فصل 20

Chapter 20

HORT

The House at Number 63

Hort tried to ignore the posters, but it was impossible when there was one pinned to every single orange tree lining the Rue du Palais.

WANTED

All Current Students & Teachers of The School for Good and Evil REWARD: 60 Gold Pieces for Each Soul, Dead or Alive BY ORDER OF

KING DUTRA OF FOXWOOD

Kids their age in prim Foxwood School uniforms loitered by the trees, just out of school, guzzling glass bottles of orange soda and sharing gummy chews and sugar sticks.

“How we supposed to tell one of those School of Good and Evil stiffs from a sorry sop on the street?” asked a red-haired boy, inspecting the poster.

“They got that glowing finger,” said a girl, reapplying lipstick in a pocket mirror. “The one they use for spells.” “For sixty gold smacks, I’ll make my own finger glow and turn myself in,” a dark-skinned boy said, eyeing Hort as he passed.

Hort picked up his pace. The boy was right. For sixty gold pieces, Hort would turn in his own mother. (If he knew who his mother was. Anytime he’d asked his dad, he’d got a grumble or a slap.) Hort glanced at his girlfriend, walking with him, expecting her to be just as alarmed by the high price on their heads.

“The boys in this kingdom are all so handsome,” Nicola marveled at the well-dressed crowd on the Rue du Palais, Foxwood’s tree-lined thoroughfare of shops, inns, and pubs, leading up to the king’s palace. There seemed to be a uniform here, even for non-students: women wore solid dresses in a spectrum of colors, while men wore tailored suits in the same unpatterned shades. The sum effect made Hort feel like he was at a paint shop, trying to pick the perfect hue. Nicola ogled two passing boys, muscles barely contained by their suits. “Seriously, every single one looks like a prince.” “You can have ‘em,” Hort grumbled, picking at his new blue pants, wedged up his bottom. “Foxwood is known for good-looking blokes, who are boring, brownnosing, and can’t think for themselves. Just take Kei and Chaddick. Both from Foxwood, both pretty-faced sidekicks, working for twits. Nic, there’s a lot of people here. Maybe we should wait until dark—” “Tedros is not a twit and Chaddick is dead. Have some respect,” Nicola chided, walking faster in her new beige dress. “And we can’t wait until dark because we need to get inside the Foxwood School for Boys and look for Rhian’s files. Rhian told Tedros he was a student there.” “But Merlin tried already and couldn’t find any files for Rhian,” Hort pointed out, itching at his hair. “I say we poison the Foxwood king instead. Robin said he was the first coward to burn his ring, plus if we kill him, no one can pay the sixty gold pieces for our heads.” “We are not killing a king who has nothing to do with our mission,” Nicola retorted. “Reaper told us to find out about Rhian and his brother’s past. And Rhian told Tedros he was a student in Arbed House. We have to at least check it out.” “I thought Rhian went to the Foxwood School for Boys.” “Arbed House is in the Foxwood School for Boys. It’s a dormitory,” Nicola said impatiently. “Didn’t Tedros explain all this to you?” “Tedros and I had a conversation once,” said Hort. “I spent the whole time farting silently, hoping it might suffocate him.” Nicola side-eyed him. “Arbed House is where parents in Foxwood hide their children who they fear are Evil. So Evil they’re afraid the School Master might kidnap them. No parent here wants a famous villain as a child. So Dean Brunhilde magically conceals these wayward children from the School Master so he never knows they exist. The Dean doesn’t tell her Arbed kids they’re Evil, though. Does her best to turn their souls Good.” Nicola paused. “Clearly she failed with Rhian.” “If Rhian was her student at all,” Hort reminded. “No files, remember?” “Kei was a student in Arbed House too. So was Aric. And we know Japeth and Aric were close friends,” said Nicola. “Look, I know it’s a stretch, but it’s worth a shot. All we have to do is find Dean Brunhilde and ask if she knows Rhian.” “Can we trust her?”

“Merlin and I talked before he was captured. He told me Dean Brunhilde was a friend of his. If she’s a friend of Merlin, then she’s a friend of ours—” A gorgeous black boy reading the latest edition of the Foxwood Forum grinned at Nicola as she passed. Nicola smiled back.

