“We’re going to need more cover than this.” Kyra got out her potions bag. Dumping the contents into her palm, she quickly scanned for the cloaking mister.
Beside her, Fred started in surprise. “What is that?” he asked. “It’s got a red skull on the label.”
Kyra cringed. He would notice the most dangerous poison in her bag.
Shoving everything but the cloaking potion back into the bag, she shook her head and said in a quiet voice, “A friend gave me a bag of potions in case of emergencies.” She took the cap off the cloaking potion. “Remember I told you about the confusion potion? I don’t know what they all are.”
“What sort of friend would give you a potion with a red skull on it and not tell you what it is?”
“I’m sure it’s in the bag by mistake.” She started spritzing the cloaking potion over each of them and the animals.
“A red skull means it’s extremely dangerous, Kitty. One of my friends was a potions apprentice. So much as a tiny drop leaks out of that bottle—whatever it is—and we could all be dead.”
“Shh!” They were completely coated now—she couldn’t see Fred or the animals. She felt Rosie lean up against her leg.
“This stuff really works,” Fred said. “Who is this friend of yours?”
“Shh!” Kyra repeated, and squeezed his arm to silence him.
In moments, the man in black came around the corner. He crouched low, scanning the ground. Kyra heard Fred’s sharp intake of breath.
The man moved like a spider toward them.
Dartagn.
Still on her trail. That was bad.
Fred held Kyra tightly in his arms, so close she could feel his breath against her face.
Dartagn drew nearer.
He stopped on the path beside the fat tree they hid behind, his mustache drooping with wet, peering intently at the ground. Their footprints?
Kyra squinted. There must have been something there, or he wouldn’t have been looking.
Dartagn began inching off the trail, heading toward them. He paused and stooped down, studying the earth.
Less than a foot away. If he reached out, he’d touch their legs.
He looked back up, staring blindly at where they were standing. He leaned forward, his hand reaching toward them.
Tup-tup, tup-tup. Tup-tup, tup-tup.
The sound of many feet marching came down the trail.
Dartagn paused, hand outstretched.
Abruptly, he stood and jogged off in the other direction.
Kyra relaxed into Fred’s arms. Somehow, when he couldn’t see her, it seemed okay to let herself lean into him. Just a little bit.
The Tup-tup, tup-tup grew louder.
The first soldiers came around the bend—two men across, row after row of soldiers, until the long line of royal blue filed past Kyra and Fred. An endless procession of blue coats and black boots; glowing, poison-coated weapons strapped across their backs. A squadron of the King’s Army, members of the main ground fighting force.
Finally, the last of the army marched down the trail.
Fred’s forehead pressed against Kyra’s, and they stood together for a moment, completely still as the Tup-tup, tup-tup faded.
“Why is the army patrolling the woods around Wexford, Kitty?”
“I don’t know,” Kyra lied, glad they were still invisible, glad he couldn’t see the expression on her face.
“Why were you hiding from that man in the king’s black?”
“I wasn’t! It’s just—he was creepy! That mustache!”
It was the last thing she said to him before she invisibly swooped down, groped for his boots, and pulled the laces loose.
As she heard him stumble and stop with a “Kitty, hold on a minute, my laces are untied,” she took off running down the path, Rosie clutched in her arms.
KYRA RAN UNTIL HER breath was short, until Rosie squirmed uncomfortably in her arms, until Fred’s voice calling for her was just a small, faraway sound. Eventually she couldn’t hear him at all, and she slowed her pace.
The rain began pouring down again, washing away the last remnants of the cloaking charm.
Outside the city, Kyra slipped under a large dense fir tree to wait out the downpour. Surrounded by the sharp scent of pine, she wrapped her arms around her knees, Rosie nestled between her legs and chest. The tiny pig looked up, then tucked her chin in and sighed contentedly.
Just then, the sky turned black and the rain bloodred. Where it hit the ground, dark pools of coppery blood steadily rose until they filled Kyra’s vision. She coughed, choking on the bloody mist in the air. And then, in moments, the rain disappeared again. Just as all her other flashes of Sight had.
