فصل 8

Chapter 8

HORT

Someday My Weasel Will Come

When Hort was a child, a pirate boy named Dabo used to bully him by roping him to a tree and putting things down his pants. Roaches, leeches, ants, cat poo, spiders, pee-filled snow, and once a stolen hawk egg, which the mother hawk came for, leaving Hort with ten stitches in his thigh.

But none of this compared to the sheer torture of having one of the Snake’s slimy, sticky eels worm down his shirt, probing every inch of skin.

Hort stood stiffly in the corner of Sophie’s bedroom, clad in a poofy, ill-fitting white tunic and matching harem pants that he had to double-knot so they wouldn’t fall down. He focused on the sounds of the bath running and Sophie’s faint humming as the eel roamed over his chest. He tried not to scream.

His release from the dungeons had come with a price. A scim stuck to him like a parasite. A sliver of the Snake’s body melded onto his own, spying on his every move— “Hey!” Hort snarled, snatching the scim as it slithered into his pants. The eel hissed and stabbed his thumb, drawing a drop of blood, before it hopped up Hort’s flank and neck and curled around his ear.

“Dirty little bugger,” Hort murmured, sucking his thumb. He wanted to grab the little leech and smash it and grind it to a pulp, but he knew another scim would replace it. If he was lucky. More likely he’d be killed or thrown back in the dungeons.

Morning sun frayed through the window and Hort rubbed his eyes. He’d been freed from his cell last night by the Snake—who, upon hearing his brother had made a deal with Sophie to set Hort free, had taken it upon himself to do the freeing, for the sole purpose of tormenting Tedros into thinking it was the prince that Sophie had released. Then the Snake had dragged Hort out of the dungeons, slapped him with a surveilling scim, and whisked him straight to a servant’s quarters the size of a closet, where he’d been locked in the dark. At dawn, Hort had been jolted awake by guards, fitted in this billowing uniform like a discount genie, and brought to the queen’s chamber, sleepless and filthy, and told to wait for his new “Mistress” to emerge from her bath.

Why did Sophie pick me? he wondered now.

She could have picked anyone. Tedros. Hester. She could have picked Dovey. She could have picked the Dean.

Does she need me for something only I can do?

Is she sacrificing me so the others can live?

His blood pumped hotter.

Or . . . did she choose to save me first?

The scim moved and Hort remembered it was there. Only Sophie could make him forget about a monster on his ear.

He blushed hotter and sniffed his armpits. Blech. Maybe he could ask to use the bath after she was finished. He’d need to be quick. The Blessing was in less than an hour and as her new “steward,” he’d been tasked with getting her ready, even though he had no idea what that meant.

Hort glanced around the vast room, suddenly ashimmer in sunlight. Everything looked freshly remodeled: the blue marble tiles with Lion emblems, the silk wallpaper textured with gold Lions, the flawless gem-crusted mirrors, and a clean white settee stitched with a gold Lion’s head.

All that time playing Tedros’ loyal knight, Hort snorted, thinking of Rhian’s perfectly honed act. Almost made him feel sorry for Tedros.

Almost.

The scim started creeping down his neck again.

Hort could hear the bathwater draining. His thoughts turned to Sophie in the bath and he bit down on the inside of his cheek. He had a girlfriend now, who was pretty and smart and fun, and when you have a girlfriend, you’re not supposed to think about other girls, especially girls in bathtubs and girls who you’ve obsessed about for three years. He tried to distract himself with details of the room but found his eyes moving to Sophie’s bed . . . the silky, rumpled sheets . . . the tin of hazelnuts on the night table . . . the cup of tea and vial of untouched honey . . . the red lipstick on the edge of the cup . . .

The doors opened behind him and two young maids in white uniforms that matched the color of his own entered the queen’s chamber, lugging heaps of garment bags. Hort hustled to help and saw each bag was branded with VON ZARACHIN FABRICS as he hauled them into his arms and laid them over the settee. He turned to the maids, but they were already shuffling back through the doors, heads down and faces hidden by their bonnets.

