The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(65)

“Ah, here’s the other guilty one. Bless me, but both of you children were up to wickedness last night. There are evil feathers floating in the air all the way to the throne room, you two. The king will not be pleased. Look at you, lass, you have one stuck in your hair still!”

“I did it on purpose,” she replied without even a hint of remorse. “Owen has a white patch in his hair and now I do as well.”

He looked up swiftly and nearly knocked over the tower he was carefully building in his surprise.

Liona laughed and shook her head as she continued slaving at the ovens. Evie grabbed two round muffins from the table and wandered over to where Owen was kneeling, her eyes gleaming with the shared secret. When she reached the bench, she set down the muffins and crossed over to him.

Owen turned back to his tower, trying to finish it so he could topple it. He noticed the white feather in her hair, just over her left ear. She had done a little braid on that side and stuck the piece of goose down through the upper part of it.

“We were almost caught,” Owen whispered conspiratorially.

“I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard,” she answered with a grin. “I’ll never forget Ratcliffe’s face. That crown of feathers stuck to his balding head! I still want to laugh when I think on it!” She held her stomach a moment, her smile infectious.

Owen added another part of the tower. This was one of the tallest ones he had built, and it was starting to sway, which was a bad sign.

“What did Ratcliffe say after he dragged you out? Did he hurt you?”

Owen shrugged. “Not really. I think he expected . . . her . . . to be with us.” He placed the next tile delicately and it stayed up.

“When she pulled that dagger,” Evie whispered, “I was afraid for just a moment. But what a brilliant idea! I don’t mind cleaning up all the feathers. It was worth it.” Her hand snaked over to touch his. “Thank you for telling me,” she whispered. “You are my dearest friend.”

He gave her a sideways smile and then prepared to place the final pieces, moving very slowly and with painstaking gentleness as he put them on. He was at it for quite a while when she drew closer behind him and offered him one of the muffins.

Then she picked up the other one and nibbled on the edge. “Pumpkin . . . my favorite! I love pumpkin muffins and pumpkin soup and pumpkin tarts. Have you had oyster stew before? Oysters are rare, but we have them in the North. Mussels, too. We usually harvest them in the fall. Our cook would make pumpkin muffins and we’d eat oyster soup in trencher bowls to go with them.” She smiled dreamily as she took another bite from her muffin. “Are you ready to knock it down?”

“You can,” Owen said, backing away from the tower. He set up the final trail of tiles that led to it.

“A kind gentleman!” she praised. After taking another bite of muffin, she set it down on the bench and knelt in front of the tiles, gazing at the structure with admiration. “Do you know where she lives?”

Owen nodded. “I’ll . . . I’ll take you there sometime.”

Jewel waddled into the kitchen, her expression sour, and she was muttering something about two children in desperate need of a willow switch to their backsides. Liona began repeating the story of their nighttime adventures. It seemed the whole palace had heard about it.

“I wish Jewel would go away. She’s fat and she smells like . . . like a garderobe. Ugh. I’m going to ask Papa to send her away.”

Owen stared at her. “You mean Grandpapa.”

Her finger paused before it could topple the tile. “Yes. That’s what I meant.”

“Do you miss your Maman?” Owen asked gently.

She scrunched up her face a little. “She’s still . . . sad. She grew sick of all my talking. I was only trying to help. Grandpapa thought it best if I came with him to the palace. I think she’s grateful I’m gone.”

She nudged the tile with only enough force for it to start the first wobble, and then the whole structure came shattering down in a rain of tiles. She clapped her hands with wild eagerness, her smile dispelling the shadow that had been there only a moment before.

“I love it when they fall!” she breathed.

“There he goes again,” Jewel moaned. “Owen Satchel and Evie. I tell you, Liona, I cannot keep up with those two. I think I’m going to visit Brad the blacksmith to see if I can borrow some ankle fetters to clap on them.”

“She’s so rude,” Evie whispered, giving Owen a devious look. “We might lock her in the privy, you know.”

“We’d only get in more trouble,” Owen said.

Together they started picking up the pieces of tile and stacking them in the box by Owen’s leather satchel. It was nearly time for breakfast with the king and face his scolding for the fate of the pillows.

“Do you like your nickname?” she asked him amidst the cleanup. “I’ve been meaning to ask you since the cistern. I like it, but if you don’t, I won’t use it.”

He gave her a sincere look. “Owen Satchel?”

She nodded vigorously. “What did you think I meant—Kisky?”

“Don’t ever call me that. I don’t mind if people call me Owen Satchel.”

“To me, you’ll always be Owen Kiskaddon. Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer Kiskaddon. It sounds very important.”