The captain placed the circus under the guard of three soldiers and left with the rest of his men to hunt for Hans and Angela downstream. The soldiers harnessed the bears, put the Pandolinis in the cage, and steered the wagon around the great forest, traveling west till the tree line made a grand diagonal south to the capital.
On the first night, while the soldiers erected their tent, Maria, Giuseppe, and the Etceteras swung from the cage bars. Under cover of movement and shadow, Hans and Angela emerged from the crawl space in colorful costume rags; Signora Pandolini’s jet-black fortune-teller’s wig was secured over Angela’s blond curls.
“Assomigliate a noi,” Giuseppe said excitedly.
“Our son says you look just like him and the others.” Pandolini smiled.
Maria batted her eyes at Hans. “Sei molto bello.”
Hans flushed. “Thank you, I think?”
Angela gave Maria the evil eye—and Hans an elbow in the ribs.
“It’s terrible for you to be trapped by your enemy,” Pandolini said.
“Not at all,” Angela replied. “We’re on a quest to rescue my parents from the archduke’s palace. How better to get inside than disguised as entertainers?”
“Angela’s right,” Hans agreed. “The terrible thing is how we endanger your family. We shouldn’t have let you hide us.”
Signora Pandolini flicked her hand. “Shush. Who knows the future? Do the best you can and never regret a kindness. To live a coward is not to live at all.”
“Besides,” Pandolini said, “you won’t be discovered. People see what they expect: Expect to see kerchiefs turn into doves, and you shall. Expect to see monsters in shadows, there they’ll be. Expect a simple band of children, that’s all that will appear.” He winked. “Who’d dream that those with a price on their head would break into a bear cage guarded by the archduke’s troops?”
The next day, as the circus cage lumbered to the palace, the Pandolini children taught their guests a little Italian. Soon, Hans and Angela knew how to say please and thank you, the parts of the face, and the lyrics to six folk songs. The soldiers paid no heed, too worried about warlock-monsters lurking in the trees.
Midday, the Pandolinis had a siesta, and Hans and Angela memorized their maps. To shield them from view, they put them at the bottom of a nest of straw and lay on either side. “The memorial pillar to Archduke Fredrick has its foundations in the catacombs,” Hans observed.
Angela nodded. “It’s so massive it would have to. Otherwise it would’ve collapsed the excavation under it.”
Hans ran a finger along the underground lagoon at the far end of the dungeon and the red markings on the upper palace floors. He counted the rooms in each corridor. “Why do you think Father said the archduchy’s future depends on me?”
“Hermits always say strange things,” Angela shrugged. “At least in books,” she quickly corrected. “There’s nothing strange about your father. Peter is wonderful. He loves you, too, unlike that old grave robber.”
“Don’t be mean about my other papa,” Hans said. “He raised me as well as he could.”
“To rob graves.”
A guard rattled the bars. “What’s going on?”
Angela rolled over on the maps. “Buongiorno,” she chirped.
Hans waved. “Prego e grazie.”
The guard peered through the bars. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Pandolini roused. “It means my children are idioti!”
Angela agreed, spouting the first Italian folk lyric she could remember.
“Naso, occhi, bocca,” Hans nodded, naming off parts of the face.
Pandolini pretended to smack Hans on the side of the head.
“Hit him again,” the guard laughed. Pandolini obliged. “Circus ragamuffins,” the guard sneered, and returned to his comrades.
Pandolini patted Hans and Angela warmly. “Piccoli pappagalli.” He smiled. “You’ll soon be warbling like Venetians.”
The third day passed as the second, Hans and Angela learning Italian and memorizing maps. But at dusk, all study ceased; they’d reached the edge of the capital.
Through fingers of fog, Hans and Angela saw the forest on their left. On their right, clapboard houses clustered on a web of dirt roads that skirted a steep, rocky hill. A stone tower rose from its peak; howls echoed through its small, barred windows.
“What is that place?” Pandolini asked.
“The asylum,” a soldier said.
A breeze stirred the dank air with the reek of the grave. Signora Pandolini fanned herself with a tarot card.
“The dumping grounds,” said another guard, his nose pressed into his arm. “Doctors dissect the madmen when they die, then toss them on the dung heaps.”
They entered the city. Angela remembered the sooty oil lamps along the ghostly maze of narrow streets and, now, the grand public square with its magnificent buildings. “The cathedral,” she murmured to Hans. “Between it and the palace, the memorial pillar with the marble coffins for Fredrick, his wife, and infant son.”
Hans peered up at the gargoyled spires, turrets, and parapets of the palace. “It’s exactly as Father drew it,” he whispered. Angela nodded.
The wagon stopped. The guards lined up their prisoners. The palace doors swung wide. Inside, the vaulted entry hall was alive with servants in dark velvet livery. The Spoon emerged, conferred with the guards, and strode to Pandolini. “I am the chief steward,” he announced with a click of his heels. “His Royal Highness is secluded with the lord high chancellor. You will entertain them tomorrow night.”
“Ciao e buonasera!” Pandolini beamed. At times like this it was best to appear simple.
The Spoon ordered the bear cage to the courtyard next to the laundry room and directed the company to sleep by the washtubs. Angela feared he’d recognize her, but Pandolini was right: the Spoon expected no more than urchins in colorful rags, and that’s all he saw.
The Pandolinis kissed their children, cuddled in a heap around them. “Buona notte,” they whispered to Hans and Angela. In minutes, they were snoring a duet.
Angela nudged Hans. “Now’s our chance. Do you remember the route from the laundry to the dungeon?”
“Of course. The map showed a hall from here to the kitchen and storage areas. Beyond is the circular ramp that’ll take us down into hell.”
“That’s right,” Angela said. “Let’s go.”