Between the lines

page 32

Oliver eased his way inside the tiny cottage. There were piles of books and jumbles of glass bottles in all shapes and sizes. The old wizard led him to an adjoining room whose rafters were thick with dried herbs and flowers. He stuck a bony finger between his chapped lips and wet it with the tip of his tongue, then pressed it against the dusty page of a large leather book and flipped through it, scanning the spells. Finally he smiled, and his face creased into a hundred more wrinkles. “Ah,” said Orville. “Pass me that Rubicon flower, will you, my boy?”

Oliver had no idea what that was, but he pointed to a dried, crusted orange button on the stone worktable before him. When Orville nodded, Oliver handed it to the wizard, who rubbed the bud between his palms before letting the petals settle in a big wooden bowl.

“And the three bottles to your left?” Orville continued to mix and stir, to taste and test. “And the vial to your right-no, be careful with that!” Orville warned as Oliver realized how hot the glass was to the touch. He glanced down to find his fingerprint burned into a whorl pattern on its side.

Orville took an eyedropper and dipped it in the vial, then counted out three sizzling drops into the wooden bowl. They vanished with a hiss and a puff, creating a wall of orange flame. Orville squinted into the heart of the fire as the hottest bits, the blue center, began to form into silhouettes.

Oliver could see a tower, and a dragon beside it blowing fire. But where was the tower? There had to be a hundred like it in this kingdom alone. The flames dipped and spread, and then Oliver could see it-the cliff that rose from the edge of the ocean. The jagged rocks below, the pounding surf. Timble Tower was a former battlement, long abandoned-and the only tower Oliver had ever seen perched on a cliff. He knew exactly where it was.

“Thank you!” Oliver cried, rushing out the door.

A moment later the frantic pounding of hoofbeats sounded as Oliver galloped away. Orville turned back to the flames, which were reshaping and re-forming themselves. This time, the old wizard could see black hair falling over one evil eye, a scar that wound its way from brow to cheek, a wicked grin. He doused the fire with cornstarch and raced out the front door of the cottage, but by that time it was too late.

Prince Oliver was gone. He’d have to find out for himself that this princess of his was not alone.