Hope

IT might take you all by surprise to know that Arthur and Maude and Hazel and Mercy and twenty-two of the other missing children are, in fact, hiding in the Weeping Woods, closer to home than anyone dared think they would be.

Where are the other seven missing children in our king’s register? Well, that is a mystery that will need solving, I am sure you will agree.

Sir Greyson and his entire company of men combed through the woods early on, looking, searching, scouring, really, but they never found the hidden hideout or the haphazard garden or the sheep that had followed Hazel to her new home.

This is as it should be, as Arthur and Maude planned it, as was best to protect the lives of the children. The woods, that day, had closed around them, concealing them from those who were looking. That is the only way they made it. The fairies did not bother them on their way through, though Hazel had watched for them at every turn. A girl of the village had once been carried off to a place called Neverland, a good name for a place where a girl would never see her family and friends again, for she had never been found.

It is a good thing Arthur and Maude did not panic in the mayhem that painted the streets of Fairendale the eve that brought them here. The children were saved, after all, because they had the foresight to make a plan. They called to all the children who had run into the Weeping Woods, momentarily safe from the eyes of the king’s guard by the bending of the trees around them. They gathered, sharing their heaving breaths around a circle. They broke, they ran, and then, at precisely the right moment in precisely the right place, the ground opened up.

Arthur had taught the girls well.

Hazel had tried first to create what Arthur asked, but her power was significantly weakened by the disappearance of her twin brother Theo. Twins, you see, cannot practice their magic when separated. So it was Mercy, instead, who had created the house beneath the ground, connected to the earth above it by a tiny shoe, at the behest of Tom Thumb. (We have not yet met Tom Thumb. But his story shall be told soon enough.) Every underground house had a magical portal connecting it to the upper world, where those below could step and suddenly become those above. Tom Thumb took off his shoe, and the children could hardly see where it lay, but Mercy waved her staff anyway, and the dirt swallowed them whole. It was only when they stared at each other, in this hole beneath the ground, that they saw Maude’s frontside stuffed with bags of flour and old rags and all the items she could grab that might be turned into food. In the days since their escape, they have lived on bread and water, pulled from the ground beneath them. Mercy, in truth, did not know she had a gift so powerful. But at Arthur’s instruction, she had made water flow from the earth. The children had stared at her with gaping mouths.

More than a week has passed. Arthur and Maude and the children have made this underground house a home. The girls have used their magic to make bedrooms, girls on one side and boys on another. They had to make it a comfortable place, for while the king’s men searched the forest, they had to remain hidden where no one would expect them to be.

And who would expect them to be living beneath the ground?

When the ground ceased shaking from the presence of soldiers and horses, Arthur moved through the portal, surveying the ground and planning a garden that would not look like a garden at all. They needed more than bread and water, he said. They would need greens, too. A girl named Ruby did the planting.

The sheep had appeared this morning, while Arthur gleaned what vegetables he could for their paltry breakfast. He tried shooing the sheep away, but they refused to leave the woods. Arthur slipped back through the portal miffed. Now he sits before his daughter, thinking aloud.

“They must go,” Arthur says.

“They will not,” Hazel says. “Not without me.”

Arthur looks around at the underground walls, at all the children. His eyes rest on Maude’s. They cannot not do a vanishing spell to rid the woods of the sheep, for that will demand far too much strength, but perhaps they can weave another concealment spell for the time being. The children are hungry, though. Another concealment spell will not hold up for long, for magic weakens as its master weakens.

“Ursula,” he says.

The girl with raven hair turns to him. “Yes, Mister Arthur?”

“I need you to do a concealment spell,” he says.

“But I have never done a concealment spell,” she says, for she knows how advanced a spell such as this one can be.

“No matter,” Arthur says. “I will guide you.”

“How is it you know so much about magic?” says a boy named Chester. He has a twin named Charles, but they were both born without the gift of magic. Second and third sons. They lost their brother in their race toward the woods. The first brother had always been terrified of the Weeping Woods and the dangers within, though, the day they fled, the Weeping Woods were no match for the king’s men. They had seen their brother felled by a sword.

Arthur brushes away the question. There is no time for explaining just yet. Perhaps there will not ever be, for this is not a story he would like to tell.

Ursula crouches next to Arthur. He points to her staff. She raises it up. He holds it, along with her hand. The two of them disappear through the portal.

“No fair,” cries another boy, called Jasper. “I want to go out.”

They have been beneath the ground for eight days, reader. They have not seen the sun for eight whole days. Can you imagine? They have only sat at tables and reclined in their beds. There has been no running or jumping or laughing, for that matter. The children grow tired and cranky for spending too much time indoors.

“Perhaps one day soon,” Maude says. Her words come out in a deep sigh. Hazel locks eyes with Mercy. “For now, we must keep you safe.”

