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hat.
    “Mistress Carlyn, Miller’s Wife?” that gentleman demanded.
    “I am she,” Mistress Carlyn replied and dropped what she hoped was a proper curtsy. Farmer’s wives, while superior to the wives of vicars, cobblers, and the like, are not often taught courtly graces, after all.
    The messenger held up an impressive document with tiny, illegible handwriting and a huge signature and seal at the bottom. The very sight of it was enough to melt ice-cold Mistress Carlyn’s knees into water. “King Hendry, Sovereign Lord and Master of this Realm, has decreed that your daughter who can spin gold from straw must be escorted to Craigbarr Palace to demonstrate her skills.”
    Mistress Carlyn, ordinarily so frigid, felt a hot flush rush through her bones at these words. “Oh!” she exclaimed, trying to laugh and failing. “Well, this is a bit of a surprise!”
    And she thought: If the king finds out it was all a lie, he will certainly kill whomever I send! I cannot give him Bridin or Innis . . .
    Even as she thought this, she heard the footsteps of her two daughters behind her and saw how the messenger’s gaze moved to them, one after the other, wondering which was the maiden he’d been sent to fetch.
    “Eliana is out in the mill at the moment,” said Mistress Carlyn, the words slipping so naturally from her tongue, she never once thought to second-guess them. “I shall bring her immediately.”
    Without a word of explanation to either of her own girls, without even another curtsy to the king’s man, Mistress Carlyn darted across the yard to the mill and stepped into its musty darkness for perhaps the first time. Eliana and Grahame were hard at work, seeing to the grinding of a batch of grain from the next village over.
    Eliana looked up with some surprise when she heard the door open, that surprise redoubling at the sight of Mistress Carlyn. “What is it, Stepmother?” she asked, seeing the expression in that lady’s eye but unable to interpret it. “What’s wrong?”
    “You must come at once,” said Mistress Carlyn. “The king’s men have come to fetch you.”
    Eliana stared at her stepmother. At last, unable to believe her own ears, she managed to say, “I beg pardon?”
    “Hurry, girl!” Mistress Carlyn cried, stepping forward and catching Eliana by the wrist. Her long fingers were like icicles freezing Eliana’s skin. She dragged Eliana from the mill and out into the sunlit yard before the girl could utter a word of protest.
    Eliana saw the men-at-arms, saw the brilliantly clothed messenger. Her head whirled with confusion. She must be asleep! She must be dreaming! How could any of this possibly be real?
    “This is the young maiden? Your daughter?” said the messenger, looking Eliana up and down, noting the difference in her grimy, bedraggled state and the poor quality of her clothes compared to the clean, neat garments worn by Bridin, Innis, and their mother.
    “She is indeed,” said Mistress Carlyn, smiling brilliantly, her fingers still latched painfully upon Eliana’s wrist. “She was just hard at work inside, improving her craft. She is most eager to demonstrate her skills before the king.”
    “What?” Eliana cried. “Stepmother, what do you mean?”
    Mistress Carlyn offered no reply, merely pushing Eliana before her to stand in front of the messenger. Eliana stared at the man, stared at the red plume of his hat. She tried to remember how to curtsy, but her own legs would not obey her.
    “Come along, my girl,” said the messenger, taking her by the arm. “We haven’t got all day.”
    “Please!” Eliana choked, casting a desperate look back over her shoulder. Mistress Carlyn stood with a face like stone, Bridin and Innis framing her, their expressions much more distraught. Grahame appeared in the doorway of the mill and stood thunderstruck and unmoving. Eliana saw no help anywhere. “Please, what is going on?”
    The messenger did not answer. He pushed her to stand in the center