Twinchantment

by Elise Allen

  —and the horse merely blew through his lips, as if irked by a fly.

  Galric hoisted himself back to standing, then pushed his forehead against the horse’s and held Balustrade’s face in both his hands.

  “Sorry about that, Blusters,” Galric said. “Thanks for helping me out.”

  Outrage now eclipsed Flissa’s fear. “Blusters?!”

  “Princess, hey.” Galric said it with a casualness Flissa didn’t like. She also didn’t like that he had hopped off the rock wall of the pit and was now scratching Balustrade just above his muzzle, the spot only Flissa knew he liked.

  “What are you doing to my horse?” Flissa demanded.

  Galric smiled. “I told you, I hang out at the stables when I can, so Blusters and I are good friends.”

  “Stop calling him that. His name is Balustrade, not…” Flissa couldn’t even bring herself to say it. “…that.”

  Galric grimaced. “I dunno. Balustrade’s so fussy, you know? Like those braids in his mane.”

  “His braids are beautiful.”

  Galric shrugged, and Flissa’s jaw dropped. If the coin hadn’t told her to follow through with Sara’s plan and talk to him, she would have turned and galloped right back to the castle. Instead she sat taller, turned Balustrade away from Galric—and tried not to notice the horse turning his head to look back at him.

  “You shouldn’t take such liberties with the princess’s horse,” Flissa said stiffly. “Or with the princess.”

  Galric stopped paying attention to Balustrade and squinted up at her. “Are you okay? You’re acting weird.”

  “I’m not,” Flissa said quickly. “I’m acting like myself.”

  “Okay,” Galric said doubtfully, “but you were really different this morning.”

  This was not the conversation Flissa wanted to have right now. She needed to say her piece and get away before the combination of the odor and this boy’s strange bond with her horse became too much to take. She opened her mouth to begin, when she noticed a strange lump undulating on the boy’s chest.

  “Is your shirt moving?” she asked.

  “MEOW!”

  A small black kitten leaped out of Galric’s shirt and up into Flissa’s arms. She caught it instinctively, then gasped and dropped it when she saw what it was. Galric caught the kitten before it hit the ground.

  “Don’t drop him—what are you doing?!”

  Flissa felt like she’d been slapped. No one ever yelled at her. Again she almost rode away, but her mother’s desiccated face flashed in front of her eyes, and Flissa thought she’d pass out. She leaned forward and rested heavily on Balustrade’s neck.

  “Hey,” said Galric, his voice gentle now. “I’m so sorry, Princess Flissara.”

  He reached up and touched her hand, but she drew it away as if his had been dipped in the manure pits. He pulled his own hand away just as quickly.

  “Sorry again. I just—You already knew about Nitpick, so I was surprised—You still won’t tell the Keepers about him, will you?”

  Now Flissa remembered. Sara had said Galric had a black cat—a mage’s pet, strictly outlawed in Kaloon—but Flissa hadn’t imagined she’d have to touch the creature.

  She took a deep breath to settle herself, but it only made things worse. Now she could taste the manure scent on the back of her tongue.

  “I need your help,” she said softly so the sound wouldn’t travel, “and I need you to tell me the honest truth. Can you do that?”

  Galric gripped his hands together, as if that were the only thing stopping him from reaching out to her again. “Anything. Yes. Are you okay?”

  “I am not,” she admitted. “But I sincerely hope you can help make it better. What do you know about your father?”

  Everything about Galric changed. His face went dark, and his eyes got small and cold. His hands balled into fists. “Same as you, I guess,” he said dully. “He did something horrible and got banished to the Twists when I was around one. Left me with no one.”

  “So you’re not loyal to him?” Flissa pressed. “You don’t support what he did?”

  Galric scrunched his face like he smelled something far worse than the manure pits. “You seriously came here to ask me that?” Then his eyes widened. “This whole thing’s a setup, isn’t it? This morning, now—you’re working with the Keepers of the Light, aren’t you? Well, there’s nothing to get on me, and you’re not taking Nitpick!” He shoved the kitten back in his shirt and ran.