Truth be told, this home is better than some of their homes in the village. There is more bread than one could ever want in a day. There is a room for every two children. Some of these children have shared with four or five of their brothers and sisters, so they have more room than ever, though any space with twenty-six people in it would, perhaps, feel cramped, even a space with as many as thirteen rooms.

Still, it is quite astounding, this little home made from a tiny shoe. No man searching the woods will ever find a shoe as small as this one. Tom Thumb is the size of a thumb, as his name suggests. His shoes are the size of a fingernail sliver. Even a seeing glass could not detect a portal so small.

Arthur and Ursula fly through the portal. It is always a surprising return. One never knows where one will drop. Ursula comes in upside down, her staff wrapped around her ankle. She hits the ground with the top of her head. Arthur lands on his rump right beside her.

“Well?” Maude says. “Did you get rid of them?”

“It is a temporary fix,” Arthur says. “But, for now, they are concealed.”

The children look at Ursula. Mercy, though, turns away. She is jealous of this honor. She would like to have been asked. Arthur did not ask her, you see, because she is the child who made them a home and brought forth water from the ground. Every use of magic weakens its master for a time. She is needed for water and for maintaining the connection with the portal. She must preserve her strength.

But this is not how Mercy sees it. Hazel pats her friend’s hand.

“The children would like to go out,” Maude says. She looks at Arthur. He looks at her. He shakes his head.

“We must wait for a time,” Arthur says. He turns to the children. “I know you are growing restless. But we must wait for a time. We must make sure it is safe. The hour is late, and the woods grow dark.” He does not say more.

And the children, because they love and trust this man who saved them from the king’s guard, do not say another word. They know of the dangers in these woods that have nothing to do with the men who search for them.

Arthur holds up a thick branch. “I found this out there. I think it will serve us well. Now. Who wants to make me a proper table?”

The girls rush toward him, and, in the end, it is a girl called Minnie who gives him a table. Arthur sets to work on the intricate designs he is known for carving in the village. He bends and carves and brushes wood away until it is time to take from the garden what is theirs for the day.

Day and night and day and night, this is the life of the children living beneath the ground. No one knows they are here. No one knows they are alive.

No one knows that a rider is coming.

***

PRINCE Virgil sits alone in his bedchamber. It is large and roomy, about the size of Hazel and Theo’s humble cottage.

Hazel and Theo. He misses his friends. Especially Theo. Longing curls around his throat.

If one were to peer inside the door of Prince Virgil’s chambers, one would first notice the extravagance. The walls are painted with spectacular flourishes, blue against a color the same shade as the cream Cook warms on the evenings Prince Virgil asks for his sleeping draught. The bed is clothed with the finest blue velvet, which was Prince Virgil’s favorite color as a boy, though he has since favorited green. The bed itself is large enough to accommodate a whole family. It is sunken the slightest bit, right up its middle, where Prince Virgil sleeps, most nights, with his face toward the golden ceiling.

One would also see a boy, sitting in the place where he is most known to lie, his legs crossed beneath him. One would see him turning something over and over in his hands. If one were to draw closer to the boy, one might see that what he holds is a mysterious talisman, carved in the shape of a blackbird, tied onto a blue string. One would see the tears, glistening jagged paths down his smooth cheeks.

Where did he get this talisman, one might wonder?

Nowhere, our prince might reply, for the truth, dear reader, is much more difficult for our prince to embrace. The talisman, you see, was given to him by his best friend, on a birthing day two years ago. Even now, as he sits cross-legged on his bed, turning this talisman over and over and over again in his hands, he is trying to convince himself that the blackbird really did come from nowhere, that a boy called Theo, who happened to be a good friend, never even existed at all. For believing this new reality, though it is not a reality at all, is easier for our prince than the knowledge that his best and only friend might possibly die—because of him. To create a new reality, where a boy named Theo never existed in the first place, is to absolve himself of all guilt.

And yet, there is this talisman, given for protection. Given for friendship. Given for love.

He remembers well the evening his friend placed it in his hands. “Where did you get this?” he had asked Theo.

“Someone gave it to my father long ago,” Theo had said. “For protection in his wanderings.”

“That is odd,” Prince Virgil said. “A blackbird for protection?”

“Yes,” Theo had said. “Blackbirds do not mean in other lands what they mean to Fairendale.” To Fairendale, blackbirds mean death.

“I could not wear this,” Prince Virgil had said. “It would not bring me protection.”

“It is a magical talisman,” Theo had said. “It will protect you always.”

“But my grandfather,” Prince Virgil had said. “He was killed by a blackbird.”

Theo, of course, had heard the stories. He did not quite believe them. A man killed by a blackbird? What sort of curse might that have been?

“All the more reason to wear a blackbird around your neck,” Theo had said.

And Prince Virgil could not argue. He had placed the blue string about his neck and felt it grow warm against his chest. “I will have to hide it from my father,” he had said. “He does not like blackbirds.”

“Yes,” Theo had said. “I imagine that is so.”