“Are those my dresses from Madame Clothilde? Thank goodness,” Sophie said, sweeping out of the bathroom in a pink robe, a towel turbaned around her head, as she barely gave Hort a glance. “Madame Clothilde Von Zarachin is the empress of fashion in the Woods. All the best princesses are wearing her clothes. Madame Clothilde even designed Evelyn Sader’s gown, you know, the one made out of those spying blue butterflies. Nearly killed us all our second year, but c’est magnifique, wasn’t it? Last night I wrote Madame in a panic, begging her to send me something to wear for the Blessing, and given my new position, she naturally obliged. She warned it would be prohibitively expensive, but I told her Rhian would pay, whatever the cost. He and his brother have lost all right to clothe me after last night. Not just because the dress they gave me was gruesome (though I certainly made it more chic), but because it gave me hives, Hort. As soon as I got back to my room, it started burning my skin like it was made of fire ants. You know how allergic I am to cheap fabric. In any case, I got the dress off before it did any real damage and smoked it to a crisp.” She watched the last shreds of it smolder in the fireplace. “No, no, no, I won’t wear anything of their mother’s ever again. They needn’t even bring up the idea. Is that clear? Hort?” She glared at Hort for the first time.

Hort blinked. “Um.”

Only now he saw that Sophie wasn’t glaring at him, but at the scim on his neck, as if her entire monologue had been delivered for its benefit. She fluttered over to the settee. “Now let’s find something appropriate for church—” Hort stepped in her path. “Sophie. What am I doing here?” Sophie locked eyes with him. “First of all, it’s ‘Mistress’ Sophie, since you are my steward now. Second, I don’t know what you are ‘doing’ other than idling about in poor-fitting pajamas and smelling like a gorilla, but what you are supposed to be doing is helping me prepare for my first wedding event.” “Look, no one’s here—get this thing off me—” Hort demanded, pointing at his scim.

“Help me open boxes . . . I’m going to be late . . . ,” Sophie puffed.

“I don’t care! Sophie, you need to—”

Sophie shot a pink spark past Hort’s ear with her lit finger and the scim on his neck swiveled towards the door, just long enough for Sophie to mouth at Hort: “IT CAN HEAR.” Hort swallowed.

“How about this?” Sophie said brightly, holding up a brilliant blue sari, stitched with peacock feathers. “It’ll make the Blessing feel more worldly—” Eight gold scims tore through it like arrows, ripping it to shreds.

Sophie and Hort spun to see Japeth enter in the gold-and-blue suit he’d worn at Rhian’s coronation, before the eight gold scims circled back and fused into his suit. Rhian’s twin had a black eye, gashes in his forehead and cheeks, and there were several rips in his shirt, bloody skin exposed underneath.

“That is what you will be wearing to the Blessing,” he said to Sophie.

Sophie followed his eyes to the fireplace . . .

. . . where a prim, ruffled white frock lay over the cold coals.

Sophie recoiled in shock.

“That is what you will wear every day,” said Japeth. “That is your uniform. And if you choose to desecrate my mother’s dress again, I will desecrate you in precisely the same manner.” Sophie’s eyes were still on the dress. “B-b-but I burnt it! To ashes, right there. There was nothing left . . . How can it be back . . .” Meanwhile, Hort was gawking at Japeth, who looked like he’d been mauled by a tiger. Japeth returned a glare and morphed into his black Snake suit, the skintight scims revealing even more clearly the bloody rips in his armor.

“Protests to support Tedros,” he explained. “Put up a fight, those dogs. Could have used the king’s help, but he was too busy making deals to let prisoners free.” He wiped blood from his lip. “Didn’t matter in the end. There was nothing left of ‘em.” He peered down at his own battered body . . . then turned to Sophie, who was still gazing at the fireplace. Japeth’s eyes sparked ominously.

“Like it never happened . . . ,” he said.

He made a sharp move for the princess. Sophie saw him coming.