  Flissa shook her head—why had Sara thought she could handle this?—then she kicked Balustrade into gear and easily turned the horse into Galric’s path.

  “Stop,” she said. She dismounted so she could look Galric in the eye. She needed him to see how important this was. “Please. I’m not working with the Keepers. It’s the opposite. I need to know—are you part of the Underground?”

  Galric looked around warily, and Flissa spoke quickly so he wouldn’t run.

  “I’m not setting you up. Please-please-please believe me. I need to talk to someone with the Underground because I need to get into the Twists.”

  Galric grimaced like Flissa had just juiced a giant lemon on his face. “Into the Twists?” he asked. “What do you want, a tour? Can’t you just ask Grosselor for that?”

  “No,” Flissa said. “It’s nothing like that. It’s a matter of life and death, and I don’t know anyone else I can ask.”

  Galric stared at her for what seemed like forever, but he must have seen the true pain in her face, because he softened. “I’m not with the Underground,” he said, “but I know people. I don’t know if I can take you now, but maybe in a couple hours—”

  “No,” Flissa said. Much as she wanted to start saving her mom immediately, she and Sara had to run their plan with acute precision, or they’d get caught and all would be lost. “It has to be later tonight. And it’s best if I meet you in the castle. Do you know it inside? Have you been there?”

  “In the castle?” Galric laughed ruefully and ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah. I worked in the kitchen when I was little. Before everyone said I looked too much like my dad and I could scare the royal family if I stayed. But sure, I spent a lot of time there.”

  “Do you think you could get in without anyone seeing you? And hide in the hall by the Residence until everyone’s asleep…like midnight?”

  “Sure,” Galric said. “I could hide in the secret passageway. But—”

  Flissa was sure she’d heard him wrong. “The…what?”

  “Secret passageway,” Galric said. “You know, that row of engraved columns there. The one with King Lamar’s name on it opens. It’s a door to a secret staircase. You knew that, right? I mean, you live in the palace.”

  Flissa had passed the row of engraved columns every day of her life. She’d had no idea one of them was a door to a secret passage, but she wasn’t going to tell Galric that. She stood taller. “Of course.”

  Flissa caught Galric starting to smirk, but he had the sense to stop the look in its tracks.

  “Great,” he said. “So we can meet there, but not at midnight. It’s not that late. There’s a midnight watch that goes around, and most of the staff is still awake. Two o’clock would be better. But you already knew that, of course.”

  “Indeed,” she said tightly.

  The truth was that midnight seemed impossibly late to her. She and Sara were always in bed by ten, even on festival nights, and she hated to wait that long when each passing hour meant less time to save their mother. But if they got caught, then the whole plan was useless anyway.

  “Princess Flissara?”

  The voice was faint, but it was unmistakably Princess Blakely’s. Flissa instantly swung back onto Balustrade.

  “Two o’clock,” she said quietly. “In the passageway. I’ll see you then.”

  She urged her horse on with her heels, and he raced away with Flissa as fast as they could go.

  “And then what happened?” Sara asked.

  Flis
sa had been back for two hours, but Primka had zipped into the room the second she’d arrived, fussed and fluttered to get Flissa out of her riding outfit, hovered in the royal washroom as the twins washed their faces, dressed Sara in her ball gown for dinner, did Sara’s hair, and fretted over whether it would be a good or bad idea for them to see their mom. Just when it seemed like she’d leave them alone, Katya came in. She did take them in to see Mom, which was horrible because she looked so much worse than before, and it only made Sara crazier that she hadn’t had the chance to talk to Flissa about their plan.

  When Katya had Primka take them back to their room and the bird finally left them alone, Sara flopped onto Flissa’s giant bed, grabbed a pillow, and screamed into it. Then she yanked Flissa’s arm, pulled her down on the bed, and demanded information as fast as Flissa could spill it.

  “Well,” Flissa said, “after I heard Blakely’s voice, I rode off as fast as I could, splashed Balustrade through the river to get the manure pits off his hooves and my boots, then ran through the jasmine grove to take away the rest of the smell, and then I caught back up with her and her sister.”

