THE TOYMAKER WAS NOT at all what Arthur had expected. As promised, he and his brothers had returned several times, and each time there was progress on the toy soldier, as the Drosselmeyer called it.

But these visits had disturbed something deep inside Arthur. After all, the princes had never known their father. There were rumors, of course—one of the palace guards, a piebald, or other such scandals. And worse. There was talk of dark magic. Whatever the truth, Arthur found himself longing for what he’d never had.

It was a weakness. One he was trying to amend. Each visit should have strengthened his resolve, but it had the opposite effect. He liked Zacharias Drosselmeyer. And that was the highest treason.

This morning, after their mother’s daily inspection and Ernst’s lessons, Arthur took a book and candle down to the river that ran beneath the city. It was a good, quiet place to read where his mother’s piebalds rarely sent for him, and his brothers would often grow bored and fall asleep, leaving him in peace.

Already the others snored softly, crowding around him, lulled by the rush of the river. Arthur wanted to talk. But to whom? His mother would call him weak. The court advisers would read it as a sign, and his brothers refused to speak about it: Arthur was having bad dreams.

He was the only one of the brothers to suffer from them, as far as he could tell. Ever since the toymaker had come to Boldavia, he’d been wracked with restless nights. Only now, having spoken with the captive Drosselmeyer, did he start to understand his nightmares. He would like to share the insight with his tutor. The old rat had seen much of the world. Maybe he could make sense of it, or at least disperse Arthur’s fears. But, after today’s fencing lesson, the rat had requested time away to heal his wounds. Arthur knew that he and his brothers would not be welcome, at least for now.

Arthur shuddered, thinking about the darkness of his dreams, and immediately felt sheepish. He held his small candle up to play along the walls of the cavern. Here he was, sitting in a gloomy old cave by choice, and now he was afraid of the dark? But the dark in his dreams was different. It wasn’t empty. Something, or someone, was there. If only he had a candle to hold in his dreams to see for himself.

A snort pulled Arthur out of his reverie.

Hannibal had woken up. “Daydreaming again?” he sneered.

“Thinking,” Arthur said defensively. “One of us has to.”

Hannibal made a face and yawned. “Some of us think too much. Action. That’s all we need.”

“Action,” Arthur repeated, bemused. That was his mother talking. Hannibal knew her speeches by heart. Act. Lead. Triumph. The world of Men was theirs for the taking. And Arthur, young Prince Arthur and his brothers, were the ones to do the job.

The thought terrified him. Arthur had only glimpsed the humans from hiding places in the castle above. As the crown princes, they’d been told time and again that their life was not to be risked by gallivanting aboveground. The few men he had seen were enormous, like walking trees, while Arthur and his brothers were so very small. For all of Hannibal’s bluster and Roland’s demands, Arthur was still just one insignificant mouse.

How different life could have been if he were separate from his brothers! He might have chosen to be a scholar, not forced to read quickly so his brothers didn’t get bored. Or to travel! To see the sun shine rather than stay hidden in the walls until some future date known only to his mother and her plans. Had he been born separate, one of the others could have been King and Arthur could have just been . . . Arthur. But he was not.

Hannibal had fallen asleep again, his head nodding off to the side. Now Arthur was getting tired, too. He could feel himself being pulled in by his brothers’ slumber. The candle flickered in a light breeze, sputtered for a moment, then shone brighter than ever. The glow gleamed off the rocks and the white rush of the river down below.

It really was quite beautiful, Arthur realized. Nothing to fear.

He repeated the thought to himself, humming the refrain to his mother’s old lullaby as he lowered the candle and let sleep take him. With sleep, again came the dreams.