“Don’t touch her!” Hort yelled, streaking for the Snake— Japeth seized Sophie’s palm and slit it open with a scim, before he smeared her hand over his chest and face in a single move.

Hort froze, shell-shocked.

The Snake quivered; he tilted his head back in pain, his jaw flexing, as Sophie’s blood spread over his wounds and magically healed him, his face and body restored.

Hort swallowed a shriek.

“Now, then. How about a tea?” the Snake said, smiling at Sophie. “I’m making some for my brother. We’re particular about our tea.” Sophie stared at him.

“It’ll settle your nerves,” said Japeth, reverting to his gold-and-blue suit, shiny and clean. His grin widened. “First wedding event and all.” “No thank you,” Sophie rasped.

“Suit yourself,” said Japeth. “Meet us in the Throne Room. You’ll ride with us to the church.” His eyes flicked to Hort. “You too, steward.”

Japeth strode out of the room and as he did, a last scim floated off his suit, dangled high in the air . . . and harpooned through Madame Clothilde’s garment bags, up and down, right and left, zigging and zagging until they were shot through with holes. The scim moseyed after its master, the door closing softly behind it.

Silence filled the queen’s chamber.

The eel on Hort’s neck zipped over to the settee and found a garment bag that had slipped between cushions and stabbed it repeatedly, gurgling and grunting to itself.

Slowly, Hort turned to Sophie, who stood in the center of the room, her palm cut open, dripping blood onto her bathrobe.

He noticed a shallower cut on the same hand next to the open gash.

Japeth had done this to her before.

Hort’s stomach curled.

What the hell?

How could her blood heal him?

What did I just see?

Sophie looked at him, lost and scared.

If she’d had a plan in getting him out, she’d lost faith in it.

Help, her eyes said.

Only Hort had no way to help. Not until she told him why she’d picked him over everyone else. Not until she told him what was going on.

Hort waited until the scim was well-distracted, continuing to tear up Sophie’s new clothes. Carefully Hort raised his lit finger and wrote in tiny smoke letters that dissipated as they formed . . .

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Sophie glanced over at the eel, stabbing and gurgling. Then she wrote Hort back.

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At first he didn’t understand.

But then he did.

Sophie had waited her whole life for love.

“Someday my prince will come,” she’d wished.

She’d kissed a lot of frogs.

Some had tried to marry her. Some had tried to kill her.

But no one loved her. Not in the right way.

Except him.

And Sophie knew it.

She knew Hort loved her. That he would always love her, no matter what terrible things she’d done to him, no matter how many awful boys she’d snogged, no matter whether he had a beautiful, awesome girlfriend or not. She knew that even with his heart pledged to Nicola, Hort would help her. That if she could just get him out of jail, he’d never let anything happen to her.

And now here he was, sprung from the dungeons to join her in taking on a creep king and his bloodsucking liege.

That’s why Sophie picked him.

To be her second. To be her liege in this fight.

Hort’s muscles twitched.

No Agatha to show him up this time.

No Tedros to humiliate him.

No one but him.

Hort’s fists sealed like rocks.

This was his chance to be a hero.

His one and only chance.

And he intended to take it.

AS HE ACCOMPANIED Sophie through the Blue Tower hall, Hort slipped his hand in his pocket and felt the sticky nuts clumped together.

He’d stolen them while Sophie was changing in the bathroom. Two hazelnuts, which he’d smothered in honey and hidden in his big genie pants while his scim finished massacring Madame Clothilde’s creations. He’d used a pebble coated in tree sap when he’d taken his revenge on Dabo, the pirate bully, but today, hazelnuts and honey would have to do. If all went according to plan, Rhian would be dead before the Blessing.

He glanced over at Sophie, but she wasn’t looking at him, her hands folded in front of her prudish white dress, which she’d worn as Japeth commanded. Blood stained the bandage around her palm, getting redder by the second. Hort could tell she was still shaken by what the Snake had done to her: not because of her unsteady walk or her empty gaze or her poorly wrapped bandage . . . but because of her shoes. She’d worn flat, dull slippers with as much style as Agatha’s clumps.

