Page 5 of The Thirteenth Child
And then there was me. Small, dark, freckled, miserably mismatched me.
As the last of the twelfth chime died away in the clear midnight air, I breathed in the first moments of my eighth year. I waited to feel different, but nothing had changed. I raised my hands, spreading the fingers as wide as they would go, wondering if they looked older. I stared at the end of my nose, hoping my freckles had somehow miraculously disappeared from the swell of my cheeks.
I hadn’t grown up.
Would the Dreaded End care?
“Another year, another year, another year has come,” I sang to myself, nestling into the straw and velvet. My voice sounded small within the great space of the barn. “You are one year older now, so shout ‘Hooray!’ You’re done.”
I paused once more, straining my ears for any sign of my godfather’s approach. Still nothing.
“Hooray,” I muttered, then turned over to sleep.
Chapter 2
On my first day ofmy eighth year, the entire household descended into complete chaos as Mama readied us to go into Rouxbouillet for the spectacle of the king’s holy pilgrimage.
In truth, we rarely thought of the royal family—King Marnaigne, Queen Aurélie, Princess Bellatrice, and Crown Prince Leopold—in our workaday lives. Fists were occasionally shaken as farmers railed against some new edict or unjust taxation called down from on high by “that man,” but for the most part, we went about our business giving very little consideration to the crowned elite who made the sprawling palace in Châtellerault their home.
But every few years, as the last vestiges of winter tipped to spring, the royal family went on progress, visiting every temple and monastery in Martissienes as they prayed to the gods for good weather, healthy livestock, and an abundant harvest in the growing season to come.
Mama spent the morning tutting over the state of our clothing,our faces, and the entirety of our manners and temperaments, fretting over the poor impressions we were bound to make.
“You really think Queen Aurélie is going to give you a second glance?” Papa scoffed, sneaking a quick nip of spirits from his flask as he commanded our wagon down the winding road to the valley below. “You’ll be lucky to get even a first, you daft woman.”
“I’ll have you know, I’ve held a private audience with her before,” Mama began, laying into Papa with a story we all knew by heart.
When Mama had been a young woman, looking so different from now—beautiful and carefree and not yet saddled with a husband or children—she’d caught the eye of the queen—then princess—and it had been the most glorious day of her life.
The holy pilgrimage had looked different then too. The royal family had comprised the old king and queen—now both dead—Crown Prince René and his new bride, and the prince’s older brother, Baudouin, the bastard. The younger royals were seen everywhere together then, sharing carriages and meals and smiles with one another as if to prove that all the swirling rumors about strife and conflict within the Marnaigne family were patently false.
Their carriage had stopped along the street where Mama had been stationed, waiting, hoping for a glimpse of the famed trio. While the king and queen visited the temples, the younger royals were meant to be handing out coins in the villages, little acts of charity prescribed by reverents of the Holy First. The princess, reaching Mama’s spot in the crowd, pressed a few bits of copper into her hand, murmuring some rote blessing and wishes for a prosperous year. Then she’d said she liked Mama’s hat.
Mama had never forgotten the encounter.
Papa always assured her that the princess had.
“Do you suppose you’ll see her today, Mama?” Mathilde asked, raising her voice to be heard over the clatter of the wheels.
Mama didn’t even bother to look into the back of the wagon, where we were squashed together like sardines in a tin. “I expect so,” she responded with a regal tilt of her hat. Its velvet trim was nothing but tatters, and the swoop of plumage arcing over the brim was more air than actual feathers, but she wore it each pilgrimage, hoping the royal memory was strong. “If we ever make it there, that is,” she added snippily. “By the time Joseph gets us to town, the royal family will be long gone and the snow will have begun to fly.”
Papa snorted, working up his protest, but one look from Mama made him swallow it back, and he clicked instead at our beleaguered mules.
When we arrived in Rouxbouillet, the streets were already teeming with onlookers, and Mama insisted we be dropped off before Papa took the wagon to the blacksmith so that we might find the best vantage points to begin her scheme.
“Now remember,” she instructed us all, hastily passing out the armful of colorful caps and bonnets she’d borrowed from our nearest neighbors. “They’ll go down the streets slowly, handing out their alms. Make sure to change at least your hat as you move ahead ofthem.”
My siblings nodded, familiar with the routine. Last pilgrimage, Didier had managed to get coins from Bellatrice, her aunt, and her nursemaid, by changing vests, hats, and even his gait, staggering toward the tiny princess with a painful-looking limp.
I’d never brought home a coin. I’d been five during the king’s last holy progress and had been so scared of being trampled by the throngs of people pressing about the carriages that I’d not even tried.
“Hurry now,” Mama said, shooing us away like a flock of sparrows. “They’re already the next side street over!”
We scattered, each choosing our own spot to await the Marnaignes’ arrival.
Bertie grabbed my hand and tugged me toward an apothecary shop farther up the road, saying he was certain one of the family would stop there.
“Why are you so sure?” I asked, feeling disagreeable. The streets were packed, and the early-spring sun beat down with surprising vigor. I could feel my freckles doubling, tripling their count under its rays.
