Maelyn never understood why the Book Miser had chosen to live in Creaklee. As a former advisor to King Dellan, he could have spent his declining years in Merridell, among the rich and noble. Instead, he had chosen a modest house in Creaklee where peasants and tradesmen dwelled. A large village, but certainly humble.

"Is that all he does? Reads books the whole day?" Shulay asked as they walked up the footpath to the cottage, which might have looked attractive if the outer walls had been washed and the yard had been weeded. "You know, too much reading will harden your eyeballs."

"Shh!" Maelyn said. They were nearing the door. She had spruced up her appearance for this, changing into a gown of wine-colored satin, and re-rolled her bun to hold the slippery curls that tended to spring out during the day. She needed to look as "queenish" as possible.

She rapped on the door and waited, remembering he resented a second knock. Shulay stood beside her, calm and respectful, but Maelyn knew she was playing a part and quite enjoying it. Shulay could fake anything if it gave her a story to tell.

Only the top half of the door opened, releasing the smell of a musty room in long need of airing. An old man peered out, squinting as if he'd never seen sunlight. The Book Miser had never been impressive to look at. Stooped, wrinkled, knobby. Thin black hair over a face furrowed by sneer lines. His clothing, though well-made, hung loose and faded from too much wear. He blinked at Maelyn and offered no bow.

"Well?" he said.

Maelyn made a quick curtsy. "Hello, Master Dorian. How are you this day?"

"Just give me the book and let me look at it." He opened his creaky fingers.

Maelyn held out An Unlikely Lady. She would miss it, but there was no chance she'd ever forget it. She could share the story in spoken word with anyone she chose. That was how most books got shared.

The Book Miser turned it over, examining the red leather cover. He opened it and turned a few pages without interest.

"Who wrote it?"

"One of the holy women of Merridell Priory. Sister Elva," Maelyn said. "It's about fifteen years old." She remembered the age of the book mattered to him.

"Preachy stuff?"

Maelyn shook her head. "Just a nice story."

"Not much meat on its bones." The Book Miser checked the spine. "Ninety pages at most, I'm thinking."

Eighty-four, Maelyn thought. "It's not a long book, I know, but very well-written. My mother loved it. My mother the queen."

"And this... Sister Elva. She dead now?" He suddenly seemed to notice Shulay and scowled in annoyance. Maelyn knew Shulay would love that.

"No. Still lives at the priory," Maelyn said. "This was for my mother - they were friends as children. She wrote it as a gift for my mother's twenty-fifth birth feast." Maelyn hoped the story attached to the book would make it more desirable for him.

"Any copies made?" the Book Miser asked.

Maelyn shook her head. "This is the only one." Having copies made of books was both costly and time-consuming. Only wealthy authors could afford to hire copiers, and even then, finding a good one was difficult. Besides holy texts, most books existed only in their original forms, and even popular tales were shared mainly by spoken word. Books were precious commodities.

"Mmm...." The Book Miser turned the pages, reading bits here and there, before snapping it shut and handing it back to Maelyn. "Don't want it. No use for a skinny little book written by an unknown author who's not dead. Looks like fluff to me."

"How would being dead help it?" Shulay blurted out.

The Book Miser gave her a withering glance. "Death gives value."

"So... if I killed Sister Elva, you'd want the book?"

Disgusted, the Book Miser began to shut the upper half of his door. Maelyn stopped it with her hand. "Dorian, wait."

"Master Dorian!" he barked.

Maelyn sighed. "Forgive me. Master Dorian, I am asking only a small service of you. I simply want a new book to read. I'd be happy to just borrow one and then return it."

"I don't loan my books."

"Then trade with me. If you don't want this book, then come up to the palace and find another. You can examine my library. I'm sure we can strike a bargain."

The Book Miser was silent as he considered. "Mmm.... If I'm to make a trek to the palace, you'll receive only one book from me, and it'll be one of my choice, not yours. And you'll have to part with several of your own to receive it."

"How many?"

"No fewer than five."

Maelyn felt her features harden. "Five books you choose in exchange for one that I can't?"

"That is my bargain."

"It's no bargain at all! You would not have offered such terms to my father."

"True. But Dellan was the king, and of noble blood."

Maelyn tried to summon the cold pride that had once served her mother so well. "As your sovereign, I expect you to treat me the same."

Dorian smirked. "Or what? You'll kick me in the chin again?"

He had never forgiven her for that. She was only a frightened child when he lifted her off the road all those years before. She had thrashed frantically as he carried her to the shiny man's horse, and her small heel had crashed against his chin. Father had always laughed at this story but Dorian hated her for it. It didn't help that he had to respect and serve a princess he had once scraped off the dirt.

"I'm not asking you to like me," Maelyn said. "But so long as I'm ruler of Runa, I expect you to mind your manners. And deal with me fairly."

"Would you give her the book if she was dead?" Shulay asked dryly.

Maelyn shushed her, now impatient. There was little hope now.

The old man's face had become bored. "So long as you're in power – though long it may not be – I guess I can be civil. But you cannot force me to hand over my possessions, not unless you want to be a tyrant. My books are mine. We have no deal."

"Fine." Maelyn turned away, cheeks burning. She stalked up the path until his words struck her mind. "What did you mean by that – long it may not be?"

"Yes, what did you mean by that?" Shulay asked.

"Only that you're a young girl with an entire kingdom upon her shoulders." The Book Miser shrugged. "History favors the strong. If the texts remember you at all, I suspect it will only be to say who conquered you."

Maelyn could not speak. She walked back to the carriage almost numb. If he thought it, others thought it. They had no faith in her.

Shulay caught up to her. "Don't let his stupid words bother you," she said, though it was much too late for that. "The people love you. And they loved our father. They're not going to rise up against the daughter of Dellan."

"They don't see me as the daughter of Dellan." Maelyn opened the carriage door and climbed inside. As Shulay drove them back to the castle, she sat rigidly on the white velvet seat, refusing to cry. But a few tears found their way down her bloodless cheeks.

No one thought she was real.

To the people of Runa, she and her sisters had been adopted like pets to the king and queen. Not daughters. Not princesses. Certainly not capable of carrying on. They were all waiting, she suspected, for some "real" ruler to step in. And when he did, they would all stand aside to let him crush her.