She saw his face and screamed.
“STOP!”
The attack ceased, everyone spinning to Dot, confused.
All except Agatha, who now saw the pirate’s bloodied, bruised face in the moonlight.
The pirate who wasn’t a pirate at all.
“Daddy?” Dot gasped.
Curled up on the stone, the Sheriff of Nottingham squinted up at her, his wild hair coated with rain, his beard dripping blood, his right eye swelling. “I really don’t like your friends,” he snarled.
“What are you doing here?” Dot asked as she, Hester, and Anadil sheepishly helped him up, the Sheriff giving the latter two a hateful look.
His face contorted with pain as he ignored his daughter and looked right at Agatha. “If you want to save your boyfriend, we have to go now.”
Agatha’s chest tightened again, her eyes darting off the catwalk towards the castle. “Go where? There’s no way out . . . there’s pirates . . . they’re coming . . .”
Except they weren’t coming, she realized.
Because she didn’t see any pirates at all.
Not on the catwalk. Not in the School for Evil. Not in the School for Good.
Every last pirate. Gone.
It’s a trap, she thought.
“No time to faff around, Agatha,” the Sheriff growled. “Rhian ain’t just killing your boyfriend. He’s killing all of ’em, Dovey included.”
It hit Agatha like a kick to the stomach. She saw teachers pale around her. Hort too, scared for Nicola.
“Bring your best fighters,” the Sheriff ordered, turning to leave. “Young ones and teachers stay behind to protect the school.”
Agatha couldn’t breathe. “B-b-but I told you! There’s no way to get us out of here safely! Even if we could, there’s no way to get us to Camelot in time—”
“Yes there is,” said the Sheriff, turning back to her.
He raised his arm and held up a familiar gray sack, its ripped pieces stitched together, something squirming inside. His bloodied lips curled into a grin.
“Same way I took care of all those pirates.”
16
PROFESSOR DOVEY
What Makes Your Heart Beat?
I know where Merlin is.
He meant for me to find that clump of hair he sent with Anadil’s rat. He knew I’d understand.
But what I know will come to nothing unless I tell someone.
Someone who can find Merlin if Tedros and I die. Someone out of Rhian’s clutches.
I must tell them before the axe falls. But who? And how?
As soon as we’re shoved out of King’s Cove, these moldy sacks jammed over our heads, all I’m left with is my sense of smell and sound. I feel myself kicked up a staircase, my limbs knocking against the other captives. I recognize Tedros’ solid arms and clasp his sweating hand before we’re pulled apart. Bogden hushes Willam’s whimpers; Valentina’s and Aja’s high-heeled boots clatter out of rhythm; Nicola’s breaths start and stop, a sign that she’s deep in thought. Soon my gown scrapes smooth marble walls, beetle wings rustling as they fall, and my knees buckle as I lurch onto a landing, my body drained from all it has endured. A minty breeze blows in, along with the scent of hyacinths. We must be passing the veranda in the Blue Tower, over the garden where the hyacinths grow. Yes, I hear the songbirds now, the ones outside the queen’s bedroom, where Agatha let me rest when I came to Camelot.
But these senses aren’t all I have to guide me.
There is a sixth sense that only fairy godmothers have.
A sense that churns my blood and makes my palms tingle.
A sense that a story is barreling towards an end that isn’t meant to be, and the only thing that can steer the story right is a fairy godmother’s intervention.
It is this sense that made me help Cinderella the night of the ball. It’s this sense that made me force Agatha to look in the mirror her first year, when she’d given up on her Ever After. It’s this sense that made me come to Camelot before the Snake’s attack. My fellow teachers surely consider the last a mistake: a violation of the Storian’s rules, beyond a fairy godmother’s work. But I’d do it again. The King of Camelot will not die on my watch. Not just because he’s king, but because he is, and will always be, my student.
Too many of my young wards have lost their lives: Chaddick, Tristan, Millicent . . .
No more.
And yet, what’s my move now? I know there is one. I can feel my sixth sense burn even hotter. That familiar sting of hope and fear, telling me I can fix this fairy tale.
The fairy godmother’s call.
There is a way out of this.