Today, in his room, alone, Prince Virgil stares at the talisman, at the inscription etched in the back of its iron. “For Prince Virgil,” it says. “May your days be long and prosperous.” And though he tries to forget the words, they are etched, too, in his memory, for what kind of friend would give a prince a talisman for protection, when all he planned to do was steal his throne? It is not the Theo Prince Virgil knows and remembers. And so he must, as they say, kill the Theo he knows and remembers, if only from his memory.

Prince Virgil hurls the talisman across the room. He does not need the sort of protection Theo intended. He will not wear it any longer. The talisman hits the floor with a hollow sound, a sound that feels very much like his heart’s beat, knocking around against walls that will not hold it. The talisman slides to a stop beneath a mahogany chest of drawers, one that Theo’s father made. Prince Virgil closes his eyes.

Everywhere he looks, there are reminders of the friend he loves. He must do something about that, demand new furniture, sleep in a new room, forget. He must forget.

A knock sounds on the door, two quick raps and a pause. It is the knock of his mother, and for once, he is not glad. She is too good, too kind for him. He will pretend to be asleep. He turns over, staring at a wall he does not see. And it is too bad he does not see it, for this wall holds answers to the wonderings of our prince’s mind. If he were to look closely, if he were to really see, as has not happened yet before, he might notice the stories this wall tells. But, for now, its message is lost on him.

Queen Clarion opens the door. “Oh,” she says. “I am a bit late tonight. I thought you might be asleep.” She crosses the room to his bedside. How did she know he was not sleeping? Well, you see, Queen Clarion opens this door every night, when Prince Virgil is sleeping. Our queen knows that her son sleeps with his face to the sky.

She sits on his bedside. Her hand strokes his cheek. She does not say a word for a time, and then, finally, when his eyes do not close but simply stare without seeing, she says, “You sat in court with your father today?”

Prince Virgil looks at her now. He sees her. He sees her beautiful golden hair and the crown tucked into its silken threads. He sees her blue eyes, the color of the Violet Sea tributary when it catches the evening’s glow. He sees the jewels around her neck, flickering in the candlelight.

“Yes,” Prince Virgil says. He is still unsure what he thinks about what he saw in court today, but he dares not say it aloud.

“Your father,” Queen Clarion says, but she does not say more. Queen Clarion does not like speaking an ill word about another, though she could very well say plenty about her husband. Still, she understands him. She knows from where he comes. And this, you see, makes all the difference.

“He ordered another search,” Prince Virgil says. “To find the missing children.”

“I fear the children will not be found,” Queen Clarion says. “Or, rather, I hope.” She says the words softly and looks at her son. He looks at her, knowing that she would understand if he were to say what is in his heart. But to say what is in one’s heart takes great courage, and our prince does not feel great courage this eve. So, instead, he looks toward the talisman. It remains hidden from him, clenched in shadows.

What he would say if he had the courage are three very simple things:

He misses his friends.

He does not believe Theo means to steal the throne.

He wishes he could be an ordinary boy.

These are three simple things a prince of Fairendale should not think. He is the heir to the throne. It is an honor to rule a kingdom as lovely as Fairendale. And he found it such, for a very long time, until his father decided that the way to keep rule in a kingdom was to round up the children he had loved for his entire life.

Though, it must be said, our prince, when in the company of his father, longs for the throne more than anything in this world. One might say he is enchanted with power when in the company of the king. One might say he is, perhaps, enchanted with kindness when in the company of his mother. Who is it, dear reader, our prince would rather remain in the company of? Who is it who will win this indecision?

“You have been sitting with your father more often of late,” Queen Clarion says, as if she is merely making an observation.

“He would like me to learn the ways of the kingdom,” Prince Virgil says.

His mother’s eyes fall on him. They do not change, though her voice does, a slight edge to it now. “And what are the ways of the kingdom, my son?”

This is a question our prince is not ready to answer. For, you see, he has not spent enough time learning the ways of the kingdom. It is only of late that he has spent any time at all in the courts, and that is most likely because his friends have disappeared. There is nothing better for him to do anymore. His father is more and more pleased, every day, by his presence.

Queen Clarion seems to understand that her son cannot make his answer yet. She pats his hand. “You will learn in time,” she says. “You will decide for yourself. You are nearly a man.”

Prince Virgil does not want to be a man yet. He is not fully done being a child. He does not desire the responsibility that comes with ruling a kingdom. He does not think he will ever want that responsibility, if it means imprisoning children and forsaking friends to keep a power that is not his.

“Would you like to hear a story?” Queen Clarion says.

And though Prince Virgil is twelve, an age at which children begin to believe they are too old for stories told aloud by their parents, our prince desires one tonight. It is the missing of his friend. It is the promise of a kingdom, weighing heavily on his shoulders. It is the sadness, moving about in his memory. Stories, of course, have a magical quality about them. They cure sickness, and they calm concern, and they smooth away sadness. One has merely to listen, and words will wander in like soothing balm.

