“You were brilliant,” Evie whispered in Owen’s ear. She gave him a light kiss on the cheek.

It was Owen’s turn to flush. “He’s a bully,” he said brusquely, his insides starting to squirm.

Ratcliffe made a few curt announcements and then Owen heard the shuffle-step portending the king’s entrance into the breakfast hall. As he came inside, a dark claw seemed to reach out and pierce Owen’s heart. Even after jumping into the cistern, even after talking to Ankarette almost all night, his courage wilted from the mere sight of the king and the dagger hanging from his belt.

“Ooh, the thimbleberries are ripe!” Evie crooned, tugging Owen toward the table. She loved the fresh berries from the palace gardens. Everyone began to sample the delights of bread, fruit, and cheese that the kitchen had prepared. The king, as he usually did, lurked amidst the guests and ate sparingly.

“You’re dropping half those berries on the floor,” the king chided Evie as he passed. “Slow down. The cook will make the leftovers into jellies.”

“They are delicious, my lord!” she said with a grin, impervious to his criticism. Then she grabbed a wafer and crammed it into her mouth.

“Ah, a respite from her tales,” the king said mockingly, but his expression was pleased. Besides Princess Elyse, who happened to be there that morning, Evie was the only person in the breakfast hall who wasn’t intimidated by him. Although the king teased her, he seemed to respect her courage and never aimed to wound her.

Severn looked at her with his gray eyes, and Owen noticed the dark smudges in his hollows. He was fidgeting with his dagger again, making the boy’s courage shrivel even more. This was the best opportunity Owen was going to get, but his tongue felt swollen in his mouth.

Evie grabbed a goblet and quickly gulped down some drink as Owen stared at the king, willing himself to speak. The king’s gaze met his own, and there was a moment of curiosity, of interest. He seemed to realize that Owen wanted to speak to him, and so he paused, just slightly, his look observant and interested.

Owen just stared at him, his legs like rocks, his stomach churning like butter. His throat was so dry he wanted to snatch the goblet away from Evie and drown in it.

The king, narrowing his eyebrows with a flicker of disappointment, turned away from them and took a halting step toward Ratcliffe, who was approaching rapidly.

Owen felt the sickness of defeat encase his heart, dragging him down. He had failed.

He felt Evie’s hand clasp his own.

“What is it, Owen?” she asked him. “You look . . . sick.”

Her hand.

They had jumped together into the cistern.

Holding her hand, he could do it. He squeezed her fingers hard, before he could shrink with fear.

Ratcliffe was almost to the king when Owen’s little voice croaked out, “My lord, I had a dream last night. It was a strange dream.”

I am caught in a web. How did I get entangled? I convinced myself that Ankarette was harmless, that providing information to her would aid me. How could I have been so blind? She has wrested secrets of the Espion from me and is using them to preserve the life of the Kiskaddon boy. I know it, and yet I dare not confront her. She is in the kitchen often now. And one does not double-cross a poisoner without pain.

—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Fountain-blessed

As Owen finished telling the king about his dream, the look on the older man’s face completely transformed. Gone was the snide hostility. The king seemed thunderstruck, and he grabbed the table edge to steady himself. Ratcliffe, who had overheard the whole thing, stared at Owen incredulously as well, his mouth gaping.

“Ratcliffe, did you tell him?” the king whispered hoarsely. “Is there any . . . is there any way he could have known?”

Ratcliffe stared down at Owen with open distrust. “My lord, I don’t see how. It’s incredible.”

“Your Espion in the kitchen . . . was he talking? Was he blabbing secrets?”

“I . . . I don’t think so,” Ratcliffe said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” the king said, his voice distant, his eyes intense. He stared down at Owen, his expression changing to one of pleasure. “So this was a dream you had, was it? Last night?”

“Yes, my lord,” Owen answered meekly, still clinging to Evie’s hand to keep from drifting away in the current of fear that wanted to extinguish his voice.

“A pinecone,” Severn repeated thoughtfully. He gave Ratcliffe a knowing look. Ankarette was right, there was no confusion at all, though Owen was still baffled.