“This is why Nevers only date Nevers,” Hort crabbed, scratching his hair harder. “Nevers don’t flirt with boys on the street and they don’t turn down the chance to kill a king.” “Ten minutes ago, you were kissing me in the fitting room of Le Bon Marché and now you’re acting like I forced you to be my boyfriend,” said Nicola, noticing Hort clawing at his head. “Ugh, I told you not to mess with it. The point was to blend in. Robin gave each group ten gold pieces to spend and I used less than one to buy this dress so I’d look like a Foxwood girl. And you not only choose a suit that costs nine gold pieces, but then you go and do . . .” She pointed at his hair. “. . . that.” “Well, you’re a first-year Reader who no one knows, but I’m famous,” Hort insisted, itching his dyed, bright blond hair and walking tall in a spiffy prince-blue suit. “Everyone knows me from Sophie and Agatha’s storybook. I had to change my look.” “You look like vampire Tedros,” said Nicola. “Vampire Tedros with lice.” Hort scowled. “I look like a Foxwood boy and I blend in here better than you!” A group of kids sidled up to him. The same ones he’d seen by the tree.

“What are you like?” Lipstick Girl sniggered, pawing his suit.

“Like a cream puff gone bad,” said the redheaded boy, ruffling Hort’s hair.

“Or one of those knobs from that school . . . ,” said the dark boy, peering at him.

Someone kicked Hort in the backside.

Hort’s finger glowed blue, about to fire at their heads— Nicola seized Hort’s hand, obscuring it. “Excuse me, is this the right way to the palace?” she asked the bullies. “We have an appointment with the king. My father’s his Minister of . . . Poutine. What are your names? I’ll be sure to mention your kindness to him.” The kids gave each other anxious looks and dispersed like flies.

Hort exhaled, knowing he’d been one second from giving himself away and ending up back in Rhian’s hands.

“Thanks,” he sighed to Nicola. “You saved me.”

“Saved us. Because that’s what Evers do,” she said, tugging at his blond bangs. “Even if their Never boyfriend looks like a cockatoo.” Hort puffed at his hair. “What’s a Minister of Poutine?” Nicola nodded at a sign, hanging outside a shop.

POUTINE PUB

Best Cheesy Potatoes in Town!

“Can we stop inside?” Hort asked.

“No,” said Nicola.

Hort took her hand.

With her ebony skin and festoon of curls, Nicola didn’t resemble Sophie in the slightest, the only girl Hort had ever loved before, but Nic and Sophie both had a supreme confidence and wicked humor, neither of which Hort possessed. Is that why he liked them? Is that why you like anybody? Because they have what you don’t? Or was it that Nicola appreciated him when he was scrawny or pimply or in a bad mood, while other girls—girls like Sophie—only paid attention when he was pumped with muscle and playing the rebel to Tedros’ prince? Maybe that was it, Hort thought: Nicola reminded him of Sophie, with her wit and moxie and charm, without all the bad parts of Sophie. And yet, the bad parts of Sophie were why he’d liked Sophie in the first place, just like Nicola didn’t mind the bad parts of him. . . .

“We turn left on Rue de l’École, right before the palace gates,” said Nicola.

Ahead of them, more students in Foxwood School uniforms came onto Rue du Palais, buzzing and dispersing into cliques. A few joined the packed crowd at a tent selling Lion merchandise: coins, pins, mugs, hats in tribute to King Rhian. Hort remembered the same Lion mementos worn by the people outside the Blessing, from kingdoms around the Woods. They must be selling this stuff everywhere, he thought.

“School just got out. Hurry!” said Nicola, pushing Hort past the tent. “We need to find Dean Brunhilde.” A smatter of young schoolboys pooled in front of the palace gates, tossing candy crumbs at pigeons idling on gold-paved stone inside. A palace guard butted the boys aside with the hilt of his sword and they ran off, whimpering.

“Turn here,” said Nicola, hooking left at a corner.

But Hort’s eyes were still on the guard, manning the gates with a second one, the two of them in shiny new armor, swords at the ready.

“Nic, look at their armor,” Hort whispered.

Nicola peered at a familiar Lion crest carved into the guards’ steel breastplates. “Odd. Why would Foxwood guards be wearing Camelot armo—” Hort yanked her behind a wall.

“What?” Nicola gasped. “What is it?”

Hort peeked an eye out and Nicola peeped over his shoulder at the two guards’ faces, sunlit through their open helmets.

Not guards.

Pirates.

And one of them was glaring right at the corner they’d just turned from.

“Ya see somethin’?” Aran asked, a pigeon pecking at his boot.

“Coulda sworn I saw one of ‘em Tedros-lovin’ freaks. The weasel-face,” said Beeba. “But his hair’s gone yellow.” “Mush fer brains, you got. Even that twit’s smarter than to show his face ‘round ‘ere with a bounty on his head,” Aran grouched. “I hate bein’ in the same place all day like a pile-a-bones. Can’t we go back to sackin’ kingdoms with Japeth?” “Fancy King Foxwood melted his ring, so now we have to protect ‘im,” said Beeba, yawning.

