Whispers.

Whispers.

Whispers.

No matter where she went, Tyra heard nothing else.

Her ears perked at the sound of every quiet voice, and her eyes darted to every concealed mouth. The entire morning was made worse by the peasant’s constant interruptions. She could do nothing. No one else could see the peasant or perceive the irritating songs that he sang — purposefully off-key. Tyra tried her best to pay him no heed all morning, but in the end, his attempts to divert her attention were more than successful.

Lady Candise invited Tyra to leave her etiquette session because the princess refused to display a suitable introduction to a group of noblemen. It wasn’t her fault; the peasant stepped in front of them whenever she tried to give them a curtsy. Even Master Wussen seemed thoroughly baffled during geography because she would not answer questions about the disaster that decimated the land of Mendarch in the northwest. She wanted to participate, but the peasant’s antics distracted her from hearing the questions. Then, when Wussen changed the subject to history and the fall of Westmine, the kingdom beyond the Westerly Mountains, Tyra was too exhausted to listen. But when he brought up the legend of King Hilvar’s ghost, she couldn’t help but ask a few questions of her own. “How do you stop a ghost from haunting you?”

Wussen raised his white head. “Why?” he asked. “Are you being haunted?” Tyra gave a reluctant nod, hoping he wouldn’t dismiss her. If there was anyone who would believe her story, it was he. “How very fascinating,” Wussen said. “When did this haunting begin?”

“A ghost followed me home after a ride in the woods.”

The old tutor glanced about the room. “Is it here now?”

“Yes,” she said, relieved that someone finally believed her.

“Where?” Wussen continued. “What does it look like?”

“He’s right there.” She pointed at the table next to her, where the peasant sat, perched like a hunting hawk. Master Wussen looked in her direction, but he did not appear to see anyone there. Tyra expected no less. “He looks like an ordinary peasant, until my hand goes through him …”

Her instructor shook his head. “If you had seen an actual ghost, he would be transparent, like a pane of glass,” he explained, “but thank you for humoring an old man.”

“You didn’t give him much to go on,” said the peasant. “What about my good looks?”

Tyra scowled at him. “Exactly how many ghosts have you seen, Master Wussen?”

“I have not actually seen one, but I had the strangest experience in Westmine …”

Crossing her arms, Tyra stopped listening to him. Some ghost expert. She knew more about ghosts after one night than her teacher did after a lifetime of hunting them.

The peasant heaved a bored sigh. “I’d do myself in if I had to go through this every day.”

For once, Tyra felt inclined to agree — not that killing herself would necessarily improve her situation. She couldn’t bear the thought of ending up like the peasant.

When it came time for the midday meal, Tyra ran for the banquet hall, decorated for one of her mother’s many social gatherings. She sat at her place at the table, and — without heeding her guests — gorged herself on a selection of jelly tarts. A single laugh filled the hall, unnoticed by everyone but her. The peasant sat cross-legged on the table.

“Slow down,” he said. “You don’t want to swallow your napkin.”

“At least I’m not sitting on the table!”

Food flew from Tyra’s full mouth.

Everyone stared at her. Several nobles gave indignant huffs, while another leaned back in her chair to fan her face in disgust. Understanding the spectacle she had made of herself, Tyra swallowed and left the dining hall with a few tarts in hand. Although she had embarrassed herself, Tyra didn’t give the people a second thought. She had somewhere else to go, an important place to be.

It was time for archery practice.

Arek had better be there …

Dodging her usual route, she made a pass through the kitchens and lost the peasant before she hurried to her room. She then changed into her archery dress, sewn with a fine indigo fabric. She covered her arms with silver bracers, slipped a leather strap over her shoulder, and buckled it to a belt around her waist. The strap was useful if ever she wanted to carry a quiver.

“That’s a new look for you,” said the peasant. “Sporting!”

Tyra slipped on her gloves. “Were you watching me change?!”

He seemed pleased by her distress. “Did you want me to?”