His hand grazed hers, which felt stone cold.

Hort wanted to comfort her . . . to tell her he had a plan . . . but his spying eel was around his ear again, back at attention.

Meanwhile, he could feel guilt gnawing at him, as if he was cheating on Nicola by being here with Sophie.

Don’t be an idiot. Nicola would want him to do anything it took to save his friends. And it’s not like he was trying to make Sophie his girlfriend. Those days were over. He had Nic now: a girl who loved him for who he was, unlike Sophie, who’d never thought he was good enough. Well, soon he’d have the last laugh. Because he was going to show Sophie he was good enough . . . Just in a strictly platonic way.

He saw a maid approaching, older than the ones in Sophie’s room— Hort startled.

Guinevere.

Her lips were sealed by a scim like the one on his ear. Which meant she too was under the king’s eye.

But there was something else, Hort noticed. Something near her ear. Something tiny and purple tucked deep in her white hair that the scim on her mouth couldn’t see . . . A flower. Tedros’ mother never wore jewelry or makeup, let alone flowers in her hair, let alone while captive in a murderer’s castle— But by the time he could get a good look at it, Guinevere was already past them, giving Hort and Sophie only a cursory glance.

Hort refocused, hewing to Sophie’s side as they neared the staircase at the end of the hall. Now wasn’t the time to worry about Tedros’ mother or what she was up to.

Rhian’s waiting, he thought, nuts rubbing in his pocket. You’ll only get one chance.

But as they neared the top of the staircase, Sophie paused over the banister.

Hort followed her eyes to the ground floor.

Rhian sat on King Arthur’s throne, clutching a mug as he perused a large box of green marbles, holding up each one and peering into it like a spyglass. From overhead, Hort could see the copper gleam of his close-cut hair and a jagged scar across the top of his skull. Steam curled off Rhian’s tea and rose over Arthur’s gold throne, Camelot’s crest carved into the back and Lion claws at the end of its arms. The throne occupied an elevated stage, leading down short steps to the rest of the Throne Room. Behind the king, blue sky framed him like a canvas through floor-to-ceiling glass, beyond which Hort could see a gold message in the sky from Rhian’s phony pen, about a boy named Hristo who wanted to be Rhian’s knight. At the king’s feet lay a colossal rug, stretching down the steps, the fabric stitched like a painted tapestry, depicting the scene of . . .

Rhian’s coronation, Hort realized, leaning over the rail.

In rococo hues of blue and gold, Rhian triumphantly pulled Excalibur from the stone, while Tedros, sewn with a gnarled body and ogre’s face, was forced to his knees by guards. In the foreground, the people of Camelot cheered. Sophie was in the scene too, hands clasped, a loving smile on her face as she watched her new husband-to-be.

The scene looked so perfectly rendered, so real, that Hort had to remind himself that it hadn’t happened that way at all.

He glanced at Sophie, who was staring listlessly at the rug, as if the lie might as well be the truth.

Hort scanned the room for Rhian’s twin. The Snake was nowhere to be seen.

But Rhian wasn’t alone.

Those three strange sisters that Hort had seen released from jail lurked at the base of the steps beneath the stage, cloaked in shadow. Two pirate guards in helmets and full armor stood on either side of them.

The sisters seemed tense, their bare feet twitching, as they watched Rhian gaze into each green marble in the box.

“These are the RSVPs to the wedding,” he said. “Many rulers sent messages, showing me how excited their kingdoms are about their new king and queen.” With a lit finger, he floated a handful of green marbles into the air, which cast smoky green projections of scenes from around the Woods: magic carpets departing in Shazabah from a station labeled “WEDDING TOURS,” with mile-long lines of passengers waiting their turn; a beachside congregation in Ooty, where thousands gathered to watch Lionsmane’s new tale glow against the northern lights; a fierce competition in Maidenvale to see who would represent the kingdom in the Circus of Talents; young Hristo’s beaming classmates in Malabar Hills, holding a sign: “FRIENDS OF HRISTO, FUTURE KNIGHT.” “Every kingdom in the Endless Woods accepted the invitation,” said Rhian. “Every single one.” Then he held up a red marble from the box.