The pigeon pecked at Aran again. He stabbed it with his sword. “Protect ‘im from what? We’re the ones who attack—” “Shhh! Don’t ‘cha remember what Japeth said? Everyone’s gotta think that Agatha ‘n her mates are the ones tearin’ up kingdoms so their leaders’ll beg Camelot for protection. All they gotta do to get protection is burn their rings,” said Beeba. “That’s why Japeth sent men to sack Hamelin, Ginnymill, and Maidenvale—’cause their kings still wearin’ theirs. Wish we could be doin’ the sackin’. Love the feelin’ of an Ever’s face under my boot.” She glanced behind her. “King Melty-Ring’s comin’. Quick, act proper-like.” She and Aran lowered their helmets, leaving only their eyes visible, as a procession of carriages topped with Foxwood flags rode up the driveway from the castle, stopping just inside the gates. The window of one of the carriages slid down and King Dutra of Foxwood appeared, his face still battered from the battle at Camelot.

“Duke of Hamelin sent a dove. His daughter was killed by masked rebels,” he said breathlessly. “Any sign of trouble?” “No, and there won’t be, Your Highness,” Aran assured. “As long as we’re here, you’re safe.” “Duke has since burned his ring and sworn loyalty to King Rhian. Should have done it sooner. Now he’s lost his daughter,” the king said, shaking his head. “How’s King Rhian?” “Recovering, sire,” said Beeba, her vowels crisp. “His brother is at his side and helping with the kingdom’s business.” The king nodded soberly. “Long live the Lion!”

“Long live the Lion!” the guards echoed.

They pulled opened the gates and the king’s convoy rode down the Rue du Palais and out of sight.

“They’re killing people, Hort. They’re killing princesses and blaming it on us,” Nicola breathed as Hort dragged her away from the palace and down Rue de l’École, weaving through groups of school children. “Rhian’s willing to murder innocent people to make rulers destroy their rings!” “We need proof that Rhian isn’t who he says he is. And we need it now,” Hort fumed. “Proof we can show the people. Which means we’re not leaving this kingdom until we find it.” He pulled Nicola along, trying to convince himself that they could succeed where Merlin had failed . . . that they could expose Rhian and take him down . . . that they could save this fairy tale from a very wrong end. . . .

But as the Foxwood School for Boys came into view, a gray stone cathedral draped in silhouette, Hort saw a tall woman in a turban blocking its doors, her arms crossed, the whites of her eyes glowing through the shadows, locking on the two strangers walking towards her . . .

And suddenly Hort didn’t feel very convinced at all.

UP CLOSE, THE woman in a rose-pink turban and robes had tan skin with deep lines around the mouth, chilly brown eyes, and brows so thin and arched it gave her a permanently suspicious expression.

“We’re looking for Dean Brunhilde,” said Hort, lowering his voice to sound more imposing. “Is she in?” The woman crossed her arms tighter. The only sounds were the snip, snip of a gardener, pruning the hedges next to the stairs, and the slup, slup of a cleaner on a ladder, scrubbing the school’s gray stone.

“Dean Brunhilde of Arbed House,” Nicola clarified.

Snip, snip. Slup, slup.

Hort cleared his throat. “Um . . .”

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked.

“Well—” Nicola started.

“I’m the Headmistress of this school and seeing a Dean requires an appointment,” the woman cut in. “Particularly for children from other kingdoms, pretending to look like they belong in this one. What school do you attend? Are you even Evers?” Hort and Nicola exchanged glances, unsure whose turn it was to lie.

“We’ve had a string of attacks in Foxwood. The whole Woods is under assault by rebels. Good people have died,” the woman said, hot with emotion. “The king has ordered all citizens to report suspicious activity to the Camelot guards—” “Mother, I’m taking Caleb to play rugby in the park,” a voice breezed, and Hort lifted his eyes to a strapping boy with curly brown hair in a Foxwood school uniform, sixteen or seventeen, ushering his younger brother, also in uniform, past the woman and out of the school. He whispered into his mother’s ear. “Started crying during his history class. They were learning about Camelot’s knights and well, you know . . .” “I can hear you,” sniffled Caleb, his cheeks pink.

“Be home before seven, Cedric,” said the woman tightly. “Your father’s making supper and I don’t want you and Caleb out when it’s dark.” “Now you’re sounding like Aunt Grisella,” Cedric sighed, brushing by Hort and Nicola, hugging his brother to his side. “Maybe we’ll pick up a meat pie on the way home.” He peeked back at his mother. “If Father’s making supper.” A smile cracked through the woman’s hard features as she watched her two sons go, her eyes softening, then turning mournful. She noticed Hort and Nicola still standing there and her imperious stiffness returned. “The school is closed for the day. You may write my office to schedule an appointment with Dean Brunhilde for a future date. Now please leave before I call the king’s guards,” she said, scuttling past them and down the stairs. Hort watched her accost the gardener— “Caleb and Cedric went to the park. Keep an eye on them,” she told him quietly, handing the gardener a few silver coins.

