Peter forced himself to eat his entire meal, although he no longer wanted it. He wanted to take not the slightest chance of rousing suspicions-now more than ever. He had no idea who the note might be from, or what it might say, or why it had aroused such a fever in him. But for a note to come now, only hours before he planned to make his try to escape, seemed an omen. But of what?
When his meal was finally eaten, he glanced toward the door again, made sure the spyhole was closed, and walked to his bedroom with his napkin still held casually in one hand, almost as if he had forgotten that he held it at all. In the bedroom, he unpinned the note (his hands were trembling so badly he pricked himself again) and unfolded it. It was written closely on both sides in letters which were rusty and a bit childish, but readable enough. His glance went first to the signature... and his eyes widened. The note was signed Dennis-your Friend and Servant For-Ever.
"Dennis?" Peter muttered, so flabbergasted he was unaware that he had whispered aloud. "Dennis?"
He turned back then, and the letter's opening was enough to shock his heartbeat into a fast drumroll. The salutation was My King.
100
My King,
As you may Noe, for the last 5 Yeres I have Buttled in Service to your Brother, Thomas. In just this last Week I have found out that You did not Murther you Father Roland the Good. I Noe who Did, and Thomas Noes as Well. You would Noe the name of this Black Killer if I dared to Rite it, but I do Not. I went to Peyna. Peyna has gone to join the Exiles with his Butler, Orlon. He has commanded I come to the Castle, and Rite to you this note. Peyna says that the Exiles may soon become Rebels and this must not Be. He thinks you may have some sort of Plan, but what he Noes Not. He commands that I be of Service to You, and my Da commanded it too, before He Dyed, and my Heart commands it, for our Famly has always served the King and you are the Right King. If you have a Plan, I will aid you in Any Way I can, even if it means my Death. As you read this, I am across the Platza in the shadows looking at the Needle where you are Pent Up. If you have a Plan, come I pray You and stand at the Window. If You have something on which You can rite, then throe down a Note and I will try to retreeve It late this Night. Wave twyce if you will try this idea.
Your friend Ben is with the Exiles. Peyna said He would send Him. I Noe were He (Ben) will be. If You say I should fetch Him (Ben) I can, in a Day. Or perhaps Two if there is Snoe. I Noe that throwing down a Note might be Riskee, but I feel Time is short. Peyna feels the Same Way. I will be Watching and Praying.
Dennis
Your Friend and Servant For-Ever
101
It was a long time before Peter could put his whirling thoughts in order. His mind kept circling back to one question: What had Dennis seen to change his mind so radically and completely? What, in the names of all the gods, could it have been?
Little by little he came to realize that it didn't matter-Dennis had seen something, and that was enough.
Peyna. Dennis had gone to Peyna, and Peyna had sensed... well, the old fox had sensed something. He thinks you may have some sort of Plan, but what he Noes Not. Old fox indeed. He had not forgotten Peter's request for the dollhouse, and the napkins. He hadn't known exactly what those things meant, but he had sensed something in the wind. Aye, well and truly.
Then what was Peter to do?
Part of him-a very large part-wanted to go ahead just as he had planned. He had worked his courage up to this desperate adventure; now it was hard to let it go for nothing but more waiting. And there were the dreams, urging him on, as well.
You would Noe the name of this Black Killer if I dared to rite It, but I do Not. Peter knew just the same, of course, and it was that more than anything else that convinced him Dennis really had stumbled onto something. Peter felt that Flagg might soon awake to this new development-and he wanted to be gone before that happened.
Was a day too long to wait?
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Peter was torn in an agony of indecision. Ben... Thomas... Flagg... Peyna... Dennis... they whirled in his brain like figures seen in a dream. What should he do?
In the end, it was the appearance of the note itself-not what was in it-that persuaded him. For it to come this way, pinned to a napkin on the very night he meant to try his rope made of napkins... it meant he should wait. But only for a night. Ben would not be able to help.
Could Dennis help him, though? What could he do?
And suddenly, in a flash of light, an idea came to him.
Peter had been sitting on his bed, hunched over the note, his brows furrowed. Now he straightened up, his eyes alight.
His eyes fell on the note again.
If You have something on which You can rite, then throe down a Note and I will try to retreeve It late this Night.
Yes, of course, he had something to write on. Not the napkin itself, because it might be missed. Not Dennis's note, either, because it was written on both sides, from side to side and top to bottom.
But Valera's parchment was not.