“Except this one.”

His eyes lowered to the three hags. “And its leader was kind enough to send a message too.” A projection leapt out of the ball in Rhian’s hand, with a greasy, bearded man glaring daggers at the king.

Hort’s and Sophie’s eyes widened, recognizing him at once.

“I’m sorry to decline your invitation, Your Highness,” the Sheriff of Nottingham said, “but as long as my daughter is in your dungeons, Camelot is an enemy of Nottingham.” He loomed closer in the projection. “By the way, strange coincidence, isn’t it, that the man who robbed my prison and freed the Snake is now the captain of your guard. Kei’s his name, isn’t it? Why would he want to go freeing the Snake? Hmm? One thing I do know: you robbed me . . . and soon I’ll rob you.” The message flew back into the marble, which rolled out of Rhian’s hand and clinked gently into the box.

The king looked at the three sisters. “You have one job. To keep the kingdoms on my side until the wedding. All the kingdoms. And you can’t even do that.” The low-voiced sister cleared her throat. “Just release Dot and the problem will disappear. Sheriff won’t cause trouble once she’s free.” “I agree with Alpa,” said the high-pitched one. “You don’t need her. Dot’s dumb as a slug. That’s how we sprung Japeth out of prison. By using her.” “Bethna’s right,” the hissy third nodded. “Nip the problem in the bud. The girl’s useless to you.” Rhian took a sip of tea. “I see. A leader of a kingdom threatens to attack me and you’d like to kindly return his daughter.” The three hags shifted on bony legs like egrets.

The king turned to a guard. “Send a team to kill the Sheriff. Make it look like supporters of Tedros did it.” Then he gazed darkly at the sisters. “As for you, I’d think long and hard about what happens to advisors whose advice a king no longer takes. Get out.” The three hags sunk their heads and skittered from the room.

As they exited, Kei hustled in and blew past the pirate guards— “Sire,” he said. “Today’s Camelot Courier.”

Rhian took it from his captain.

From the balcony, Hort could see the front page headline: AGATHA SAFE AT SCHOOL FOR GOOD AND EVIL

Leading a Rebel Army Against “King” Rhian

“A real captain would be catching Agatha instead of giving me old news,” said the king. “Japeth’s map already told me she’d made it to school. Lucky for you and your men, no one outside Camelot will believe it and you’ll have her in my dungeons soon enou—” He saw Kei’s expression. “What is it?” Kei handed over two more newspapers.

THE NOTTINGHAM NEWS

AGATHA SAFE AT SCHOOL! STIRRING A REBEL ARMY?

THE SHERWOOD FOREST REPORT

AGATHA LIVES! REAL QUEEN OF CAMELOT LEADING ARMY AGAINST RHIAN!

Loud cracks detonated behind him and Rhian turned to see a hawk rapping on the glass with its beak, a scroll in its talons and a royal collar around its neck. Then a collared crow flew up next to the hawk with its own scroll . . . then a fairy . . . then a hummingbird . . . then a winged monkey . . . all unfurling notes against the glass.

“Messages from your allies, sire,” said the guard closest to the window. “They want to know if the Blessing will be secure, given rumors of a ‘rebel army.’” Rhian bared his teeth, turning on Kei. “Catch that witch now!” “The magical barrier around the school is stronger than we thought,” Kei defended. “We’ve recruited the best sorcerers from other kingdoms, trying to find one who can break through—” But suddenly Hort wasn’t listening anymore. He was staring at Rhian’s tea mug, abandoned on the seat of the throne, directly under the balcony.

This was his chance.

As the scim curled around his right ear, Hort slowly slipped his hand into his left pocket, out of the eel’s view.