  “Where did you tell them you went?”

  “I’m fairly sure Ivamore had no idea I was even gone,” Flissa said, “but I told them I saw a particularly colorful butterfly and rode after it and got lost.”

  Sara laughed. “You would never do that. I would if I knew how to ride a horse, but you? No way.”

  Flissa smiled the littlest bit. “I was thinking of you when I said it.”

  “So now we just, what…wait for two in the morning?” Sara asked. “That’s so late.”

  “I know. But if Galric’s right, we can’t get out any earlier if we don’t want to be spotted. Besides, Princess Flissara still has a banquet tonight, right?”

  Sara flopped back on the bed. “Ugh! Yes.” She affected a snooty tone and announced, “‘The royal dinner honoring our guests from Winterglen, Princesses Blakely and Ivamore.’” Then she shrugged. “Maybe Ivamore will tell me more about the Gilward rumor she heard.”

  Just then, the clock chimed and Primka soared into the room from one of her ceiling nooks. “Dinnertime! Go on, Sara. There’s a Royal Guard waiting to escort you downsta—Sara! You can’t lie around in your dinner gown, you’ll get all rumpled!”

  “Sorry!” Sara said. She grinned at Flissa as she darted out of the room. A Royal Guard was indeed stationed by the door to escort her down, but Sara knew he couldn’t be one of her dad’s most trusted soldiers—they were all out scouring the kingdom for Gilward.

  When they reached the ballroom, Sara couldn’t help but smile. It was beautiful: floor-to-ceiling windows with sea-blue draperies pulled open to reveal the night sky, creamy-white walls, and gold everywhere—carved into designs on the walls, in the sprawling table centerpieces, and all over the harpsichord that sat in the corner so everyone could enjoy their meal with music.

  As princess, Sara sat at the head of one table of honor, while the king and queen each headed their own. With Queen Latonya “under the weather,” Princess Blakely’s father was given the honor of sitting at the head of her table, while Blakely and Ivamore flanked Sara at her own.

  As she moved toward her seat, Sara looked at her father. He was already seated, putting on an amazing performance by laughing uproariously with a group of earls and dukes. Grosselor, as always, sat next to him. He was the only one not laughing. He remained upright and pious in his yellow-bejeweled tunic. He wasn’t eating either. The Keepers of the Light had their own separate dining room. They came to all the royal meals, of course, but stood around the outskirts of the room like dashing statues—bright yellow eye candy to keep everyone feeling safe and happy.

  For just a second, Sara’s dad caught her eye, and she saw the intense combination of rage, fear, and strength simmering beneath his happy exterior. It struck her right in the heart, and she burned with pride. She couldn’t even imagine how he was holding it together. He was surrounded by Keepers of the Light, any—or all—of whom could be the ones who helped curse his wife and were now planning to take out his whole family in a second Dark Magic Uprising, but he laughed and joked like everything was fine. He was determined to do whatever it took to put the Keepers at ease so his Guards could catch them unawares and destroy the plot in its tracks.

  Unfortunately, he was on the wrong path. But Sara would take his strength and use it on her own journey.

  “Flissara!” Blakely called, waving Sara to her chair. “Come quick—it’s important!”

  Sara forced herself not to plop down in her seat, but to instead take her ladylike—and Flissara-like—time to perch on its edge with excellent posture. Blakely leaned close and lowered her eyelids. “See?” she said. “I outlined them in kohl. Beautiful, right?”

  “Gorgeous,” Sara said. And it was. The black outline around Blakely’s eyes made them stand out in a mesmerizing way.

  Blakely grinned. “Ivamore’s too little, but I could do yours. Want me to?”

  Sara very much did, but Flissa would never go in for such a thing.

  “No thanks,” she said, “my father wouldn’t approve.”

  But in her mind she imagined a Kaloon where twinhood wasn’t illegal. A Kaloon where she could scream “YES!” to Blakely’s offer and even get tips from her to find her own style and look, separate from Flissa’s.

  “Suit yourself,” Blakely said. “Which Keeper should I bat them at first? How about that one.”

