It didn't take long to write the reply. Not by Maelyn's standards, at least. An hour might have seemed long to someone else to produce a few lines of writing, but it was the shaking of her hands that troubled her most. She hated herself for being afraid of him.

She always had been. Her mother had told her things, not shared with her sisters, that so repulsed Maelyn she'd been almost angry at her mother for telling it. "As the next queen, you must know what he is," her mother had said. "I pray you'll never have to contend with him alone."

So much for her prayers.

Maelyn stood up from the writing desk and glanced around the library, comfortably cluttered with padded reading chairs, miniscule tables, and towering shelves of books. Her sanctuary. She had only a few minutes before she must reappear, calm and confident, before the world. A woman, a near-queen. But at this moment, she felt herself to be exactly what she was: just a girl of eighteen who was desperately needing the reassurance of her parents.

A shallow wooden chest rested on a shelf midway up one of the bookcases. Maelyn crossed the room and unlocked it. From the box she removed a worn and tattered journal, lifting it with reverent fingers. She settled into the nearest chair and opened to the first page. Her smile softened at the firm handwriting, comforting as the face of a friend.

Once there was a king so enchanted by his beautiful bride that he named his realm anew, calling it Runa in her honor.

The king gave his precious queen all her heart could ask, but one. She longed for a daughter. Nightly the couple prayed, but for several years the nursery sat as empty as the queen's arms.

In their fifth year, a terrible fever struck the realm, bringing death to nearly every household. In desperation, the king journeyed to nine distant kingdoms in hope of finding a cure. But like a filthy cloak, the fever covered them all.

Before turning back, the king chanced upon a small child, the sole survivor of her village. An idea sprouted in his mind. He could not cure the fever, but perhaps the hole in the queen's heart.

Months later the king returned home and presented his astonished queen with not one, but nine baby girls. "One from each kingdom I visited," said the king. "They are orphans."

The queen wept joyously at the row of cradles, each bearing a sleeping infant. After bestowing a kiss on each child's forehead, she said, "Now they are princesses."

Maelyn returned her father's journal to the chest. She'd been the oldest baby in that row of cradles – about three years of age when Father found her outside her village. Arialain had been less than a week, frail and born too early. Nine girls from nine kingdoms, orphaned by nameless strangers. Suddenly they became sisters, bound not by blood, but by their parents' love.

She raised her eyes to a large portrait of King Dellan hanging on the wall above the desk. It had been painted only a few years before his death, and Maelyn wanted to bless the artist for capturing so perfectly the intensity of her father's eyes.

"You never saw us as orphans," she whispered, addressing the image of her father. "You called us 'hidden princesses.' Born in other lands, waiting for you to find us." She smiled weakly. "But Father, many do not see us this way. I never knew how many... until you were gone."

This was not the messenger she had expected. Uncle Jarrod always sent the same one, a stocky man with thick hair, low on his brow. Dull and non-threatening, which Maelyn liked.

"Where's Rowan?" she asked.

"Red Fever took him. Quite recently," said the messenger before her throne. A tall, blonde man who'd introduced himself as Willow. He looked to be about the same age as Maelyn.

Maelyn's heart tightened as it always did when Red Fever was mentioned. She had good reason to dread its name. "Was there an outbreak?"

"A few people of King Jarrod's court, I was told," Willow said.

"And?"

"All dead."

Maelyn shook her head. That was Red Fever. Although its ability to spread from person to person had weakened over the years, it still struck like a viper, rarely leaving its victims alive.

"Did you know Rowan?" she asked.

Willow nodded. "He was my brother."

Maelyn stared, confusion drawing her brows together. Her throne, raised by a short series of marble steps, held her slightly above him. There was no doubting that the face gazing up at her looked nothing like that of the old messenger.

Willow smiled, seeming to guess her thoughts. "I wasn't born his brother. The family took me in as a child."

"You were an orphan?"

"Yes, my lady. We have that in common."

