Ruling with a New Frame novel · Chapter 11 of 24

Chapter 11: My Own Hand

Felix found me on the floor.

He had come down the stairs on tiptoe with his hands out in front of him.

He crouched beside me and put the flashlight back in my hand.

"You went all white," he whispered. "Are you sick again?"

"No," I said.

My voice came out ragged.

"I am only reading."

I climbed to my feet and went back to the table.

I did not want to read the rest.

But I have never in my life left a page unturned.

I read it all, there in the cold, by a flashlight held in a ten-year-old boy's tight fist.

I read how I had come to write it.

The memory came up whole.

A palace full of silk and lamps.

My eldest son, nine years old, laughing, drinking from a cup of spiced milk that a kitchen boy had brought.

His mouth turning blue.

Three heirs dead in three years, each at a feast.

Each had been tended by a physician my enemies had bought.

I had sat at my table with my hand shaking, and I had written the Rules so my youngest would live.

Keep the child silent, so no one can use her voice.

Keep her hidden, so no one can find her.

Keep her fasting, so no cup can reach her.

Keep every stranger out of the house, so no bought hand can touch her pulse.

It had worked.

My youngest lived to be an old woman.

It was a law for a house at war, and I had meant it for a house at war.

I turned the last pages.

The final leaves of the Book were heavy, and I ran my thumb down the spine.

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