Kyra covered her eyes and slumped against the tree. The bloody scene revealed in her Sight hadn’t taken place yet—and she had to make sure it never did. That’s why she would do anything she had to—even abandon a new friend, even kill an old friend—to stop her vision from coming true.
It rained through the rest of the day, and when it stopped, Kyra decided she might as well stay where she was for the night. She was tired and felt hollowed out. Let the King’s Army, Dartagn, and Fred get ahead while she rested.
The path to Wexford was crowded enough right now without her.
Kyra sank into a fitful sleep under the tree, holding tight to the warm pig in her arms.
In the morning, the sun crept up into a clear blue sky. Today could be the day when Rosie led her to where the princess was hiding.
Kyra was ready for the whole thing to be over.
She spritzed on an old lady glamour, feeling her body contort to take on the new shape. The Master Trio’s glamours were the real deal—they didn’t just alter the way people saw you, they altered reality itself for the short time they were effective. Kyra even felt the weight of her enormous old lady bosoms as she leaned forward to pick up Rosie’s leash.
She gave Rosie the lead. They padded softly through the rain-damp forest, then onto a main road into the city. No one paid attention to them. They were was just an old lady and a pig.
The closer they got to the city, the more people filled the road, and their pace grew slower and slower. When a wagon full of jugglers joined them, Kyra realized why the road was so crowded: April 30, Beltane Eve, was the next day. It was a huge spring festival that brought people to Wexford from all around the kingdom, to be entertained or to be the entertainers.
The jugglers kept up their act the entire way to the city, stealing caps from kids, tossing them into a bright arc of balls and pins and knives, and then deftly plopping them back on heads and shouting out, “Winegarten Jugglers! Everyone, come see us at the fairgrounds!”
It annoyed Kyra no end.
The dirt road slowly gave way to cobblestones, and buildings rose up on all sides as they entered the city proper.
Wexford.
Kyra had missed the capital after she’d moved to Trent to form the Master Trio—she really had. There was so much going on all the time, and the market was ten times bigger than the one in Trent. And this was where her best friend, Ari, the princess, lived.
Ari was irreplaceable—no one laughed as easily or as hard as she did, or knew exactly what Kyra needed—oftentimes even before Kyra knew herself. Leaving Ari behind had been, by far, the most difficult part about moving to Trent. But Kyra had thrown herself into her work, and that had filled the hole that had opened up in her.
Most of the time, anyway.
The castle came into view, high upon the hill at the far edge of the city, and Kyra’s heart skipped a beat.
She’d been happy enough in Trent. Until three months before, when her first horrifying vision had come—a sight so grim that it drove Kyra to abandon her life as a master potioner and journey back to Wexford in time for Ariana’s fifteenth birthday bash. The party at which Kyra had toasted the princess, then calmly reached down, pulled a poisoned needle out of a disguised holster, and sent it flying across the room, targeted directly at her b
est friend’s heart.
And missed. Kyra never missed.
The needle thunked into the chair beside Ariana’s neck, and instead of collapsing to the floor, the princess had let out an ear-piercing scream. The entire ballroom had erupted into panic.
Kyra had run for her life, chased by cries of “Assassin!” from the crowd, Ariana’s scream ringing through her head.
She had fled to her concealed hideaway—her secret hut in the woods—and lain low for a month, too terrified and too angry at herself for her failure—to venture forth.
Now Kyra had returned in the glamour of a dumpy old lady, led by a pig on a leash.
The closer they got to the castle gleaming in the midday sun, the more intent Rosie grew on her hunt, until suddenly, nose pressed to the ground, she yanked Kyra off onto a side street.
The pig’s nose quivered with an intensity Kyra had never seen before. Rosie tugged hard on the lead, pulling Kyra through the winding mews of the city.
Soon they were going in the opposite direction of the palace—to the market and shop-lined streets of the northwest district.