It was no use speaking to him. Tyra grabbed her bow and a quiver of arrows. “At least I can change my clothes. You’re still wearing the same shirt and trousers from the festival.”

“Would you have me remove them?”

Ignoring his attempt to rile her, Tyra passed through the peasant and proceeded out the door. “Come if you must. I will not even bother telling you to go away, since I know you won’t.”

He followed her with an amused smirk. “You catch on quick, Your Highness.”

A few flights of marble stairs later, Tyra was in the grounds behind the castle. Beyond the courtyard, near the inner wall, lay a sheltered pavilion. A few hunters stood by, holding readied bows. Their behavior was rather unusual this afternoon; they were providing more space for Tyra than usual. She tightened her bow, nocked an arrow, and let it fly at a bale of hay. The arrow soared through the afternoon air and pierced the center of a burlap target. The other archers clapped.

Thirty yards. Despite her lack of sleep, at least her aim remained true.

“Splendid shot, Your Highness!” Arek entered the shade of the pavilion.

“Arek!” She was so happy to see her knight, more than could be contained. The swelling in his eye had improved some. “Can we speak in private, before Master Niklaus arrives?”

“Certainly.” He turned to the others. “It seems I have misplaced my armguard. Fetch it for me, lads, and do take your time.” Arek crossed his arms as he watched the hunters depart. “I was hoping to speak with you myself,” he continued, once they were alone. “How do you feel?”

“I’m fine.” Tyra rubbed at the twitch in her left eye. “Why do you ask?”

“There are few flattering things being said about you this day.”

I’m well aware of that. “What have you heard, exactly?”

“That you speak to yourself and scream for no reason, as if you were mad.”

Tyra tucked her lower lip some. “What do you make of these rumors?”

“I do not believe them, but believe me when I say that I am mad about you.”

In her ear, the peasant burst out laughing. “No man in his right mind would like you …” He was standing behind her, leaning right over her shoulder, like the nosy simpleton that he was.

Tyra closed her eyes. “Sir Arek, where were you last night?”

The knight brushed a hair behind his ear. “Training my squire. Why do you ask?”

“You weren’t waiting for me in a clearing in the woods, outside Cobblestown?”

“Waiting for you … in a clearing in the woods … on a full moon?” He laughed. “Why would I do that?”

“That’s it?” the peasant cried. “You came to my woods last night to meet him?” Tyra refused to answer, so he threw his hands up in disbelief. “The Princess of Avërand really is a trollop!”

Tyra couldn’t endure this torture any longer. Anger surged inside her veins, making her hot enough to sweat. Even her cheeks felt as if they had caught on fire. “Shut your impudent mouth!”

Arek’s smile fell. “Whatever have I said to offend you?”

“I — I, uh, uh,” Tyra stammered. “I didn’t mean to say that, Arek.”

“But you did,” he replied. “Maybe you should go inside and rest.”

“I can’t rest!” Tyra pointed at the peasant. “He won’t stop pestering me!”

Arek looked to where she pointed. “Who are you talking about, Princess?”

“You can’t see him because he’s dead.” Tyra winced as she said it. She knew this would make her look mad, but she couldn’t take it anymore. “I went out to meet you in the woods last night, but when I arrived, I found this meddling ghost instead. Now he won’t leave me alone!”

Realizing that she had spoken louder then she meant, Tyra sensed a new awkward silence in the courtyard, worse than before. Arek’s shoulders trembled as the returning hunters came to a halt. The gardeners stopped clipping their hedges, and a group of squires turned their heads.

She had caused yet another scene.

“Maybe we should go inside and consult the physician?” Arek suggested.

“I don’t need a physician,” Tyra cried. “I need you!”

“Stay here, Princess, and I will fetch the physician for you.”

Sir Arek turned and left, leaving Tyra alone with the ghost. “You make this haunting business easy,” said the peasant. “Shall we keep this up? I still have a few good ideas left in me.”

