What the Hall Remembers
Janelle's Pov
I took her hand.
It was small and cold and ink-stained, and it gripped mine as if I might change my mind. Neither of us said anything for a moment. We stood in the firelight like two people who had each been told the other was dangerous.
"I will not ask you to trust me," Sophia said at last. "I only ask you to listen."
She crossed to the desk and unlocked a narrow drawer with a key she wore on a cord under her collar. From it she drew a single sheet of paper, creased and soft from being folded and unfolded many times.
"I took this from my father's study three months ago. I should have burned it. I could not." She held it out. "Read it."
The handwriting was neat and unfamiliar. There was no signature, only a mark at the bottom, a small circle with a line through it. I read slowly, because the silver room had taught me my letters but never taught me to read quickly in front of nobles.