“Yes,” Prince Virgil tells his mother. “Yes, I would like a story, please.” Our prince has not forgotten his manners. He remembers how to be kind and how to speak politely and how to love when he is with his mother.

Queen Clarion smiles. She pulls the heavy blue velvet up to her boy’s chin. These are her favorite moments, when she is granted time alone with her son, when she can wrap him in the warmth of words and mend a heart whole again.

“It is cold in here,” she says, glancing toward the window. “It is growing colder.”

Prince Virgil looks toward the window as well. “I forgot to close it.”

“No matter,” Queen Clarion says. She rises swiftly from her place and closes the window before stoking the fire and sitting back on his bedside. “The fire will warm you soon.” She smooths the velvet around him again. “What kind of story would you like to hear?” Prince Virgil’s candle, balanced on his bedside table, flashes in her eyes. “Perhaps one of adventure? Or love?”

“A happy one,” Prince Virgil says. “One that is true.”

Queen Clarion does not know many true stories that are happy. But she can modify, perhaps, for there is one that began very happily indeed. So she tells him of his Uncle Wendell, how she was brought to the castle when she was only a girl of six, to marry him. Her mother gave strict instructions that the marriage would wait until she was old enough, sixteen at least, and in those intervening years Prince Wendell taught Queen Clarion to shoot a bow and aim at the place that would be most merciful to the animals hunted, that would take them down in the swiftest way possible so that there would be no pain, or not much of it. Prince Wendell taught her to see what she could not see before.

Queen Clarion hesitates for a moment. She comes to a place in the story where she has always told what she was expected to tell. She has never told the real part of the story before, but something about the way her son looks at her this night tells her now is precisely the right time to tell it. She must share the truth. She must show him the kindness and courage and love of his uncle. She must erase the story of foolishness and tell, instead, the story of a hero, for that is what Prince Wendell was.

So, rather than the typical turn in this story, Queen Clarion weaves another one around her son. She tells of a girl and a boy sneaking from the castle to visit the people of the village, who were starving under King Sebastien’s reign. She tells of magic that helped fill their bellies and keep them warm. She tells of the castle and its extravagance, and the scant provisions it would provide to the people who made furniture and shoes and baked bread for the kingdom’s pleasure.

It is a story of injustice, where Prince Virgil has only been told a story of might.

“The people could not feed their families with what the castle provided,” Queen Clarion says. “They were desperate. Your uncle urged King Sebastien to do something about it. King Sebastien refused.”

“Why?” Prince Virgil says. “When the people were starving?”

“Your grandfather believed that the working people should remain the working people,” Queen Clarion says.

“But they were working,” Prince Virgil says. “And they were still starving.”

His mother smiles, but it is a sad smile. “Precisely,” Queen Clarion says. “Your uncle could not watch his people starve. His heart was too tender.” Her eyes take on a faraway look. “Your grandfather believed that meant your Uncle Wendell was weak.”

“So Grandfather sent him away?” Prince Virgil says. “For having a tender heart?”

“For helping the people,” Queen Clarion says. “Your uncle helped them survive.”

“I do not understand,” Prince Virgil says.

“It is not for us to understand,” Queen Clarion says, for this is something she has learned in all the years since, in all the years grieving for a man she had grown to love, though she had only recently turned seven when Prince Wendell left, in all the years married to his brother, who had been trained to be another King Sebastien, only larger and, perhaps, just a touch softer. “It is for us to do better.” Notice, dear reader, that she does not tell him what the better thing to do is. She leaves that open to him, for deciding what to do can only happen in one’s own mind.

“Was my grandfather afraid of the villagers?” Prince Virgil says.

“Perhaps,” Queen Clarion says. “Perhaps he feared the same thing your father fears.”

“Losing the throne?” Prince Virgil says.

Queen Clarion bends her head. She takes her son’s hand. “There are more important things to life than keeping a throne.”

They are words, you may remember, from another time and another place. Queen Clarion is a wise woman. She knows much of the world, much more than, say, her son. Her words dip into his chest, squeezing softly. He knows them to be true. He blinks tears away. There is a great, wide chasm on his insides. He fills it with more words.

“I loved Theo,” Prince Virgil says. “He was my best friend.”

“Losing a friend is not easy,” Queen Clarion says.

“Do you think he is alive?” Prince Virgil says.

His mother touches his cheek. “We cannot say for sure,” she says. “But if the boy had magic, we can hope.”

“If he had magic, he could take what is mine,” Prince Virgil says.

“Perhaps,” Queen Clarion says. “What do you think?”

Prince Virgil thinks about this boy he knew, this boy he loved. He thinks about the sister with evening sky eyes, and the way she could turn a cloudy day into one that held the brightest sun a world has ever seen. He thinks about the girl with flaming red hair. “No,” he says. “No, I do not think he would have. But he did lie about his magic.”