Instead of answering, Tyra threw down her bow and headed for the castle.

“Hey,” said the peasant. “Where are you off to now?”

This was the final straw. She was more than disappointed that Arek didn’t believe her — he didn’t even listen to her. She feared what he thought of her now. Had she scared him away forever? Tyra hoped not. It was time for drastic measures. If she was to have any success in removing the peasant from her life, she had to look into her final option. “The tailor sent me into your woods, and he is going to tell me why.”

“Didn’t I say that this morning?” The peasant smiled. “You’ve decided to help me then?”

“Help you?” Tyra spun around and jabbed her finger through his chest with each word she spoke. “Who said I was helping you? Nothing in this world could ever make me help you!”

“That’s too bad. I’d hate to see how you’d handle two sleepless nights.”

Ignoring the threat, Tyra stormed off to find the cellar — the darkest, most disgusting place in the castle. She had to know why the tailor had sent her into the woods, and why he had lied to her about Sir Arek. She desperately hoped that he would have all the answers.

“By the way,” the peasant said, following after her, “you’re quite good with a bow.”

She already knew that, but she welcomed the compliment.

Even if it came from him.

Dim torches guided their descent into the castle’s deep foundation. As they went, Nels wondered when they would reach the bottom of the dark, grimy place — not that it bothered him very much. It was the tailor that concerned him. He may have the answers that Nels was searching for, certainly, but he wasn’t sure if Bosh could be trusted. Nels had to stay alert. Observing was all he could do. Ever since his death, Nels felt nothing, not even the air.

What about that smell?

The most curious thing about death was the constant aroma that followed him. No matter where he went, a stale, sugary smell accompanied him. He tried to ignore the scent by thinking of another — Tyra’s hair came to mind. As they walked, he remembered his first impression of her at the festival and how his heart and mind battled over her status and beauty, but he hadn’t accounted for her selfishness. His method of haunting her was cruel — he knew that — but maybe she deserved it; her parents took no initiative in putting her in her place. Then again, no one deserved the ruthlessness that he had put her through. Nels didn’t like his actions and wondered if he had gone too far.

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Tyra said. “This place is so dismal.”

“I prefer this over that knight of yours.” She didn’t respond, but that didn’t keep Nels from asking further. “Why do you like Arek so much? The guy can’t even wrestle.”

“He wrestles just fine.”

Nels laughed. “Do you know this from experience?”

A touch of pink surfaced on her cheeks. Again, she would not answer him. Nels only meant to tease her, but the awkward silence made him question her all the more.

“You’ve had other meetings besides the woods?”

“What he and I do is of no concern to you.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t kiss me?”

“Stop bringing that up!”

Disappointed, Nels let it go. “If that’s what you want.”

“That is what I want,” she said through gritted teeth. “Stop your babbling.”

Another minute passed before they reached the bottom of the castle. Its damp walls spread deep into shadowed corridors. Their eyes focused on an oak door in front of them. They stepped up to it and Tyra knocked, long and hard. No one answered. She tugged at the handle.

The door was locked. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s hiding,” she muttered.

“If you were coming after me, I know I would.”

A loud clack echoed down the corridor, followed by the grating of an iron hinge. Tyra backed through Nels as the door opened. A figure stood in the frame, a soft light beside him.

Bosh held up a lantern. “Why hello, Princess Tyra. I have been expecting you.”

“Have you? I mean, yes … I’m sure you have … after what you did.”

Bosh puckered his aged lips. “Did, Your Highness?”

“Last night at the bridge. Do you remember that?”

“Oh, that! Yes, I do. Did you find your knight?”

“I didn’t find my knight. I found something else.”

“You found the boy who was killed by a tree?”

Nels and Tyra shared a glance. “How do you know —”

Bosh stepped aside from the doorframe and waved his hand between them. “Tension,” he said slowly. “There is a great deal of tension between you two. That will complicate things.”