To the Sleepy Boar Inn. It was a three-story yellow eyesore that slumped against the building beside it as though it were tired.
Rosie pulled Kyra right through the gateway of the courtyard and began digging at the front door. Kyra pressed the latch down and pushed it open.
The concierge stand to her left was empty, but she could hear a voice down the hall. “…wake-up service is available,” the man was saying, “and if you need anything else…”
Rosie pulled her straight ahead to the stairs. Kyra followed in a rush, hoping they got out of view before the concierge returned.
They flew up the stairs, Kyra’s old-lady bones complaining with each step.
At the third-story landing, Rosie led Kyra down the corridor to the right and stopped in front of a door with 302 painted in gold letters.
“Good girl, Rosie,” Kyra whispered. Her heart beat wildly. Could Ariana really be on the other side of this door? It would be genius of the royal family to hide their daughter away in an unassuming inn so close to home.
But it felt wrong somehow. Not the way the monarchy usually worked. They never did anything that smart.
Kyra got her weapons ready, one quill dipped in deadly, blue phosphorescent Peccant Pentothal, another half dozen tipped with Doze. Putting her ear to the door, she listened for sounds of guards inside. There would be at least one protecting the princess, possibly more.
Silence.
Strange. But a well-made muffling potion could cloak a whole roomful of soldiers.
Kyra gently tried the handle. Unlocked. She turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Inside was nothing like Kyra expected.
No one was there. The shades were drawn and dust motes floated in the shafts of light that filtered through. The bed was made and the nightstand held only a lantern. A large traveling case sat in the corner, and a heap of shabby clothes lay on the floor.
She sniffed. The room smelled strangely like Newman House. Or at least like it had when Kyra had last been there, hiding out on the floor of the hermit’s flat.
Sort of musty and old-mannish.
Rosie went and sat down on the pile of clothes in an incredibly self-satisfied way. Her nose had most definitely stopped twitching.
Kyra shut the door behind her. “Rosie, you haven’t found me a person at all,” she said as she began combing the room for signs of the princess. She wrenched open the nightstand drawer. “I thought Katzenheim pigs found people. You’ve just found me a room. Some old man’s room.”
Which is when she realized that they were not, in fact, alone.
Because the pile of clothes Rosie was sitting on started moving and let out a horrifying scream as the old man lying there discovered a pig staring down at him.
Kyra calmly pocketed her killing quill but kept a Doze-tipped needle at the ready.
The man dragged himself across the floor, trying to shake off the pig. “What are you doing in my room?”
“What are you doing on the floor?” Kyra demanded.
She looked the man full in the face. And almost fell over in surprise.
No wonder this room smelled like Newman House. This guy was the hermit of Newman House. Ellie.
Ellie the hermit tried to stand up. “Get this blasted thing off of me!”
Kyra grabbed Rosie with one hand, and with the other reached into the basket and unpinned the small piece of fabric so that the pig wouldn’t keep trying to sit on what it believed was its quarry.
Ellie got to his feet and dusted himself off. “Who in tarnation are you?”
It took Kyra a moment to remember he was seeing her old-lady glamour.
If he didn’t know who she was, she didn’t have anything to lose by asking a few questions. “Where’s the princess?”
“The princess? What in the world are you talking about?”
“You know, the daughter of the king and queen? This pig was supposed to lead me to her. Imagine how disappointing it is to be led to you instead.”
“I don’t have any money or anything to steal, if that’s what you’re getting at. Ellie’s never gotten any favors from the monarchy,” he said, gesturing to himself. “I just want to be left alone. Why can’t I just be left alone?”
He began muttering to himself.
Kyra watched him closely. Could he be Ariana in a glamour? Some sort of personality-affecting glamour? No—this was the same Ellie she remembered from the occasional glimpses at Newman House, even down to the nervous nose-picking.
Was there something here she was missing?
She picked up Rosie and looked down at the little pink pig. Rosie looked back at her with innocent eyes.
Arlo.
Kyra had made a huge mistake.