“Cedric’s a grown man, Mistress Gremlaine,” he said. “He don’t need me over his shoulder—” She squeezed his arm. “Please.”

The man searched her face. “Of course, miss,” he said, gently. He slipped the coins back in her hand. “If I was in your shoes, I’m sure I’d do the same.” He put down his shears and hustled after the boys, while Mistress Gremlaine stayed behind, that mournful gaze returning. . . .

She frowned suddenly and swiveled towards the school steps, the door still open at the top, just as she’d left it.

But Hort and Nicola were no longer there.

“DID YOU HEAR what that man said? He called her Mistress Gremlaine,” Nicola whispered as they scurried through the entrance hall of the school, Hort peeping back nervously to make sure the woman wasn’t following them.

“So what?” Hort said, lost in the maze of musty corridors and spiral staircases. “How do we know which one goes to the dorms—” “So what? Lady Gremlaine was Tedros’ steward at Camelot!” Nicola reminded him. “Suppose this Gremlaine’s related to her!” “Doesn’t help us get Rhian off the throne, so stop playing Detective Nic and start looking for a way to Arbed House,” said Hort, peering into deserted classrooms, reeking of sweat and mildew. He sneezed, his eyes watering from the veils of dust. On the outside, the Foxwood School for Boys looked like an elegant cathedral, the hedges pruned, the gray stone polished, but on the inside it felt like a decrepit church, the floorboards creaking, the walls covered in mold, and cracked plaques offering dubious advice: “HEADS UP AND FALL IN LINE”; “FOLLOW THE LEADER”; “RULES ARE THE SPICE OF LIFE.” Growing up, he’d thought of Foxwood as obscenely rich, given its steel trade, but clearly none of that wealth was going towards boys’ education. Even the old schoolhouse in Bloodbrook, the poorest realm in the Woods, was in better shape. It’s what he hated about Evers, Hort thought, recalling the workers sprucing up the school’s facade: so much of being Good was a show. You had to rip away the surface, past the Beautification lessons and noble intentions, to find out who an Ever really was. At least Nic wasn’t like that, he thought, as his girlfriend towed him to the end of the hall. Nic was more like a Never: too much herself to ever be able to hide it.

Turning a corner, they were hit with sunlight from a scummy stained glass window, illuminating another plaque over their heads: “LOYALTY OVER BOLDNESS.” “No wonder every boy in this town becomes a sidekick,” Hort muttered.

A door slammed somewhere close.

Sharp heels clacked on stone.

Hort’s stomach flipped. He pulled at Nicola’s arm, guiding her towards a staircase ahead, but Nic resisted, her eyes pinned through the stained glass.

A redbrick, two-story cottage lay in the yard outside, apart from the rest of the school, surrounded by clean, neat grass. Hort glimpsed a sign on a stake in front of it: PERMITTED STUDENTS ONLY

And in the corner of the sign, a signature . . .

Dean Brunhilde

“LET ME DO the talking,” Nicola whispered as Hort followed her into the foyer.

“You’re a Reader. I know how to talk to real people,” Hort rebuffed.

“And I’m the one who knows how to get what we need, so just smile and look pretty like the blond prince you are,” Nicola ordered. “And don’t touch anything.” Hort was certainly temped to. From the moment they’d come into the cottage, met with a clean breeze through the open windows, it was as if they’d left the school and stepped into Mother Goose’s den. Cozy patterned rugs covered the floor, appointed with rocking chairs and soft couches. Potted lilies and fiddle trees bloomed near a spiral staircase, the bookcases behind it teeming with storybooks. Hort fingered a heavy blanket on the couch, furry and soft. He could feel his eyes closing. All he wanted to do was gorge on cheesy potatoes and hide under the blanket. The lighting wasn’t helping: a sleepy orange glow seeping from dozens of glass-cased candles.

Then Hort noticed the picture frames, peppered across the tables and mantel. In every portrait, there was a stout, dark-skinned woman with beehive hair posed with a group of boys. Hort bent over, peering at more of these portraits. In each one, the boys changed but the woman remained, presiding over a new group.

Dean Brunhilde, Hort thought, moving to the last portrait on the mantel. . . .

His stomach dropped.

He picked up the frame—

Nicola slapped his hand. Then she saw what he was looking at and snatched it from him.

In the picture, Dean Brunhilde stood with a class of eight boys, all teenagers.

