The morning of Lisbeth's coronation found Anabelle immobile with fever. The wife of the healer was a greenwitch, and between the two of them an intimidating malodorous concoction was set before the princess. "I added whatever I could to make it more inviting," said the greenwitch as Anabelle cast an apprehensive eye at the goblet, "unfortunately, when a recipe makes up its mind to smell like a squirrel's steambath, there's not much even I can do about it."

The healer smiled grimly. "Oddly, it's a trend that runs most strongly in healing potions."

"Must make treating children difficult." Anabelle made no move towards the chalice in the healer's hands.

"Indeed. Therefore, I recommend you take the draught of your own accord, before I need to show you the beasties that I use on them."

Anabelle gave the tonic a long, hard look. At last she took the goblet from the healer, wrinkled her nose, held her breath, and drained the cup. The offending flavor, as the greenwitch had said, had diminished under the onslaught of flavor from various herbs, but Anabelle still gulped pints of water afterwards to drown the taste of it. The potion helped her to help it by slowly drawing her eyelids closed; the healer had other business to attend to, but the greenwitch remained until Anabelle slept soundly. She was not there to tell a frantic Lisbeth that her sister's unnaturally deep sleep was not a precursor to death; instead, no less than six ministers and their respective underlings, summoned by the maids upon hearing the imminent queen's cries, were required to convince her to continue with the ceremony. Her ministers later would remark that their queen's tractability that day was a ruse to lure them into a false security; the day Anabelle walked unguided from her bed marked the last that they held a meeting with Queen Lisbeth d'Arcy Victoriae in less than two hours quieter than an army in war.

The dowager queen Clara observed the ceremony from the comfort of her vanity table; she rarely ventured outside but for to be led on walks through the garden by young men who, tastefully and truthfully, guessed her age much lower than it was.

She had seen the medicinal sleep of her step-daughter, but really she had much less cause for delight in the girl's illness than she thought. The mirror had told her that Anabelle was the most beautiful, true; however, as magic mirrors came, Clara's was a fairly poorly crafted example of the object- her mother was, after all, only a courtesan- and the range of its sight was fairly limited; in fact, it could barely see outside the castle, and years of searching for certainty from such a controversial subject as beauty had worn it down considerably. Anabelle may have been the fairest of the court, but a young seamstress a league to the north was fairer by far than Anabelle, even in the height of health. Anabelle was, of course, only fourteen and had yet to realize her full potential, but at the time she fell ill, Madga's radiance made the striking constrast between her iridescent black hair and smooth ivory skin all the more compelling. Through no fault but their innocent gaze, her crystalline blue eyes caused men and women alike to forget entirely why they had entered her shop at all. At nineteen, Magda was by far the fairest of them all.

The concoction dissipated Anabelle's fever within the week, but the illness had weakened her significantly, and one month later she and Lisbeth had a private supper in her chamber (she had insisted on setting the table herself, for the occupation, she had insisted) to celebrate her birthday. When Lisbeth had left to do political battle, Anabelle found herself lying in bed with a cat beside her. Cat peered at invalid, and promptly pinned Anabelle to the bed as her pillow.

Anabelle commanded that Julia have the run of the grounds, but the little brown-and-black tabby preferred her princess' company, and only ran when she could be sure Anabelle gave chase. Chasing Julia through the gardens seemed to do Anabelle more good than the constant pampering she received from her maids, and slowly the glow of health began to return to her face. Playing with her cat in Lisbeth's company at times made Anabelle so happy that she forgot entirely that she was invalid. Within six months an hour's walk was not unheard of; within eight she could go that long and longer (though not by much- thirty seconds or so usually began to push her limits) with no one but Julia for company. Shortly thereafter she rode her mare again for the first time (Julia slept during this adventure) and soon resumed archery and fencing lessons. Academic tutoring had, at Anabelle's insistence, resumed as soon as she could stay awake for the space of a lesson. Julia found most of the stories exceedingly tedious; to prove it, she yawned loudly before falling asleep on the tutor's open book.

Had Clara possessed a better quality mirror she might not have become as alarmed as she had as soon as she did. As it was, she had been convinced that the illness would leave the princess pallid and frail, but the revival brought about by the chit's infernal beast rudely interrupted this perception. As Anabelle's healthy glow returned, she soared from pitiful invalid to young beauty; by the time she began to fence again she was positively adored by those who observed her in the gardens (her wanderings had even begun to amass a small audience), and for the next two months Anabelle and Magda traded positions as the moon changed phases: One morning, watching Julia chase butterflies would set Anabelle ahead, only to find Magda luminous under the waxing moon, because the man she fancied had paid her a compliment that day. But as her sixteenth birthday approached Anabelle fell behind less and less, and despite a late burst from Magda when her sweetheart asked her to marry him and she accepted, by the time Anabelle sat beside her sister at the ball to celebrate her birthday, Clara's mirror could tell the truth without contradiction: Anabelle was the fairest of them all.