Word Count: 574

In his bedchamber, on the evening of his arrival at the royal palace, Ganymede looked particularly small sitting upon the large bed.

He had spent much of the afternoon crying for the woman he thought to be his mother, and had eaten little of the food brought to him for supper. Even now his eyes were watery, his face was pale and blotchy, and his nose red and irritated. He sniffled pathetically and whimpered every so often. Quietly he mumbled, “I want to go home.”

No one listened. Not the maids. Not Lady Lowe, Ganymede's new governess. Not Albert or the current Lord Chancellor. And certainly not the King, who'd not yet been to see the boy.

Lucasta heard, but she said nothing to comfort him. There was nothing she could say that would ease his fear of the palace, or the longing he had for the manor that for ten years had been his home. She could not offer him any reassurances, for the very life he'd been living up until now had been a lie. He could not go back to it. In time he would learn to accept his fate, whether or not he ever learned the truth.

“You must sleep now,” she said after she'd jumped up onto the bed. She sat on the mattress just beyond arm's reach.

Ganymede wiped his nose on the sleeve of his long nightshirt. It was made of silk and hand-embroidered. From this day on, Ganymede would know nothing but finery.

He hiccuped twice and stared at her miserably. He rubbed at one of his eyes with a fist.

“Can't sleep,” he said.

“Why ever not?”

“I want my mother.”

“Ganymede, you must know by now that your mother is the one thing you cannot have.”

His eyes welled with tears again, but his face took on a look of defiance he would soon be conditioned never to show.

“That isn't my name,” he said. “My name is Liesel.”

Lucasta remained stoic in the face of his misery. “Be that as it may, you will henceforth be known only as Ganymede, as you have been told many times. Now, you must sleep. You will begin your studies at sunrise.”

She waited, staring him down imperiously until he slid lower onto the mattress. He sprawled out on his back and shed his tears into the canopy far above him.

Lucasta was not entirely unaffected. He was just a boy, alone in a strange place, with no means of comfort and nothing familiar to ease his worries. She was bonded to him; she could not ignore his pain. Still, it would do him no good to dwell on it. He would soon grow used to his conditions.

“Lucasta?” Ganymede cried her name before she could depart, satisfied that he would eventually fall asleep.

“What is it?”

“My mother would sing to me when I had bad dreams,” he said.

With a heavy sigh Lucasta settled back into position on the mattress. She eyed the boy soberly. Ganymede looked back at her sheepishly, but with hope in his eyes. He rolled onto one side and curled up into a ball beneath the blankets, his blonde head perched on a plush pillow.

“Very well,” Lucasta said.

She sat by his feet, offering him her warmth and companionship, and sang to him in the ancient tongue of his people.