Four weren’t familiar. But the other four were, huddled in the corner with mischievous grins, like a band of thieves.

A boy with angled eyes and a square jaw.

Kei.

A boy with violet eyes, spiky black hair, and sculpted muscles.

Aric.

A boy with copper hair, pale skin, and cold blue eyes.

Japeth.

And next to him . . . a boy with the same face.

Rhian.

Slowly Hort and Nicola looked at each other.

Rhian had told the truth.

He’d been here.

They’d all been here.

In this house.

This is where it began.

Chills swept up Hort’s spine—

“You must be lost,” said a voice, and Hort jumped out of his skin.

A boy in a school uniform came out of the next room, fourteen or fifteen with black hair, sunken eyes, and misshapen teeth, wielding a fistful of steak knives.

Nicola recoiled, bumping into Hort, who shoved the portrait behind his back.

“No one comes to Arbed House unless they’re lost,” said a younger boy, emerging next to the first, clutching forks and spoons. “Or if they want to steal our tea. We have the best tea: mint, assam, rose, tulsi, eucalyptus, licorice, cardamom, chamomile. . . .” “Arjun and I are setting the table for dinner before the rest of the boys get back,” the older one cut in. “I can show you to Mistress Gremlaine’s office—” “NO,” blurted their two guests.

Nicola cleared her throat. “We have an appointment with Dean Brunhilde.” “It’s important,” Hort added.

Nicola gave him a look. Let me handle it, it said.

But Hort was on edge. That portrait spooked him. Something happened in this house. Something that made Rhian, Japeth, Kei, and Aric band together and become killers. The answer was here. And they had to find it.

“The Dean isn’t in,” said the older boy.

“Took the others to buy pins from the market,” the younger boy prattled, a ball of baby fat. “She loves those pins. Been giving them to us as a reward. To keep us doing good deeds. Emilio and I already got ours.” “Our guests don’t need every detail of our lives, Arjun,” Emilio sighed, looking back at Hort and Nicola. “I’ll tell the Dean you came by.” “We’ll wait for her outside,” said Hort, heading for the door, anxious to talk to his girlfriend alone— Nicola yanked him back by his collar and Hort squawked. “Actually, we’ll wait for her here,” she said.

Hort looked at Nicola, confused.

Emilio frowned. “I’m not sure when she’ll be ba—” “Oooh, they can help us make supper!” Arjun said excitedly. “Girls are good at cooking!” Hort could see Nicola gritting her teeth.

“Arjun, that wouldn’t be appropriate,” said Emilio.

“But we never get company! Rest of the school thinks we’re Evil!” Arjun insisted, turning to Hort. “You know, cause we’re separate from ‘em and live at the school instead of going home to our parents. But we know the truth: that we’re the best souls. That’s why our parents sent us to Dean Brunhilde for training—” “Mind if I ask your names?” Emilio asked, appraising his guests.

Hort answered: “Oh, we’re two friends of Merl—”

Nicola pinched him and Hort bit back a yelp.

Then he saw it.

On the two boys’ lapels.

Their pins for doing good deeds.

Lion pins.

Hort’s heart stopped. Nicola’s clammy hand grazed his.

“She loves those pins . . .”

Dean Brunhilde might have been a friend of Merlin’s once.

But not anymore.

Because Dean Brunhilde was clearly on King Rhian’s side.

“So?” Emilio asked, his eyes sharpening.

“Yes?” Hort squeaked like a rat.

“Who are you?” Emilio repeated, colder this time.

“Oh, my boyfriend’s a former student of the Dean’s,” said Nicola smoothly, nodding at Hort. “Must have graduated just before you started. Now working as a guard for King Rhian. We’ve come to surprise her with the news.” “I thought you said you had an appointment,” Arjun pipped.

“We do,” said Nicola, smoothing her dress, “but the news is a surprise. Apologies, but it’s been a long journey and I need to sit down. We’ll just wait in the Dean’s office until she returns.” Emilio bristled. “I don’t think that’s—”

“She’ll be thankful you took good care of us. Don’t worry, keep on with supper duty and we’ll show ourselves there,” said Nicola, scooting past the staircase towards the hall.

“But her office is on the second floor!” said Arjun.

“Of course it is,” said Nicola, turning on her heel, Hort scurrying up the steps behind her.

“FOUND THEM,” HORT breathed, scavenging through a cabinet, pulling out stacks of leather-bound files and spreading them on the floor, soot spiking off the covers. “Labeled by name, but not in any order.” “Rhian would have been a student recently. Maybe he’s at the top,” said Nicola, seated at the Dean’s desk, picking through her papers.