  Blakely winked at Eberwulf, one of the few Keepers who was almost as young as he looked. He smiled and nodded back, and Blakely practically swooned.

  “I wish we had Keepers of the Light in Winterglen,” she sighed. “It must be amazing to have actual heroes around all the time.”

  Sara’s stomach turned, but she forced a smile. “Heroes. Yes. It’s wonderful.” Then she changed the subject and turned to include Ivamore. “So…heard any good gossip lately?”

  She was hoping to get more details about Gilward and who exactly spoke to Ivamore about him, but they only wanted to talk about the party they attended last week in Shellsbury, and all the drama that went down there. Normally Sara would have hung on every word, but today she was just uncomfortable and impatient. She felt like every Keeper in the room was staring at her like cats eyeing a juicy mouse.

  Like most royal meals, this one was three hours long, and for Sara it was a giant forever jumble of pretending to listen, pretending to laugh, and pretending to have fun. The only thing she did in earnest was eat, because Mitzi and the other chefs made the most enticing delicacies in the world. When she stuffed herself silly, she considered crying sick so she could run back up to Flissa and get back to planning, but the last thing she wanted to do was make Dad worry about her. If he worried, he’d have her watched like a hawk, and there’d be no way she and Flissa could ever get out to save their mother.

  As the long banquet went on, Sara kept an eye on her dad. The night was wearing on him. Dark circles bloomed under his eyes, and the tips of his mustache drooped downward, but Sara was sure only she noticed. He acted like his same, boisterous self, eager for everyone to join in his fun.

  Hoping to take some pressure off him, Sara dialed up her energy and worked the room, taking time to chat with everyone she could. “Lady Shuttlehorn, so good to see you!” “Duke Muncy, did you make me a batch of that shortbread?” “Duchess Jacobia, I heard your daughter’s quite the equestrian now!” It was all the tiny conversations she usually loved because they gave her glimpses into other people’s lives, but tonight it was all by rote. She especially made sure to smile at every Keeper she passed, same as always. Whenever she caught her dad’s eye, he smiled approvingly, which made it all worthwhile.

  Sara stayed in the dining room until the last guest from her table had retired. Only then did she wrap her arms around her dad to hug him good night—not too long or too tight, as people were watching—and she forced herself not to tense up as Rouen fell into step with her to escort her back to t
he Residence.

  “Tell me about your mother,” Rouen said in his sandpaper voice once they were out of earshot of the ballroom. “How is she really?”

  Ice ran through Sara’s veins, and she stumbled, then quickly recoiled when she bumped against the solid rock of Rouen’s body. He took her elbow to steady her and wouldn’t let go.

  “You know how she is,” Sara said. “She has a bad cold. That’s all.”

  “A bad cold?” Rouen asked suspiciously.

  Was the “bad” part wrong? Had she just messed everything up?

  “Cold, bad cold…whatever it is, it’s bad for her because she missed an amazing banquet, right? I mean, the food was so good, and…”

  Sara just kept talking about the banquet, hoping to allay any suspicions, but the minute she and Rouen were all alone in the hall outside the Residence, he whipped in front of her and leaned in, his face so close she could see the creases between every lump and crag. “It’s my duty and my privilege to protect the royal family, Princess Flissara,” he said, his voice low and intense. “If you need anything, or you have information that can help me do my job, promise me you’ll tell me.”

  Sara’s insides shook, and she was suddenly sure of it: He knew. He knew what had happened to her mom, and the only way he could know is if he was one of the Keepers behind it. Now he wanted Sara to confirm the strike was successful and the second Dark Magic Uprising was working as planned.

  She felt nauseous, but she forced a smile and answered him lightly. “Sure. I promise. But everything’s fine. Can I just go back to my room, please?”

  Rouen stared into her eyes a moment longer, then stood without another word and walked her a few more feet, folded his hands, and lowered his head—the custom for allowing royal family members their privacy as they walked to their door. Sara was sure he didn’t keep his head down. She could feel his eyes on her back, and it took every ounce of restraint not to look at the row of columns to her left—especially King Lamar’s, where she and Flissa would be meeting Galric in just a few hours.