“What do you mean?” Tyra asked. “You can see him, too?”

“No, I cannot,” said Bosh, “but I can sense him.”

“You can tell he’s with us, then? How?”

“Come inside,” Bosh said, ignoring her question. “Be mindful of what you touch.”

Nels went first. Lanterns hung from brass hooks in the ceiling, filling the tailor’s chamber with ample light. Tables filled the room, heaped with stacks of fabric. His mother had organized her materials like this, but Bosh’s collection was far more extensive. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with countless rolls of fabric and spools of thread in every color imaginable.

In the center of the chamber was a loom, the largest Nels had ever seen. On an adjacent table was a small cage with an old squirrel inside it.

“Please pardon my clutter. I was tending to my little friend here.” Bosh motioned to the caged creature. “It’s dying, you see. I happened upon it as I was coming back from the festival.” The old tailor turned to Nels. “Turns out I was wrong, young man. They are not at all vicious. Immensely tame, if treated right.” Bosh reached into a pocket and gave the small creature an acorn.

Tyra glanced at Nels with her most incredulous glare yet.

“Now,” Bosh said. “There is a place to sit in the back —”

“Arek never waited for me,” Tyra snapped. “You lied to me!”

“Finger pricks!” Bosh patted his robes, as if feeling for something. “I believe you misunderstood me, Princess. I said you would find your knight. I said nothing about Sir Arek.”

“He can’t be talking about me,” Nels said. “How does he even know I’m here?”

“Are you suggesting that this peasant is the knight you are speaking of?”

The tailor chuckled. “Knights. Peasants. What does it matter, really?”

“It matters the world to me!” Tyra cried. “This peasant is ruining my life!”

“I highly doubt that,” Bosh said. “Nels is a knight among his neighbors, eager to help in any way he can. He won the match, and you refused the kiss that you had agreed to give.”

The very mention of her refusal caused Nels to question what a kiss had to do with anything. He meant only to taunt Tyra over the kiss they never shared — to convince her to help him — but maybe they were onto something. The old man asked Nels to go to the festival. He’d suggested the match — and the kiss. Was this done by his design? “He wanted us to kiss!” Nels blurted out.

“You wanted us to kiss each other?” Tyra suddenly cried at the tailor. “Why?”

“I will tell you,” Bosh said, “although I am not exactly sure where to begin.”

“Begin as all stories do,” Tyra said, “at the beginning.”

“That would take too long. Perhaps it is best if I show you.”

The tailor shuffled to a closet, opened it, and reached inside. He bumbled through a collection of metallic rods until he found a long wooden handle affixed to a sharp blade. He drew it out and held the handle in both hands. Nels’s eyes widened. All at once, he understood. With some kind of magic, the tailor had created the illusion that his chores were finished, to trick Nels into escorting him to the festival. And then, when the match ended, Bosh vanished. In like manner, the merchant had emerged from out of nowhere with only the single ax in good condition.

If the tailor could create an illusion, could he change his own appearance?

“That’s my ax!” Nels turned to Tyra. “Get out of here!”

She turned to the peasant with a bewildered stare.

“He’s the one who killed me. Run, Tyra!”

Without wavering, Tyra backed away. Her hip rammed into the corner of the table where the squirrel’s cage sat, making it topple over. The tailor stood still, surprised, the ax in hand as Tyra gasped and bolted for the door — but she never reached it. As if yanked by an unseen cord, something pulled her back, and she slammed against the back wall. Her impact opened a secret passage and she tumbled into a dark room.

Nels ran after her, light on his feet, but cursing that he could do nothing to help. The room was small and damp. The tailor stood in the doorframe with the ax in his hands, blocking Tyra’s escape. The princess cowered in the farthest corner, looked at Nels, and pointed to the middle of the room — her arm trembling. On a makeshift bed of white sheets, a gauze-wrapped body had been laid to rest.

Beneath a thin layer of amber goop, Nels could see his own dead face.