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Stig

ICOULDN’T REMEMBER LIFE BEFORE TAMSYN. SHE WAS ALWAYSthere. A part of me. Indelible on my memory. Ink forever stained on the canvas of my life, embedded in my skin.

My world had always been entwined with the royal family’s. I had no memories of my mother. She never recovered from the rigors of childbirth and died before my first birthday. I was born into a life at court, born to an ambitious father who took notice of me only when I served a purpose. Excelling in my studies was expected, as was besting all the other boys on the practice field: outrunning them, outriding them, outdoing them in all things.

Everything done was done in the shadow of the king and queen, alongside the princesses... pesky little girls whom I endured. And I supposed that was family. Those you endured. The very definition of it. Somewhere along the way, though, over time, Tamsyn had become more (or less?) than a pesky girl. She became someone I no longer endured.

I was thirteen years old when I found her weeping in a corner of the palace, curled into a little ball, arms wrapped tightly around her knees as though she could make herself disappear.

I went to her even though I did not have much use for girls then. I especially did not have much time forlittlegirls. If I was going to devote any time to a girl, she was going to be one of the pretty older ones who sent me and my friends flirty looks. But generally I didn’t give much attention to them either.

Those days, all my time was spent training, honing my skills with a sword, and following my father’s bidding in all ways. My boyhood was gone. The time for childish things was over. I had things to do. Important things. Adult things. And yet there was something about her. Something that had me lingering over her.

Leggy as a colt, knobby elbows, and flaming red hair perpetually untidy and falling from her pins to straggle into her face and down her back, she was a mess. I should have kept walking. Duty called. She hadn’t even noticed me there. I could have moved right past her, but I stopped and stood over her, a mess that tugged at something inside me.

She looked so small and vulnerable and pathetic as I sank down beside her. I nudged her with my shoulder. “Why so sad?”

She startled, lifting her head with a gasp and swiping at her moist cheeks. Those drowning eyes scanned my face. “Why?” Her voice was brittle and dry as a leaf. “Why?” She sniffed back a soggy breath. “Maybe because no one will ever want me.” She choked on the words as though they were too much, too big and unwieldy for her mouth.

I blinked, not sure what to do with them. I took a breath. “What are you talking about, Tam?”

Her words escaped in a torrent, so rushed that it took me a moment to decipher them, and even then I missed half. “Feena showed me... told me... I’ll never wear Mother’s wedding circlet...”

I shook my head, at a loss. I didn’t understand. Was this some kind of sister squabble?

“Yesterday I was whipped for—” She stopped with a huffed breath, her fingers flexing around her knees. “I don’t even know. Something Sybilia did.”

The princesses were a handful. Everyone knew it. Princess Alise was the best behaved of the lot, but she was little more than a baby. She did not yet have the propensity for damage the way Sybilia and Feena did.

Tamsyn shook her head again. “I am no one. TheysayI’m one of them, but I can’t even wear our mother’s—”

I couldn’thearanymore. I couldn’tseeanymore. Not her bitterly choked words. Not her pained expression. I knew some people weren’t kind to her in the palace. The whipping girl or whipping boy was a long-standing tradition, a position respected by most. But there were still a few people, petty and mean, who only felt better, only feltabove, when putting others down. These were the same people who spoke to servants as though they were less than human. Who made Tamsyn sit here with tears on her face in the dark.

I stood abruptly and reached down for her hand. “Come.”

She blinked up at me. Her gaze shot from my hand to my face. “Wh—”

“Come along. Let me show you something.”

She placed her small hand in mine, and I pulled her to her feet, leading her down the corridor and through the palace until we reached the gallery. It was a narrow space that stretched forever, turning and branching out into other corridors and marble-floored antechambers. The gallery housed hundreds, thousands of framed paintings, sculptures, and ceramics.

I stopped very deliberately in front of one portrait.

Still holding her hand, I nodded at the image of the very dignified silver-haired man. “Do you know who this is?”

She studied the portrait with a petulant sigh. “Some... dignitary, I suppose? A relation to the king? Should I know him?”

Perhaps. The gallery was full of portraits of notable figures in Penterran history. You could spend a lifetime learning all their names and biographies. Was it any surprise the governess had not yet educated her on her legacy?

“He was the whipping boy to the king. Plucked as an infant from a yeoman’s brood.”

Historically, whipping boys and girls were chosen from lowborn families, burdened with a multitude of mouths to feed, to help alleviate their load. That youth was then raised in luxury, simultaneously lifting their birth family up out of poverty. The price of such an arrangement? An occasional whipping. It benefited all parties.

She stepped closer, peering intently at the likeness.

I went on. “Once he finished as the whipping boy, he served as an emissary to Acton. He married a noblewoman and settled there.” Moving farther down, I pointed at another portrait of a woman dressed in garments from the past century. “This is Inger of Torsten, the famous poet.” From her sharp glance, I could tell she’d heard of her. “She was a whipping girl, too. Did you know that?”