castle, but mightier and more beautiful than I ever imagined: a shining white citadel, imposing towers piercing the sky, flags whipping in the wind like battle pennants. Someone is peering over the wall, and then there are shouts, and we’re clattering across a drawbridge, through massive walls. Now I’m being lifted down, and there’s neighing and barking and clanking and shouting, and the smell of a wood fire, and people running from every which way, and the tall man calling out orders.
Suddenly there’s stillness inside me as I sense someone’s gaze. There, to my left: a boy a few years older than I am, with gold-blond hair and high cheekbones. His arm is bent at his side, and on his wrist rides a small speckled hawk. They’re both staring at me, hawk and boy, and the boy’s eyes are a piercing shade of blue, as if he’s got the summer sky trapped inside him.
A plump older woman rushes toward me with a blanket, and then she’s wrapping it around me, her arm circling my shoulders.
“Poor lamb,” she’s saying. “You poor, dear lamb!”
I hear horseshoes clattering back over the drawbridge as she bundles me up the stairs, every step solid and sturdy and new, and through a mighty door strapped with iron like it’s wearing its own coat of armor. Then I’m being pushed up a winding staircase, my staircase! I reach the familiar arch and start to step through, but she’s urging me on, because there’s another story above us, a level I never even knew existed. I don’t have time to watch my feet as I turn and turn, driven by the woman behind me, up to another door.
Beatrix
H ere we are, my lady,” she says, as warm and comforting as a hearth fire. “Your chamber. How lucky we prepared everything early! His lordship is still away, I’m afraid. But that’s not so bad, now, is it? Because it means we’ve got more space for you, and nice and quiet, which is what you’re going to need.”
She reaches to my neck. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll put your cross over here.” She lifts the necklace off, clanks it down somewhere, then walks behind me. “Now, off with this lovely kirtle of yours—will you look at the weave of this fabric! I’ve never seen the like!” She starts untying and loosening laces, and then the sodden weight of the gown is lifting off and I’m standing there shaking in my cold, wet underwear.
“Well, don’t they do things different where you’re from, my lady!” She’s eyeing my underwear as if she’s never seen such things before. I cross my arms firmly across my chest. “Where is your shift? And what are these flimsy things? Well, no matter; they’re sopping, and you’re as wet as a drowned cat.” She reaches a hand to my underwear, and I leap back.
“No!”
“But you’re all ashiver, my lady,” she says, shaking her head firmly. “His lordship will never forgive me if you take ill. We need to get you into that warm bed.”
She leads me toward a gigantic wooden box of a canopy bed, so high it has its own little set of stairs up to the mattress. Red, embroidered curtains are pulled back to reveal a coverlet of silky white fur.
“In you go,” she says. “You need nothing but the skin the good Lord gave you, and the warmth of those covers.”
“Please,” I say. “Could you turn around for a moment?”
“I surely don’t know why,” she mutters, but she does, and I pull off the rest of my wet things and climb the stairs and slip under covers so thick and warm, they’d keep you toasty at the North Pole.
It’s the softest, coziest thing I’ve ever felt. And yet here, in this big bed, I feel more vulnerable than before. Now that I’m not tugging at dead bodies, or clinging to a galloping horse, or being pushed up the stairs, I’m starting to have timeto think. And those thoughts are making me uneasy. These people have decided I’m their Lady Matilda, come from afar. But what if someone knows the real Matilda, and cries out that I’m all wrong? What
Suddenly there’s stillness inside me as I sense someone’s gaze. There, to my left: a boy a few years older than I am, with gold-blond hair and high cheekbones. His arm is bent at his side, and on his wrist rides a small speckled hawk. They’re both staring at me, hawk and boy, and the boy’s eyes are a piercing shade of blue, as if he’s got the summer sky trapped inside him.
A plump older woman rushes toward me with a blanket, and then she’s wrapping it around me, her arm circling my shoulders.
“Poor lamb,” she’s saying. “You poor, dear lamb!”
I hear horseshoes clattering back over the drawbridge as she bundles me up the stairs, every step solid and sturdy and new, and through a mighty door strapped with iron like it’s wearing its own coat of armor. Then I’m being pushed up a winding staircase, my staircase! I reach the familiar arch and start to step through, but she’s urging me on, because there’s another story above us, a level I never even knew existed. I don’t have time to watch my feet as I turn and turn, driven by the woman behind me, up to another door.
Beatrix
H ere we are, my lady,” she says, as warm and comforting as a hearth fire. “Your chamber. How lucky we prepared everything early! His lordship is still away, I’m afraid. But that’s not so bad, now, is it? Because it means we’ve got more space for you, and nice and quiet, which is what you’re going to need.”
She reaches to my neck. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll put your cross over here.” She lifts the necklace off, clanks it down somewhere, then walks behind me. “Now, off with this lovely kirtle of yours—will you look at the weave of this fabric! I’ve never seen the like!” She starts untying and loosening laces, and then the sodden weight of the gown is lifting off and I’m standing there shaking in my cold, wet underwear.
“Well, don’t they do things different where you’re from, my lady!” She’s eyeing my underwear as if she’s never seen such things before. I cross my arms firmly across my chest. “Where is your shift? And what are these flimsy things? Well, no matter; they’re sopping, and you’re as wet as a drowned cat.” She reaches a hand to my underwear, and I leap back.
“No!”
“But you’re all ashiver, my lady,” she says, shaking her head firmly. “His lordship will never forgive me if you take ill. We need to get you into that warm bed.”
She leads me toward a gigantic wooden box of a canopy bed, so high it has its own little set of stairs up to the mattress. Red, embroidered curtains are pulled back to reveal a coverlet of silky white fur.
“In you go,” she says. “You need nothing but the skin the good Lord gave you, and the warmth of those covers.”
“Please,” I say. “Could you turn around for a moment?”
“I surely don’t know why,” she mutters, but she does, and I pull off the rest of my wet things and climb the stairs and slip under covers so thick and warm, they’d keep you toasty at the North Pole.
It’s the softest, coziest thing I’ve ever felt. And yet here, in this big bed, I feel more vulnerable than before. Now that I’m not tugging at dead bodies, or clinging to a galloping horse, or being pushed up the stairs, I’m starting to have timeto think. And those thoughts are making me uneasy. These people have decided I’m their Lady Matilda, come from afar. But what if someone knows the real Matilda, and cries out that I’m all wrong? What
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