Imogen Rossach was not always her name. In fact, Imogen Rossach was someone else’s name entirely.
The “old Imogen” was the chimney-sweep who came before her. This was in the age just before the furnace system was installed, meaning that each room needed to be warmed by wood-burning hearths, whose chimneys often clogged with ash and soot. From the murmurings of the other palace servants, the new Imogen learned that she had much in common with her predecessor: they were both orphans, they were both approximately ten years old, and they were both slaves to the crown of Saol Eile. Since both of their jobs required them to climb up and down the narrow tunnels of the palace chimneys, each was almost constantly covered in black soot, so any visual discrepancy between the two Imogens was negligible.
There was one key difference. The old Imogen was dead. Her small body had succumbed to overwork, illness, starvation, or some combination of the three. Those cruel housekeepers who starved her were given a slap on the wrist and forced to pay for a new chimney-sweep. At least they treated the new Imogen better than the old. But they refused to call her by her real name. Just Imogen. Just a replacement for the dead girl.
She wanted, at least, to be better than the old Imogen. She had been a slave for almost her whole life, so she knew the drill—work hard, do a good job, and never speak up…so that nobody will ever notice you. Being unnoticed was the greatest reward of all. So, from her first day at the palace, the new Imogen kept her hands busy, her head down, and her mouth shut. She was a good chimney-sweep. One of the best, actually. Her small size and dexterity let her clean with record-breaking speed and efficiency, and her good behavior paid off. Soon, even the housekeepers that starved the old Imogen to death forgot that the new one was any different.
During the summer, there were fewer chimneys to clean, which brought multiple blessings. She could bathe and get clean of that sticky black soot. She could be assigned to clean the rafters and attics instead, where she clambered across the beams like a deckhand on the masts of a boat. And because she was well-trusted, and because the work was not half as dangerous as cleaning a chimney, she could be left alone. She could take her time, or finish early and have the rest of the day free. She liked to find a window, somewhere up high, like the little round window-alcove in the upper tower of the library, where she could lean her head against the yellow glass and take a lovely nap in the sunlight, and perhaps even imagine she was back home…
But on one such day, she climbed up to her alcove and found it occupied. A young boy was curled up there, his head buried in his arms. The softest sobs echoed around the quiet library.
Slowly, Imogen approached, balancing one foot after another on the narrow cross-beams. She did not recognize the boy. This was not unusual; her work was best done when the royal family was away, so she rarely saw any of them up close. His fine clothing and silvery-blond hair suggested that he was one of them. The ugly blue bruise swelling one eye shut suggested otherwise.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He jumped in surprise. It was apparent that he did not expect anyone else to find him here, being so high up in so inaccessible a place. Immediately, he started to get up, as if fearing he was in trouble.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he mumbled. “I’ll get down.”
“No, it’s alright,” she said. “Are you hurt?”
His hand floated up to his black eye, and he nodded reluctantly. Imogen didn’t have anything to care for it, but she did know what loneliness looked like, and she knew how to care for that. Even if he was a prince, everyone deserved a friend.
She made her way across the rafters and sat next to him. He was smaller than her, maybe a year or two younger. Not yet old enough to treat her with the disdain that his older siblings, in their teen years, would. Instead, he seemed to relax when she sat down, resting his cheek on his knees.
“I got in a fight,” he admitted. “With my fianceé.”
“You have a fianceé?” Imogen asked incredulously. “How old are you?”
“Nine and three quarters.”
“Well, I’m ten and a half, and I don’t have a fiancé,” she said matter-of-factly. “Is she also nine?”
“No,” said the prince. “She’s seven. That’s practically a baby.”
“Definitely,” Imogen agreed.
“We can’t get married yet. My father says the engagement is just to secure an alliance with her noble family, and make sure they don’t revolt or something. But we’re supposed to get married as soon as she turns eighteen, and I know that’s eleven whole years from now, but I really, really don’t want to.”
“Is she nice, at least?”
He shook his head. “No. She says I’m strange and dull and mean, and she beats me up because I can’t hit her back. So I can’t stand her. But please don’t tell anyone,” he added hastily. “If anyone finds out, I’ll be in huge trouble.”