“Fear makes man do unexplainable things,” Queen Clarion says. “Look what his magic set in motion.”

Prince Virgil considers this. Children stolen from their homes. Families torn apart. Parents beaten in the streets. So much destruction from a simple discovered secret.

“What happened to the people?” Prince Virgil says. His mother tilts her head, as if she does not understand. So he says, “After my uncle left?”

“They carried on,” she says. “As people do.”

“But if he cared so much about the people, why did he leave them?” Prince Virgil says. “Why did he not stay and help them?”

Queen Clarion smiles again. “I suppose your uncle had other plans,” she says. “And the people have done well enough for themselves.”

Prince Virgil supposes that, yes, they had. They did not have quite enough to eat, but they had found ways around it. A community garden he had only seen once. Some sheep for wool. Goats for milk. A wheat field behind the village.

“Does he still live?” Prince Virgil says.

“We have not seen your uncle since he was banished,” Queen Clarion says. “But I suspect he lives still.”

“You miss him,” Prince Virgil says.

His mother’s eyes turn soft. “Yes,” she says. “I loved your uncle very much. He was kind to me.”

Prince Virgil wonders, at this moment, why he has never heard this story before. He asks.

“There is a story your grandfather wanted told,” Queen Clarion says. “It is the same story your father wanted told.” She pauses for a moment. “You were not ready to hear the truth. But I thought, perhaps, that now you are.”

And this is precisely what urges him to ask the question that has weighed on his mind since turning that talisman over and over and over again in his hands.

“Did Grandfather really die from a blackbird?” Prince Virgil says.

“Is that the story your father has told you?” Queen Clarion says.

“It is the story the villagers tell,” Prince Virgil says. “Father does not tell stories. He leaves that to others.”

“Yes, I suppose he does,” Queen Clarion says. She takes a breath, lets it out smoothly. She smells of peppermint. She leans down to kiss him goodnight, for this is a story that will wait for another evening. “Your grandfather died of the heart sickness,” she says.

She is all the way across the room when Prince Virgil calls out, “Will I die of the heart sickness?” Queen Clarion stops in the doorway. Her gown swishes as she turns. She looks at her son. He looks at her.

“I do not believe you will,” she says. “I believe you will live for a very long time.” His mother closes the door, leaving her words with him.

And these words, dear reader, ease our prince from his bed and around to the chest of drawers and down to the floor. He slides his hand between the gap of wood and floor, and when he grasps the talisman, he carries it back to his bed, where he falls asleep with his fingers wound tight around it.

***

WHILE the boy is sleeping, his father, the king, remains in the court, still eating, supping this time, for the fifth time, with his captain of the guard, who has not had a decent meal in months.

Sir Greyson, good man that he is, tries not to eat too much or too swift, tries to think of his soldiers, still camping on the castle grounds, roasting fish from the stream beside the castle on fires spread around the palace lawn. They have not been permitted to go home as yet, have not even seen their families until further orders can be given. The king has forbidden their respite. And so it is that Sir Greyson tries to think of his men.

But it has been so long since he has had roast lamb in a rich buttercream sauce like this one that he cannot help reaching for more once his portion has fully and rapidly disappeared. He does not, in fact, have to reach at all. He simply puts his fork down for one moment, and Garth, who is a quite excellent page, fills his plate again. So, you see, it is not entirely his fault that he eats until he is nearly bursting.

“Good man,” the king says, nodding toward Sir Greyson’s plate, filled for the third time.

“Please,” Sir Greyson says. He waves Garth away. “No more.” He will surely burst were he to eat any more.

The king has asked his captain of the guard to supper for the sole purpose of informing him of the decree he intends to send to neighboring kingdoms, ordering them to surrender any fugitives who have come into their lands in the weeks past. He does not seek approval, mind you. He merely seeks a face colored in embarrassment, perhaps, for not having thought up this grand idea in spite of wearing the name Captain of the King’s Guard, tasked with finding all the missing children (though Sir Greyson and his men have already visited the neighboring kingdoms and, as you might recall, came away with no children). King Willis merely seeks praise, for an idea so carefully and perfectly wrought (though he was not the first to consider it). He merely wishes to show his captain how dire this situation has become (though nothing has changed, dear reader).

“Captain,” the king says. He is a man given to warming up a conversation. “Tell me your plans.”

Sir Greyson clears his throat. He considers the meeting before supper, all the words already spoken. Does he have more to say? Perhaps?

“We will begin closer to home,” Sir Greyson says.

“Begin again,” King Willis says. He stares at his man from across the table, his lips pulled up into a smile that resembles a sneer. Do you know what a sneer is, dear reader? It is a most horrid thing, particularly on the face of a king. Particularly on the face of a king such as this one. Particularly when the only light in a room is the candle flickering on the table.

