Princess Blanche de Valois ran deeper into the woods, as quickly as her tightly-laced gown and fragile slippers would allow. She was gasping for breath, and her side ached horribly. Before this day, she had never walked more than the length of the Palace hallways or its gardens. She’d certainly never run in fear of her life, the branches and thorns whipping against her legs, tripping her as she stubbed the toe of her satin dancing shoe against them, tearing into her flesh until her arms ran with thin streaks of red. But she couldn’t stop, not after what she’d learned this night. Her stepmother, Queen Gloria, was now the Dowager Queen, after a riding accident had claimed the life of Blanche’s father, King Ronald. He had been dead for forty days now, and she, Blanche, was supposed to be crowned as the new Queen.
But now, thanks to a loyal servant, Blanche had learned that Gloria had managed to suborn the officers of the Guard to stage a coup and put Gloria on the throne. Blanche, if caught, would be killed on sight. So she had run, slipping out of the Palace at dusk while most of its inhabitants were banqueting. She hadn’t dared try to slip down to the kitchen for some bread and meat to take with her. So she had been running for a long time. She was cold, hungry, thirsty, bruised, exhausted, and terrified—but she was still alive.
The moon had almost set when Blanche stumbled into a clearing, finding herself in front of what looked like a peasant’s cottage, although it was larger and better-built than most of those. There was a well dug by the snug barn next to the house, and Blanche immediately hastened over and drew up a bucket of clear, cold water, drinking deeply and pouring the rest of the water over her scratched arms and face. Feeling a bit better, Blanche looked longingly towards the cottage, but it was very late, and there were no lights at the windows. Besides, who knew if the inhabitants would help her—or turn her over to her stepmother?