Tears brimmed in his wide green eyes. Slowly, so that he knew she was serious about it, Imogen nodded and made a gesture like she was locking her lips and throwing away the key.
“I’m Prince Edgar. What’s your name?” the prince asked suddenly.
“Imogen Rossach,” she replied.
Edgar’s brow furrowed. “You’re not Imogen. Imogen has red hair, and she doesn’t even come up here. She’s scared of heights.”
“I’m just her replacement,” said Imogen. “She passed away last winter.”
“Oh.” The prince turned somber and released his legs to sit upright beside her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. I never knew her. But I’m the chimney-sweep now. So I do the same job as her, and they just call me by her name.”
“What’s your real name?”
Imogen smiled slyly. She knew this trick. “Oh, no. I’m not going to fall for that,” she told the prince. “Nice try, though.”
“Fall for what?” asked Edgar,, bewildered.
He seemed genuine, so Imogen decided to grant him a little explanation, but it was always better to be safe than sorry and assume it was a test. “It’s a pretty common trick,” she explained. “I had another name before I came here. But I’m not allowed to talk about it, not with anyone. Not even you.”
He pouted. “But I’m a prince,” he responded.
“And?”
“And you should do what I tell you.”
“That’s not a very princely thing to say,” Imogen said matter-of-factly.
She suspected he had never been told that before, because he seemed just as stunned as if she had slapped him on the other side of his face. But instead of lashing out, he just slumped over, ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Olivia is right…maybe I am mean.”
“She could be right,” said Imogen, “but that doesn’t give her a right to hit you. You were just mean to me, and I didn’t even think of hitting you.”
Revelation dawned upon his face. Imogen assumed she had merely stated the obvious, but Edgar never seemed to have heard such a thing before.
“Oh,” he said softly.
Slowly, he reached up to touch the bruise, winced in pain, and then looked up at her with a new, mischievous glint in his eye.
“That settles it. I’m not going to marry her,” he declared. “And she can’t object if I marry someone else first. How about you? Will you marry me?”
“Me?” Imogen echoed.
“Yeah! You’ll be a princess. And we won’t even need to wait as long, because you’re older than me, you’re ten and a half. It’s perfect.”
She thought about it for a little while. She had just met Edgar, but he seemed nice enough. He was pretty blunt and awkward, but so was she. That made a good match, right? Though if she was honest with herself, she did not completely understand this whole marriage thing; it seemed unnecessarily complicated. Growing up, she didn’t know anyone who was married. If two people loved each other or wanted to live together, they just…did that. That was a much better system, in her opinion, but just like her real name, it would get her in trouble to say. So she kept that thought to herself. After all, she wouldn’t mind getting married if she got to be a princess.
“Okay,” she decided. “I’ll marry you.”
“Yes!” Edgar jumped up and pumped his fist. He looked goofy doing it, but he was happy, and Imogen laughed along with him.
“What happens next?” she asked.
“You need a ring,” said Edgar. “I don’t have one now, though.”
She reached up to undo her bun. “I have some ribbon,” she offered.
“That’ll work,” he said. “I’ll get you a proper one later.”
He knelt down to tie the ribbon around her ring finger, securing it with a bow. It was a little crooked, but Imogen helped him fix it so that it lay elegantly over her scabbed knuckles. When he looked up at her, his emerald eyes glimmered in the sunlight.
“The last part of an engagement is usually a kiss,” he explained. “But I know we just met. So it’s a little fast. We don’t have to do that, if you don’t want to.”
Imogen thought about that for a while. Then she said, “Can I be honest?”
“Sure.”
“Kissing is kind of gross.”
“Oh, thank the saints. I didn’t want to do it today.” With a sigh of relief, Edgar sat back.
“But we’re still engaged, right?” Imogen asked. “I do still want to be a princess.”
He thought about that for a while. “I think I’ll do some research,” he told her finally. “I don’t know how it usually works. But I can find out. If we’re really going to get married, I want to make sure we do this right, so that nobody can reverse it, and it’s real. You’ll be a princess, no matter what. I’ll make sure of it.”
