A Crystal of Time (The School for Good and Evil The Camelot Years #2) - Soman Chainani Page 0,50

swung to Sophie. She read his face.

Sophie sprinted in front of the guards and seized Rhian from behind, crushing his stomach with both arms, again and again, until the king coughed up the nuts with such force that they slammed a hole in the glass and flew out into the clean air.

Blue-faced, Rhian heaved for breath as Sophie thumped on his spine. He yanked away from her—

“You poisoned me . . . you witch!” he wheezed, spotting the crack in the window. “You put something . . . in my tea. . . .”

Sophie flashed that indignant look that Hort knew so well. “Poisoned you! And here I thought I saved your life!”

Doubled over, Rhian shook his head. “It was you—I know it was you—”

“Wouldn’t the guard on the stage have seen it, then?” Sophie lashed. “Wouldn’t my steward’s slimy little eel?”

The king turned his head to the guard, who said nothing. Hort’s scim gave a confused burble.

“If I wanted you dead, I’d have let you strangle yourself,” Sophie hectored. “Instead, I rescued you. And you have the nerve to accuse me?”

Rhian searched her face. He glanced at Hort, who made his move.

“Not to overstep my bounds, sire,” said Sophie’s steward, “but the real question is who made the tea.”

Rhian eyed him narrowly. “Japeth brought it from the kitchens,” he said, still rasping. He swiveled to a guard. “Ask him who made it. Whoever made the tea, bring them here and I’ll rip out their throat—”

“I made it,” said a voice.

Rhian, Hort, and Sophie raised their eyes.

Japeth posed in silhouette at the entrance to the Throne Room.

“And I made it exactly how you like it,” he said.

“And you didn’t notice something in it?” Rhian blasted. “Something big enough to kill me?”

Japeth’s blue eyes chilled. “First you indulge that witch. Then you let a prisoner free. And now I’m trying to kill you with your tea.”

“Accidents happen,” his brother fumed. “Especially accidents that would make you king.”

“That’s right. Such a good sleuth,” Japeth sneered. “Such a good king.”

The two brothers glared daggers at each other.

“Think I’ll skip this morning’s festivities,” said Japeth.

He exited the room, his boots clacking on tile.

A hot, wormy tension stayed behind.

Hort picked his moment.

One last move.

“See? Willam and Bogden were right,” Hort whispered to Sophie, but loud enough for Rhian to hear. “They said the king would die before the Blessing!”

“Don’t be an imp,” Sophie scoffed, catching his drift. “First of all, the king didn’t die. Second, it was a silly accident, and third, just because Willam and Bogden have had a few lucky guesses, doesn’t mean they’re harbingers of doom. Now go fetch the carriage. I’ll bring Rhian—”

“Wait,” said the king.

Hort and Sophie turned in perfect synch.

Rhian straightened, his shadow casting over them.

“Guards, bring Willam and Bogden from the dungeons,” he ordered. “They’ll ride with us too.”

Sophie clasped her chest. “Willam and Bogden? Are you . . . sure?”

Rhian didn’t answer, already stalking out of the hall.

Sophie hurried behind him, snapping at her steward to follow. And as she did, her eyes met Hort’s for a sliver of a moment.

Not long enough for Rhian or a scim to notice.

But long enough for Hort to see Sophie wink at him, as if he’d earned his place at her side.

Hort blushed in his heart, chasing after his mistress.

At last, her Weasel had come.

9

SOPHIE

Empress under the Boot

As Sophie followed Rhian, Hort trailing behind her, she could feel her heart rumbling like a drum. The weasel had done well, but until Tedros was back on the throne, their work was far from done. She needed to talk to Hort alone, but there was no chance of that. Not with Rhian riding with them to the Blessing and that demented eel on Hort’s neck—

Sophie glimpsed the horses through the window, pulling the royal carriage up the drive.

Unless . . .

No time to think. She made her move, lurching back and grabbing on to Hort’s sweaty hand, ignoring his stunned expression. She’d never held the weasel’s hand before—who knew where that hand had been—but these were desperate times.

Tattooed Thiago held the door open for the king as the carriage arrived. “Wesley is fetching those boys from the dungeons as you ordered, sire,” he said, armor glinting in the sunlight. “Will you need a second carriage?”

The king didn’t break stride. “We’ll all fit in one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A queen can’t arrive at her first wedding event packed like a sardine. Hort and I can ride alone,” Sophie scoffed, barreling past the king, dragging