JI SPENT THE next two days scrubbing dishes and sharpening knives until sunset, then cleaning boots past midnight. A snarl of pain settled between his shoulder blades, and his eyes felt gritty with exhaustion.
As he picked at a pebble jammed in a boot sole, he longed for the olden days. Roz said that centuries ago, before the first Summer Queen, every human had a little magic. Not much, just enough to keep a bonfire burning, keep a bouquet fresh—or keep a pair of boots clean.
But when the monstrous hordes attacked, those little tricks couldn’t protect them. With humankind on the brink of extinction, the Summer Queen gathered all the human magic into herself. She defeated the monsters and saved humanity . . . but nobody had magic anymore, except for queens and kings and their chosen mages.
Which meant that bonfires died, bouquets wilted—and freshly polished boots were soon caked with thick, horrible mud.
On the second evening, Ji headed for a fancy corridor where the highest-ranking guests stayed. He tucked four pairs of boots into his bag, stifled a yawn, and heard voices in the curving stairway.
He stepped against the wall and lowered his head. That was what servants did when nobles came near. And in return, nobles ignored servants completely, like they were uncomfortable chairs or bad breath.
So Ji wasn’t surprised when the nobles kept talking as they strolled along the hallway toward him. One was Baroness Primstone—Ji recognized the rubies on her house slippers. She was a tiny woman with a pile of braided hair that looked like a shoelace knot, except half of the Baroness’s braids were painted gold every morning.
“. . . young Brace is an exceedingly fortunate boy,” she was saying. “We’ve shown him every kindness.”
“I’m sure you have,” the gentleman with her murmured.
“I’d never say this myself,” Baroness Primstone said, “but I am widely known for my kindness, Proctor.”
With his head still bowed, Ji inspected Proctor’s soft-soled walking boots. Even from down the hall, he could tell that they’d been crafted by An-Hank Cordwainer, the finest boot maker in the city. He raised his gaze slightly and saw a hearty-looking gentleman with curly hair, a bushy beard, and twinkling eyes, wearing a green linen shirt and embroidered black trousers with a silken sash.
“Your generosity is the talk of the city, my lady,” Proctor told the baroness, his voice faintly teasing. “And your kindness is a byword.”
Ji almost laughed. Proctor was making fun of the baroness! Right to her face. He stayed silent, though. An undergardener had once giggled when the baron tripped on a tree root, and they’d tied him to the tree for three days as punishment.
“I’ve raised my nephew, Brace, like he was one of my own,” the baroness explained, pausing in front of a painting of the first Summer Queen. “Although I am too humble to admit it, I am far too good to do anything less for my poor sister.”
“If you were any farther good, my lady,” Proctor said solemnly, “you’d make the angels jealous.”
“I told my sister not to marry that man,” the baroness sniffed. “He was beneath her.”
“Brace’s father was related to the third Summer Queen, was he not?”
Ji wrinkled his nose. He’d never heard that before: he mostly thought of Brace as a gawky noble kid who played strategy games and hid in closets.
“Only in the lowest branch of Her Majesty’s family tree. Still, in the end, everything worked out.”
“You mean after your sister and her husband died?”
“Precisely!” the baroness said with a bright smile. “That’s when Brace came to live here, as a rather ill-mannered eight-year-old. At least his arrival brought good omens. Our desert lotus blossomed, which is an excellent portent. And what more could my nephew want than to live at Primstone Manor?”
His parents? Ji thought.
“His parents?” Proctor suggested. “Or he may want the crown.”
A hush filled the hallway. The ache throbbed in Ji’s back, but he didn’t move. He barely breathed.
“The Summer Queen wears the crown,” Baroness Primstone said, frowning at the painting on the wall beside her. “She always has, since my great-grandmother’s time.”
“And yet, for the past five years,” Proctor told her, “she’s held a Deedledum Rite every year. To choose an heir to her throne.”
A what? Ji squinted at his sandals. A “Deedledum Rite”? That didn’t sound like a way to choose the heir to anything bigger than a pigsty.
“So far, no candidate has passed the rite,” Proctor continued. “Her Highness is now inviting another three young people with the proper ancestry.”
“She’s inviting Brace? But he’s such a frail boy, and the Deedledum Rite is rather dangerous, is it not?”
“That is why I must get your permission to let him join me in the city.”