THE PIG HAD NEVER been set to find the princess. Arlo Abbaduto had been playing a game with her.
Kyra didn’t know why she was surprised. Sure, killing the princess would have helped Arlo—by plunging the kingdom into chaos, leaving it vulnerable to the King of Criminals. But more than that, he probably hungered for Kyra to fail and be captured. Arlo’s revenge on her.
Not because she and the Master Trio had turned down his request for potions.
But because of what she’d done the second time they’d met.
It was a full year after their first meeting, and Kyra had been summoned to the castle by the king. When she’d arrived, she was immediately ushered into a small meeting room with His Majesty, the vials she’d been told to bring gently clinking in her bag.
The king had a gentle look when he wasn’t making speeches. A smile flickered across his face as Kyra came into the room, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening. He sat in a high-backed oak chair at a glossy wooden table, a stack of documents in front of him.
“You know what I’ve asked you to come here for,” he said.
“Not exactly, sire.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “We have a chance to put a dangerous criminal leader behind bars for life. Or to execute him.”
“Arlo Abbaduto?”
“We suspect he orchestrated the killing of—” The king rubbed a hand over his sandy beard, now speckled with gray. “Never mind that. The important thing is that Arlo chose truth serum over a trial.”
Kyra watched the expression on the king’s face harden, the lines of his face growing stern. “He must assume we will use the Cera Truth Serum,” said the king. “It’s been a gift to innocent people. It spares them a long and complicated trial.”
“But you believe Arlo’s procured something to block the Cera Serum.”
The king nodded. “He is too confident. And he has the resources.”
Kyra looked down at her hands.
The king continued. “Which is where you come in. Your potion—what do you call it?”
“Poison, Your Majesty. I call it poison. It is an experimental solution that—”
; He waved her off. “Yes, yes, but what are you calling it?”
“Red Skull Serum. So as not to forget how deadly it is, my lord.”
The king ignored her emphasis on the lethality of the serum. “You know how dangerous the man is. This opportunity to put him away, we cannot pass this up just because—”
“Because the Red Skull Serum might kill him.”
“He wouldn’t show us the same mercy.” The king lightly tapped the stack of papers in front of him. “Arlo is not expecting us to have any tricks up our sleeve. He’s going to tie his own noose, Kyra, when he gets some Red Skull Serum into him.”
“It may kill him.”
The king smiled. “A risk I’m willing to take.”
But it was Kyra who was going to have to be there to watch the entire thing. Only she would be able to get the dilution exactly right, to make sure the truth didn’t kill the person.
Soon Kyra was following a guard down to the dungeons. A scribe was already waiting in the cell, paper and quill on the table in front of him. Arlo was to his right, his arms chained to the table. The manacles were huge—they didn’t look like the kind normally used for humans.
He’d grinned when he saw her, a wicked smile that stretched his toady face. “If it isn’t the Master Potioner. Too good to sell me potions, but not too good to use them on me?” He rattled his chains.
Kyra was rattled too. She refused to look at him as she sat down and placed her potions bag on the table. She could feel him staring as she went through the process of diluting the phosphorescent poison to turn it into her Red Skull Serum.
It wasn’t until she touched the single drop of serum on his hand that she met his gaze.
He half lowered his lids over his eyes. “You think you’ve got me, girlie. But you don’t.”
Kyra packed up her potions as the scribe began questioning Arlo, a bad feeling tingeing her movements.
It was an honest mistake.
Ever since then, Kyra had been exceedingly careful about labeling everything in her potions bag, not just the poisons—working her crabbed handwriting onto each label until no one could mistake an unlabeled vial for the wrong solution.
She learned later that Ned had been using the solutions in her kit. He was always needing an extra element for a potion, and too lazy to go to the cabinet—not when Kyra’s bag was right there under her workbench, handy and well stocked. As usual, he’d been sloppy about putting things back where they belonged, and he had accidentally replaced her brown bottle of dilution medium with a nearly identical vial of essential pine oils.