Standing to Hort’s left, Sophie felt his hand brush her hip. She glanced down and saw him draw two hazelnuts out of his pants, globbed in honey. Her eyes flew to Hort’s. But he didn’t look at her as he leaned across the railing on his right elbow, hung his left hand over the balcony . . . and smoothly released the clumped nuts.

They plunked deep into the mug of tea with the cleanest of splashes.

Sophie goggled at Hort, but the scim on Hort’s ear had curled around, sensing something afoot, and Sophie quickly pretended to fix Hort’s collar. “You know what? The king seems busy,” she said to her steward, with a loaded look. “Let’s go back to our chamber and let him enjoy his tea.” “Yes, mistress,” Hort said, stifling a grin.

As they started walking, Hort could see Rhian still chastising Kei below.

“You got my brother out of prison, out of the Sheriff’s enchanted sack, and now you can’t break into a school?” the king seethed. “You and I are a team. We’ve been a team since the beginning. But if you’re going to be the weak link, especially after I took you back—” Kei reddened. “Rhian, I’m trying—”

The king lifted a finger and Lionsmane flew out of his pocket and lined up in front of Kei’s brown eye, the pen’s razor-tip caressing his pupil like a target.

“Try harder, captain,” said the king, needling the pen even closer.

Kei’s voice came out strangled. “Yes, sire.”

“Guards!” Rhian called, summoning Lionsmane back into hand. “Bring me Sophie.” Spooked, Sophie sped her pace down the hall, but Hort’s eel bolted off him and over the balcony, letting out a piercing shriek.

Rhian’s eyes flicked to the second floor, where the black scim had blocked Sophie’s path, pointing at the princess’s head like an arrow.

A SHORT WHILE later, Sophie paced on the throne stage, gazing at her work, glowing hot pink in midair.

A pirate stood onstage, hand on his sword, his dark helmeted eyes moving warily between Hort and Sophie.

Sophie tapped her glowing pink fingertip to her lips, rereading her words— Agatha has been caught! Another traitor of Camelot, brought down by the Lion. Do not believe other reports.

“Not quite right,” Sophie murmured.

Hort studied her from one side of the stage steps, while Rhian watched her from the other.

Sophie turned to Rhian. “Are you sure this is wise? You said Lionsmane is supposed to rival the Storian. To ‘inspire’ and ‘give hope.’ Not be the king’s mouthpiece.” “I choose the stories. You write them,” said Rhian curtly.

“Plus, the Storian reports facts,” Sophie argued. “So far Lionsmane’s stories have been true, distorted as they are. But this is a lie that can be found out—” “When your dear friend Agatha is being tortured in our dungeons, we can finish this conversation,” said the king.

Sophie stiffened and went back to work.

Hort, meanwhile, had fantasies of bashing Rhian’s head like a ripe pumpkin. Comparatively, Sophie was handling the situation quite well, he thought. He knew how much she cared about Agatha. Touting her own friend’s demise couldn’t be easy.

He glanced furtively at the mug of tea on Rhian’s throne, growing cold.

He saw Sophie glance over at it too and meet his eyes for a half-second.

“Drat’s your name, isn’t it?” Rhian asked, sidling against Hort.

Hort wanted to knee the sleazy, lying scum in the crown jewels or at least tell him to back the hell up, but he controlled himself.

“It’s Hort, Your Highness. And thank you for generously allowing me to serve in your castle.” “Mmhmm,” said Rhian. “Though you won’t serve long if you keep smelling like a sewer. Do us all some good and learn to bathe. I’m not sure that’s something they teach you in fairy-tale school.” Hort clenched his teeth. Rhian knew full well why he stank. He just wanted to bully Hort the way he’d bullied Tedros. It’s why Rhian was pressed hard against him, so Hort could feel his biceps, bigger than his own. Hort himself had been jacked with muscle until he’d left on this quest, but he hadn’t lifted weights in weeks and he’d started to whittle back down to a weasel’s frame. It hadn’t bothered him much, since Nicola liked the old, scrawny Hort she’d read about in books. But it bothered him now.

