Chapter 3

Father Angelo arrived with his men and had the boy carried away. Before they left, he asked my name.

"Charlotte Hawthorne," I told him.

He looked at me and said, "I owe you my life. If you ever need anything, bring that ring to the Crown Prince's palace and ask for me."

The Crown Prince's palace. Alexander Hampton. The name clicked into place.

I turned the ring over. Someone had etched a tiny date: the seventh of July. The same as my own birthday.

I closed the trunk. Just then, there was a knock at the door.

"My lady?" Spring's voice, tentative. "Mr. Goodwin is here."

Goodwin was my mother's family. I hadn't expected anyone from there to come calling.

I frowned. "Tell him I'm not here."

"H-he says he knows you're here." Spring hesitated. "And he brought men with him. It looks like he means to search the place."

I opened the door. Spring's eyes were red-rimmed with worry. Behind her, in the narrow lane, stood a young man in an embroidered coat.

It was Julian Goodwin, my cousin. Or rather, the man who used to be my cousin.

"Charlotte." Julian's eyes traveled over my plain dress, my unbound hair. Something flickered in his expression. Perhaps it was pity, or satisfaction. "Uncle sent me to bring you home."

I coldly replied, "There's no need."

"Don't be stubborn." He stepped closer. "The Hawthornes don't want you, but the Goodwins do. You're still my cousin, after all—"

"Am I?" I cut him off. "Yesterday, the Hawthorne family made a public statement. Everyone in Kingston knows I'm not their blood. So how exactly are we related, Mr. Goodwin?"

Julian's jaw tightened. The four attendants shifted behind him.

"I'm trying to help you, Charlotte." His voice dropped. "A young woman living alone, with no protection. Do you have any idea what people are saying?"

"Tell me."

He continued, "They're saying you're the nanny's daughter. That you spent sixteen years living off Hawthorne money that was never yours. That poor Isabelle finally came home, and you made her life miserable."

He stared at me, waiting for the words to land. "Come back with me. The Goodwins can still protect you."

"And where do you think those stories came from, Mr. Goodwin? The servants? The neighbors?"

Julian said nothing. Which was answer enough. Lilian didn't waste time. She got me out of the house, and now she was making sure no respectable family would take me in.

"So you came to search my home." I glanced at the attendants. "What are you hoping to find? Hawthorne silver? Proof that I stole something on my way out?"

"Charlotte." His voice hardened. "Don't make this worse than it has to be. I'm giving you a chance to walk out with your head held high."

"How generous." I stepped aside and swept my arm toward the courtyard. "Search all you want. Just take your men and go when you're done."

Julian's eyes went cold. He nodded once, and the attendants pushed past me.

Spring clutched my arm, trembling. I patted her hand and shook my head.

They tore through the trunks. Scrolls and paintings were scattered across the flagstones. Clothes landed in mud. Pearls rolled everywhere, and I watched attendants palm them when they thought I wasn't looking.

Julian stood in the center of the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the wreckage like a magistrate at an execution.

"Charlotte." His voice carried across the chaos. "It's not too late. Confess now, and I'll speak to Uncle on your behalf—"

A shout from the east room. "Mr. Goodwin! Over here!"

"This is from the Hawthorne vault!" The man was practically glowing with triumph. "The Queen Mother gifted it last year. I'd recognize it anywhere."

Julian took the statue. Turned it over. When he looked at me, his eyes were full of something worse than anger. It was a disappointment.

"Charlotte." He said my name as if it cost him something. "I didn't want to believe it."

I looked at him. This boy who'd tucked a rose behind my ear when I was thirteen and told me I was beautiful. Who'd broken a rib fighting someone who'd spoken poorly of me.

Now he stood there holding the evidence of my crime.

"That statue doesn't belong to the Hawthornes," I said.

He shook his head slowly, sadly. "The inscription marks it as royal work. The Hawthorne family received it from the Queen Mother herself. There's no mistaking—"

"Does the Hawthorne family own it, or does the royal family own it?" I interrupted.

Julian froze.

"Turn it over again, Mr. Goodwin." I kept my voice calm. "Look at the bottom left corner of the base. Isn't there a tiny inscription? A name?"

Julian's fingers trembled. He flipped the statue over, and all the color drained from his face.

It carved the name, Mary. His mother's name. Mary Goodwin.

I'd commissioned that statue myself last year, when Mary fell ill. I'd gone to the Sanctuary Church, prayed for three days, and had this piece blessed specially. The craftsman carved her name at my request.

She'd held my hands and said, "Charlotte, you have such a kind heart."

And now her son stood in my ruined courtyard, holding her memorial in his hands like a thief's bounty.