Chadwick Rye

The afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows of my bedchamber, casting prismatic patterns across the polished marble floor. Outside, the royal gardeners trimmed the topiary beasts into perfect submission, and somewhere below, Mother was undoubtedly instructing the staff about tonight’s dinner arrangements with Duke Harrington and his insufferably proper son, Reginald.

I, Lady Eliza Thornwood of Westervale, third daughter of the Earl of Silverbranch, had more important matters to attend to.

“Which one today?” I whispered to myself, trailing my fingers along the spines of my secret collection—leather-bound treasures hidden behind the false panel in my wardrobe. Father thought I spent my afternoons practicing needlepoint and memorizing court etiquette. Mother assumed I was refining my posture with Madame Beaumont. Neither suspected I traveled to distant realms, fought ancient dragons, and sailed uncharted seas—all without leaving my window seat.

I selected a weathered volume, its pages soft from countless readings. “The Seafarer’s Secret” had been my companion through three dreadful dinner parties and one particularly tedious royal wedding.

Settling into my cushioned alcove, I opened to my favorite passage: *Adella slipped the captain’s dagger into her boot and climbed the mainmast, the storm’s fury whipping her hair like angry serpents around her face. Below, the pirate crew scrambled across the lurching deck, unaware that their prisoner had escaped…*

“Eliza!” Mother’s voice shattered my imaginary world. “The seamstress requires your presence for final fittings!”

I sighed, reluctantly returning the book to its hiding place. Another afternoon sacrificed to silk ribbons and discussions of proper hemlines. But tonight, when the manor slept, I would return to these pages.

Later, as I stood like a statue while Madame Finch pinned and prodded my new gown, my mind wandered to the question that had occupied me for weeks: If I could step into any story and become any character, who would I choose?

Not Princess Genevieve from “The Castle of Whispers,” though her wardrobe sounded magnificent. Certainly not Lady Arabella from “Midnight Court,” who spent most of her time fainting dramatically into the arms of well-dressed gentlemen.

No, I would choose to be Kestra Ravenwood from “The Cartographer’s Daughter.”

Kestra hadn’t been born to nobility. She wasn’t even particularly beautiful by conventional standards—she had a crooked nose from being broken in a tavern brawl and kept her dark hair shorn short for practicality. Her father had been the royal cartographer until his mysterious disappearance, leaving behind fragments of a map said to lead to an ancient library containing knowledge that could either save the realm or destroy it.

What made Kestra extraordinary wasn’t magic or title—it was her mind. She could memorize any path after walking it once. She spoke six languages fluently and could bargain with merchants in four more. She carried a notebook filled with observations about stars and tides and mountain passes, and when lords and generals dismissed her because of her sex and station, she simply found another way forward.

“Stand straighter, Lady Eliza,” Madame Finch chided, tugging at my bodice.

If I were Kestra, I’d be scaling the cliffs of Blackshore right now, following the hidden markings her father had left years before. I’d have dirt under my fingernails instead of lemon-scented lotion. I’d wear practical leather breeches instead of layers of petticoats that made it impossible to run properly.

Most importantly, I’d be the author of my own fate. Kestra made choices—difficult ones with consequences that rippled through the entire five-book series. She trusted her instincts even when everyone told her she was wrong. She rescued herself instead of waiting for heroes.

When she discovered that her father had actually been protecting the realm by keeping the library’s location secret, she had to decide whether to complete his mission or pursue the truth, whatever it might cost. She chose truth, always, even when it was painful.

“There,” Madame Finch said, stepping back to admire her work. “Perfect for catching a husband’s eye at the Midsummer Ball.”

I forced a smile, though inside I was riding through the Ghostwood Forest with Kestra and her reluctant companion, the exiled prince Alaren, who began the journey hating her commoner bluntness and ended it willing to sacrifice his birthright to help her mission.

That evening at dinner, while Reginald droned on about his hunting exploits, I imagined myself as Kestra, navigating the court not as a decorative noble daughter but as a keen observer gathering information for my quest. What secrets might the Duke be hiding behind his pompous facade? What might these napkin rings be worth if I needed to barter for safe passage across the Crimson Sea?

“Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Eliza?” Reginald’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

I blinked, having no idea what he’d been saying. “I find that such matters often appear simpler from a distance than they truly are up close,” I replied, a line I’d borrowed from Kestra’s diplomatic negotiations with the Empress of Jade Islands.

Father looked surprised. Mother looked suspicious. Reginald looked impressed.

Later that night, as moonlight silvered my chamber and the manor settled into creaking silence, I pulled “The Cartographer’s Daughter” from its hiding place and opened to the final chapter.

*Kestra stood at the crossroads, the completed map clutched in her scarred hands. Behind her lay everything familiar—the comfort of known dangers, the pull of unfinished business, the people who had become her unexpected family. Before her stretched a new continent, unmapped and wild, promising discoveries no one from her homeland had ever documented.*

*”What will you do?” Alaren asked, his voice rough with emotion he still struggled to express.*

*Kestra smiled, the first true smile since her father’s journals had revealed the final truth. “The only thing worth doing,” she said. “I’m going to make my own map.”*

I closed the book and pressed it to my chest. Tomorrow, I would begin my own mapping—of secret passages in the manor, of forgotten books in the library’s west wing, of weaknesses in the garden wall that might allow for occasional escapes. I would study maps and languages instead of merely embroidery patterns.

I might be Lady Eliza Thornwood now, trapped in corsets and expectations, but someday—perhaps not too far in the future—I would author my own story, create my own path. And like Kestra, I would choose truth and discovery over comfort and convention.

For now, though, I had adventures waiting between well-worn pages, and the night was still young.