The Table of Ancestors

Isabella

Six days before the Rite of Vines, the great hall was filled with candlelight and the low hum of noble voices. Each house had brought its ancestral scroll to the long banquet table, and the parchment lay open beside every plate for all to admire.

I walked to my seat slowly, and then I stopped. Beside my chair stood another chair, and it was completely bare, with no cushion, no plate, and no scroll.

"Oh, dear," Cecilia said from across the table, and her voice carried clearly over the room. "That seat was prepared for the Luna's ancestors. I am so sorry, but it seems none of them could attend."

Laughter came from several tables, and heat rose in my cheeks.

"Perhaps she should sit on the floor," a lady whispered loudly. "It is more familiar to her."

*She wants me to lose my temper,* I thought, gripping the back of my chair. *She wants me to shout so everyone can call me a wild girl from the tavern.*

I sat down calmly and lifted my goblet. Then I stood again, and the laughter faded as everyone realized I was about to speak.

"Lady Cecilia is right," I said, keeping my voice steady. "My ancestors could not come. But I learned something in the tavern that I would like to share, because it is the oldest lesson I know. A room shows its true face once the wine runs low."

No one moved, so I continued. "I was raised by people you would never invite to this table. The baker's wife gave me bread on credit when I was hungry, and the fishermen let me sleep by their fire when my father did not come home. I carried debts that no child should carry, and I learned what it costs to survive being nobody."

*Please let them listen,* I thought, and my heart beat painfully fast. *Please let this be enough.*

"You have scrolls that name your grandfathers," I said quietly. "I have names of people who fed me when they had nothing to spare. I would not trade them for all the parchment in this hall."

The silence that followed was deep and complete. Nobles looked down at their plates, and the guards along the walls stood a little straighter, their eyes bright with respect. I sat down slowly, and my hands were shaking beneath the table.

Later that evening, I found Cecilia standing alone in an empty corridor, and she was trembling. I had followed her intending to be angry, but the sight of her stopped me.

"Are you here to laugh at me?" Cecilia asked, and her voice was thin. "Go on. You won tonight."

"That was not what I came for," I answered. "You are shaking. Is it because of what I said?"

"Do not be foolish." She pressed a hand to her mouth, and her composure cracked. "It is my father. He has been sending me letters, and I am afraid to open them."

"Why?" I asked gently.

"Because I know what they will say."

"Then do not open them tonight," I said. "Wait until the Rite has passed."

"You do not understand," she said. "If I wait, he will know I am afraid." Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them away angrily. "He has used me for his plans since I was a child. I was to marry well, smile well, and say what he wished. He never once asked what I wanted."

*I know that look,* I thought, and my chest tightened. *I wore it myself, standing in the tavern while my father counted coins he had promised for me.*

"I understand more than you think," I said softly. "I was sold to the palace by my own father, Cecilia. I learned the truth the hard way, and I will tell you what it was. No one wins when the whole arrangement was built to sell them."

Cecilia stared at me for a long moment. She did not thank me, and I had not expected her to, but her shoulders lowered a little.

"You should not speak to me like this," she said stiffly. "We are enemies."

"Perhaps," I said. "But I do not think you are my enemy tonight."

She looked away, and then she spoke quickly, almost by accident. "My father told me to make sure you wear your hair up at the Rite. He said the mark must be fully visible to the whole court."

My skin went cold. "Why would he say that?"

"I do not know," Cecilia whispered. "I only know that he was very particular about it." She turned and walked away before I could answer.

I stood alone in the corridor. *Someone will be looking for the mark,* I thought, and my stomach twisted with dread. *Someone is not only curious. Someone is waiting.*

"Luna," a servant called, hurrying toward me and bowing low. "Forgive me, but His Majesty requests your presence in his study at once."

"Now?" I asked, and my heart beat faster. "Did he say why?"

"He did not, Luna. He only said it was important."

I followed the servant through the quiet halls, and each step made me more nervous. *The King said nothing during the council,* I reminded myself. *Why would he want me now?*

King Marcus was sitting behind his large desk when I entered, and the room was warm and dim. He gestured for me to sit, and I obeyed.

"You spoke well tonight," he said, and his voice was low and tired. "I heard about it from three different guards."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," I answered carefully. "I only told the truth."

"Truth is rare in this palace. Tell me, is your brother well?"

"He is, Your Majesty," I answered, careful not to say more.

*Why is he asking about Noah?* I wondered, and my mouth went dry. *Does he know about the potion?*

"That is good to hear." His gaze moved to my collarbone and stayed there, and I felt the mark grow warm beneath my collar. He was silent for so long that my throat tightened.

"Your Majesty?" I asked quietly. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he said, though his eyes did not leave the mark. "Forgive me. I was thinking of an old memory."

*He is looking at it again,* I thought, and my hands turned cold. *He is looking at it as he did in the council.*

A knock sounded at the door, and a guard leaned in to whisper something. King Marcus rose slowly and sighed. "I must speak with this man for a moment. Wait here, Isabella. I will return shortly."

When he was gone, the room grew very quiet. I looked around nervously, at the tall bookshelves and the dark curtains, and then my eyes fell on the desk.

Resting on a folded velvet cloth was a silver hairpin. It was shaped like a curling vine, and the candlelight shone on the metal. My breath stopped, because I had seen its twin only days ago, pinned in the dark hair of a woman in a charcoal sketch.

"No," I whispered, stepping backward. "No, it cannot be."