Sir Greyson shivers, tensing his legs as if to run at any moment. And it is true that King Willis looks dangerous, more like an animal than a man in this dim light, with that horrid sneer. The two men are seated at a long table, Sir Greyson near the end, though not all the way, for the ends of tables like these are intended for those in powerful positions. Sir Greyson is not powerful, compared to King Willis. Prince Virgil, on the nights he sups with his father, has taken to sitting at the empty end, directly across from the king, though one might argue that “directly across” is not the same measurement as “ten feet across.” Sir Greyson sits at the prince’s imaginary elbow, for the prince is not supping so late but is, as we have seen, tucked in his bed, with a wooden talisman clutched in his hand.

“Yes, I suppose it would be beginning again,” Sir Greyson says.

“What is that you say, my good man?” King Willis calls from the other end of the table.

Sir Greyson looks at his king. “Yes,” he says, louder this time. “We shall begin again.”

“And I,” the king says. He makes a grand gesture with his arms. The skin pulses against the sleeves of his royal robes. Sir Greyson is momentarily distracted, thinking about the king he first came to know. He was nothing like this large king, this king who has grown fat, for there is no other word for it. How did it happen? When did it happen? Why did it happen? King Willis reaches for yet another piece of bread.

The once smaller king, though never, perhaps, small at all, has been replaced by a king who will soon not fit through the doorways, should his growth continue.

“What do you think of that?” King Willis says. Sir Greyson takes a sharp breath. Has his king been talking all this time?

“I am sorry sir,” Sir Greyson says, deciding to be an honest man about it. “I believe the food has shored up my ears. I did not hear you in your entirety.”

The king stares at him, his mouth open in what must be shock, but then he shakes out a long, bellowing laugh. “Shoring up your ears,” he says, when his laugh has turned to silence. “I did not know my captain of the guard was so funny.” He looks at Sir Greyson, his eyes squinting, his mouth in a line now. “Take care. Your king is speaking.”

Sir Greyson listens to King Willis ramble on and on about a decree and how it will get to the neighboring kingdoms and what he will do to the kingdoms should he discover they are hiding the children of Fairendale within their borders. And when he is finished, he looks expectantly at his captain of the guard.

“Well, sir? What say you?” the king bellows across the table.

Sir Greyson clears his throat. “I do not advise taking action just yet,” Sir Greyson says. “With all due respect, sire.”

“And why not?” King Willis says. “Perhaps they need to hear from a powerful king, rather than his servant men.”

A sliver of anger climbs up Sir Greyson’s throat.

Firstly, Sir Greyson does not consider King Willis a powerful king, for a powerful king, in Sir Greyson’s mind, is a wise one. Secondly, he does not appreciate being called a servant. He is a paid man, of course, but he does not do menial tasks. He does noble tasks. He protects the kingdom. He risks his life. He searches for children.

A sharp pain splits his throat. No. That is not so noble, now, is it?

Still, a servant? He is no servant. But, fortunately, Sir Greyson is an intelligent man and knows better than to argue with his king. At least about something as small as being called a servant.

For something as large as a decree that could very well bring war upon the land, it is another story entirely.

“I must disagree with you, my lord,” Sir Greyson says. “We have traveled to the lands already. I do not think they would appreciate hearing from our king so soon.” Particularly when “hearing from our king” means interpreting veiled threats. Sir Greyson does not say this aloud, however.

“What would you have me do, then?” King Willis says. “I have been counseled otherwise.”

“By whom?” Sir Greyson says, for he did not know that King Willis had counselors at all.

King Willis waves his hand. “That makes no matter,” he says.

The king and Sir Greyson stare at one another for a time. There is no sound at all in the royal dining hall. Even the servants hold their breaths.

“Sire,” Sir Greyson says. “I must beg you to reconsider.”

“What is it I must reconsider?” King Willis says.

“Our relationship with the other kingdoms,” Sir Greyson says.

“We are the fairest kingdom of them all,” King Willis says. “The most powerful.”

And while it is true that Fairendale may once have been the most powerful kingdom, part of the land’s power was found in its children, in its magic flashing about the streets. Its children are gone. It has not much power left. Though there is some power left yet.

Oh, yes.

“Pardon me, your highness,” Sir Greyson says. “I implore you to wait. At least until my men and I have a chance to comb the Weeping Woods again. Until we have searched the village. Until we enlist the mermaids down by the cove, in case any children might have ventured into the Violet Sea.”

King Willis gives a great laugh once more. “Children in the Violet Sea,” he says. “That is quite preposterous.”

Sir Greyson can see that his king is unsure now. “I am certain they are closer to home,” Sir Greyson says. “I am certain that is why my men did not find them. Please permit us to try once more before sending this decree.”

King Willis nods. “Very well,” he says. “You have one week. If you do not find the children in one week, the decree will fly.”

Sir Greyson will make haste. He does not want war to hit the land. He had heard stories about war. He knows what it can do to men and women. He knows what it can do to children. What it had done to him, though that was not a war against men but one against the elements of a dangerous land.

