Owen nodded. “I’ll . . . I’ll take you there sometime.”
Jewel waddled into the kitchen, her expression sour, and she was muttering something about two children in desperate need of a willow switch to their backsides. Liona began repeating the story of their nighttime adventures. It seemed the whole palace had heard about it.
“I wish Jewel would go away. She’s fat and she smells like . . . like a garderobe. Ugh. I’m going to ask Papa to send her away.”
Owen stared at her. “You mean Grandpapa.”
Her finger paused before it could topple the tile. “Yes. That’s what I meant.”
“Do you miss your Maman?” Owen asked gently.
She scrunched up her face a little. “She’s still . . . sad. She grew sick of all my talking. I was only trying to help. Grandpapa thought it best if I came with him to the palace. I think she’s grateful I’m gone.”
She nudged the tile with only enough force for it to start the first wobble, and then the whole structure came shattering down in a rain of tiles. She clapped her hands with wild eagerness, her smile dispelling the shadow that had been there only a moment before.
“I love it when they fall!” she breathed.
“There he goes again,” Jewel moaned. “Owen Satchel and Evie. I tell you, Liona, I cannot keep up with those two. I think I’m going to visit Brad the blacksmith to see if I can borrow some ankle fetters to clap on them.”
“She’s so rude,” Evie whispered, giving Owen a devious look. “We might lock her in the privy, you know.”
“We’d only get in more trouble,” Owen said.
Together they started picking up the pieces of tile and stacking them in the box by Owen’s leather satchel. It was nearly time for breakfast with the king and face his scolding for the fate of the pillows.
“Do you like your nickname?” she asked him amidst the cleanup. “I’ve been meaning to ask you since the cistern. I like it, but if you don’t, I won’t use it.”
He gave her a sincere look. “Owen Satchel?”
She nodded vigorously. “What did you think I meant—Kisky?”
“Don’t ever call me that. I don’t mind if people call me Owen Satchel.”
“To me, you’ll always be Owen Kiskaddon. Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer Kiskaddon. It sounds very important.”
Owen smiled and sighed.
“What?”
“Have you gotten used to ‘Evie’ yet?” he asked.
“Only when you say it.”
“I am the only one who says it!”
She set her hands down on her lap. “I hate being called Lady Mortimer. That’s my mother’s name. I’m not the lady of anything right now. I’ve never had a nickname, though. Until now. I always make people say my whole name.”
“When I was a baby, my sister called me Ugwen. They still tease me with it.”
She giggled at the name. “I like it better than Kisky! But people have pet names for each other. When we’re older, you can change mine to something like darling or dearest. Do you know what Ankarette means?”
He looked at her in surprise. “No.”
She nodded with enthusiasm. “It’s a Northern name. It comes from a different language. Ankarette is how we say it in Ceredigion, but the name comes from the Atabyrion name Angarad. Let me say it again. An-GAR-ad. It means much loved one. It’s a girl’s name. It’s so pretty.” She reached out and touched his little white tuft of hair.
“Where are thuh troublemakers? Ovur there, makin’ another mess? Another spill?” It was Berwick’s voice, and it was full of wrath. “Get you two over here. By the Fountain, what a mess! Come on. You two are thick as thieves. I’m in a fine feather today at the mess you’ve made!”
Owen and Evie glanced at each other, feeling the laughter starting to bubble up inside them at his choice of words.
Berwick had a mean scowl on his face. He looked full of thunder. “Come hither, you two,” he grumbled as he towered by the bench. Only then did Owen notice that beyond the anger he seemed fearful. “Come with me now. We’ve not a moment to lose.”
Their smiles faded.
The news will catch everyone at the palace off guard. It will secure the boy’s status as Fountain-blessed for certain. Everyone in the kingdom knows about the Deconeus of Ely, John Tunmore. He was a member of the privy council under King Eredur. The man was born to run the Espion, but no one dedicated to the Fountain ever can. He is cunning, wise, and cold as winter’s ice. King Severn sent him in chains to Brakenbury Dungeon in Westmarch for his complicity in the plot to prevent Severn from becoming king. He was undoubtedly part of the plot that led to Ambion Hill. And now he’s been caught by the Espion. Will Severn execute a man of the Fountain by the waters? I wonder.