“Ooblee-etts?” I repeat. “Is that a type of fancy tile?”
“I’m afraid they’re holes, Sabby. Final resting places for prisoners.” Bulan shudders, destabilizing his marble pedestal. I catch it, and him, in the nick of time. “The present king and queen must have determined that dirt cannot be relied upon for burials. I suspect they may also function as holding cells.”
Damn. So, Gustavo turns out to have been right about the booby traps.
“I see. We’ll need to investigate. You, infernal crow—”
“His name is Stefan,” says Bulan.
“—can you inform Mandy about this? Pass it on to Dave too. Subtly, if you’re capable.”
Stefan the crow checks with Bulan before winging off to this vital task. As for me, I scoop Bulan up and carry him through the servants’ quarters to the castle’s rear. I’ll return to the State Room in a jiff, but first, I need to be seen as doing my duty coordinating guest arrivals.
Besides, this offers the perfect opportunity to perform escape-plan reconnaissance.
Hanry will be happy to see me. No, euphoric. I can see it in my mind’s eye: I’ll release him from his jail and wipe away the dried blood on his tortured wrists. “We’ve got to go now,” I’ll say, but he’ll stop me, wide-eyed and lovestruck, to mash his lips against mine in a fervent, dizzying kiss.
“Sabby,” he’ll say. “You look like a goddess. Such wild, tousled hair. I love the crow feathers. The new bangs.”
“You are correct,” I’ll reply. “Worship me.”
And Hanry will fall to his knees, pressing his forehead into my stomach, clutching me and trembling in awe. Or maybe not. Maybe he’ll just throw his head back and laugh, relieved he only has to put up with my sense of humor instead of a lifetime supply of an arrogant fairy princess’s whims. He’ll rip a wooden beam from the wall and use it as a battering ram against the fairy minions blocking our path to the carriage. Nothing will stand in the way of our happiness.
Yep. That’s how it’ll go.
Something like that, anyway.
Bulan and I return to the State Room just shy of 10 a.m.—in other words, six mere hours before the start of Hanry and May’s wedding ceremony. I’m doing my best to crumble said ceremony into bits, like a pastry in a plastic bag.
I try to push away the thought that what I’m doing is a shame; a waste of a perfectly good cookie. But obviously, Hanry must be saved.
The carriage returns from Albany with suspicious and likely magical speed, bearing a bounty of ranunculus, violet sweet peas, blue freesia, and anemones. As nerves prickle the back of my head, I watch the Fairy-Loompas integrate newly picked flowers into the candle-and-moss arrangements. Mab may be a Momzilla, but the inclusion of warm purple hues, particularly magenta, was a great idea: it ties in the neon of the entryway artwork, making the chamber feel almost cohesive. Alongside the Florist-Loompas, most of the catering fairies work diligently to lay out platters, serving ware, and glasses. The rest of them playFarmvillesurreptitiously on their phones.
Is that why I can’t find phone chargers anywhere? Jerks.
With nothing left to do until Stefan and the crows return with the results of their oubliette explorations, I straighten the angle of the head table. Noticing the centerpiece is off-center, I fix that too. And rearrange a toothpick so it doesn’t stick visibly from a mushroom’s stem. Also, I recruit a fairy to add an anemone to the left side of the arrangement while I adjust the vines trailing to the floor. I put my hands on my hips, considering the arrangement from several angles. Then I loosen two last stems.
“Yes,” I say to myself. “It does look better, doesn’t it.”
“You have a strange way of ruining weddings, Sabby,” says Bulan.
Of course he would be harassing me now. But for once, it’s welcome. I’m starting to feel like something must be going awry—something besides my own ruinating machinations. Something that has to do with my covert plan to save Hanry.
“All right, Bulan,” I say. “Since nothing ever seems to bring you down, I’m open to your suggestions about how to not be consumed with anxiety.”
“Hmm,” says Bulan unhelpfully. “Maybe add more freesia?”
I make a point ofnotlooking at my phone and checking the time. Which is now, according to my last check, a few minutes before noon.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do that.”
When a bat finally swoops into the State Room and circles my head, I nearly break down with relief. A transformation later, and Dark Dave collapses at my feet, exerting more than enough dramatic energy for both of us.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
“I lost Gustavo and Jurgis,” he moans into my shoes.
I pinch my nose. “Knew it. What else?”