“We will begin in the forest, at first light,” Sir Greyson says.

“Tonight,” King Willis says.

Sir Greyson does not think he can ask his men to do such a thing, not only for the dangers held within the Weeping Woods but also for the exhaustion his men, at this very moment, feel in their very bones, for Sir Greyson feels it in his own. But he can see the king’s patience is growing short. “Yes, sire,” he says. “As you command.”

“Search under every stone,” King Willis says. “Examine every creature, even the tiny ants. The children have magic on their side. They could be pesky squirrels by now, for all we know. Or raccoons or porcupines.” King Willis reaches for another slice of bread. He takes a large bite before he says, with a muffled sound, “Find them.”

Sir Greyson rises from his seat, trying to erase the sight of bread crumbs spraying from his king’s mouth. He would round up every creature he could find. His men would set traps. They would hide out in the forest, even after the sun’s setting. But they would begin tomorrow, at first light.

His king would never know.

When Sir Greyson reaches the door, he suddenly remembers the bellies of his men. He turns around. The king has finished his bread in record time. Steaming plates of lamb and bread and smoked potatoes cover the long table. The king has more than enough food. Sir Greyson will ask to take some to his men.

“Sire,” Sir Greyson says. The king looks up.

“Yes?” he says. “Why are you still here, Captain?”

“My men,” Sir Greyson says. “They are hungry, sire. Might I take them some food?”

King Willis looks at his captain. Sir Greyson feels his king’s gaze slicing through him, dividing him clean in half so he is not so much a man as he is a trembling child. He would turn and go, but his king holds him in a look that feels unbreakable.

“You,” King Willis says, his voice very like what men have said of the Violet Sea: cold, dark, unmerciful. “Dare to ask me if I will share my food with the common man?”

“I am sorry, You Highness,” Sir Greyson says, and the words come tumbling out, end over end, on their own. “My men are hungry. And we have all traveled so—”

“You dare ask me if I will share my food with the common man?” King Willis roars. It is a chilling roar. The marble floors of the castle nearly shake in its great, wide breath.

“Please, sire,” Sir Greyson says. “Let it be as if I had never asked.”

The king is still bellowing when Sir Greyson turns and flees out the door. He should have stuffed his pockets with bread. At least then he would have something to share. Now he will bid his men good night with a full belly, while they sleep starving.

Perhaps they will find something in the woods on the morrow.

Sir Greyson returns to the castle grounds, where his men have disappeared into their tents for the night. He looks toward the village, where his mother is probably sleeping now. He misses his mother. He has not seen her in so long. Does she live? Surely someone would have gotten word to him if she does not. He hopes that someone else has taken to caring for her in his absence. But who? The people have all but died since the children disappeared.

He is turning away when he notices a light glowing in one of the village windows. Strange. It is late for the villagers to be up. He knows their habit of retiring early, preserving their candles and setting their sleep to the sun. He used to be one of them, after all. But, then, the village has changed since the children left it. It has grown quiet. Sad. A bit mysterious, perhaps.

Sir Greyson looks up at the sky and toward his men and back to the village. He tries not to think about what a light in a village window might possibly mean.

***

A group of villagers gathers on the other side of the hill where they fetch water from a fountain. There is a hidden passage. There are secrets. There are whispers.

Some of them are parents whose children sleep in the dungeons with one hundred forty-three prophets. Some of them are parents whose children went missing, and they have no knowledge of where they are. Some of them are no longer parents but old grandparents with white hair and papery skin. Some of them were never parents in the first place.

What they all wish to know is what will be done to save the children. For someone must save the children. Fairendale, after all, is not the same without children. It is not warm. It is not dry. It is not light.

And perhaps it is not so important who they are or to whom they belong. What is important is that they all, on this particular night, when a rapping on the door stirred them from their fitful sleep, have risen from their beds and walked up the hill and slipped through the secret door and now stand in a candlelit room, hugging the shadowy corners, for they do not want to know who is here and who is not. What is more important than even this is that they are thinking, talking, planning how they might yet save the children, before it is too late.

***

AND it is, perhaps, with great delight that the villagers might look inside the walls of the Fairendale castle, deep, deep down in its bowels, for were they to have a way of seeing what happens behind solid stone doors, they might, perhaps, see a boy named Calvin.

Calvin is Cook’s assistant. He is not good for much in the kitchen but cutting vegetables and getting in the way. But the perk of being Cook’s assistant is that he sees the crates of food that settle on counters, to be eaten by the royal family. He knows that these crates hold more than enough food for one family of only three people. So he takes a little every day, feeding his own belly.

