Legacy and the Queen - Annie Matthew Legacy and the Queen

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curl in her stomach. She tried to distract herself by opening her flour sack and inspecting the possessions she’d brought. She rummaged around for the corn cakes, her racket, the extra roll of bark grip, and was surprised when her hand hit something solid and rectangular that she hadn’t placed there.

      She pulled it out. It was the green book Van had been holding; he must have snuck it into her sack. She picked it up and opened it, and a little note fluttered out, landing in the hay by Legacy’s sneaker.

Just thought this might be meant for you. Think of me when you’re famous! From, Van

      Legacy smiled and tucked the note back into the book. Then she examined its woven cover, embroidered with a gold drammus leaf. The title was sewn in gold thread:

The Book of Muse

      And on the first page, there was a stitched note:

for Legacy, from Amata

      Legacy stared. Who was Amata? And why had she given Legacy a needlepoint book?

      Flipping through the book’s pages, Legacy saw all kinds of intricate little figures stitched in bright thread: A gray pyrus with silky pink wings. A multicolored cat. A row of jewel-colored tinctures.

      They were all so vivid: How could Van have called it an empty old book? It was true that some of the colors had faded. Some of the pages seemed to have come partly unstitched, and in a few spots, the thread was worn bare.

      But even so, most of the pages were full. Some of them seemed to contain what looked to Legacy like recipes for very bad dinners. Others contained lists of strange mineral compounds, a “diagram for proper pyrus mount,” and a “chant for avoiding scorched eyebrows.”

      But none of them answered Legacy’s questions. Why had this “Amata” given her a book of recipes and chants? And why had it been stashed away in the attic?

      By the time Legacy finally looked up from the book, the sun had risen. The sky was watery, shot through with tentacles of bright color, and she could see the city off in the distance. A wall encircled the perimeter. Above it rose the gold domes and striped towers that she’d only seen before in articles and picture books. And looming above them, more magnificent than anything else, was the Tapestry of Granity.

      Its fabric was stretched over an enormous vertical platform, bigger than three tennis courts lined up together. Its long shadow covered the palace. And the figures woven into the cloth were so huge that even from this distance Legacy could make out the rectangular table and the senators sitting along it.

      Legacy’s heart began to miss beats. Just outside the city wall, she could see the white peaks of the tent where Van had told her the trials would be held. They looked as pristine and untouchable as the meringue on a fancy cake in picture books. That, Legacy thought, was where she’d have to win all her matches. She’d have to beat every kid from the provinces if she wanted to earn that academy spot.

      Otherwise, she would have to return to her father in defeat. She would have to admit she’d been wrong. She’d have to watch Van go to work in a factory, and apologize to the littles for leaving them to pursue a fantasy about tennis.

      Legacy tried to take a deep breath. For distraction, she looked back at the woven book and reread the chant for avoiding scorched eyebrows:

Running, leaping, flying, start, now you’ll find your gentle heart.

      It was a silly little rhyme, Legacy thought. But somehow it soothed her. She closed the book, repeated the words a few more times to stay calm, then gathered her pack and leaped off the cart.

      Now the white tent rose before her. Beneath it, crowds of children and parents milled around frenetically. People from the city had come to watch, and they sat on raised benches encircling a long row of grass courts.

      Swallowing her nerves, Legacy pushed past a group of parents to make her way to the registration desk. There, a harried woman with a snakelike braid coiled at the nape of her neck, gem-encrusted spectacles at the tip of her nose, and a giant blue ring on her finger explained that Legacy was to report to court fifty.

      At court fifty, the woman explained, Legacy should wait in line until it was her turn to play the current occupant. Then, after four minutes, a horn would blow. If Legacy was ahead in the match, she’d move up to court forty-nine.

      “You grind your way up,” the woman said. “One court at a time.”

      Legacy listened while the woman went on, trying to make sure she didn’t miss any important points. If she’d made it to the top court by two o’clock, the woman said, she’d play a final match. A final four minutes. The winner of that final match would be named provincial champion, and that’s when she should make her pledge.

      “Pledge?” Legacy said.

      The woman glared. “Of loyalty,” she said. “To whichever senator you’d like, though of course people usually make their pledges to Silla. But if you lose—on the top court or any other court on the way—you have to move down.”

      Legacy nodded, trying not to look frightened.

      If Legacy lost on the bottom court, the woman explained, she was out. Then she should immediately return to whichever province she’d come from.

      “No crying,” the woman said, pursing her lips in disapproval, as if Legacy had already started displaying such unruly emotions. “And no complaining. We’ve had quite enough of that emotional provi behavior already.”

      Stung, Legacy moved away from the desk. On her way to court fifty, Legacy did pass a few kids sitting alone, tears streaking their faces. Some of them were wearing braided ponytails in imitation of Gia. Others were wearing paint they’d applied in imitation of other top academy players: elaborate lines covering their faces like Sondra Domenicu, or blue paint on their eyebrows like Villy Sal.

      Legacy didn’t have any paint. Nor was she wearing the imitation academy sneakers that some of the other kids had laced on. She only had her burlap shift and her warped wooden racket. Now she anxiously clutched it while she waited in line to step onto court fifty.

      At the next sound of the horn, the loser—a flushed little boy with round cheeks and black lines on his cheekbones—ran off court in tears. Legacy watched while his mother angrily followed behind him.

      “This was the one chance that we had!” his mother was saying, grabbing his elbow. “And did I tell you to waste it?”

      Ahead of her in the line for court fifty, a father was standing beside his young daughter, a skinny girl whose shoulders appeared to be trembling under her thin burlap shift.

      “You play to his weakness,” the father was saying. “You hear me? You bury him in the back of the court.”

      At the next sound of the horn, another little girl headed off court. Her face was already crumbling by the time her father knelt before her. Legacy winced in advance, but this father kissed the little girl’s forehead.

      His face was dirty with metium dust, and he wore a pair of refinery coveralls. “It’s okay, Grazie,” he said, tousling his daughter’s loose curls. “You tried your best.”

      Legacy looked away. Standing by herself, without a parent to comfort or scold her, she felt lonely and grateful at once. There was no one to kiss her forehead, but there was also no one to make her feel nervous. She was as alone on the sideline as she’d been in the darkness of those early mornings, playing against the orphanage wall.

      Or at least that’s what she tried to remember when she finally stepped onto court fifty. If she focused on the feel of the grip in her hands, or the spot on the other side of the court where she wanted her

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