“I want Auntie Rilla.” Fyrian’s voice was hoarse from crying.
My hand dropped to my side. We hadn’t exhausted all our options yet, and the cost of telling Aunt Cendrilla was a forced marriage. “But Father will—”
“She’d rescue me if you told her I was in peril.”
I sighed. “Please give me some time. I won’t let you get executed.”
“Madam Maritimus isn’t strong enough to subdue Master Fosco. He might not be so understanding if he catches you meddling again. Tell Auntie Rilla.”
She wasn’t listening, and I wasn’t certain enough about his guilt to risk my freedom. “How can you be sure he killed—”
“Master Fosco can generate his own fire,” she replied. “And don’t you think it’s suspicious that he didn’t notice the smell and heat of the dragon fire from the next room? He should at least have heard Jankin’s last scream.”
“True, but—”
“But nothing. He’s the killer”
My shoulders slumped. It was exhausting, having an opinionated dragon living in my head. She seemed to think I was being willfully ignorant by not following her orders to contact the palace. I understood her desperation—no one wanted to be locked up facing execution. But she really needed to understand that I had just as much to lose as her if Father knew I wasn’t really visiting Mother in the realm of the fairies.
I strode across the room and opened the door. “All right. Master Fosco could have done it. But why would he want Mr. Jankin dead?”
Rufus, Gobi, and Stafford lay fast asleep on the sofas, reeking of strong alcohol. Their uniforms and hair were in disarray, as though they’d been out for most of the night wrestling each other and quaffing goblets of dragon’s tears. I wrinkled my nose and hurried past the snoring trio.
“I… I don’t know why Fosco would kill Jankin,” she replied.
“You’ve been a messenger dragonet since I was little.” I pushed the next door open and headed down the hallway. Gas lamps flickered into life, illuminating the rough, sandstone walls.
“True.”
“So, you must have seen Master Fosco and Mr. Jankin interact.”
“A few times. But Jankin only got the job three years ago.”
“Did it seem like they hated each other?”
“Actually, I got the impression that they were friends. Whenever I’d send a letter from Auntie Rilla, they’d always talk about how much they hated your father.”
“See? We need to keep our options open. The killer could be anyone.” I stepped out of a door that led to a terrace.
Fyrian sighed. “All right.”
The sun hadn’t finished rising above the distant hills, indicating that there was plenty of time to get everything done and meet the others in the mess hall. I walked along the terraces, glancing at the stalls that overlooked the mountain’s exterior. Most of the dragons had left, presumably for the breakfast being served on the interior. When I reached Fyrian’s stall, she was eating an elephant bird. They were twice the size of an ostrich and four times as fatty.
I sat on the grass outside her pen, watching her eat. “I wonder if the bird is their way of apologizing for nearly killing you.”
She didn’t glance up, and I picked at the clover growing within the blades of grass. I supposed she was one of those people who didn’t like to talk when they ate.
“Bluford.” Phoenix loomed over me, his chin-length, burgundy hair forming a curtain over his face. “What are you doing?”
“Talking to Fyrian.” I nodded in the dragon’s direction. “I went to Mr. Jankin’s room last night and found something odd about the crime scene. There’s no way a dragon could have done it.”
He drew in a sharp breath. “We must tell Master Fosco immediately.”
Fyrian raised her head from the elephant bird. “Fosco won’t attack you in front of his apprentice.”
“All right.” I pulled myself to my feet and followed Phoenix past the pens and back through the interior of the mountain.
Before we entered the reception area open, he paused and placed a hand on my shoulder. “If this evidence you’ve found is compelling, you’ll be saving a dragon from execution.
My heart soared. Perhaps we would resolve this without needing to contact Father or Aunt Cendrilla.
Phoenix pushed the door to the reception area open and gasped.
“What?” I squeezed past and froze.
Lying motionless on the polished, sandstone floor in a pool of her own blood was Evolene, the receptionist.
Chapter 15
I doubled over, breathing hard, hands clutching my knees. My head spun like a whirlpool, and I was drowning in a maelstrom of shock. Even Fyrian remained silent, and I could feel her stunned presence in the back of my head. I kept my eyes to my feet. If I saw her in that state again, I’d probably faint. Who would want to kill Evolene? And who would be the killer’s next victim?
“Evolene!” Phoenix pushed past me and rushed to her side, obscuring my view of her body.
“She’s dead!” Fyrian cried into my ears. “Fosco killed her!”
“Oh, no.” I groaned.
“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped. “If he’s still lurking around, he might change his mind about abducting you!”
I rushed to the reception desk and found the lever that Evolene had pulled when she had sounded the alarm the day before. The murder of one human was reprehensible, and I would not let the killer get away with slaughtering two.
“What are you doing?” Phoenix glanced up from Evolene’s body.
I raised my chin and gave him my most defiant stare. “Calling the security witches.”
“Evolene needs a healer, not Madam Maritimus.”
“She’s alive?” I edged forward, not wanting to look too closely in case Phoenix was wrong, and she’d been killed. There was something in her hand. A piece of parchment.
Reaching down, I pulled it from her fingers. The note had been torn in half, as though someone had tried to wrench it from her grip. I read it in my mind, so I could get Fyrian’s opinion.
“Evolene,
You must flee this place…
fear I will be killed…
Master Fosco…
Plot against the Prince…
Cendrilla doesn’t know…
furious when I saw his…
evidence in his chambers…
Bluebeard. I wanted…
If anything happens…
Stay safe, and don’t…
Love,
Father”
A red-haired witch rushed in, the crystal in her staff glowing crimson. She shut off the silent alarm with her magic. “What’s the emergency?”
“Someone attacked Evolene,” I said.
The witch knelt at the young woman’s prone body and covered her in white light. “Her wounds are consistent with being beaten unconscious with a blunt object.” The witch glanced up at us. “Before I take her to the Healer’s Academy, did either of you two see anything?”
“A note from Mr. Jankin.” I handed it to the witch. “He wrote it to his daughter before he died, warning her of Master Fosco’s plot against Queen Cendrilla and Regent Bluebeard.”
“Let me see that.” Phoenix stood over the witch’s shoulder. After several moments of reading, he said, “That doesn’t prove anything.”
Master Fosco entered the reception area, rubbing his temples. I couldn’t see his expression, as he had lowered his head to stare at Evolene. “What is this?”
“Wait until the witches arrive before making any accusations,” said Fyrian. “You and that witch are no match for him, and I doubt that Phoenix will stand up to Fosco’s temper.”
Madam Maritimus entered the reception area, flanked by a dozen witches. One of them encased Evolene in a yellow healing light and levitated her off the floor and out of the door.
The red-haired witch frowned into the torn parchment. “Actually, this note appears to be the reason why Jankin was killed.�
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Master Fosco raised his brows. “You’ve found the murderer. Who?”
It would have been satisfying to be the first to point the finger. He’d admitted to hating Father enough to want to abduct me and lure him to Mount Fornax for a duel. But I backed away. The security witches had their evidence, and I didn’t want to risk Master Fosco revealing my true identity in retribution. I would let Madam Maritimus and her team do their job. And when they found Master Fosco guilty, they would free Fyrian.
The witch projected the contents of the letter on the wall for all to see. Master Fosco reared back. “This is preposterous! This note is a fabrication.”
Madam Maritimus folded her arms. “Everyone in Mount Fornax knows of your animosity toward the Prince Regent.”
“B-but I wouldn’t kill Jankin for something that is public knowledge!” He pointed at the note projected on the wall. “How do you know this is not a forgery?”
The witches looked at each other, and I frowned.
“Alba,” said Fyrian. “Don’t let him talk his way out of justice!”
Shaking my head, I scanned the note again. “Mr. Jankin said that the evidence was in his chambers. Did you ever deliver letters there?”
