‘The High King’s son,’ Folsom said. ‘Rikers Dartmoor. Out of seven crowns, I’d give him five and a half. He’s likable and friendly, but he doesn’t have his father’s brilliance.’
I’d been trying for a while to figure out why Folsom rated everything like that. So I asked: ‘Why do you rate everything all the time like that?’ (Thanks, Socrates!)
‘Hum?’ Folsom asked. ‘Oh, well, I am a critic.’
‘You are?’
He nodded proudly. ‘Head literary critic for the Nalhallan Daily, and a staff writer for plays as well!’
I should have known. Like I said, all of the Smedrys seemed to be involved in one academic field or another. This was the worst yet. I looked away, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
‘Shattering Glass!’ Folsom said. ‘Why do people always get like that when they find out?’
‘Get like what?’ I asked, trying to act like I wasn’t trying to act like anything at all.
‘Everyone grows worried when they’re around a critic,’ Folsom complained. ‘Don’t they understand that we can’t properly evaluate them if they’re not acting normal?’
‘Evaluate?’ I squeaked. ‘You’re evaluating me?’
‘Well, sure,’ Folsom said. ‘Everybody evaluates. We critics are just trained to talk about it.’
That didn’t help. In fact, that made me even more uncomfortable. I glanced down at the copy of Alcatraz Smedry and the Mechanic’s Wrench. Was Folsom judging how much I acted like the hero in the book?
‘Oh, don’t let that thing annoy you,’ Himalaya said. She was sitting next to me on the seat, uncomfortably close, considering how little I trusted her. Her voice sounded so friendly. Was that a trick?
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘The book,’ she said, pointing. ‘I know it’s probably bothering you how trite and ridiculous it is.’
I looked down at the cover again. ‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s not that bad . . .’
‘Alcatraz, you’re riding a vacuum cleaner.’
‘And a noble steed he was. Or, er, well, he appears to be one . . .’ Somewhere deep – hidden far within me, next to the nachos I’d had for dinner a few weeks back – a piece of me acknowledged that she was right. The story did seem rather silly.
‘It’s a good thing that copy is Folsom’s,’ Himalaya continued. ‘Otherwise we’d have to listen to that dreadful theme music every time you opened the book. Folsom removes the music plate before he reads the books.’
‘Why’d he do that?’ I asked, disappointed. I have theme music?
‘Ah,’ Folsom said. ‘Here we are!’
I looked up as the carriage pulled to a halt outside a very tall, red-colored castle. It had a wide green lawn (the type that was randomly adorned with statues of people who were missing body parts) and numerous carriages parked in front. Our driver brought us right up to the front gates, where several men in white uniforms stood about looking very butler-y.
One stepped up to our carriage. ‘Invitation?’ he asked.
‘We don’t have one,’ Folsom said, blushing.
‘Ah, well, then,’ the butler said, pointing. ‘You can pull around that direction to leave, then—’
‘We don’t need an invitation,’ I said, gathering my confidence. ‘I’m Alcatraz Smedry.’
The butler gave me a droll glance. ‘I’m sure you are. Now, you go that way to leave—’
‘No,’ I said, standing up. ‘Really, I’m him. Look.’ I held up the book cover.
‘You forgot your sombrero,’ the butler said flatly.
‘But it does look like me.’