He sank into a chair. Pet lumbered up to him, tail wagging. He scratched behind her ear, and she gave a happy dog sigh and collapsed at his feet. Pet had asked to remain a guardian to the queen, and after all she’d done for their cause, Bess had agreed (even though she wasn’t too fond of dogs—remember, cat person). It was a little awkward at times, but the least they could do—well, that and give her a scratch and the scraps from the table every now and then.
“Um, Your Majesty,” came a voice from the doorway. A frightened voice. “About your crown.”
“What about my crown?” Bess asked the trembling servant who came to cower before her—Hobbs, Edward remembered the man’s name was.
“Have you . . . moved it?” asked Hobbs.
“Moved my crown?” Bess frowned. “Where would I move it?”
“Normally it’s kept on a velvet cushion in the king’s—I mean the queen’s—chamber.”
“Right.” Edward and Bess exchanged worried glances. The citizens of England seemed to unilaterally accept Bess as the official ruler of the country now, but if someone had literally stolen her crown, it could mean trouble. Not to mention that the crown was virtually priceless.
“Speak, Hobbs,” Bess commanded. “Tell us what’s happened.”
Hobbs shifted from one foot to the other nervously. “It’s gone, Your Majesty.”
“Gone.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Gone where?” Bess’s voice rose, and the servant flinched.
“Gone missing!” Hobbs cried. “My job is to polish it. That’s what I do, every Thursday—I polish the crown, only today when I went to retrieve it, I found . . .” He started to cry. “I found . . .” He hiccupped. “I found . . .”
Hobbs held out his fist, which was clasped around something very small—much too small to be a crown. Maybe a crown jewel. But it meant bad news all the same.
“What is it?” Edward and Bess both leaned forward to look. “Show us,” Bess said.
Hobbs opened his hand. He was sure he was going to lose his head for this. So he was shocked when both the former king and the current queen broke into broad smiles.
“Your Majesty?”
“It’s all right, Hobbs,” Bess said.
Edward started taking off his clothes.
“Um, Your Majesty . . .” Hobbs was very confused now.
“You don’t still need me here, do you?” Edward asked Bess as he pulled his shirt over his head.
“I can manage,” Bess said. “Go.”
“Thanks.” He gave her a grateful smile and turned toward the window, shuffling off his pants. Then there was a flash of blinding light, and when Hobbs could see again, the boy who had been king had simply vanished.
Hobbs stared down his hand, at the item he’d found resting in place of Bess’s crown.
A tiny wooden fox.
When Edward came down to rest on the roof of the Shaggy Dog, he saw, with his magnificent kestrel eyes, that one of the back doors had been left open a crack. This door turned out to be the entrance to a small storeroom, which was currently crammed to the gills with all manner of freshly delivered food and supplies.
A gift, compliments of Queen Elizabeth, as a promise that she would honor Edward’s agreement with the Pack.
In the center of the floor was something Bess hadn’t sent: a stack of clean, neatly folded clothes. Nothing fancy, of course. A simple linen shirt, black pants, and a pair of boots in exactly his size. Edward put this on so fast that he got the shirt backward at first.
When he came out of the storeroom there was a man waiting for him. The man grunted something like, “She’s up thar,” and pointed to the hill behind the inn.
Edward ran.
He came upon Gracie standing at the top of the hill under a large, spreading oak. She didn’t see him at first. She was staring out at the setting sun.
Edward stopped and drank in the sight of her. She was wearing a long gray skirt and a white blouse, her hair loose and spilling all over her shoulders. She had a small satchel slung across her back, and the pearl-handled knife strapped to her belt.
He cleared his throat, heart hammering.
She turned. “Sire.”
“I’m not the king anymore,” he blurted out stupidly.
“I’m the leader of the Pack,” she said at the same time.
He wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. “Wait, what?”
“Archer’s dead,” she informed him. “He took an arrow to the chest in the first ten minutes of the siege.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” A minute ago, Edward could have wished a pox on Archer. But now he felt rather bad for him. “Did you . . . hear the part where I said I’m not the king?”
“It’s all anyone can talk about around here. You didn’t do that . . . for me, did you?” Her green eyes were genuinely worried.
“No, I didn’t do it for you,” he answered quickly. (Although if we’re being totally honest here, there was a teeny tiny bit of Edward that really had wanted to give up the throne of England so he’d be free to kiss a Scottish pickpocket as often as he liked.) “I wasn’t thinking of you at all!”
She looked down. “Oh. I see.”
“What I mean to say is, I don’t want to be king,” Edward continued in a rush. “All my life the crown’s been forced upon my head. But when I had a choice in the matter, I found I didn’t want it.”