LITMIR.BIZ

      Fig. 3 King WILBERFORCE

      The king looked down his nose at the three friends. “There will be no more swordplay within these walls,” he stated. “Or anywhere on palace grounds, for that matter.”

      “But, Father,” Frederic began.

      “Sir,” Liam stepped in. “Frederic is getting quite . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say “good.” “Well, he’s improving. With more training, he could—”

      “There will be no more training!” Wilberforce snapped. His perfectly groomed mustache quivered as he spoke, and a fleck of saliva hit a purple silk ribbon on his chest, leaving a tiny wet spot the likes of which no one had ever before seen on any king of Harmonia. “Push me too far, Erinthian, and I won’t hesitate to revoke the invitation I have so graciously extended to you. If I see you—any of the three of you—with a weapon in your hand, I will have you forcibly removed. Not just from my palace, but from the entire kingdom of Harmonia.” Wilberforce spun on his heels and marched down the hall. “Frederic, get to the nurse immediately,” he added as he left. “Make sure that horrible gash doesn’t scar.”

      Frederic slumped down and sat on the edge of the philodendron pot. “I’m sorry,” he said.

      “You have nothing to apologize for,” Ella said, sitting next to him. She put her arm around him and gave a tight squeeze. “You did nothing wrong. And, hey, any time you need me to jump in and help out against Old King Grumpy-pants, just say the word.”

      “Thanks, Ella,” Frederic said, resting his head on her shoulder. “You’re very sweet.”

      Liam looked away. Sensing his discomfort, Frederic stood up.

      “I’m just embarrassed by the whole thing,” he said. “I’m going to bed early. You two have fun.” He hurried down the hall, leaving Ella and Liam alone.

      Liam opened a pair of glass doors and strolled out onto an ornate marble balcony. “I shouldn’t be here,” he sighed, watching the quickly setting sun. “I’ve outstayed my welcome.”

      “But you can’t go back to Erinthia,” Ella said, joining him outside. She looked at Liam in the warm glow of the lanterns that were being lit all along the palace grounds below. He was almost ridiculously perfect as the image of a hero: mocha-tan complexion, piercing green eyes, chiseled cheekbones, a fashionable cape and lustrous black hair, both billowing behind him in the late-spring breeze. He was standing, as he often did, with his hands on his hips and his head turned to one side, as if he were waiting for some invisible sculptor to carve a statue of him. It was the kind of thing Ella usually enjoyed teasing him about, but she was too concerned to joke around.

      “I mean, you still don’t want to marry Briar Rose, right?” she asked.

      “Do you really have to ask that question?” Liam replied. Princess Briar Rose of Avondell, to whom he’d been betrothed since the age of three, was quite possibly the worst person he’d ever met (and Liam had met a lot of nasty people, including a witch who wanted to explode him in front of a live audience). But no one in Liam’s kingdom of Erinthia (except his little sister, Lila) seemed to care about his happiness—they only cared about Avondell’s vast network of gold mines, which Erinthia would have access to once Liam married Briar. Now, understand that the Erinthian people were plenty rich already—but they’d always been second best next to Avondell. And when you’re as greedy and petty as the average Erinthian, second place isn’t good enough. “I have no idea when I’ll ever be able to set foot in my homeland again. And I’m staying as far from Avondell as possible. I’m not going to let Briar’s family or mine force this wedding on me.”

      “Where would you go, then?” Ella asked. And she started doing what she did whenever she got anxious: She cleaned.

      “You know, they have servants to do that,” Liam said when he saw her scraping bird droppings off the railing.

      “Sorry, old habits die hard,” she said. She turned to look him in the eye. “Just stay here.”

      “Things have gotten a little awkward, don’t you think?” he asked sheepishly.

      “What do you mean?” Ella asked in return, though she knew all too well what he was referring to.

      Liam sighed. “What’s the situation here? I assume you and Frederic are still getting married.”

      Ella glanced down at the servants locking up the palace gates three stories below. “To be honest, he and I haven’t talked about it in ages. It’s kind of an odd question to casually toss at somebody over lunch: Hey, remember that time you proposed to me and I said yes? Are we still sticking to that? I don’t know—maybe I haven’t asked because I’m not sure what I want his answer to be.”

      “I understand,” Liam said. “You two are still engaged. Just like me and Briar.”

      “Oh, come now,” Ella said, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s nothing like you and Briar. I love Frederic. He’s a dear friend and a wonderful human being.”

      “I know that,” Liam said quickly. “I love the guy, too. Which is why hurting him is the last thing I want to do.” Liam turned away from her and stared off at the stars that were beginning to dot the indigo sky. “My mind’s made up. I’m leaving in the morning.”

      “But . . . ,” Ella started. There was so much she wanted to say to Liam—and so much she felt she couldn’t say. “But we had so many plans. We were going to drive the rat-owls out of West Thithelsford; we were going to track down the Gray Phantom in Flargstagg; we were going to break up the hobgoblin gangs in East Thithelsford. . . .”

      “Yes, you and I were,” Liam said. “Do you really think Frederic will ever be ready for dangerous work like that?”

      “But—”

      “Don’t worry. I’ll come back for the wedding.”

      Ella stepped back inside. She couldn’t let Liam walk away like this, but she knew he was too noble to put himself in the way of Frederic’s relationship with his father—or Frederic’s relationship with her. I’ll never convince him to stay on my own, she thought. He needs to hear it from Frederic.

      In his very grand bedroom, Frederic sat in a cushy chair by his vanity table, his head tilted back as Reginald, his lifelong personal valet, dabbed at the cut on his cheek with a gooey substance he referred to as tincture of

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