Prisoners in the Palace by Michaela MacColl

Princess had not. Liza almost felt sorry for her.
    “Where is the man?” Victoria exclaimed, cross. “If he is late, I won’t be able to have my full lesson.”
    At that moment, Simon came in, a dashing figure in his green livery. “Your Highness,” he said, staring into the air above Victoria’s head. “Signor Lablache has a touch of the ague and will not be coming.”
    “Thank you,” the Princess said quietly. Though her spirit was crushed, Victoria was too well-trained to show her feelings in front of Simon. Dash was not so subtle. With a small whimper, he lay his body across her feet, his head pressed flat against his paws.
    As the footman backed out of the room, his face filled with sympathy for the Princess. Liza rather liked him for it. She started to speak, but the Princess waved her silent, tears rolling down her cheeks. She sat at the piano and banged out a gloomy tune as though beating a carpet. After a time, her playing became more measured. The music trailed off slowly and silence overtook the room. Liza started when the Princess finally spoke.
    “What a week! Every night I have wanted to visit, but Mama has been vaporish. She’s cancelled all her evening engagements.” She swung around on the velvet piano stool and faced Liza. “Have you talked to the publisher yet?”
    “I haven’t been able to leave the Palace,” Liza said. “Mrs. Strode watches me like a hawk.”
    “Did you even try?” the Princess cried. “I can’t rely on anyone!”
    “That’s not fair, Princess,” Liza protested. “My livelihood is at stake.”
    “Don’t be melodramatic.” The Princess was neither amused nor sympathetic. “You have so much more free time than I do. The least you could do is find out about this broadsheet.” She sighed. “I always have to wait for news.”
    “When I have a day off, I’ll get it for you,” Liza promised.
    “As soon as you can,” the Princess said. She walked over to the window and stared outside at the rain. “What am I going to do for the rest of the afternoon?”
    Liza had kept Annie’s letter with her all week, waiting for the perfect moment. “Princess, I have a letter for you.” She pulled out the folded square.
    “I never get letters.” Intrigued, the Princess turned the letter over in her hands.
    “Truly? No one writes to you?”
    “Oh everyone writes to me, even people I don’t know! But Mama and Sir John open all my correspondence first.”
    “It’s from Annie Mason,” Liza said.
    “Annie?” The Princess looked as excited as a child with a surprise gift. But the paper was folded too tightly for her to open it. “Liza, open it.”
    Using her fingernails, Liza separated the folds to reveal a small piece of paper covered with writing. Annie had used every inch. Twice. She had written across the narrow side of the paper and then turned it and written again on the long side as well. Her face expressionless, Liza handed it to the Princess, whose excitement drained away.
    “I can’t read this! It’s a mishmash. Why ever would she do that?”
    “Your Highness, paper is expensive.” Liza had learned this lesson since her parents’ death when Mrs. Strode had begrudged her the writing paper to correspond with her solicitor.
    “All the more reason to make it legible.”
    “You can decipher it, once you get the knack.”
    The Princess huffed, impatient. “I don’t want to strain my eyes.” She pushed the letter at Liza. “You read it to me.”
    The salutation was easy to make out. “Dear Princess Victoria,” Liza read. “I hope you are well and Dashy is recovered from his nasty cold.”
    “Does she say why she left?” asked Victoria avidly.
    Liza shook her head and squinted at the letter. “No. She says Sir John ruined her and he dared not let her stay at the Palace.” Liza felt a knot grow hard in her stomach. “She says ‘Do not trust him or his men.’”
    “Sir John!” Victoria leaned forward, intrigued. “What did he do?”
    “Ruin