“Truth is, when Sophie chose you, I couldn’t remember you at all,” said Rhian. “Had to flip back through Sophie’s fairy tale to see who you were. Easy to get you and Dot confused, since you’re both deadweight. But you’re the one who Sophie wanted free, so here you are . . . for now.” The king turned to Hort, hardening to stone. “One wrong move and I’ll carve out your heart.” Hort didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He could see Sophie pretending to work, but he knew she was listening. The color had returned to her cheeks, as if her spirit had revived. As if she was brewing a plan . . . Her eyes darted back to the tea on the king’s throne.

“Surprised she picked you,” Rhian baited Hort. “From what I read, you’re the boy she never wanted.” “Surprised you’re still alive, Your Highness,” said Hort.

“Oh, is that why she picked you? Because you’re going to kill me?” Rhian attacked, eyes flashing.

Hort looked at him quizzically. “No, Your Highness. I meant that Willam and Bogden predicted you’d be dead by now. That you’d have an accident before the Blessing. Saw it in their tarot cards down in the dungeons. And they’re never wrong.” “Don’t be ridiculous, Hort,” Sophie said, turning. “Those two couldn’t predict a storm if they were in the middle of one.” She peered at Hort intently, as if reading his mind, before looking at the king. “Bogden was my student and failed all of his classes and Willam is an altar boy who I once caught having a passionate conversation with a peony bush. If those two are ‘seers,’ then I’m the Bearded Lady of Hajira.” She turned back to her work. “Oh yes, I see what’s missing.” She revised with her pink glow— Celebrate! Rogue Agatha has been caught! Yet another enemy of Camelot, brought down by the Lion. Scoff at all other reports. There is only one army: the Lion’s Army. And it is made of you: the people of the Woods! Live under the Lion and you will be safe forever.

“There. Ready to post,” Sophie said, itching at her starchy white dress. “You know, the writing process is strangely fulfilling. Challenges every part of you.” She picked Rhian’s mug of tea off the throne, handed it to the guard onstage, and sank down onto the golden seat. “Even if it’s in the service of pure fiction.” Hort tracked the mug in the guard’s hands, waiting for Sophie to make her move . . . but instead, she reclined against the throne, looking increasingly at ease, as Rhian inspected her work. Lionsmane floated out of the king’s pocket, the gold pen hovering next to him, waiting for him to approve Sophie’s message.

Rhian kept rereading it.

“If you think you can do better, you’re welcome to try,” Sophie mused.

“Just seeing if you’ve hidden anything inside of it,” the king growled. “You know . . . like a message to your friend and her ‘rebel’ army.” “Yes, that’s me. The Sultaness of Subterfuge,” Sophie wisped. “Slipping unbreakable codes into a king’s propaganda.” Rhian ignored her, still studying her words.

To Hort’s alarm, the king had forgotten about his tea entirely. With Rhian’s back turned, Hort kept glaring at Sophie, who seemed to have forgotten about the tea too as she sat there smiling like a Cheshire cat. What was she doing? Why did she look so smug? She needed to get him to drink the tea! Hort’s heart hammered. Should he offer Rhian the tea himself? How suspicious would that look! Sweat trickled down his cheek. He needed to settle down or his scim would sense something— That’s when Sophie rose and calmly took the mug back from the guard.

“Your tea is getting cold and I can’t stand the smell,” she said, walking it down to the king. “What did you make it with? Burnt leather and cow dung?” Barely looking at her, Rhian swiped it and magically reheated the mug with his gold fingerglow, his eyes still vetting Sophie’s message. . . .

“We’re going to be late,” Sophie said, firing a spell at the message, gilding it in gold, before she magically shot it through the window and into the sky, where it branded against the brilliant blue. “People will think I’m having cold feet.” Rhian frowned, still focused on the message. “Where’s Japeth?” “Licking his scales?” Sophie mused.

Rhian turned to the guard. “Fetch my brother, so we can ride with him.” He took a last big swig of his tea.

