Liona tousled his hair after giving him the plate. He ate hungrily, watching as servants began to arrive to prepare the morning meal.

“Liona?” he asked in a small voice. Too small. She had not heard him.

“The lad is calling you,” Drew said gently, rising from the ovens.

Liona had dough on her fingers when she approached him. “What is it?”

Owen licked his lips, grateful that Drew had noticed his need. Though he was still nearly tongue-tied with shyness, he was determined to get his tiles.

“Is there . . . is there a box of tiles?” he asked, looking into her eyes imploringly. “That I could play with?”

She looked at him confused. “Tiles?”

“Like these,” he said, tapping his shoe against the floor. “Small ones . . . like these. I like to play with them.”

Drew gave him a strange look, then said, “I believe there is.” Liona needed to deliver instructions to the kitchen help, so she asked her husband to fetch them. Shortly thereafter, he returned with a wooden box that held a substantial number of tiles. Some were chipped and damaged, and there were many different sizes and colors. Owen’s eyes widened with delight when Drew handed him the box.

“I’m on my way to the woods,” he said in his kind voice. “Maybe you’d care to join me later and I can show you the grounds?”

Owen looked up at him and nodded vigorously. Still his tongue would not loosen. He wanted to thank Drew for the tiles, but a familiar choking feeling had stolen his ability to speak. He gazed down at the box in his lap, trying to force the words to come. The best he could do was to bob his head up and down once.

Drew smiled at him and walked away. Owen clenched his fists for a moment, angry at himself for not speaking. But the wonderful box on his lap was too enticing for him to continue his fit. He abandoned what remained of his plate of food and took the box over to a corner of the kitchen where no one was bustling. He quickly sorted the tiles by size and shape and color and then began placing them in a row.

As soon as the first one went into position, his mind took off as if it were an arrow launched from a bow. The process of taking out the pieces and putting them down was so familiar it was automatic, and he was almost blind to the pattern he was making on the floor. In his mind, he sorted through the details of what he had learned since leaving his family. The different people he had met began to come together in his mind, and as they did, he realized he had feelings about each one. The king, he feared. Duke Horwath, he respected. Ratcliffe, he despised. Princess Elyse, he adored. Liona and Drew would be like his new parents. Berwick was annoying.

Owen had heard a great many things spoken and some of them he did not understand. What he did understand was that the king would kill him if his parents did not prove they were loyal. