But Agatha was gazing firmly into her crystal’s center.
“No, you don’t!” Sophie hissed, seizing her hand. “You’re staying right here—”
Blue light clobbered both of them and again Agatha’s chest suffered the blow, her lungs crumpling like parchment, before solid ground appeared under her feet. Blinded by light, she couldn’t see, her mind a globby puddle, too weak to revive. As the blue glow dulled, she peeled her eyelids open and found Sophie by her side, just as battered and gripping onto her. Pallid and shaking, Sophie glared at Agatha, about to chastise her for putting them both at risk—
Sophie stopped cold.
They were in a room Agatha knew: the walls covered in gold and crimson silkprint, matching the rug on the dark wood floor; the chairs refinished with Lion crests woven into the gold cushions; a bed curtained in red and gold.
I’ve been here, she thought, still disoriented.
Her mind locked in.
Of course.
Camelot.
The king’s bedroom.
Agatha and Sophie craned their heads out from behind a standing lamp—
Rhian lay on the bed, his body cased in plaster, his face mummified by bloody towels so only his blackened eyes and gashed lips were visible.
His brother was feeding him broth, his gold-and-blue suit soaked in Rhian’s blood.
“I should have stayed behind,” said Japeth softly. “I never should have left you here alone with that . . . she-wolf.”
Rhian’s voice came out gritty and weak. “No. She fought for me. She was on our side. They must have taken her hostage. Agatha and the rebels—”
“You fool. You don’t think she was in on it?” the Snake blistered. “She conspired with the rebels before the execution. To pretend to be on your side. To act your loyal princess. She played you like the sweetest harp.”
Blood oozed out of Rhian’s lips. “If that’s true, then why did the pen choose her? Why did the pen choose her to be my queen?”
Japeth didn’t answer.
“She’s meant to be with me, brother,” Rhian rasped. “She’s meant to help us get what we want. What you want. To bring the one we love back from the dead.”
Agatha’s heart stopped.
Sophie’s hand clamped hers like a vise.
The one we love?
Back from the dead?
Between the gap in the bed-curtains, the two boys were still, Rhian’s pained breaths the only sound in the room.
Japeth touched his brother’s lips. “There’s only one way to find out the truth. I’ll ride to find Sophie. If the pen is right, then she’ll be trying to find her way back to you. She’ll be on her own. But if she’s with Agatha and Tedros, the three of them thick as thieves, then the pen was wrong. And I’ll bring her heart back in a box.” His jaw sharpened. “I’ll bring you all three of their hearts.”
Rhian struggled for air. “And . . . and . . . if you don’t find her?”
“Oh, I’ll find her.” His brother morphed into his shiny black suit of eels. “Because my scims will search every crevice and cave and hole in the Woods until they do.”
Agatha and Sophie turned to each other, panicked—
They knocked heads, sending Agatha reeling into the lamp, which rattled against the wall.
Agatha rubbed her skull. “I thought we couldn’t affect things inside the crystals,” she said, eyeing the lamp askew. “I thought we were ghosts—”
“Aggie,” Sophie croaked.
“Mmm?” Agatha said, turning.
Sophie wasn’t looking at her. She was looking ahead, her face milk-white.
Through the slit in the bed’s curtains, Rhian was staring right at them.
So was Japeth.
“They see us,” said Sophie.
“Don’t be an idiot. They can’t see us,” Agatha scoffed.
Japeth bolted to his feet, teeth bared.
“They see us,” Agatha gasped.
Hundreds of scims flew off the Snake’s body, ripping straight for the two girls’ heads—
But Agatha was already falling backwards into darkness, her best friend screaming and holding on for dear life.
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 Rhia
n 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 . . .”
The School for Good and Evil #5: A Crystal of Time Page 32