SNEAK PEEK - The Boy with the Hidden Name

Chapter Five

We are in the court of the Erlking. Whatever that means.

The palace is gorgeous, but I would have expected nothing less. The gardens were beautiful, and the doors opened for us onto a lovely room full of marble and gilding, with a painted ceiling high above us and many sets of French doors opening onto a terrace along which fountains have been positioned, the water catching torchlight everywhere. There is a harp in the corner that seems to be playing itself, not so much a tune as a few notes plinking once in a while. Safford has gone to one of the doorways and is regarding the terrace, but I stand in the middle of the room with Kelsey, uncertain whether we should really be moving. You never know when you might cross a boundary in the Otherworld. It’s exhausting, like trying to determine tipping customs in Europe, only worse, of course.

Will looks very at home. He is standing by one of the fireplaces, looking at the enormous portrait hanging over it, which is of an extremely attractive man in a black velvet suit and black riding boots, a cape jauntily flung back over his shoulder. He has one hand resting on the intricately jeweled hilt of a sword at his hip, and the other hand rests on a marble table beside him. On his head sits a large bejeweled crown, flattening black hair into cowlicks that peek out from the back of his head. The expression on his face in the portrait is self-satisfied, a smirk dancing around his lips, amusement in eyes a brilliant shade of blue.

The thing about this portrait is that once you look at it, nothing in the room seems nearly as interesting.

After a couple of minutes, footsteps sound over marble, far away from us but approaching swiftly. Safford turns from the window, looking wary, and Will takes a step away from the fireplace, looking with interest in the direction of the footsteps. And then the man from the portrait sweeps into the room. He is dressed in the same black velvet as in the portrait, the same black riding boots, with the same black cloak billowing out behind him as he moves. It’s what he wore that day outside the Boston Public Library, when we retrieved the book that told us about Ben’s mother. I wonder if he ever wears anything else. I mean, it’s working for him, but still.

There is no crown on his head, but the sword swings at his side. His hair is that shade of black that seems to almost gleam blue, much darker than Ben’s hair, so dark that it seems impossible and makes me think of silly poetic things like raven’s wings and ebony. It is carefully disheveled all over his head in a devil-may-care sort of way.

He walks immediately over to Will, arms outstretched, exclaiming, “William Blaxton.”

Will smiles at him. “Your Majesty,” he says and then hugs him.

“We have much to discuss,” says the man and gives Will what can only be described as a hard look, belying the joviality of his tone.

Will pauses. “Yes,” he agrees.

“First, though.” He turns to me and smiles. “You are the fay,” he proclaims.

“Hi,” I say warily, a little thrown by his manner, which is halfway between welcoming and imperious.

“Lovely to meet you formally,” he says, “as there wasn’t time for such niceties when you stole the book from me.”

“It wasn’t your book,” Will says.

“It wasn’t not my book,” the man retorts. “But now, now, this is a conversation that should not be had in such an uncivilized manner. There are other guests.” He looks at Safford and Kelsey expectantly.

“Kelsey, Safford,” Will introduces, “this is the Erlking.”

He bows very gracefully, pulling the cape dramatically about him as he does so. “Normally I would say, ‘Very much in your service,’” he says. “‘Any friend of Will’s’ and all that. But recent occurrences being what they have been, I offer you a conditional welcome.”