And then, when he is tasked with keeping the children in the dungeons beneath the dungeons fed and watered, he began to execute a plan on which he had spent quite some time—taking a little, hiding it away, waiting. His storehouse grows daily. So tonight, when Cook dismisses him with a bit of bread that is not nearly enough for all the ones who share a dungeon, Calvin retreats to his store, which is not quite as large as he would prefer, but is, perhaps, enough. He stuffs apples and bits of bread and carrots and whatever he can fit in the pockets of his breeches, beneath his tunic, inside, even, the floppy hat he wears on his head. He balances the expected tray of food and water and does not consider how he might appear to one walking through the castle this night. Fortunately, there is no one walking through the castle tonight, and so he lights a candle, and he descends the stairs, and he can hear their voices of wonder.

“Is that light I see?” a man’s voice calls.

“Who is there?” says a woman.

He turns the corner. It is he, Calvin. He has brought food and candlelight and enough water for all of them.

“You,” says a woman with what looks like snakes for hair. “You brave boy.”

“For you,” he says. He empties his pockets and his hat and the tunic, placing before them more food than they have seen in all the days and nights spent in this dungeon. The children murmur, but they do not reach for the food.

An old man stares at him, his hair white and wild. “Why, my boy?” he says. “Why did you risk your life like this? To bring us light?”

“No one can live without light,” Calvin says. He has heard this somewhere, back when he was a boy, perhaps, though he does not remember much from that time. He remembers his parents leaving, dying, Cook says, and then he was brought to the castle rather than shipped away to some distant cousin in the kingdom of Ashvale. And lucky for him, for the kingdom of Ashvale was leveled by a red, spitting mountain that soaked the ground with its erupting fire and then cooled into rock. The people burned in their homes when it rained from the sky. And he is here, alive, helping the children.

“What is your name, boy?” the woman says. Her white teeth glow against her dark face, but it is not a frightening glow so much as it is a comforting one.

“Calvin,” he says.

“I am called Aleen,” the woman says. She moves closer to the prison bars. “Do you know what you have done for us, my boy?”

He has fed them. He has brought them light. Is there more?

“You have brought us light,” she says. “You have given us hope.”

“I will bring more,” Calvin says. “Every night I can.” Every night he could steal away from Cook, every time he could stuff his pockets with extra food. Perhaps he could come up with something larger to carry all his supplies, something a person would not notice. Perhaps a knapsack. He would search the old rooms of the castle, where no one had lived for some time. There might be something. He could sew a stitch or two. Cook had seen to that, when his legs began growing too fast and she had no more time to let out his hems.

“You must be careful,” Aleen says. “Do not risk your life, boy. You are needed.”

Had he not already risked his life? Or very near it. Cook would flay him were she to discover what he had done. He would certainly have to be careful. But what did she mean that he was needed? He had never really been needed in his entire life. Cook made it a habit to remind him of this, that she had never asked for help in her kitchen, that he only made her job harder, that she wished the castle would find another job for him to do.

A child moves to the bars. Her hands wrap around them. She tries to smile, but Calvin can tell she is weak. Her hair hangs in a heavy curtain across her eyes. She brushes it away, but it is as if the strands are permanently stuck there. This is, you see, what weeping in your sleep can do. “Thank you,” she says. Her eyes, the parts of them visible beneath her blanket of hair, shine in the candlelight.

Calvin dips his head and shoves the tray forward.

“Might you hand it to us between the bars, my boy?” Aleen says.

Certainly. He had not thought of that. He dumps the food from the saucer onto the tray, hands Aleen the saucer and then begins to give her each piece of food.

“And the light?” says the white-haired man. His black eyebrows furrow around his eyes, as if he is lost in constant thought. Yerin is a thoughtful man, and he has much more time for thinking now than ever, trapped in this dungeon.

Calvin passes the candle between the bars. The man looks at Aleen. “We will have to preserve the light,” he says.

“I can get you more,” Calvin says.

Aleen nods. “Please do, my boy,” she says. She gestures to the children behind her. “The children are afraid of the dark.”

He certainly understands that. Calvin, for one, is glad he is not tasked with turning down all the torches of the castle. It is a job for another. He hopes it will never pass to him.

Calvin watches them for a moment. And then he turns to go. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up at the blind way before him. He did not think about bringing a candle for the return trip up. He looks back at the children, gathered around the tiny bit of light and the extra food laid out before them as if it is a feast. It is, perhaps, a feast for bellies that have not tasted much besides bread and water for so many days.

Surely he can brave the dark this one time? Surely he can make it up one set of stairs, though they number in the hundreds, when the children have sat in darkness for many days? Surely he can summon his courage?

Calvin climbs the stairs, one at a time, careful not to stumble. Creatures scuttle across his path, but he hums a tune Cook is always singing and tries not to think about what they might be or whether they have claws or what might lie in wait for him around the next turn.

He reaches the top and breathes, in, out, in, out, for several moments. It is as if he has won a battle for his life, which, of course, is exactly what battling a fear feels like, is it not?

The castle is dark, but the moon is bright tonight. He finds his way to his rooms easily, stokes the fire and crawls into his bed.