Hort held his breath. He saw the clumped hazelnuts slide to the surface and straight into the king’s throat— Rhian choked instantly.

He dropped the teacup, which shattered and splashed as he grabbed his throat with a wheezing spasm.

It’d been the same choke that Hort had induced in Dabo with a tree-sapped pebble before the bully had managed to cough it out. But this time, Hort used two nuts. Rhian doubled over, hacking with all his might, but all that came out was a gasp.

For a brief, shining moment, he thought Rhian was going to die, just like he’d hoped. Sophie backed up at Hort’s side, eyes widening, as if her nightmare was over— But then Hort saw the guards running for the king.

Time for Plan B.

Hort’s head swung to Sophie. She read his face.

Sophie sprinted in front of the guards and seized Rhian from behind, crushing his stomach with both arms, again and again, until the king coughed up the nuts with such force that they slammed a hole in the glass and flew out into the clean air.

Blue-faced, Rhian heaved for breath as Sophie thumped on his spine. He yanked away from her— “You poisoned me . . . you witch!” he wheezed, spotting the crack in the window. “You put something . . . in my tea. . . .” Sophie flashed that indignant look that Hort knew so well. “Poisoned you! And here I thought I saved your life!” Doubled over, Rhian shook his head. “It was you—I know it was you—” “Wouldn’t the guard on the stage have seen it, then?” Sophie lashed. “Wouldn’t my steward’s slimy little eel?” The king turned his head to the guard, who said nothing. Hort’s scim gave a confused burble.

“If I wanted you dead, I’d have let you strangle yourself,” Sophie hectored. “Instead, I rescued you. And you have the nerve to accuse me?” Rhian searched her face. He glanced at Hort, who made his move.

“Not to overstep my bounds, sire,” said Sophie’s steward, “but the real question is who made the tea.” Rhian eyed him narrowly. “Japeth brought it from the kitchens,” he said, still rasping. He swiveled to a guard. “Ask him who made it. Whoever made the tea, bring them here and I’ll rip out their throat—” “I made it,” said a voice.

Rhian, Hort, and Sophie raised their eyes.

Japeth posed in silhouette at the entrance to the Throne Room.

“And I made it exactly how you like it,” he said.

“And you didn’t notice something in it?” Rhian blasted. “Something big enough to kill me?” Japeth’s blue eyes chilled. “First you indulge that witch. Then you let a prisoner free. And now I’m trying to kill you with your tea.” “Accidents happen,” his brother fumed. “Especially accidents that would make you king.” “That’s right. Such a good sleuth,” Japeth sneered. “Such a good king.” The two brothers glared daggers at each other.

“Think I’ll skip this morning’s festivities,” said Japeth.

He exited the room, his boots clacking on tile.

A hot, wormy tension stayed behind.

Hort picked his moment.

One last move.

“See? Willam and Bogden were right,” Hort whispered to Sophie, but loud enough for Rhian to hear. “They said the king would die before the Blessing!” “Don’t be an imp,” Sophie scoffed, catching his drift. “First of all, the king didn’t die. Second, it was a silly accident, and third, just because Willam and Bogden have had a few lucky guesses, doesn’t mean they’re harbingers of doom. Now go fetch the carriage. I’ll bring Rhian—” “Wait,” said the king.

Hort and Sophie turned in perfect synch.

Rhian straightened, his shadow casting over them.

“Guards, bring Willam and Bogden from the dungeons,” he ordered. “They’ll ride with us too.” Sophie clasped her chest. “Willam and Bogden? Are you . . . sure?” Rhian didn’t answer, already stalking out of the hall.

Sophie hurried behind him, snapping at her steward to follow. And as she did, her eyes met Hort’s for a sliver of a moment.

Not long enough for Rhian or a scim to notice.

But long enough for Hort to see Sophie wink at him, as if he’d earned his place at her side.

Hort blushed in his heart, chasing after his mistress.

At last, her Weasel had come.