The Threads of Magic by Alison Croggon (best ereader for pdf and epub .txt) 📕

boy next to her in a perfectly audible whisper. “That’s not how you talk to nobles.”

“Hello, Georgie,” said Oni. “You’ve changed.”

Georgette heard a note of hostility in Oni’s voice. For once she didn’t know what to say. She hesitated by the doorway, feeling like an interloper.

“It’s been a long time,” she said to Oni. “I’m not allowed to see any —” She had been going to say “commoners” but caught herself. It was the condition on which she had been allowed to visit Amina, that she kept no other low company, and especially not the children who had been her friends when she ran wild in the Old Palace.

Amina was watching with a glint of amusement in her eyes. “These two here are Pip and El. And this is Georgie.”

“Princess Georgette,” said Oni. El gasped.

“We have an agreement that while she’s in this house, she’s not a princess,” said Amina.

El was still staring at Georgette’s outfit. It was richly dyed blue silk, with delicate lace beaded with tiny seed pearls at the cuffs and throat. Georgette’s shawl, thrown over her bare shoulders, was embroidered with butterflies stitched with golden thread. Georgette had grown accustomed to such finery over the years, and her current dress, a costume for everyday occasions, was by no means the most impressive she owned. A large part of being a princess, after all, was looking like one.

Pip turned accusingly to Oni. “You never said you knew a princess.”

“I said you don’t know everything about me,” said Oni. Now she looked as if she wanted to laugh. “Oh, do sit down, Georgie. Unless you’ve grown too fine for us. We promise not to make you dirty.”

Georgette snapped out of her embarrassment and walked to the table, her skirts swishing. “I have to dress like this,” she said. “And it might look nice, but it’s tight and there are always bits sticking into me. And it’s complicated to sit down.” She drew out a chair and arranged herself into it. She had to sit two feet away from the table to accommodate her stiff skirts.

“Do you eat off golden plates?” asked El. Her eyes were like saucers. “With jewels and everything?”

“Sometimes,” said Georgette. “When I have to eat with my father.”

“And do you really have someone to help you wipe your arse?” asked Pip.

“Now, you two, that’s enough,” said Amina.

“But Olibrandis said —”

“I said, be quiet.”

“But —”

“I’ll brew some tea,” said Amina. “And meanwhile, you two, remember that you are to tell no one that you saw Georgie today. No one.”

“I’m no snitch,” said Pip indignantly.

“It’s important.”

Amina put a kettle on the hob and busied herself with crockery while Oni studied Georgette with open curiosity.

“How is it, being royal?”

Georgette looked around the table, feeling that it was now or never. Why, this day of all days, were there strangers here? But this was her only chance. She took a deep breath.

“It’s bad,” she said. “You don’t know how bad. I have to leave. I’m hoping that Amina can help me escape. Today. I have to run away today.” As she spoke, her self-control wavered, and tears started in her eyes. Saying it out loud was different from thinking it in her head. It suddenly seemed real.

“You want to run away?” said El. She couldn’t imagine why anyone who wore beautiful clothes and who never had to worry about meals would want to escape such a fine life.

“I have to,” said Georgette fiercely. “Or I’ll die.” She turned toward Amina, who was standing by the fire, perfectly still, a cup forgotten in her hand. “You’ll help me? You’re the only one I can turn to.”

Amina slowly shook her head. “My dear, how could I possibly help you?”

Georgette’s lip wobbled, but she forced herself not to cry. She didn’t want to burst into tears, not in front of Oni and the others. Even if she didn’t want to be a princess, she had her pride.

“Please,” she said. “Please, Amina. My mother told me. I have to run.”

JACK RANCIERE, APOTHECARIST TO GENTLEFOLK, had stern views about money. In particular, his view was that when money arrived in his pocket, it should stay there. He believed that Pip had swiped his purse several years before when he had been too drunk to really notice what was going on. He had never been able to prove it, but he had seen Pip eating a roast goose at the Crosseyes the day after his purse went missing, and it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

Pip had denied all knowledge and then appeared to forget all about it, but Ranciere never did. He nursed his resentment, biding his time. So when he heard that silver was going begging for any recent news of a young pickpocket called Pipistrel Wastan, he asked around until he found the right person to talk to.

Yes, he knew this mongrel well. Yes, he had his address. Pip lived with his sister, a straw-headed bit called Eleanor. He saw them often at the Crosseyes, plotting together, probably. “You reckon he murdered the old man? And him so young and all! Some is born with hearts as black as pitch. They was probably plotting with Oni, what works there. Thick as thieves, they are, Oni and that Eleanor. Well, they’re all thieves, aren’t they? Not respectable citizens, like us.”

Ranciere sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. The chief assassin, Ariosto, who was dealing with this informant himself, didn’t bother to hide his expression of distaste. Bumping up rewards for information was a mistake, he reflected: it usually only resulted in a lot of wasted time chasing false trails. Jack Ranciere, who was smirking up at him from a chair he had not been invited to sit down in, seemed to offer as hopeless a lead as the last.

Ariosto studied his hands and noticed with irritation that his nails needed trimming. “So, who is this Oni?”

“She’s a barmaid. Heard her mother is housekeeper up