again. Fioretta said, “You aren’t—his?”
“You mean the one upstairs.” The woman’s arms thrust and beat on the dough. “We have an agreement. I don’t poison him and he doesn’t turn me into a toad.”
“Who is he? How can I get out of here?”
The cook’s eyes twinkled at her. “His name is written down around here somewhere. Can you read?”
“No.”
The cook shrugged. “Neither can I.”
She turned to the hearth, with her burly arms poking and turning the fire, and the flames shot up. The light and the heat flooded the room. Behind her on the table the dough seized the chance to grow into a wild floury puff as tall as a man. The cook came quickly back, and punched it flat again.
Fioretta came to the edge of the table. “Is there any way out—back to the real world?”
“I don’t know. This is a haunted place, and since he came nothing is what it seems.”
“How did you get here?” Fioretta asked.
The cook looked startled. “I—” Her eyes widened, and she peered around as if she had just noticed where she was. “I’ve always been here, haven’t I? That’s why it’s…” Her gaze returned to Fioretta. “Maybe the question is, who are you?”
“I—” Fioretta stopped, not sure what to say.
The cook smiled at her, and then, on the stair, the young man in the red tabard came down around the corner.
“He’s come for you,” the cook said.
Fioretta got up. The young man stood there on the last step, his blue eyes on her, and without a word she went past him, up the stair, around the curve. He followed her, and when they were out of sight of the kitchen she faced him.
With the light behind him she could not see his face. He was taller, with brawny arms and chest. He said, “Well, here we are,” and it was Palo’s voice.
“It is you,” she said.
He said, “Yes. Not so changed as you are. I would not know you, had I not seen it happen.” His voice quivered. “You are so beautiful, and so graceful.”
He put out his hand to her, and she knocked it aside.
“Why did you come?” she cried. “You must get away, somehow, you must see what becomes of people here.”
“I knew you’d need help,” he said. His voice twinged with sudden anger, and he put his hands on his hips, as he was used to do. “You’ve really gotten yourself into something this time.”
“I do not need help!” But she was glad he was here, familiar even with his new good looks, his tall and broad-shouldered body. “There has to be some way out of this place.”
“I’ve looked,” he said. “I can’t find any doors that open out of the castle. At night everything falls asleep; I almost did too, and in a few more days I probably will.” He yawned, veiled in the half-dark, the light brimming him like a nimbus. “What are you doing out of bed, anyway?”
She blurted out, without thinking, “Looking for you.”
“Well,” he said. “Here I am.” He reached for her hand.
“No,” she said. “Don’t touch me. He’ll know.”
He gave a sharp twitch, as if she had struck him. He backed away, and slid his hands behind him. “Oh,” he said, in a different voice. “That’s how it is. I guess you have what you want already. You’d better get back where you belong, then, hadn’t you.”
She grew hot with shame. He thought she had yielded to the wizard. In a way, she thought, she had, coming here. His voice changed, almost wistful now, softer. “You are so beautiful. You were pretty before, and clever and brave, and after the fire I thought I’d have a chance with you, but now you are so much beyond me—Go on.” Brisker. “I can’t bear to think what could happen to you, if—”
The worst would be that he would see me again as I really am, she thought. Gimp. Squinty-eyed. The idea drove a sort of panic through her, and then a rising resolve: She would be happy, as long as she could, as long as this lasted. But she would try to get Palo out of it. She turned and went quickly up the stair.
IN THE MORNING, she came down to the hall, and the whole court bowed down before her, and the wizard stood to greet her. “You are as glorious as the sunrise,” he said. “Wherefore today I call you Io, my darling.” He led her to the chair beside him, and as he sat beside her, he said, under his breath, “I have done my part.” His eyes drilled into her. “Don’t you think you owe me something?”
She lowered her gaze; she began to feel guilty, ungrateful. A quiver went along her nerves; she felt herself weakening, dissolving into the illusion.
He said, “Or perhaps you need some additional persuasion? What do you think of my new knight here—the one who came in with you?”
She licked her lips. “I was alone.”
“There was someone else. What was his name—Buffo, Salo—”
He was playing with her, his eyes glittering. She looked away. Then a brassy blast of horns made her start.
Down the center of the hall walked a tall man dressed in black. Two trumpeters preceded him, blasting shrill challenges on their horns; after him came two more men, carrying a sword and a shield. He stopped before the wizard.
“I am here to claim your place, king of the wood! Send out your champion, and we will decide the issue now!”
The flock of courtiers had divided to let him through; now in one breath they cried out in scorn, and pressed closer. Fioretta sat up, her hands in her lap and her heart in her throat; she glanced at the wizard, wondering what this meant.
He did not look troubled. His mouth curved in a smile, and he never looked at the black knight, his gaze steady on her; she realized this was a trap.
“Name your champion,” cried the black knight. He turned to his squires and drew a long gold-fitted sword from the scabbard.
From the crowd, one man after another leaped forward. “My lord, name me!” “No, me!” “Me, my lord.”
The wizard’s look, heavy with meaning, never left Fioretta. He stood, lifted his hand, and pointed toward the mass of the court. “You, my newest knight, you shall prove yourself today.” She looked where he was pointing, and saw Palo.
Her breath stopped in her throat. If anything happened to him it would be her fault. The red knight came forward uncertainly, into the middle of the hall, took hold of his own sword, and drew it out of the scabbard, so awkward he almost dropped it. Fioretta clenched her teeth. She knew he was no fighter. The wizard watched her and she forced herself to look away.
The wizard said, “You don’t care for combat, my lovely one?”
She gave a cracked laugh. “I prefer the music and the dancing.”
“Ah,” he said, “but this is more amusing. Watch.”
The two men faced each other, and began to trade blows. The wizard paid no heed to them, his gaze steady on Fioretta. She glanced at the two men stalking around each other, slashing with their swords; Palo slipped and missed and almost dropped his. Inside the handsome body he was still the chubby boy who stuttered. Her hands fisted in her lap. Suddenly she longed for him to be that chubby boy again, back in the village, safe.
“Not much of a swordsman, this one,” the wizard said. He laughed, with a glance at her. “Perhaps I should let him lose.”
She said nothing. Her heart was hammering. If she said the wrong thing she was destroyed. Palo was destroyed. Out there the red knight staggered backward away from the black knight, inches ahead of the slashing blade.
“Well,” the wizard said. “Does he die? Or will you save him?”
She said, “Do as you will, my lord,” and stared off at the wall. Palo dodged behind one of the pillars. The watching court laughed, and the black knight with a roar pursued him.