I wait for the answer, my nerves shredding. . . .
Nothing comes.
Tedros grunts near me as he jostles in frustration against his guards. He’s realizing we’ve been beaten and there’s nothing standing between him and the axe.
The breeze gusts harder from multiple sides, the smell of morning dew thickening, and for a moment I think we’re outside the castle, death ever-near, only to realize there’s still marble beneath my feet. The others aren’t thinking clearly; I hear their panic—Willam’s whimpers turning to sobs, Valentina hissing and cursing, Tedros’ boots skidding, trying to stall—
Then it all stops.
My guard has let me go.
And from the silence around me, I know the others are free too.
I hear a sack pulled off someone’s head.
Then Tedros’ voice: “Huh?”
I whip the sack off myself, as do the others. We have the same dazed expressions, our hair laced with potato dust.
We are in the Blue Tower dining room, looking out over a veranda, the sky the color of amethysts, warning of dawn. The long dining table is made of glass mosaic, the shards of blue forming a Lion’s head in the center. Laid out around it is a magnificent feast. Seared venison cut into pink hearts atop green broad beans. Marinated rabbit kidneys with emerald parsley. Hen’s eggs perched on buttermilk biscuits. Chilled cucumber soup with sungold tomatoes. White caviar, sprinkled with chive blossoms. Chocolate mousse swimming in vanilla foam. A bloodred grapefruit consommé.
There are seven place settings at the table, each labeled with one of our names.
We stare at one another like we’ve detoured into a different story.
The guards are mostly gone too. Only a pair in full armor remain, one blocking each door.
Then like a kick to the gut, I understand.
So does Nicola.
“It’s our last meal,” she says, gazing over the balcony’s stone rail.
We gather behind her, looking down at the execution stage atop a hill, burnished in the moonlight. There’s a dark wooden block in the middle of it.
Tedros’ throat bobs.
Two shadows suddenly glide overhead and Sophie passes on the catwalk above us. She’s walking with Rhian, speaking to him in a whisper. I only glimpse her face for a moment: she looks calm and engaged, as if she’s going with Rhian of her own accord. Her hand is on the king’s bicep. She doesn’t see us.
Then she’s gone.
The room falls silent. Tedros looks at me. Seeing Sophie strolling with Rhian so intimately has shaken him further. As it has me. My young charges sense my unease.
“Come,” I say, with a Dean’s authority, taking my place at the table.
Not out of hunger or a desire to eat; my body feels weak beyond the possibility of replenishment. But I need them to keep their wits. And I need time to think.
No one follows me to the table at first. But Tedros isn’t one to resist food and before he can help it, he’s dumped himself at Bogden’s place setting and is stuffing deer meat into his mouth, his eyes still brimming with fear.
Soon the rest are eating too, until their bellies are sated long enough for them to remember who served this meal and why.
“He’s mocking us, isn’t he?” Willam asks meekly.
“Fattening a pig before it’s slaughtered,” s
ays Bogden.
“We can’t just stuff our faces like it’s a quinceañera and go die!” Valentina fumes.
“We have to do something,” Aja seconds.
They instinctively look at Tedros, who glances between the pirates at the doors, inscrutable through their helmets, both wielding swords. We have no weapons. To attack them would lead to a faster death than the one already scheduled. Yet, they’re listening to everything we say, as if Rhian’s not only taunting us with food, but the hope of escape. The gears in Tedros’ head are turning, knowing any plan he speaks out loud will be thwarted before it starts.
And then, as I’m looking at him, I feel it once more.
The sting of an answer.
Surfacing quickly . . . about to break through . . .
But again, nothing comes, like a ghost afraid to show itself.
“Do you have a fairy godmother, Professor?” Tedros asks, his face creased with stress. “Someone who saves you when you need it?”
I want to tell him to be quiet. That I’m close to something. That I need to think—
My sixth sense stirs once more.
But this time, it’s pushing me to answer Tedros’ question. To tell him my story.
Why?
Only one way to find out.
“Yes, even fairy godmothers have their own guides,” I say, glancing out the window at the lightening sky. My tone is strained, my pace rushed. “I graduated from the School for Good as a leader, but I resisted my quest assignment: to kill a nasty witch who was luring children to her gingerbread house.”
