To Best the Boys(64)

“Ah yes, your friends. Have no fear, they’re already near and soon to be safe. But now . . .” He clicks his teeth. “It appears you are the final two. And yet two others have already come through.” As if pleased with this pronouncement, he tugs his pipe from his lavender vest pocket, taps it against his hand, then moves aside to keep from impeding our view any longer. He swags an arm across a stone veranda overlooking a ballroom that’s even more magnificent than the ones in Aunt Sara’s fairy-tale books.

Lute and I step from the metal lift and onto a marble floor with gold veins running lacy patterns through it. Clusters of dangling chandelier lights catch and illuminate the gold, causing it to glow beneath giant floral arrangements, imposing banquet tables, and frothy fountains. It gives an aura that the whole room’s not only alive but the very heartbeat of the house.

Except without people.

I catch Lute’s eye. Where are Vincent and Germaine?

I turn to Mr. Holm. “Do you know where the two other players went, sir?”

“Two? Two? As I said, they already ran on through.” He tips his head and leans in to peer at me, then Lute. Then smiles. “Just as you both will now follow me.” He spins on his heel in the direction of an enormous gold door set precisely in the veranda’s center. “But best be careful where you step, lest your game become forfeit.” With that, he dons an imaginary hat and starts forward with short, clipped steps as he raps that pipe against a coat button.

I glance at Lute long enough for the meaning of Mr. Holm’s words to sink in. He’s still going to let me compete. Lute flashes me a wink, and then we’re hastening to catch up and follow the pattern of Holm’s feet. Three steps to the left. Three to the right. Five forward.

It’s like a dance, repeated in perfect time, as the sound of his pipe rapping that button is the only thing in my ears, until it becomes like the pendulum of a clock.

Mr. Holm doesn’t stop to look back until he’s reached the giant ornate door, where he utters an incoherent word and the thing silently swings open in front of him. I whisper to Lute, “Vincent still has the key,” but I doubt he hears me because when I turn, we are entering a sitting room the size of a small house and his eyes have gone round as saucers.

The parlor is decorated similar to the ballroom—in white and gold marble, with three lightly draped windows on each side that span floor to ceiling and overlook the hedge maze we came through last night. Instead of floral arrangements and fountains like those out in the hall, a single long wooden table stands in front of us, and set out on it is a selection of laboratory supplies and half-mixed fluids.

I look up to Mr. Holm who’s sashaying over to a collection of gilt rugs and blue velvet sofas on the far side of the room where an array of well-dressed attendants lie sprawled out across them.

Lute’s breath catches, and then mine does too.

In fact, my whole body goes still.

A person looking years older and far more normal than he does in any painting I’ve seen sits in one of the formal chairs. And yet—I’d recognize his regal nose, silver ringlets, and emerald-green dress suit anywhere.

We are in the presence of King Francis.

In the wide, jolly-faced flesh.

I hit my knees the same time as Lute, but His Royal Highness is already waving a jeweled hand for us to stand as four guards on our left shift their attentive stance. They wear the same type of chest pieces bearing the knight’s crest we saw in the catacombs.

Mr. Holm clicks his heels and the sound echoes through the room. “Now that we’re all here, we may begin. Mr. King, Mr. Wells, please join us.” He tips his chin at a bench behind me, on which Germaine and Vincent have apparently been waiting. They leave their spot and stride over, and Germaine snickers at something Vincent’s just said—until he reaches us and leans in. “Probably shouldn’t give up your baking job, girl. We’re always in need of women to cook.”

Vincent stares straight at me and softly smiles. “Miss Tellur.”

“So nice to see we’re all here.” Mr. Holm raises his voice. “Now allow me to officially introduce your spectator for this final assessment of the test. Our Fair King, Ruler of all Caldon, His Royal Highness King Francis, long may he reign.”

I start to bow again, but the king twitches his hand as if it’s unnecessary and edges forward in his chair. “I commend you for your efforts.” He steeples his fingers beneath his chin with an expression that says this is what he came for. “You have my full attention. Please commence.”

With a nod, Mr. Holm comes to stand on the other side of the table in front of us.

“So now we’re to be observed while we perform,” Germaine says.

“What did I tell you?” Vincent whispers. “Like rats in a maze.”

“His Royal Highness is only here to observe, nothing more. However, the task you’ve been assigned is specifically for him.” Mr. Holm doesn’t look at Vincent—just turns to the king who tips his head—before he swerves back to indicate a single door directly across the room from us that blends so well into the wall it looks like part of the marble. “You’ll note the door behind me requires a key. On the other side of it, you’ll find your future with glee. But in order to pass through, you must first accurately complete this final test.”

“I’ve promised His Majesty an extra-special display this evening. Aside from the fireworks, we’ll send up kites that will glow like cavern worms into the night sky. It’s your job to create the glow compound used to coat those kites. But let me warn you—as with most chemical reactions, time is of the essence.”