says.
“I’m sure it’s five,” I say.
He’s looking over my shoulder at the sketches. “Those drawings aren’t that bad.”
“The author made these.” I flip the pages and start showing him the sketches in the margins and in back. “These are mine.”
Lucio winces. “Are you sure that’s a room?” he says. “It looks like a wagon.”
“From this angle,” Fernando says, cocking his head. “It’s kind of pretty. Like a flower.”
“Very funny, both of you. What I lack in talent, I make up for in thoroughness. I measured each room by step, took notes of all the details. We didn’t see anything suspicious.”
Miria leans forward. “If there’s an extra room, it’s well hidden.”
Lucio nods. “There are definitely six windows in the tower.”
“How did you count six?” I ask Lucio.
“From the docks, looking up. I was trying to imagine the story.” He shifts on his feet, looking shamefaced. “About the rescue of the princess.”
For the first time in days, I feel a sense of hope. “If we rescue this princess,” I say, “it’ll be because of you.”
Lucio startles at the praise, but his expression goes quickly blank.
“A hidden room,” Miria muses, tapping her forefinger to her lip.
“She has to be there. She has to be. If we figure out which one, maybe we can get a message to her through the window.”
“Let’s all go for a walk,” Fernando suggests cheerfully.
Given Solvaño’s tremendous wealth, it’s a wonder the Fortress of Wind is in such disrepair. We stroll across crumbling ramparts, wade through overgrown gardens, clamber over the barnacle-encrusted foundation. Everywhere we go, someone watches us—usually a guard, sometimes a servant—always at a discreet distance.
We’re able to match a few windows with my sketches, but by afternoon, we reluctantly agree that we won’t get a good enough view without some distance from the tower. So we claim a desire to do some shopping, and head down to the market wharf.
We pretend to browse and sightsee, gradually navigating the maze of docks that twists through the harbor like tree roots. Lucio leads us down an empty jetty that takes us as close to the tower as possible—which is not very close at all. We look up, shading our eyes as the afternoon sun washes the tower in fiery orange, and we finally find what we’re looking for.
No wonder it was impossible to spot from a nearer vantage, for it is small and inset—barely wide enough for an arm to fit through. It lies three-quarters of the way up the tower and faces directly west. It’s just low enough to catch some ocean spray, which makes the wall too slick to climb.
But the window is open.
“Think she’d hear us if we shouted?” Lucio says.
“That high up? With that surf?” The waves pound at the foundation, then retreat to swirl dark and deep. “If we yelled loud enough, it would bring everyone in the fortress down on us.” The wind whips around us, pulling at our hair and clothes.
“Fernando,” I say.
“Yes?” He is looking around for danger, as he has been since I tasked him with watching my back. This jetty seems abandoned; the planking is worn and missing in places, and what’s left is covered in gull droppings. But I’m glad he’s on the alert.
“You won the king’s archery contest,” I remind him.
“True, my lo—” He stops short of calling me “lord.” He’s done that a couple of times now.
I point to the window on the tower. “Anyone can put an arrow through a man at short range. I need you to put an arrow through that window.”
He sizes up the distance, the target, and the wind, and doubt flows across his face. “We’re not on solid ground. And this is a terrible angle. Maybe if I got directly in front of it? But that would mean getting into a boat, which would be even less stable. . . . No, this is an almost impossible shot. Even for the best archer in the kingdom.”
“I’m looking at the best archer in the
“I’m sure it’s five,” I say.
He’s looking over my shoulder at the sketches. “Those drawings aren’t that bad.”
“The author made these.” I flip the pages and start showing him the sketches in the margins and in back. “These are mine.”
Lucio winces. “Are you sure that’s a room?” he says. “It looks like a wagon.”
“From this angle,” Fernando says, cocking his head. “It’s kind of pretty. Like a flower.”
“Very funny, both of you. What I lack in talent, I make up for in thoroughness. I measured each room by step, took notes of all the details. We didn’t see anything suspicious.”
Miria leans forward. “If there’s an extra room, it’s well hidden.”
Lucio nods. “There are definitely six windows in the tower.”
“How did you count six?” I ask Lucio.
“From the docks, looking up. I was trying to imagine the story.” He shifts on his feet, looking shamefaced. “About the rescue of the princess.”
For the first time in days, I feel a sense of hope. “If we rescue this princess,” I say, “it’ll be because of you.”
Lucio startles at the praise, but his expression goes quickly blank.
“A hidden room,” Miria muses, tapping her forefinger to her lip.
“She has to be there. She has to be. If we figure out which one, maybe we can get a message to her through the window.”
“Let’s all go for a walk,” Fernando suggests cheerfully.
Given Solvaño’s tremendous wealth, it’s a wonder the Fortress of Wind is in such disrepair. We stroll across crumbling ramparts, wade through overgrown gardens, clamber over the barnacle-encrusted foundation. Everywhere we go, someone watches us—usually a guard, sometimes a servant—always at a discreet distance.
We’re able to match a few windows with my sketches, but by afternoon, we reluctantly agree that we won’t get a good enough view without some distance from the tower. So we claim a desire to do some shopping, and head down to the market wharf.
We pretend to browse and sightsee, gradually navigating the maze of docks that twists through the harbor like tree roots. Lucio leads us down an empty jetty that takes us as close to the tower as possible—which is not very close at all. We look up, shading our eyes as the afternoon sun washes the tower in fiery orange, and we finally find what we’re looking for.
No wonder it was impossible to spot from a nearer vantage, for it is small and inset—barely wide enough for an arm to fit through. It lies three-quarters of the way up the tower and faces directly west. It’s just low enough to catch some ocean spray, which makes the wall too slick to climb.
But the window is open.
“Think she’d hear us if we shouted?” Lucio says.
“That high up? With that surf?” The waves pound at the foundation, then retreat to swirl dark and deep. “If we yelled loud enough, it would bring everyone in the fortress down on us.” The wind whips around us, pulling at our hair and clothes.
“Fernando,” I say.
“Yes?” He is looking around for danger, as he has been since I tasked him with watching my back. This jetty seems abandoned; the planking is worn and missing in places, and what’s left is covered in gull droppings. But I’m glad he’s on the alert.
“You won the king’s archery contest,” I remind him.
“True, my lo—” He stops short of calling me “lord.” He’s done that a couple of times now.
I point to the window on the tower. “Anyone can put an arrow through a man at short range. I need you to put an arrow through that window.”
He sizes up the distance, the target, and the wind, and doubt flows across his face. “We’re not on solid ground. And this is a terrible angle. Maybe if I got directly in front of it? But that would mean getting into a boat, which would be even less stable. . . . No, this is an almost impossible shot. Even for the best archer in the kingdom.”
“I’m looking at the best archer in the
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