“Hester’s mother?” Nicola asks.
“Indeed. If I had gone on my quest and succeeded, Hester never would have been born. Hester’s mother didn’t give birth to Hester until much later, thanks to dark magic that let her have a child at an unusually old age. But the reason I rejected my quest was simple: I had no instinct for violence, even against a child-eating witch. It was Merlin who changed my fortune. Merlin was a frequent guest teacher at the School for Good, and my fourth year, he’d been guest teaching Good Deeds after the original professor ran afoul of the Doom Room beast. Upon taking a shine to me as his student, Merlin told Dean Ajani that there was no reason for him to keep filling in when the Dean had a perfectly fine Good Deeds teacher in me. Because of Merlin, the Dean changed my quest and made me the youngest professor at the School for Good.”
“So Merlin is your fairy godmother?” said Bogden. “Or father. Or whatever.”
“No,” I say, dipping deeper in my memory. “Because I wasn’t fully fulfilled as a teacher, it turns out. Not even as a Dean, when I received that honor years later. A piece of me knew I was meant for more. I just didn’t know what that was. Ironically, it was King Arthur who changed my fortune next.”
Tedros gawks at me, mouth full of biscuit. “My father?”
I can feel myself settling into the story. As if the past will unlock the present.
“After you were born, your father commissioned a teacher from our school to paint your coronation portrait. Arthur loathed his own coronation portrait so much that he wanted to ensure you had one he approved of, since he wouldn’t be alive when you became king. That teacher not only painted your portrait as Arthur asked, but also brought me along when he did.”
“So King Arthur was your fairy godmother?” Willam says, agog.
“Wait a second,” Tedros cuts in, heaping chocolate onto his plate. “Lady Gremlaine said a seer painted my portrait, which makes sense since he predicted exactly what I would look like as a teenager, but now you’re saying it was a teacher—” His eyes startle like rippling pools. “Professor Sader. He was the seer who painted my portrait?”
“And your father and I watched every brushstroke,” I add, remembering it had happened in this very room, spring flowers blowing in through the veranda. “Arthur had asked August to bring along the Dean who would one day teach his newborn son, no doubt to make me feel the burden of the future king’s education. Guinevere kindly let me hold you, though you were fussing and giving me trouble, even then. Your steward, Lady Gremlaine, was there too, though she hardly said a word. When your mother left with you, I sensed a sadness in Lady Gremlaine and I found myself talking to her more than the king. Idle talk mostly, about how she missed seeing her sister’s sons grow up and how I wished I’d had siblings of my own . . . but my attentions brightened her mood. Professor Sader noticed. On the way back to school, he mentioned that he was impressed with how I’d handled Gremlaine; that it took skill to connect with a person so forlorn. I had the sense he knew her well. Then August said he thought my talents as a teacher and Dean weren’t being fully used. That I might consider being a fairy godmother to those in need. I dismissed the idea at first; I hadn’t the slightest clue what it took to be a fairy godmother and it seemed like tedious work, chasing down sad saps and granting wishes. But August is persuasive and he made me a crystal ball, using a piece of his soul and mine. A crystal ball that showed me people in the Woods who needed help. My help. And I found myself answering the call. For the first time in a long while, I had a life beyond the School for Good and Evil.”
“So it wasn’t Merlin or my father. It was Professor Sader,” Tedros realizes, so entranced he’s finally stopped eating. “He was your fairy godmother.”
“Professor Sader set me on my path,” I answer. “It’s his face that appears when I look in my crystal ball. At least until it broke. Now it’s a glitching mess.”
“Who broke it?” Aja prompts.
“August, believe it or not!” I shake my head. “You’d think a seer could see an accident coming, but he knocked it off my desk, chipping a big piece. Offered to make me a new one, but he died shortly thereafter. Merlin’s repaired it as best he can, but it’s changed. You saw its effects on me . . . my lungs haven’t recovered. . . .”
“Then why were you still using it?” Nicola asks.
I ignore the question. That answer is between Merlin and me.
