“Fine. Can I go back to bed after that?”
What a work ethic. “Absolutely,” I say.
When my door-fairy does—grumpily—arrive with the emergency kit, I delve into the fishing tackle box and uncover a pack of saltinesand a handful of glow sticks. I stuff the saltines into my mouth, then turn to my team, ready to investigate their progress.
Or at least that’s what I intend, but instead come face-to-face with Jurgis’s and Gustavo’s empty, far-too-proximal grins. Making a guess, I say, “You want more information about the wedding site, don’t you? To know how to position your shots? Get the best angles on your video?” I read into their empty smiles a befuddled acknowledgment. “Perfect. Follow me to adventure.”
“Adventure?” asks Jurgis. “I thought this was a wedding.”
“An adventure wedding?” cries Gustavo. “Will there be rock climbing?”
I roll my eyes and get to work, hoping I can keep my sanity until tomorrow.
Gustavo and Jurgis’s desire to plan out their shots couldn’t give me a better excuse for breaking away to search the castle. Bowing out from the wedding preparations, I retrace Rochester’s steps and return us to what seems to be the castle’s primary residential floor—mindful of potential hazards like hoofing antelopes and wedding guests in search of seconds.
“Dark?” asks Gustavo as we approach the Royal Wing.
“Bad lighting,” I agree. “No good for video.”
“Bad traps,” says Gustavo. His tone of voice indicates more hopefulness than concern—which is a bit odd, until I remember how fond he is of putting booby traps in his movies.
“All right,” I accede. “You two should stay back. I’ll go down the hall alone. Get help if I don’t return, all right?”
“Wish,” says Jurgis. “See in dark. Whooo.”
“What?” I ask, confused, but Gustavo laughs.
“Wish much,” he seems to agree. “Monsters! Monsters, dark!”
The last thing I see before surrendering to darkness is Gustavo with his arms flapping as if in an attempt to fly. Jurgis gives a solemn nod beside him.
Remind me to never get enchanted by fairies.
Feeling my way along the wall, I walk about two minutes before I reach my first door. I run the back of my hand over the wood carvings, wondering where it leads. As far as I can tell, there’s no door-fairy nearby, encumbering my entrance. Or booby traps. My biggest concern so far is that I might tug open the wrong door and run into Hanry’s brother or his awful, bullying cousins—who will almost certainly not help. And will tell on me. Immediately.
Luck is on my side, though. Because the door unlatches at my touch, opening straight into a candlelit suite.
Right away, I can tell I’m in Hanry’s quarters. It’s subject to a familiar chaos of odds and ends and keepsakes. Like a bear pelt on the floor. A gallery of plant rubbings tacked to a far wall. A wreath hung over the bed. The bed itself has a bonus, two-foot extension to accommodate a sleeper with added height.
The chief problem is that Hanry isn’t in this room, and it seems like he hasn’t used it for a long time, either.
I swish inside, hoping I’m wrong. Artifacts of Hanry abound: I find a small collection of books, a childhood slingshot straight out of Mark Twain. A framed photograph—the first one I’ve seen in this whole castle—of a young Hanry and a lanky kid with a well-practiced scowl and mysterious, hooded eyes. Between the two of them towers the alleged King Tits, wearing a plaid flannel shacket over a Patriots jersey. And a muffler wrapped, turbanlike, around his antlers.
Could the kid be Seb, Hanry’s brother? Maybe. But the photo’s useless to me—it doesn’t hint to where Hanry might be. Why he isn’t in his own room.
“Come on,” I say, frustration welling up. I ball my hands into fists in my tulle skirt. “Come on, something’s got to—”
“I believe Their Royal Highnesses indicated Hanry was not to be interrupted this evening,” says a deep voice behind me.
I pivot on my foot, only to face the imposing, shadow-born sight of Rochester. I’ve been caught, Hanry-room-handed.
Shit.
Rochester seems fed up as he deposits me, Gustavo, Jurgis, and Mandy in the servants’ quarters. It so happens that the Royal Wing’s rooms are equipped with silent spell-alarms to detect intruders. A further line of questioning reveals that these are actually just nanny cams. Either way, it puts the kibosh on any more Hanry-searching activities.
By this point, it’s well past midnight. I’ve had a full workday, gotten drunk, traveled to Fairyland, been shot at by fay, discovered my ex is getting married, snuck into random rooms of a castle, and taken pains to get a wedding I really don’t want to happen underway. I’m exhausted—and if Hanry’s fairy godmother is trying to hide his fatigue, he’s failing at it too. A single forehead-hair has fallen out of place.
“Well, Roachster, I hope you’re planning to get some sleep. That hair of yours isn’t doing so hot. You seem ravished,” I say, elbowing his side.
