guard, looked at Gifford with his sword raised (a formidable sight, if one wasn’t aware of his sword skills), and took off running.
G scooped Jane up and sprinted away as well. He started toward the stables where he’d first been held.
“We must hurry,” he said, trying not to imagine what he looked like, talking to the hedgehog on his shoulder. “That one will probably sound an alarm. We need a horse.”
The little rodent dug her claws into his shoulder.
“Yes, yes, but we need one that stays a horse. Especially if soldiers will be chasing us soon.”
He opened the stable door as quietly as possible, backed inside, looking for any pursuers, and when there were none, he shut the door, turned around, and nearly ran into the pointy end of a man’s sword.
The sword’s owner was a tall man with a beard and a uniform, but not the soldier kind of uniform. More like the hired-help kind.
G put his hand on his rat in an automatic protective motion.
“Please,” he said. But before he could go on, the man lowered his sword.
“Are you Gifford?”
G didn’t know if he should try to deny his identity, but there was no point. He nodded.
“Where’s the queen?” the man said.
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
The man pushed by him and opened the door a crack, peeked out, and then shut it again.
“Where’s the queen?” he said again.
“I’m afraid you won’t believe me if I tell you,” G responded.
“Try me.”
G took Jane off his shoulder—she was trembling—and cradled her in his arms. “She’s here.”
The man’s scowl softened, and he leaned forward with a smile. “Ah! She’s a wee ferret. She’s a beau’iful thing.”
“Ferret!” G exclaimed. “That’s what you are, my dear, a ferret.” He’d heard of the creatures, but he’d never seen one. “See? So much better than a rat.”
The man grabbed G’s arm and pulled him toward the stables. “We’d best be getting you on your way, if you have any hope of escaping.”
“Who are you?” G asked again. “Are you the one who slid the letter under my door?”
The man nodded. “Name’s Peter Bannister. I’m the royal kennel master. I was loyal to King Edward. Sent my daughter to protect him, but a lot of good that did.”
“Protect him? From what? ‘The Affliction’?”
Peter opened one of the stalls and hoisted a saddle onto the steed inside. “From the likes of your dirty father. The king never had ‘the Affliction.’”
G stood still with his mouth open in surprise.
“There’s no time to explain. Get on yer horse. Follow my daughter. She’ll lead you safely away.”
While G mounted the horse (with Jane on his shoulder), Peter disappeared down toward the end of the stables and out the door that led to the kennels. He returned moments later with a beautiful Afghan hound.
“There’s a good girl,” he said, ruffling the dog’s fur. “Follow Petunia, my lord. She’ll help you.”
“I thought you said we were to follow your daughter.”
Just then a horn blew, and then another. Peter’s eyes went wide. “Go!”
He threw open the stable doors and then G and Jane and their horse and Petunia-the-dog galloped away into the night.
PART TWO
(In Which We Throw History Out the Window)
Midlogue
Hey, there! It’s us, your friendly neighborhood narrators. We just wanted to take a break for a minute to tell you something important: up until now, what we’ve shown you has been loosely based on what we’ve been able to uncover in our research, filling in the blanks where needed.
But from this point on, dear reader, we are going to go deep, deep, abyss-to-the-inner-crust-of-the-earth deep into the stuff the historians don’t want you to know about, the stuff they will go to extreme lengths to hide. (Because can you imagine the cost and hassle of rewriting all of the history books?) We’ve traversed the great plains of Hertfordshire, spelunked the dark tunnels of Piccadilly, hiked the rolling hills of the Cotswolds searching for the descendants of our lovers and the poisoned king, and we have compiled what we so delicately refer to as . . . THE TRUTH. (Because of the danger, we considered changing our names. But we didn’t. Still, we sleep with swords under our pillows.)
If the truth of what happened to our heroes and heroine scares you—and God’s teeth, it should scare you—do not venture past this point.
But if you are a bucker of the system, a friend of truth, an ally of love, and a believer in magic, then read on.
NINETEEN
Edward
“Take that, you lily-livered scut!” Gracie shouted, swinging her