the snow has accumulated to knee height, but the cold is surprisingly bearable. Pen spreads her arms and falls forward into the white powder. When she emerges, her face is red and there are clumps of snow turning to water on her skin.

      “Not as soft as you might’ve hoped,” she says, and pulls on my arm. I go toppling down beside her with a shriek.

      “There’s so much of it,” I say. “When it melts, the whole world must be soggy underneath.”

      “Our little clouds have been holding out on us,” Pen says. “Who knew?”

      We make a game of chasing each other, bogged down by the weight around our ankles. We splash each other like it’s the water of an enchanted, glittering lake.

      Pen kneels and tries to draw a floating city with her finger, but snow proves to be an unsatisfactory canvas.

      I look at the sky, and all I see is more whiteness. I’ve never known the sky to be any color but blue.

      And then, as though I willed it, I see a bit of blue in the sky. Moving.

      “Pen!” I gasp.

      “What? What is it?” It takes her a moment to see what I’m pointing to, and then she’s silent. We both stare at the thing, and turn our heads to follow as it flutters up and out of sight.

      “Was that—”

      “A bird.” My heart is in my throat.

      “It was the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen,” Pen says.

      “Do you think it will ever land?”

      “Not if it has any sense.”

      The moment is broken by a noise in the distance. Along the side of the building, a girl is attempting to scale a tree. We walk toward her until I can better see her wavy hair and the sharp seams in her brown gloves.

      “Gertrude?” I say.

      She drops from the foothold, a hand to her chest. “Goodness, you scared me half to death,” she says. She gives us a sheepish smile. “You can just call me Birdie. Everyone does.”

      “Were you going to break into our bedroom?” Pen says.

      Gertrude looks up. “Is that where you’re sleeping? Sorry, girls, that room has the strongest tree outside. You wouldn’t mind my traipsing through every now and again, would you? I’m kind of a night owl.”

      “Well, we wouldn’t,” Pen says, “but who knows what Her Royal Stinky Highness will do from one day to the next? I wouldn’t let her catch you.”

      Gertrude looks contemplatively at the window again. Her breath comes out in little clouds. She’s wearing a coat that seems too thin for this cold, though she has enough beads around her neck to constitute a scarf.

      “Your princess is a wet blanket, huh?”

      “That’s one way to put it,” I say.

      “Once she senses a weak spot, she goes for the jugular,” Pen says. “Here’s a silly idea: Why don’t you use the door?”

      “Father locks it,” she says.

      “It isn’t locked now,” I say. “We’ve just opened it.”

      “If you give us a heads up, we’ll make sure it’s unlocked when you want to sneak out,” Pen says. “That way you won’t have to sneak through the house or climb through our window and scare everyone senseless.”

      “You’d do that?” Gertrude says.

      “Back home, I used to sneak out all the time,” Pen says. “There was this little cavern in the woods. Remember, Morgan?”

      Remember? How could I not? It was only last week and a lifetime ago. All I can do is nod. I suddenly feel that I’ll cry if I utter a word.

      Gertrude smiles. It is a sincere, girlish smile, one that’s unaffected by her heavy eyeliner and blood-red lips. “Well, thanks,” she says. “I should get washed up before Father wakes us for breakfast. I must look like a ragamuffin.”

      She’s a shy girl in a rebel’s garb. The ground is her home, but it’s still a big place, and I think she must be like Pen and me—trying to figure out this strange world as it reveals itself, bit by bit.

      I think Pen was right, and that Gertrude Piper—Birdie—will have little insight into her father’s political dealings, but I would still like to get to know her.

      After she’s gone inside, Pen looks at me. “What’s a night owl?” she says.

      I shrug.

      By the time we’re summoned for breakfast, Birdie is as fresh-faced and bright-eyed as her brothers and sisters. Not a drop of cosmetics on her face. After a night of no sleep, I’m not sure how she manages it, but no one suspects a thing, though I see Nimble elbow her as she takes her place beside him.

      The plates are laid before us. Something yellow and fluffy, accompanied by little gray-brown cakes. “Eggs!” Annette says happily.

      Pen can’t hide her skepticism. “The eggs of what?” she asks. We’ve never heard of eating something in egg form.

      “Chickens,” Annette says.

      “Chickens are birds,” Nimble says, watching to see our reaction.

      I tuck my hands under the table. I was already having difficulty forcing an appetite, but now there’s no hope for this meal passing between my lips.

      “We don’t eat a lot of plants,” he adds.

      “Can it, Nim,” Birdie says under her breath. She clears her throat. “Where’s Father?”

      “Otherwise engaged,” Nimble says. “He’s with a few of the king’s finest, trying to talk that crazy old man out of that ramshackle plane.”

      “You should talk to that little girl—what’s her name?” Celeste says. “His granddaughter.”

      “Amy,” Judas says. “And she hasn’t woken up yet. The trip exhausted her.”

      “How exhausted could she be?” Celeste says. “We’re all recovered by now. Except for your brother, Morgan.”

      At the mention of Lex, my hands turn to fists. She speaks so casually of people she doesn’t know at all. She doesn’t understand what it’s like for Amy and Lex. She doesn’t understand blindness or crippling fits or what it means to be anything but royalty.

      “Is Amy all right?” Basil whispers to me.

      I shake my head at