“Yes,” Fyrian replied. “Go back toward my cell, and I’ll direct you.”
I rushed away, leaving Master Fosco protesting his innocence to the security witches. If he was anything like Father, he would convince them of his innocence. I passed Fyrian’s stall and stopped.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I have to go back to my room and get the gravestone.”
“Good thinking, Alba!” She let out an approving roar.
When I reached our common room Rufus and Stafford were sitting up on the sofas, and Gobi was still snoring like a dragon.
“Albert?” Stafford ran his fingers through his messy, caramel hair and moaned. “Is it time for breakfast already?”
“N-no.” I replied.
He sat up and yawned. “What’s happened?”
“Someone attacked Mr. Jankin’s daughter.”
His eyes widened. “Oh, no! Phoenix will be heartbroken.”
“He and the security witches are taking care of her.” I rushed into my room and placed the gravestone in my knapsack. It was safe to carry in my hand, as it only negated the magic of whatever body part it was touching. My classmates probably wouldn’t notice that one of my hands had become more slender, but I didn’t want to take the risk.
As I left the room, Stafford stood and stretched. “Are you going to class?”
I shook my head. “We still have about another hour. I’m off to investigate the murderer.”
“You should leave that task to the security witches.” Rufus harrumphed. “I am going to breakfast.” He turned to Stafford and jerked his head toward the door, but Stafford’s eyes were fixed on me.
“Fine.” Rufus kicked Gobi awake and muttered, “Breakfast.”
The younger half-ogre rubbed his eyes and followed Rufus out of the room.
Stafford shot out of his seat, eyes glimmering with excitement. “I can’t believe I’m going on an adventure with Queen Cendrilla’s son!”
Suppressing a groan, I mumbled, “I’m not—”
“It’s all right.” He gave me an exaggerated wink. “I’ll keep your secrets.”
I glanced toward Ivan’s room, hoping that the noise of our conversation would awaken him, but the door remained shut. He had thrown up yesterday and the day before from riding Rubens, and I expected that drinking dragon tears on an empty stomach would have taken a toll on his health.
Since Ivan wouldn’t be acting as a buffer for Stafford’s enthusiasm, I headed for the door.
Stafford followed on my heels, panting with excited, alcohol-scented breath. “How do you know where to find the murderer?”
“Fyrian is giving me directions. She can see through my eyes.”
“Wow, you’re going to be the greatest dragon mage who ever lived!” In a lower voice, he added, “Auntie Rilla will be so proud.”
I raised a shoulder. If I had gotten my place honestly, that might have been true, but when she discovered I’d cheated by pretending to be a boy, she might leave me to Father’s lack of mercy. I pushed open the door and stepped out into the hallway. The gas lamps provided dim illumination, as there were no windows leading to the mountain’s exterior.
“Turn left.”
“How does the dragon know where to direct you?” he whispered.
“She was a messenger dragonet.” There was no point in telling him whose, as that would start another round of excited chatter.
Fyrian directed me through a maze of stairs and hallways until we reached Master Fosco’s room at the highest level. His door had a flap at the bottom, small enough for a messenger dragonet.
“How are you going to get inside?” he whispered loudly enough to wake a sleeping dragon.
“Shhh!” I glanced down the corridor. The gas light above lengthened our shadows, giving any curious passerby an indication of the two figures lurking in front of someone else’s door.
“Sorry!” he mouthed.
Heavy, urgent footsteps echoed in the distance. From their volume, the feet belonged to one or more ogre hybrids bigger and stronger than Stafford and me. And from the way the sound became louder with each step, their owners were heading in our direction.
My heart pounded against my ribs like it was desperate to be set free. I twisted my body, obscuring Stafford’s view of my hands, and pulled out the pouch containing the gravestone. Then I pressed it on the door.
“Who goes there?” said a deep voice I hoped was my imagination.
