It was a somber ride home from the palace. Angela tried not to stare at her parents, but it was impossible. Her mother trembled like a sparrow in winter, while bruises dark as a string of plums ringed her father’s neck.
Suddenly, her father’s eyes popped open. Putting his hand to his throat, he whispered into her mother’s ear. She brightened instantly.
“Angela,” she said. “Do you remember the story of your christening?”
Angela nodded. “You didn’t know what to name me, even as we came to the priest. But there was a wise fool in the churchyard, newly arrived in the village.”
“Peter the Hermit,” her mother said, barely able to contain herself.
“Peter the Hermit, yes.”
Angela’s father circled his hand for her to go on, as if hope lay in the telling of the tale.
“Peter the Hermit said he could see angels hovering over me,” Angela continued. “He said they’d always protect me and keep me safe. That’s why you named me Angela Gabriela. Angela for the angels and Gabriela for the archangel Gabriel.”
“That’s right,” her mother said. “Peter was such a kindly man we let him sleep in the castle haymow. After a month he left for the far mountains, where he founded a hermitage for lost souls like himself.”
“I know, I know,” Angela frowned. “But what has this to do with me?”
“Angela, my love—your father and I shall have you spirited to Peter the Hermit’s retreat. Hidden in the mountain clouds, you’ll be safe from discovery.” Her mother beamed, triumphant. Her father nodded with delight.
Angela looked from one to the other. “What of the servants who’d bring me there? The archduke would torture out their secret and I’d be hunted down and killed. So would the servants, the hermits, and you.”
A pall descended, the silence filled by the rattle of the carriage and the clatter of the horses’ hooves. Her parents squeezed Angela’s hand.
“Angela,” her mother said, “despite how things may seem, never give up hope. Hope will see you through the darkest times when those around you are broken by despair.” Her face crumpled. She covered it with her fan.
Back at the castle, Angela tried her best to act hopeful. It can’t do any harm, she thought, and it will make Mother and Father happy.
“Would you like me to put on a play imagining a happy ending with the hermits?” she asked, a week after their return. Her parents were in the auditorium of the puppet theater. Before, they’d been so absent; now they were around every moment. It was awful watching them weep when they thought she wasn’t looking.
Her father stirred. “A play? How delightful.” The croak in his throat was almost gone.
Her mother attempted a smile. “Can we help you?”
Angela glowed. “Would you like to?”
In no time, the count was building the set; the countess was making hermit puppets with big pearl buttons for eyes and a shag of white yarn for beards; Nurse was knitting costumes; and Angela was putting quill to parchment, composing the noblest of speeches.
That night she performed the piece for her audience of three. It was a romantic comedy starring Peter, his fellow hermits, the Boy—cast as a lowly goatherd—and Angela Gabriela, Avenger of God. After many adventures and a few songs, the loyal comrades destroyed the evil forces of Archduke Arnulf and his henchmen.
Her parents laughed and applauded. Even Nurse had a good time.
Basking in their attention, Angela thrilled at a curious discovery. The more she acted happy and hopeful, the happier and more hopeful she became. By pretending hard enough, she’d made her make-believe feelings real.
At least in the moment. That night, her terrors returned. She dreamed she was being drowned in a tub of milk, strangled with ribbons, and tossed from a parapet.
So it continued: days of play and nights of terror. As the archduke’s arrival drew near, the terror spilled more frequently into the light until all pretending of hope and happiness disappeared and she lived in dread from waking to waking.
The night before she was to be taken, Angela slid into a nightmare that felt as real as it was terrifying. She was chased through a dark forest by an unseen monster. Angela fell. She couldn’t get up. The creature stood over her. It was the Necromancer. “I have what you need,” he said, and disappeared.
Angela woke up, the dream’s meaning as clear as rain-water. Everyone said the Necromancer had potions, and that’s exactly what she needed. A potion like the one in the story her tutor had told her. It concerned two feuding families. A girl her age loved a boy from the enemy family, but was engaged to her older cousin. To avoid the marriage, she took a potion that made her appear dead.
Unfortunately, the story didn’t turn out very well—in fact the girl and boy both died—but Angela was sure her ending would be much better. When the archduke arrived, she’d take the Necromancer’s potion and fall to the floor in a deathlike sleep. Arnulf would see her buried in her family’s crypt and go back to his palace. Her parents would untomb her and spirit her to Peter the Hermit, where she’d live in secret, happily ever after.
Angela jumped out of bed. She had to get to the Necromancer at once. Should she tell her mother and father? No. They might try to stop her. At the very least they’d insist on coming along for protection. She’d have liked that, but she had no intention of putting them in danger.
The clock in the corridor struck midnight. There was no time to waste. Angela tiptoed down the sleeping hallway to her father’s study, where she borrowed a gold coin from the secret compartment in his desktop, and from there up to her turret theater, where she grabbed a beggar-woman costume and Nurse’s endless woolen shawl. Then, armed only with hope, she slipped from the castle to search for the Necromancer in Potter’s Field.