A Crystal of Time (The School for Good and Evil The Camelot Years #2) - Soman Chainani Page 0,45

Snake—

Japeth seized Sophie’s palm and slit it open with a scim, before he smeared her hand over his chest and face in a single move.

Hort froze, shell-shocked.

The Snake quivered; he tilted his head back in pain, his jaw flexing, as Sophie’s blood spread over his wounds and magically healed him, his face and body restored.

Hort swallowed a shriek.

“Now, then. How about a tea?” the Snake said, smiling at Sophie. “I’m making some for my brother. We’re particular about our tea.”

Sophie stared at him.

“It’ll settle your nerves,” said Japeth, reverting to his gold-and-blue suit, shiny and clean. His grin widened. “First wedding event and all.”

“No thank you,” Sophie rasped.

“Suit yourself,” said Japeth. “Meet us in the Throne Room. You’ll ride with us to the church.”

His eyes flicked to Hort. “You too, steward.”

Japeth strode out of the room and as he did, a last scim floated off his suit, dangled high in the air . . . and harpooned through Madame Clothilde’s garment bags, up and down, right and left, zigging and zagging until they were shot through with holes. The scim moseyed after its master, the door closing softly behind it.

Silence filled the queen’s chamber.

The eel on Hort’s neck zipped over to the settee and found a garment bag that had slipped between cushions and stabbed it repeatedly, gurgling and grunting to itself.

Slowly, Hort turned to Sophie, who stood in the center of the room, her palm cut open, dripping blood onto her bathrobe.

He noticed a shallower cut on the same hand next to the open gash.

Japeth had done this to her before.

Hort’s stomach curled.

What the hell?

How could her blood heal him?

What did I just see?

Sophie looked at him, lost and scared.

If she’d had a plan in getting him out, she’d lost faith in it.

Help, her eyes said.

Only Hort had no way to help. Not until she told him why she’d picked him over everyone else. Not until she told him what was going on.

Hort waited until the scim was well-distracted, continuing to tear up Sophie’s new clothes. Carefully Hort raised his lit finger and wrote in tiny smoke letters that dissipated as they formed . . .

Sophie glanced over at the eel, stabbing and gurgling. Then she wrote Hort back.

At first he didn’t understand.

But then he did.

Sophie had waited her whole life for love.

“Someday my prince will come,” she’d wished.

She’d kissed a lot of frogs.

Some had tried to marry her. Some had tried to kill her.

But no one loved her. Not in the right way.

Except him.

And Sophie knew it.

She knew Hort loved her. That he would always love her, no matter what terrible things she’d done to him, no matter how many awful boys she’d snogged, no matter whether he had a beautiful, awesome girlfriend or not. She knew that even with his heart pledged to Nicola, Hort would help her. That if she could just get him out of jail, he’d never let anything happen to her.

And now here he was, sprung from the dungeons to join her in taking on a creep king and his bloodsucking liege.

That’s why Sophie picked him.

To be her second. To be her liege in this fight.

Hort’s muscles twitched.

No Agatha to show him up this time.

No Tedros to humiliate him.

No one but him.

Hort’s fists sealed like rocks.

This was his chance to be a hero.

His one and only chance.

And he intended to take it.

AS HE ACCOMPANIED Sophie through the Blue Tower hall, Hort slipped his hand in his pocket and felt the sticky nuts clumped together.

He’d stolen them while Sophie was changing in the bathroom. Two hazelnuts, which he’d smothered in honey and hidden in his big genie pants while his scim finished massacring Madame Clothilde’s creations. He’d used a pebble coated in tree sap when he’d taken his revenge on Dabo, the pirate bully, but today, hazelnuts and honey would have to do. If all went according to plan, Rhian would be dead before the Blessing.

He glanced over at Sophie, but she wasn’t looking at him, her hands folded in front of her prudish white dress, which she’d worn as Japeth commanded. Blood stained the bandage around her palm, getting redder by the second. Hort could tell she was still shaken by what the Snake had done to her: not because of her unsteady walk or her empty gaze or her poorly wrapped bandage . . . but because of her shoes. She’d worn flat, dull slippers with as much style as Agatha’s clumps.

His hand grazed hers, which felt stone cold.

Hort wanted to comfort