“Why don’t you have any daughters, at least?” said he. “I don’t say sons; that might be too much to expect.”

“I am sure, dear king, I am very sorry,” said the queen.

“So you ought to be,” retorted the king; “you are not going to make a virtue of that, surely.”

But he was not an ill-tempered king, and in any matter of less moment would have let the queen have her own way with all his heart. This, however, was an affair of State.

The queen smiled.

“You must have patience with a lady, you know, dear king,” said she.

She was, indeed, a very nice queen, and heartily sorry that she could not oblige the king immediately.

The king tried to have patience, but he succeeded very badly. It was more than he deserved, therefore, when, at last, the queen gave him a daughter—as lovely a little princess as ever cried.

That’s when it happens.

You laugh.

It’s a gentle, joy-filled burst, and my breath catches in my throat, then escapes like a small hiccup or a sob. You are in the sunshine, your black hair brilliant and shining, and your face hasn’t changed in the least. I wonder if I am losing my mind, if it was all in my imagination, so I look across the room at Ms. Pena standing in the doorway, at your father leaning against the door frame beside her. Their faces are illuminated like they’ve seen a visiting angel. John looks at me for a split second, then back at you, then crosses the room and kneels at your feet, holding your hands.

“Pearl?” he says, but there is nothing more.

The children in the room start clapping for you, quietly at first. Soon they are all laughing and shouting and high-fiving each other, up on their feet, a standing ovation, and I have the strangest sensation. It starts in my fingers and toes, a kind of tingling, and I’m not sure what it is at first, this strange feeling. But I lock onto your smiling eyes and take in the rustling of your dark hair. The librarian tries to simultaneously shush the children and open a window to let in the spring air.

And then I realize what this sensation is.

I feel like I might float away.

Another mesmerizing story from Shawn Smucker

Prologue

A Confession

We move in a loose group, winding through the trees. We are more people than you can even imagine, yet there is hardly a word spoken. We smell like exhaustion, like miles piled on top of miles, like time when it has already run out. Yet somehow we also sound like hope, like fresh water washing through the reeds. We discreetly share food with each other, nearly all of us strangers, nodding politely, and in spite of our condition, we cannot keep the inexplicable hope from showing in our eyes.

This is our first day out from under the shadow of the mountain. Which sounds exactly like something he would have said in that deep, rich voice of his, if he was here with us. And he would have smiled—how happy he would have been, saying those words!