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weeks, I’d been “Princess”-ed and “humble servant”-ed enough to last a lifetime.
    Jed was busy taking a slender booklet out of his jacket.
    â€œCan you read?” he asked.
    â€œOf course,” I said, blushing indignantly, though there was no “of course” about it. Even in the palace—maybe especially in the palace—plenty of womencouldn’t read. And since I was a commoner—if Jed knew what I really was—he couldn’t assume I’d even seen an alphabet, let alone ever opened a book.
    â€œMy father taught me,” I said. “He collected old books, and sometimes I would help him appraise them. . . .” I was overcome with a flash of memory: my father and I, our heads bent close over an old book dusty and brittle with age, yet richly gilded, full of beautiful script and words that sang. The candlelight around us ebbed and flowed, and I felt like we were sitting in an ever-changing dome of light, while all around us was darkness. It was not one particular moment that I remembered, but dozens, for we had often looked at books together in the evenings before the Step-Evils arrived.
    â€œDoes he only buy books, or also sell?” Jed asked. “There are a few rare volumes of philosophy I’ve been looking for.”
    In truth, my father had had to sell almost as much as he bought. That was how he supported us. But, of course, I couldn’t say that if I was supposed to be a princess.
    â€œMy father is dead,” I blurted instead. The words brought back the pain I’d felt when I heard the news three years ago. I could still see Lucille clutching the letter and practically cackling, “The fool was trying to cross the Sualan border. For books!” And she’d rolled her eyes. Now I closed mine momentarily.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Jed said with an air of deep sincerity.
    â€œThank you,” I said. I had not known what to do with condolences when the news was fresh, and I did not know now. I bent forward to look at the book in Jed’s hand. It wasthe first one I had seen since coming to the castle, so I felt genuine eagerness. “What would you have me read?”
    He showed me the title: The Book of Faith.
    â€œMy father has not showed you this?” he asked in puzzlement.
    I shook my head.
    â€œBut he was instructing you in the official religion. He was to certify that you were a fit companion for the prince and would raise your offspring in the faith.”
    I started laughing as I hadn’t since coming to the castle. I probably hadn’t even laughed like that since before the Step-Evils entered my life.
    â€œReligion?” I asked incredulously. “I thought he was teaching me royal genealogy. All those dull, dead kings—”
    I was laughing so hard, even Jed had to smile.
    â€œAye, to my father ’tis much the same thing,” he admitted.
    My laughter turned into snorts, very nonroyal. I calmed myself.
    â€œAbout the faith—,” Jed began.
    I began giggling again and calmed myself only to start again. And again. I was a fountain of hilarity, shooting out bursts of laughter every time Jed tried to speak. At last he gave up and laughed too.

6
    After that, my days fell into a happier pattern. I still struggled to stay awake during needlepoint lessons, and Madame Bisset still corrected my pronunciation and my posture and my manners about fifty thousand times for every five minutes I spent with her. I still longed to go outside. (Madame Bisset turned down my timid request for riding lessons with a horrified sniff and the words: “A princess would never be without her carriage.” Then she fainted.) And I still wished that Prince Charming and I could talk, even just once, without a chaperon there making us all stiff and formal and tongue-tied. But at least now, with Jed, I knew I had one person I could talk to in the castle.
    As the days passed, I decided that the servant