“Cats,” offered Aran.
The others looked at him. He didn’t explain.
Nor did they answer Sophie’s question. But as Sophie passed sitting rooms, bedchambers, a library, and solarium, each being renovated with Lion crests and carvings and emblems, it became clear that Camelot did have money. Lots of it. Where had the gold come from? And who were those three sisters acting like they owned the place? And how was this happening so soon? Rhian had barely become king and suddenly, the whole castle was being remade in his image? It didn’t make any sense. Sophie saw more men shuffle by, carrying a giant portrait of Rhian in his crown and asking guards for directions to the “Hall of Kings” where they were supposed to hang it. One thing was for sure, Sophie thought, watching them veer towards the White Tower: all of this had to have been planned by the king long before today. . . .
Don’t call him that. He isn’t the king, she chastised herself.
But how did he pull Excalibur, then? a second voice asked.
Sophie had no response. At least not yet.
Through one window, she saw workers rebuilding the castle’s drawbridge. Through another, she glimpsed gardeners reseeding grass and pulling in brilliant blue rosebushes, replacing the old dead ones, while over in the Gold Tower courtyard, workers painted gold Lions in the basin of each reflecting pool. A commotion disturbed the work and Sophie spotted a brown-skinned woman in a chef’s uniform ushered out of the castle by pirate guards, along with her cooks, as a new young, strapping chef and his all-male staff were guided in to replace them.
“But the Silkima family has been cooking for Camelot for two hundred years!” the woman protested.
“And we thank you for your service,” said a handsome guard with narrow eyes who was in a different uniform than the pirates—gilded and elaborate, suggesting he was of higher rank.
He looks familiar, Sophie thought.
But she couldn’t study the boy’s face any longer because she was being pulled into the Map Room now, which smelled clean and light, like a lily meadow—which wasn’t what Map Rooms were supposed to smell like, since they were airless chambers, usually occupied by teams of unwashed knights.
Sophie looked up to see maps of the Woods’ realms floating in the amber lamplight above a large, round table like severed balloons. As she peered closer, she saw these weren’t old, brittle maps from King Arthur’s reign . . . but the same magical Quest Maps that she and Agatha once encountered in the Snake’s lair, featuring tiny figurines of her and her quest team, enabling the Snake to track their every move. Now all those figurines hovered over Camelot’s tiny, three-dimensional castle, while their real-life counterparts festered in the dungeons below. But as she looked closer, Sophie noticed there was one labeled crew member on the map who wasn’t near the castle at all . . . one who was breaking away from Camelot, slipping towards the kingdom border . . .
AGATHA.
Sophie gasped.
She’s alive.
Aggie’s alive.
And if she was alive, that meant Agatha would do everything she could to free Tedros. Which meant Sophie and her best friend could work together to save Camelot’s true king: Aggie from the outside, she from the inside.
But how? Tedros would die in a week. They didn’t have any time. Plus, Rhian could track Aggie himself on this Quest Map anytime he wanted—
Sophie’s eyes flared. Quest Map! She had her own! Her fingers clasped the gold vial attached to the chain around her neck, carrying the magical map given to each Dean. She tucked the vial deeper under her dress. As long as she had her own map, she could trace Agatha without Rhian knowing. And if she could trace her, maybe she could also send Agatha a message before the king’s men found her. Hope flooded through her, drowning out fear—
But then Sophie noticed the rest of the room.
Five maids with white lace dresses that covered every inch of their skin and wide white bonnets on their heads were fanned around the table, silent and still like statues, their heads bowed so she couldn’t see their faces, each holding a leather-bound book in her outstretched palms. Sophie moved closer, noticing that the books were labeled with the names of her and Rhian’s wedding events.
BLESSING
PROCESSION
CIRCUS OF TALENTS
FEAST OF LIGHTS
WEDDING
She stared at a slim maid holding the book marked PROCESSION. The girl kept her head down. Sophie flipped through the book while the girl held it, the pages filled with sketches of carriage options and animal breeds and outfit possibilities that she and Rhian could use for the town parade, where the king and new queen would have a chance to meet the people up close. Would they ride in a glass carriage pulled by horses? On a gold-and-blue flying carpet? Or together atop an elephant? Sophie shifted to the maid with the CIRCUS OF TALENTS book and scanned through stage designs and curtain choices and decorations for a show where the best talents from the various kingdoms would perform for the betrothed couple . . . then she moved to the book branded FEAST OF LIGHTS and perused dozens of bouquets and linens and candelabras for a midnight dinner. . . .
All Sophie had to do was point a finger and pick from these books, filled with everything she needed for the wedding of her dreams. A wedding bigger than life to a storybook prince. A wedding that had been her wish since she was a little girl.
But instead of joy, Sophie felt sick, thinking of the monster she was marrying.
That’s the problem with wishes.
They need to be specific.
“King says yer to work till supper,” Wesley ordered from the door.
He started to leave, then stopped.
“Oh. You’ve been asked to wear this at all times,” he said, pointing at a white dress hung up on the back of the door, prim, ruffly, and even more modest than the maids’.
“Over my dead body,” Sophie flamed.
Wesley smiled ominously. “We’ll let the king know.”
He left with his pirates, closing the door behind them.
Sophie waited a few seconds, then ran for the door—
It didn’t budge.
They’d locked her in.
No windows either.
No way to send Agatha a message.
Sophie turned, realizing the maids were still there, posed like statues in their white dresses, faces hidden, as they clutched the wedding books.
“Do you speak?” Sophie snapped.
The maids stayed silent.
She smacked a book out of one of their hands.
“Say
