A Pearl Among Princes by Coleen Paratore Page B

he’s been released.
    â€œThank the heavens,” I say, throwing my arms around a startled Nurse Hartling and rushing off home.
    I enter the cottage quiet as a mouse so as not to wake Father should he be sleeping. There he is, sitting up in bed, writing. He pauses, reads over what he’s written, dips the quill feather in the ink pot and continues. For some reason I know not to disturb him. I wait outside his room. When I look back in, he is stuffing the paper, looks like several pages, into a thick red volume. I recognize it is the book of history Mother taught me from. How odd. Father closes the book, a sweet-sad smile on his face. He sets the book down and picks up the pine pillow I gave him as a child. He brings the pillow to his nose and sniffs, breathing it in and out, tears now rolling down his cheeks.
    â€œFather?”
    â€œGracepearl.” He sniffs and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand. He smiles. “Come sit beside me. Tell me all your news.”
    â€œNo, Father, tell me of you. Are you all right?”
    â€œYes, Gracepearl. I am fine. It will make me happy to hear of you.”
    Tell Father about the dreams , I hear Mother speak inside me.
    â€œMother talks to me always,” I blurt out.
    â€œYes,” Father says, smiling, “to me as well.” He pats the spot beside him and I sit.
    â€œJust this morning Miriam reminded me that your sixteenth birthday fast approaches, as if I would forget.”
    Suddenly I am wary of this next birthday gift. I am curious, but afraid. The spyglass, the mirror, the necklace, the purple dress . . . the presents have always been perfectly lovely, but Mother has said this year’s gift will be different from the rest. Suddenly I do not want my birthday to come. “Maybe we should skip the present this year,” I say.
    A sadness washes over Father’s dear face and just as quickly he covers it with a smile. He reaches out to touch my hair. “Miriam and I talk often of our beautiful girl all grown up. We could not be more proud, Gracepearl. You are all that we dreamed of in a child, way beyond our wildest imaginings.”
    Tears well up in my eyes. “Father, I love you so.” I hug him.
    â€œYou have brought me so much joy,” he says.
    â€œYou sound like it’s ending,” I say. “We will always be together.”
    â€œIn spirit, yes child,” he says. “Forever heart to heart.”
    â€œYou’re getting better, Father,” I say, voice rising. “Look, you’re home now and the color has returned to your cheeks. You have years to . . .”
    â€œGracepearl,” he says, his face moving with what seems like so many conflicting emotions. “This birthday . . . the gifts . . . they will be different from the others.”
    â€œ Gifts , Father? I don’t understand.”
    â€œI wish I could have prepared you more.”
    â€œPrepared me for what, Father?”
    â€œAhhhh. . . .” He lets out a long sweet sigh. “I promised your mother to wait until your birthday. We made a pact and I have faithfully followed her wishes.”
    â€œI grow to dread this birthday,” I say. I feel now that I must tell Father of my confusion. “Mother speaks of a destiny, a calling. Of a choice I will make. I think of leaving Miramore, but how? The only way is to marry a prince, and yet my one true love is Mackree. And I am haunted by these strange and recurring dreams . . .”
    â€œWhat dreams? Tell me.”
    â€œPeople,” I say. “Hundreds, thousands, old and young, never the same faces . . . they look beaten down, hungry, sad . . . they beckon to me, call me, come, come. Oh Father, what do they want?”
    Father’s eyes are deep brown lakes of love. He is silent for a very long time. “You.”
    â€œMe, Father? What for? What can I do?”
    â€œYou can help them.”
    â€œBut how, Father? How? I have no power. I have no