“Look at you two! Always gettin’ into mischief! The king’s at breakfast noow, don’t you know! Come along, come along. I’ll be bruised if I get in trouble for you being late.”

Owen and Evie marched out and followed him. She squeezed his hand as they walked, but Owen’s stomach was indeed wriggling like a hooked eel. Berwick’s limp became more pronounced. As they walked, a man turned the corner ahead of them, wearing the badge of the king—the white boar. When he saw them, his eyes narrowed and his expression changed.

“Found ’em!” Berwick said, giving Owen a little jab to his head with his fist. “These two are naught but trouble. Someone younger and more limber needs to watch after them. Goch!”

The man did not respond, but after they passed him, he continued down the hall the way they had come. He went straight to the servant’s door and rattled the handle, but Berwick had locked it.

When they turned the corner out of the man’s sight, Berwick offered a puckered sigh of relief. They strode into the great hall where breakfast was already underway. King Severn was making his rounds of the tables, jabbing at his youthful guests, while Ratcliffe stood fidgeting in the corner. When the head of the Espion saw them enter, a look of relief quickly passed over his eyes, followed promptly by blazing anger.

“Ah, you’ve come at last!” the king said with a sardonic look. “Normally one waits on the king, but I see that I must wait on two wayward children. How pleasant of you both to join us.”

“Pardon, my lord,” Berwick said sheepishly. He bowed several times. “My pardon, my pardon. These two made a royal mess last night and I was chiding them—”

“You were chiding them?” the king interrupted, a wry look in his eye. “I think a piece of white fluff made it all the way down to my bedchamber this morn. But then again, the bit of down may have come from my own pillow.” He chuckled to himself, his face brightening a bit at the mischief. He already knew.

“Again, I beg your pardon,” Berwick said, bowing meekly as he slowly retreated. Ratcliffe caught him before he could escape and began snarling in his ear.

“Ease off, Ratcliffe,” the king said with a twinge of annoyance. “But their escapades last night do not condone such behavior from the rest of you,” he added, wagging a finger at the other youngsters in the room. “Why so sullen this morning, Lord Dunsdworth? Is the fare not to your liking?”

Owen’s stomach roiled with nerves as the king’s attention focused on the older boy, who was sulking from the humiliations of the previous day. His cheeks were ruddy and he grunted something under his breath. Owen wondered how Lord Horwath had cowed him so much.

“Go,” Evie whispered in his ear, nudging him.

He would rather have jumped into the cistern again than face the king. Ankarette’s words were all jumbling inside his head. Before, she had taught him precisely what to say. They had practiced it several times. There had been time to think on it, to practice it in his head. This was very different, extremely urgent.

“Go!” she insisted, butting him harder.

He sighed and started toward the king. A man he didn’t recognize came into the hall, looked around a moment, and then started walking toward Ratcliffe and Berwick. There was a queasy look on his face and one of his gloved hands held his stomach. Owen had the distinct suspicion that this was the man who had just arrived, the one Mancini had poisoned. Time was running out.

Owen’s stomach began to thicken in his mouth. He glanced back at Evie and saw her eyes boring into his. You will do this! her look commanded. Her eyes were very green at that moment.

Owen took a few more steps, feeling as if all of his bones had become unhinged. He was trembling and fearful. Dunsdworth glanced up, saw him, and his face tightened with pent-up anger. It was nearly enough to make Owen lose his resolve.

“What is it, lad?” the king suddenly asked him, his voice dropping low. He was giving Owen a serious look, as if he were concerned about him. He walked up to him, and Owen hardly noticed his limp. He saw the hand gripping the dagger hilt, loosening it from the scabbard. In his mind, he saw a blizzard of white feathers, set free by Ankarette’s blade. He blinked rapidly, trying to calm himself.

“Are you unwell?” the king asked, pitching his voice softer. He set a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the sudden weight nearly made his knees buckle. He wanted to flee, to dash away, to find a dark tunnel and curl up and start crying. How could someone so little be asked to do this?

His eyes were watering, which was embarrassing. He wasn’t crying. They were just watering. He looked up at the king’s face, saw the pointed jaw that was so freshly shaved it still gleamed with shiny oil. He had a smell about him too, a smell of leather and metal. Owen nearly fainted.