The city! Ji felt his breath catch, his exhaustion forgotten. He needed to get to the city, to sell his loot. Maybe he could tag along with Brace. . . .
“I’m quite sorry.” The baroness sighed. “But I’m afraid that is not possible.”
“And why is that?” Proctor asked, a hint of steel in his mild voice.
“As I mentioned,” the baroness said, “a desert lotus bloomed in the mausoleum when Brace arrived. That unlucky boy brought good luck to our household.”
“The ogres are restless, my lady. There are rumblings from the mountains.”
“The ogres? They are weak and feeble—a mere shadow of the threat they once posed.”
“The realm needs an heir,” Proctor told her. “And a Deedledum Rite is far more important than silly superstitions about lotus vines and blossoms—”
“My dear sir!” the baroness interrupted. “So long as that blessed flower blooms, Brace will remain here.”
A vague discomfort filled the corridor, like a sliver of apple peel caught between your teeth. Ji peeked between his eyelashes at Proctor and watched his bearded face.
“Perhaps the bloom will suddenly die,” Proctor said, his gaze flicking toward Ji. “Now that the queen needs Brace.”
Ji flushed at Proctor’s attention. Why was he looking at Ji? And what was he saying? That if the bloom suddenly died for no reason, Brace could leave Primstone?
“Perhaps it will shrivel in the next few days,” Proctor continued with a wink at Ji. “And the young gentleman will be free to join me in the city.”
Ji ducked his head at the wink and tried to melt into the wall. In the city. The words echoed in his mind despite his nervousness. If the lotus blossom died, Brace would join Proctor in the city. Which was exactly where Ji needed to go. He kept his eyes down and his mouth shut . . . and started to make a plan.
When Ji returned to the chimney, Sally was snoring softly. Sometimes, when she stayed the night, he’d hear her whimpering in her sleep. She’d say her brother’s name, and sorry or no! or please. Either begging the tapestry weavers to release Chibo, or begging his forgiveness for not having saved him yet.
Ji sat at his workbench and thought about what he’d heard. And what he’d seen. There was no way that a fancy gentleman like Proctor had actually winked at a boot boy. No way. Ji must’ve imagined the wink . . . but he definitely hadn’t imagined the conversation.
So he dropped a boot beside Sally’s head.
“Bridle!” she yelped, sitting upright. Then she saw Ji. “Oh.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Not again.”
“I know how to get to the city,” he said. “I think.”
“I was asleep,” she grumbled.
“Because you’re lazy.”
“I start working at dawn!”
“Horses are even worse than boots,” he told her. “I heard the baroness talking with a nobleman named Proctor. He wants to teach Brace—”
“Master Brace,” Sally corrected sleepily. “And horses are not worse than boots.”
“Of course they are. They bite.”
“Not usually.”
“And sneeze in your face.” Ji tugged on the strap of his bag. “Anyway, this Proctor guy wants to bring Master Brace to the city. So we just need Brace to take us along.”
Sally yawned. “You think he will?”
“Sure. I mean, we’re almost friends.” Ji half smiled, remembering. “I met him my first week at Primstone, before I even met you. I thought he was just some scared kid at the creek, hiding from the twins and playing with a toy catapult. So I built these twig houses and he launched pinecones at them.”
“Mm,” Sally said.
“Anyway, he’ll need servants in the city,” Ji told her. “That’s where we come in.”
“Mm,” Sally repeated.
“You can groom his horses, and I can clean his boots.” Ji rubbed the ache from his neck. “Only one problem. Did you ever hear Nosey and Pickle talking about the desert lotus flower that bloomed after Brace showed up?”
Sally didn’t say anything. She didn’t approve of Ji nicknaming nobles, not even ones as annoying as the Baron and Baroness’s fifteen-year-old twins. But their names were Posey and Nichol, so Ji couldn’t resist calling them Nosey and Pickle. Especially because Posey’s nose was always stuck up in the air, and Nichol was as sour as brine.
“Fine,” Ji grumbled. “Did you ever hear Lady Posey and Lord Nichol talking?”
Sally stayed quiet.
“The baroness thinks the flower is a sign of good luck,” Ji told her. “She won’t let Brace leave while it’s blooming. Which means—”
Sally snored. Oh. She’d fallen asleep.
“Which means,” he repeated, more softly, “that I’ve got to convince Brace to sneak through the goblin pen into the bone crypts—and kill that flower.”