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“You’re him,” I whispered. “You helped me escape.”

When he didn’t respond, I went on. “You’re the princess and jester’s son.”

Defiance erased the sweetness. “Nicu,” he insisted, his voice rising. “My name is Nicu.”

“You’re the one they’re looking for.”

“They’re looking?”

I gripped the edge of the wagon and hissed, “Yes or no. Are you their son?”

A pink puddle surfaced on his cheeks. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded.

I nodded with him, then balled my fists and stomped my foot because, come on! What next?

The bustle of townsfolk drifted from the street. Mother had remained inside, letting me have my space so far. The last thing I needed was for her to spot us.

Hurry, I mouthed, motioning for him to get out of the wagon.

As he shimmied from the vehicle, it didn’t get past me that I’d just ordered a Royal around, and he’d just obeyed without protest.

Within the layers of his hair, a thin braid had been expertly woven on one side, looping from his temple and tucking itself behind his ear. He wore an ornately buttoned jerkin, a damask shirt underneath, and perfectly tailored hose that slipped into high, shiny boots. The elegant ensemble of fabric hugged his slight frame.

Grabbing his wrist, I hustled him into the shed and swung the door inward, sparing us a crack of light. Nicu made himself comfortable, curling up on a nest of hay beside the tired mule, who nickered as the boy tickled behind its ears.

He’d been in that wagon all night, probably shivering and hungry.

I made him swear not to utter a word until I got back, then rushed into the house, making excuses to Mother about tending to the yard, promising that my finger was okay, and urging her to organize her stock in the workshop. I just hoped she wouldn’t have an episode and break something.

After she disappeared upstairs, I smeared loaves of pumpernickel with butter, then collected a container of stew, a jug of water, and a few woolen blankets. Packing everything into a basket, I returned to the shed, where Nicu sang a ballad to himself while admiring the barrels of turnips and carrots, the mounted broom and rake. That the shed couldn’t possibly compare to the castle’s regal halls didn’t seem to matter to him.

Noticing me in the doorway, he burst to his feet, about to throw his arms around me, as if I’d been gone a decade.

“Hold on,” I warned him. “Nobody hugs without permission. Got it?”

“Why would friends need permission?”

“Sit back down. We’ll negotiate friendship terms later.”

His chin lifted, that Royal demeanor kicking in. I remembered myself and added, “Please.”

Satisfied, he returned to the hay knoll. With the blanket draped over his lap, he shared a carrot with the mule.

I sat across from him. “What the hell were you doing in my wagon?”

As if the answer should be obvious, Nicu said, “Tumble-weeding.”

Unlike the First Knight, with his graceful but deadly lilt, this Royal’s voice sounded like a bard’s. Like a living song.

One with riddles attached, since it took me another second to interpret his reply. “You’re running away?”

He frowned, struggling with the question. “Yep, tumble-weeding through the fields and shaking hands with the forests because they’re free.”

“Okay, so...” I recapped what the gossips reported about this boy, about his wayward sense of direction, among other things. Maybe this radical and rambunctious way of expressing himself also had something to do with it?

He’d used the wordfree. So he’d run away because...he wanted freedom?

“Why?” I asked. “Why would you leave?”