The man nodded. “Maps. You looked like a smart one. I bet you can read and know your numbers too.”
Owen looked at him in surprise.
“I knew it!” the man said, chuckling and clapping his hands. The birds pecking near his feet were getting angry that he hadn’t put any crumbs down in a while. “Well, there is your crown, lad. Go make your wish and run along to your mother.”
“Thank you,” Owen said, surprised that he wasn’t too shy to speak. The man had a way about him that both frightened Owen and intrigued him. He was not like other adults.
“Name is Mancini,” the fat man said with a nod.
“Thank you, Mancini,” Owen said.
“Someone in your family is sick? Is that why you’re making a wish—what was your name again?”
“Owen,” the boy replied, only then realizing he should not have said it. He blinked with surprise.
“Well met, Owen,” Mancini said. “Go make your wish. I think I might fetch that muffin after all.” He groaned and tried to rise, but it seemed to require more effort than he had to give. “Sometimes,” Mancini said, breathing hard, “I have to lean back before I can push myself up again. Once I leaned back too far and . . . splash! Went into the fountain!” He gave Owen a wink and a grin and the boy giggled. “Took four men to pull me out. What a mess. Almost drowned.”
Owen smiled, enjoying the warmth that came with the laughter. The image of the fat man flailing and spluttering in the water made it even funnier.
Mancini leaned back and then swung himself forward. This time he made it back up to his feet, tottering a bit, and Owen watched him as he waddled away. Once the fat man was gone, Owen walked around to the other side of the pool. He made a wish that the queen would be able to help him and then pitched the florin into the water where it plopped and promptly sank to the bottom. He started to walk around the grounds a bit more, admiring the fountains and searching for the princess’s mother. He thought the best place to look would be within the sanctuary itself, so he mounted the wide stone steps. The floor of the sanctuary was made of black and white marble squares, reminding him of an enormous Wizr board, but without the pieces. He loved playing Wizr, and even though he was only eight, he was good enough to beat some of his siblings. His father still bested him every time.
Owen stood on a white square, which was just wide enough for him to fit in without his feet touching the edges. The hall was enormous, and a huge fountain splashed and played in the middle of the chamber. There were higher-ranking visitors inside the sanctuary, as demonstrated by their stylish clothes and felt hats. Owen felt a little more comfortable now, and the effect of the fountain was soothing. There were tall columns and pedestals topped with white marble statues, which looked to Owen like life-size Wizr pieces. Of course, they would be very difficult to move. Not surprisingly, he saw some older men sitting around normal-size Wizr boards and playing matches. He walked among them, looking for a woman who resembled the princess.
It took quite some wandering before he managed to find her, but the time seemed to pass quickly. The princess’s mother was talking to the sanctuary sexton, a man with white robes, a black cloak, and a mushroom-shaped hat. The sexton was in charge of the grounds. The deconeus was in charge of performing the water rite for newborn babies. Owen had been around such people his entire life, so he recognized them by their robes. But Owen easily recognized the princess’s mother. This was the queen dowager, the wife of the king who had died two years before. She was trailed by a younger woman, probably no more than twelve, who looked to be her other daughter.
Owen waited patiently until the queen dowager’s conversation with the sexton was finished, although it took quite a while. Once they were done, the queen dowager took the girl’s hand, and the two of them slowly walked back toward the fountain in the center of the huge chamber. Recognizing his opportunity, Owen quickly walked up to her, trying to quell his growing nervousness.
As he walked, the girl holding her mother’s hand looked at him curiously and tugged on her mother’s arm. It felt as if a cloud of butterflies had filled Owen’s stomach.
The queen mother stopped, responding to the tugging, and turned to face Owen. She was a beautiful woman, tall and lithe and regal. Her hair was the same color as her daughters’, elegantly styled with braiding and brooches.
Just as Owen was about to reach the dowager, he heard boots tromping into the sanctuary, loud and fervent and very familiar. Twisting around, he watched with horror as Ratcliffe strode into the sanctuary, his face contorted with anger. He marched straight toward Owen and looked as if he would jerk the boy’s arm out of its socket and drag him out.