“Truth is, I didn’t need a crystal ball to be a good fairy godmother,” I say. “Seeing into people’s hearts. That was always my strength. Not magic, which was Lady Lesso’s. I’m sure she could have done wonders with a crystal ball. Indeed, I would have named Leonora my Second if August hadn’t cautioned me against it.”
I notice one of the pirates yawning. Something inside me sparks, as if I know at last why I’m telling this story. As if I know where it’s headed. I stare intently at my frightened pupils.
“But now that I’m older, I realize that August wasn’t my fairy godmother after all. Because fairy godmothers can’t swoop in and change the story. Fairy godmothers only help you to be you. More you. I wasn’t there when Agatha looked in the mirror and realized she was beautiful. I wasn’t there when Cinderella danced with her prince. But each of them knew what to do at the time. Because I taught them the same lesson I’m teaching you now. When the real test comes, no one will be there to save you. No fairy godmother will hand you the answers. No fairy godmother will pull you from the fire. But you have something stronger than a fairy godmother inside of you. A power greater than Good or Evil. A power bigger than life and death. A power that already knows the answers, even when you’ve lost all hope.”
I see my students looking at me now, their eyes unblinking, their breaths held. The pirates are listening too.
“There is no name for this power,” I say. “It is the force that makes the sun rise. The force that makes the Storian write. The force that brings each of us into this world. The force that is bigger than all of us. It will be there to help you when the time is right. It will give you the answers only when you need it and not before. And whenever you lose it or doubt its existence, like I have again and again, all you have to do is look inside yourself and ask . . . What makes my heart beat?” I lean in. “That is who your real fairy godmother is. That is what will help you when you need it most.”
The room is quiet.
I wait for a response. A sign that they understand.
/> Instead, most furrow and frown as if I’m speaking in tongues. The pirates go back to yawning, bored by an old woman’s ravings.
But someone does understand.
Sitting at the other end of the table.
Tedros, who returns my gaze, his eyes twinkling like Cinderella’s and Agatha’s once did.
A prince awakened.
Nothing spoken after that could have possibly mattered.
WHEN THE TIME comes, none of us put up a fight.
The guards storm in, rip us from our feast and bind our hands with rope. The tattooed pirate in charge of Tedros cuffs a rusted collar around the prince like a dog and drags him by a leash. They shove us out of the dining room, through the hall, and across a catwalk to a staircase that leads down to the courtyard. From the courtyard, it’s only a short walk to the executioner’s stage, sitting atop a hill that slopes to the drawbridge and outer gates. A halo of gold rises behind the castle, the sun minutes from breaking through.
The first years are shivering, their eyes on the stage ahead, where a big-bellied, black-hooded man in a black leather vest and leather kilt takes practice swings with his axe. As we get closer, the hooded man sets his gaze on us and grins through his mask. The first years shrink into their skins.
But not Tedros.
There’s something different in him now. Despite his slashed clothes, beaten-up body, and the tattooed pirate yoking him with his leash, the prince looks stronger, like he’s more resolved in his fight. Our eyes meet, and I get that tingling feeling again: the conviction that I can fix this. That there is a way out of this death trap.
And then I realize . . .
Each time I’ve had the feeling, I’ve been looking at Tedros.
He gives me a curious glance, as if he knows I’ve figured something out.
In front of the stage, their backs facing the castle, a hundred leaders from around the Woods have gathered in their finest clothes. They must have traveled to Camelot for Rhian’s wedding, only to see death added to the menu of festivities. We come from behind and for a moment, I see them before they see me. The first thing I notice is how haggard they look, as if they’ve been up all night. They speak in hushed tones, their faces grim beneath their crowns and diadems. The second thing I notice is that many are missing their rings: the silver bands that mark them as members of the Kingdom Council. Dread pits in my stomach. It’s my instinct to look for these rings. The School Master taught Lady Lesso and me to check for them when a ruler asked to meet with us (usually about a relative they wanted admitted to the school). These rings, pledging loyalty to the Storian, are the best proof a king or queen is who they say they are. But now half of these rings are gone? Rings worn without exception for thousands of years?
The School for Good and Evil #5: A Crystal of Time Page 24