They’d found Dean Brunhilde’s office at the end of the hall, but they hadn’t anticipated what a mess it would be: books and notes everywhere, drained mugs with soggy tea bags, vases of flowers that had been dead for years, and a pervasive layer of dust that fogged up the room. How can a Dean be so squalid? Then Hort remembered his own dad, who was so busy taking care of other pirates that his personal quarters were a wreck. Kneeling on the floor, Hort rifled through the files, searching the labels for Rhian’s name: ATTICUS . . . GAEL . . . THANASI . . . LUCAS . . . MISCHA . . . KEI . . .

“DEAR MERLIN—”

Hort wheeled in shock and saw Nicola leap at a brown chestnut bouncing around the desk like a jumping bean, the two sides of the nut flapping open as it spoke: “I’VE TRIED TO SEND THIS MESSAGE SEVERAL TIMES—” Hort lunged for the nut, swiped it into one hand, and crushed the two sides shut, silencing it.

He and Nic stood frozen, listening to the hallway through the closed door.

It remained quiet.

“What is that?” Nic whispered, pointing at Hort’s hand.

“A squirrelly nut,” said Hort. “Safer than a letter, because there’s no paper trail. Squirrel delivers the message and eats the nut, so there’s no evidence it was ever sent. My dad got them from Hook all the time.” “That message was for Merlin. We need to hear it!” Nicola insisted. “How do we play it softer?” “Whole point of a squirrelly nut is the message can’t be preserved,” said Hort. “If you try to open it with your hands, it plays at twenty times the volume, which lets everyone know the recipient is a cheat. Only way to open the message without a squirrel is to do it the way a squirrel does. Like this.” He raised the chestnut like a magician about to do a magic trick and popped it in his mouth. The woody edges chafed against his cheeks, but the nut slid open and a warm bubble of air floated out and pressed against his throat. He closed his eyes and someone else’s words and voice came out of him in a low, hushed tone.

“Dear Merlin, I’ve tried to send this message several times, but even Mistress Gremlaine’s squirrel can’t find you and hers is the best in Foxwood. I’m aware King Rhian, my once-student, has you in captivity as a traitor for supporting Tedros’ claim to the throne. And though I hate to admit it, Merlin, I believe Rhian’s actions justified. I didn’t know he was Arthur’s heir, but I was his Dean for years and I know his soul. You might think him Evil for all that has transpired, but that is because you and your ward, Tedros, believe you are on the side of Good. Yet Excalibur chose Rhian and Excalibur does not lie. It knows, as I do, that Rhian will make a great king. Just look at how he’s handled the behavior of his own brother. That alone proves the Goodness of Rhian’s soul.

As for Rhian’s files, I know you sent a snoop spell to my office to find them. My students’ files are secret, as you know, since you were the one who helped me brew the teas that kept their souls invisible from the School Master. (I still make them drink the tea, even with him dead; you can never be too careful.) But regardless of our friendship, you have no right to snoop in my office, which you well know, otherwise you wouldn’t have resorted to criminal means. The reason you didn’t find Rhian’s files, however, is because I keep them with his brother’s, which I’ve now moved to a secure location, untouchable by your magic.

I do wish you the best, Merlin, whatever your condition, but the sooner you align with the king and swear your loyalty to him, the sooner you will be on the side of Good. True Good.

Best wishes . . . Brunhilde.”

The nut went spongy in Hort’s mouth and dissolved down his throat, sweet and earthy.

He opened his eyes.

“His files aren’t here, then,” said Nicola, panicked. “She moved them. Somewhere we won’t find them.” She grabbed Hort’s wrist. “We have to leave before she comes back!” “Wait,” said Hort, kneeling down to the files on the floor. He picked up the one labeled: KEI. “Just because Rhian’s files aren’t here, doesn’t mean we can’t find something in one of his friends’.” He pulled open the leather folder as Nicola dropped next to him. Hort read the first page of notes.

Father: Footman for King Dutra

Mother: Kei is disturbed; cold, emotionless, no love towards sisters Father thinks it’s a phase: says Kei loves Camelot & King Arthur; wants to be a Camelot guard Agree on 1-year trial in Arbed House

Hort flipped to the next page.

Rhian & Kei: constant Camelot role-play (Kei believes R’s delusions that he’s king); Others, incl. RJ, bully Kei for believing R Separate Kei & R?

Hort moved to the next page.

Kei: chosen for Ever Guard Trials

Then—

Kei & R no longer speaking

The rest of Kei’s file tracked his performance in the Trials, leading up to his selection by Camelot as a guard at the royal castle.