Maelyn was stunned. Most people did not presume to bring up her past – at least, not in front of her. Her origin story was something her mother had always carefully squelched. It only made her more suspicious of him.

"Once, when Rowan was injured by a fall, his brother Alder took his place. Why was he not appointed the messenger?"

"It was what we all expected," Willow said. "But no, King Jarrod explicitly asked for me - strangely. I'd never even seen him before my appointment."

"Never saw him?" Maelyn asked in surprise. How could anyone living in Grunwold not see Uncle Jarrod? He was someone who lived to be seen.

Willow shrugged. "My home is not close to the palace. My mother never took me."

Maelyn picked up a roll of parchment – her reply to the king – from a small table beside her. Uncle Jarrod had a very specific reason for choosing Willow. He did nothing arbitrarily. She would have to be very cautious with this messenger, though she detected no malice in his demeanor. Quite likely, he was as ignorant of the king's intentions as she was.

Maelyn held out the parchment and Willow came up a step to retrieve it. He was dressed for travel, in a long cloak and leather riding gloves; the smell of horse clung to him faintly. His gloved fingers brushed Maelyn's when he took the parchment.

"My condolences for the death of Rowan," Maelyn said, leaning back. "Please tell King Jarrod that I await his response." She wished she could add that no response at all would be fine with her too.

Willow bowed and stepped down. But instead of walking out of the throne room, he looked at Maelyn as if expecting more. He had clear blue eyes, almost boyish in their innocence. Maelyn suspected he was someone who'd seen little of the world.

"Was there anything else?" she asked.

Willow cleared his throat. "May I ask an impertinent question?"

"I... suppose," Maelyn said. He had a trustworthy face and she realized she was beginning to like him. That wouldn't do. She couldn't trust anyone who worked for Uncle Jarrod.

Willow glanced around the throne room, empty except for the two of them. "Are you and your sisters... alone here?"

Maelyn gave a short nod. "We are."

"No guards?"

"No."

"No footmen?"

"No."

"No chambermaids or ladies-in-waiting?"

"The servants are gone," Maelyn said harshly, her voice sweeping down the long room. "No one dwells in this castle but my sisters and myself."

"But... how do you manage?" Willow asked.

He seemed merely curious. Perhaps concerned. But Maelyn was tired of being questioned on this subject.

"Thank you, Willow. You may go."

Willow bowed again and walked down the strip of carpet to the double doors exiting the throne room. Maelyn sighed and rubbed her eyes. She didn't want to explain the system to him, especially since everyone seemed to find it ridiculous.

The system was simple: nine princesses, nine duties divided. The castle chores could be organized into nine general tasks. If each princess took a task, they wouldn't need servants. They wouldn't need anyone.

Convincing her sisters had been far less simple.

"What do you mean, 'we'll do the work?'" Coralina had demanded from the depths of her rosewater bath.

Maelyn held out the list of duties she'd written. She'd given each job a title, hoping her sisters would find that appealing. "Just one. And I'm letting you pick first."

Coralina poked her lip forward as her gaze brushed the list. "Throne Princess," she said instantly.

"Sorry. That's taken."

"You said I was first!" Coralina cried, sloshing scented water out of the tub.

"Naturally. First after me."

Coralina's eyes narrowed and Maelyn half-expected a cake of soap to be flung at her head. But another glance at the list seemed to tilt Coralina's thoughts. "What would the 'Festivity Princess' do?"

Maelyn smiled. "Anything to amuse visitors to the castle: banquets, balls, even theater if you like."

Coralina twirled a black curl around her finger. "Well, if I have to...."

Each sister chose the task that best suited her talents, except Arialain who received the list last. "Door Princess? But...."

"It's perfect for you, Ari," Maelyn had said. "Just answer the door when someone knocks. What could be simpler?" She took Arialain's sigh for acceptance.

Seven months later, life inside the castle ran as smoothly as wool through a spinning wheel, with only occasional snarls in their daily thread. No harm had come from her unconventional method.

And no one was taking it from her.