“It isn’t,” snapped Fyrian. “Hurry up!”
Stafford let out the tiniest whimpers.
The door swung open into a darkened chamber four times the size of our common room. A floor-to-ceiling opening into the mountain’s interior stretched out in front of us. Master Fosco’s room reminded me of a luxurious version of Fyrian’s stall, but fit to accommodate a mage and his dragon.
I yanked Stafford inside and pushed the door shut.
“Look at all the dragonets!” Stafford rushed inside. His movements triggered the light, revealing three walls filled with the most colorful murals of Aunt Cendrilla.
Stafford halted and clapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh my!”
None of them were the official portraits. Some depicted scenes from the Great Dragon Revolution, with Aunt Cendrilla riding Fogo. In some of them, she stood on the purple dragon’s back, shooting flames from her magestaff.
“These are…” My words shriveled up.
“They’re beautiful!” Stafford clapped his hands over his cheeks, presumably to hide a flush.
Pencil sketches littered the stone floor, and easels stood around the room. Each held art in the same highly pigmented, realistic style. “I…” My throat closed up, and I coughed. “I think he made these.”
Master Fosco had painted romantic images of himself and Aunt Cendrilla holding hands in the rain, embracing in the sunset, and there was even one of them sharing a kiss. My eyes bulged. This had to be what Mr. Jankin had meant when he wrote about the evidence being in his chambers.
“I told you,” said Fyrian. “He’s the killer.”
Stafford strolled around the room, admiring each picture as though he was in the Metropole Academy of Art. He tilted his head to the side and gaped in open-mouthed wonder. He didn’t seem alarmed by the depth of Master Fosco’s fixation with Aunt Cendrilla.
My stomach churned, and Master Fosco’s rants from the night before echoed back into my mind. He had wanted to lure Father to Mount Fornax for a duel. Perhaps he had changed his mind because it wasn’t in line with the master plan discovered by Mr. Jankin. My knees trembled, and I staggered to the narrow bed in the corner of the room and sat. The back of my foot bumped against something hard.
“What’s this?” I reached down and pulled out a large, leather-bound book.
“No one would be crazy enough to leave evidence like that lying around.” I flipped it open and found a sketch of Father and Master Fosco dueling in an arena.
“Maybe he can’t write, so he drew out his plans.”
“Unlikely.” I turned the page and examined pictures of General Thornicroft and a few other males I didn’t recognize, competing in a contest. I shut the tome and placed it back under the bed. “None of this looks relevant.”
“Auntie Rilla isn’t in this one.” Stafford picked up a canvas that had been leaned against the wall.
I stood, brows furrowed. In this picture, Master Fosco stood triumphant with his booted foot on the head of a man lying face-down in the sand. Wavy, blue-black hair spread out over the defeated man’s features, obscuring the side of his face. A scimitar lay broken in his hand.
A sharp breath hissed between my teeth. “T-that’s Fa—the Prince Regent Bluebeard!”
“Oh yes,” said Stafford, his voice breathy with awe. “Your step-father.”
I didn’t respond.
“You see?” said Fyrian. “He’s in love with Auntie Rilla, and he’s planning on replacing Bluebeard as the Regent of Steppe!”
I couldn’t help but agree. “And Master Fosco killed Mr. Jankin because he discovered his plot. We have to tell someone!”
Chapter 16
Stafford and I hurried out of Master Fosco’s room. The door slammed shut behind us with a loud thud, and I glanced up and down the lamp-lit hallway, hoping no one saw us.
“Fyri,” I said into my mind. “Which way do we go now?”
She didn’t respond. Most likely, she was still in shock from having seen all those strange paintings.
Further on down the hallway, another door opened, and a large figure stepped through. Panic jolted my heart into action. I spun, grabbing Stafford’s muscular forearm and pulled him in the opposite direction.
“What?” He jogged alongside me, sounding like we hadn’t just broken into the private chambers of the Director of Mount Fornax.
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