Hort bit his lip. So Rhian had known that he was Camelot’s king when he was at school. Only no one at school believed him, except Kei. So why had Kei and Rhian become estranged? Had Kei stopped believing Rhian? Only to later return to Rhian’s side? That would explain Rhian’s comment to his captain at the castle, when Kei failed to catch Agatha: “But if you’re going to be the weak link, especially after I took you back . . .” Was that also why Dean Brunhilde believed Rhian’s soul was Good? Because she’d ignored his “delusions,” only to be proven wrong?

Maybe that’s why Rhian was sent to Arbed House in the first place. Because he insisted to his parents that he was King Arthur’s heir . . . Because they thought him delusional, like the Dean did . . . But then where was Japeth in all this?

“Hort,” Nicola said.

He turned and saw her holding a file labeled: ARIC.

The first page had more notes.

Found starving & alone in Woods (age: 8? 9?)

Raised by Mahut family (Aric attacked their daughter; murdered pets; burned down house) Brought to Arbed House for full rehabilitation

Hort moved to the next page, the writing more scratchy and frantic.

Spending too much time with RJ

Then—

Attempts to separate them failing

There were no more pages in the file.

“Who’s RJ?” Hort asked. “I thought you said Aric was friends with Japeth.” “Japeth is RJ’s middle name,” said Nicola.

“How do you know?” said Hort.

Nicola held up a faded envelope.

R. JAPETH OF FOXWOOD

62 STROPSHIRE ROAD

It had already been opened. They read the letter inside.

DEAR JAPETH,

TRIED TO WRITE YOU AT SCHOOL. THAT WITCH DEAN PROBABLY KEPT MY LETTERS FROM YOU. BECAUSE I ATTACKED YOUR BROTHER. EVEN THOUGH I HAD FULL RIGHT. YOU KNOW I HAD FULL RIGHT. NOW I’M EXPELLED FROM THE ONLY HOME I HAD. AND THE ONLY FRIEND.

DEAN TRIED TO GET THAT FAMILY I LIVED WITH TO COME GET ME BUT THEY’D SOONER KILL THEMSELVES. SO THE SCHOOL DUMPED ME IN THE WOODS LIKE AN ANIMAL. LIKE MY MOTHER DID. WHAT’D I TELL YOU. PAST IS PRESENT AND PRESENT IS PAST.

I’M AT THE SCHOOL FOR BOYS NOW. THE OLD SCHOOL FOR EVIL.

IT’S NOT THE SAME WITHOUT YOU.

I’M NOT THE SAME.

COME FIND ME.

PLEASE.

PLEASE.

ARIC

Hort’s palms dampened the parchment. He didn’t know why Aric’s letter bothered him. Maybe it was a sadistic monster sounding like he had feelings. Or maybe it was that line—“I attacked your brother”—and its suggestion that Rhian’s and Japeth’s history was about more than the two twins; that there’d been a boy between them, a boy who was now a ghost. Hort glanced edgily at his girlfriend.

“Told you they were friends,” said Nicola.

“This sounds a whole lot closer than friends,” said Hort.

Voices echoed outside. The sounds of boys laughing, singing.

Hort sprung up. From the Dean’s window, he could see them walking across the grass towards the cottage: eight boys, led by Dean Brunhilde.

All of them wearing Lion pins.

The Dean sang—“First we go to hoe our garden!”—and the boys chanted back: “Ya, ya, ya!” “Next we carry jugs of water!” “Ya, ya, ya!” Hort and Nicola gaped at each other, then at the mess they’d made on the floor. No time to clean it up. And no way to get out of this house without being caught.

“Come on!” Nicola said, pulling Hort out of the room and into the hall.

“Then we pound the yellow corn!” “Ya, ya, ya!”

The door opened downstairs and the song cut off, Emilio’s and Arjun’s voices overlapping. . . .

A third voice boomed, matching the one from the nut: “IN MY OFFICE?” Footsteps slammed up the stairs.

Nicola shoved Hort into a dark bathroom, the two of them barreling for the window as boots surged onto their floor. Hort counted to three with his fingers: on cue, both his and Nicola’s fingertips glowed, so brightly it spilled into the hall. Dean Brunhilde swung into the bathroom, steak knife raised— The last thing she saw was a black sparrow and a blond-headed squirrel leap out of the window, two pairs of colorful clothes floating down behind them.

THE HOUSE WAS easy enough to find, once Nicola’s sparrow swiped a map of Foxwood from a market stall on the Rue du Palais, while Hort’s squirrel bounded along the street beneath.

“62 Stropshire Road. That’s the same address Rhian gave Dovey when she asked where he lived,” Hort called to the sparrow after they’d made it to a quiet street. “Remember? Dovey questioned him when we were on the Igraine. He told us his parents’ names too. Levya and Rosalie.” “Rosamund,” said Nicola.

“Even as a bird, you’re a know-it-all,” Hort sighed.

Stropshire Road was on the outer bands of the Foxwood Vales, so peaceful and still that Hort could hear Nicola’s wings flutter as she drifted down to meet him in front of Rhian and Japeth’s old home. There was nothing special about the one-level cottage, perched in between other cottages that looked exactly the same. Shadows moved across the closed curtains, suggesting someone was inside. But first there was the matter of clothes, a problem that was solved by the squirrel and sparrow probing houses on an adjacent road until they found an unlocked window, snuck inside, and raided the closets. A few minutes later, dressed like average Foxwood folk, Hort and Nicola knocked on the door of House 62, and flashed polite smiles when it opened.

A sweet-looking lady peeked out with gold-rimmed glasses. She had a Lion coin on a necklace around her neck. “Can I help you?” “You must be Rosamund?” said Nicola.

“Y-y-yes,” the lady answered, surprised.

“Lovely to meet you,” said Nicola. “We’re from the Foxwood Forum.” “Doing a story on King Rhian’s childhood,” said Hort.

“Since you’re his mother, we thought we’d start with you,” said Nicola.

“You must be very proud,” Hort smiled. “Mind if we come in?” Rosamund blinked. “Oh . . . I’m a-a-afraid there must be a mistake? I’m not King Rhian’s mother.” Hort stared at her. “But King Rhian gave us your address—” “Oh. He did?” Rosamund hesitated. “Well . . . it was a long time ago. I suppose there’s no harm in telling you now. Especially if the king gave permission. This was back when he was a boy. We had an arrangement with Rhian’s mother when Elle lived across the street. In House Number 63. She told Levya and I that she’d come to Foxwood to hide from the boys’ father. We could save her life by telling anyone who might ask that her boys were ours instead. Clearly Elle didn’t want the boys’ father to find her or his sons. Understandable, of course, now that I know she was raising the future king and liege of Camelot.” “You said her name was Elle?” Hort asked.

“That’s the name she gave me,” said Rosamund. “But she was very private. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t her real name.” “How long did she live here?” Nicola pressed.

“Ten years, maybe? From the last months of her pregnancy until she sent the boys off to school. Then she left and I never saw her again. It’s been ages.” “And what did Elle look like?” Hort hounded.

“Tall, thin, dark hair. Lovely mouth and eyebrows. The last time I saw her at least,” said Rosamund. “Wish I could help, but she told me hardly anything about herself or the boys and they rarely left the house.” Hort glanced at Nicola, reading her face. Tall, thin, dark hair . . . Elle sounded a lot like Tedros’ steward. Lady Gremlaine, Hort remembered.

He suddenly thought of something Mistress Gremlaine’s son said to her before he took his brother to the park: “Now you’re sounding like Aunt Grisella . . .” Grisella, Hort thought.

Ella.

Elle.

Lady Gremlaine must have raised the boys here in secret and put them in Arbed House before she returned to work in Camelot’s castle.

“You said Elle lived in Number 63?” Nicola asked, turning back to Rosamund.

“Right there,” the woman nodded, pointing at a house across the street. “Been empty for a long time now. Nothing to see at all.” A FEW MINUTES later, once Rosamund had gone back into her house, Hort and Nicola were already inside Number 63.

It had been easy to break in, given the state of the house’s doors: waterlogged and splintered, the locks long broken. But the mission was a futile one. There was little left inside: no furniture, no clothes, no junk or trash or crumbs of food. The walls and floors had been bleached or repainted, even the ceiling, as if Grisella Gremlaine had wanted to leave no trace of her or the family that lived there.

“She was right,” Hort sighed, leaning against a closet door. “Nothing here.” They heard voices outside and Nicola peered out the window to see three Foxwood guards in red uniforms coming down the road, knocking on each house, holding up crude sketches of her and Hort to the occupants.

Nicola’s finger glowed. “Let’s go,” she said, mogrifying into a sparrow and hopping out of her puddle of clothes, towards the door.

Hort closed his eyes, fingertip glowing blue, about to morph back into a squirrel and follow Nic out— But then he heard something.

A strange sound.

Coming from the closet in front of him.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Hort opened his eyes.

More rustling. More tapping.

Against the back of the door.

His skin went cold.

Leave, his body told him. Leave now.

Hort moved towards the closet.

“What are you doing?” Nic’s sparrow hissed. “They’ll catch us!” But Hort’s hand was already reaching out, his heart vibrating in his chest, as his sweaty palm curled around the knob and pulled it open— A single blue butterfly flung out from inside, skeletal, dried up, flying madly around Hort’s head with one last rush of life . . .

Then it fell at his feet, dead.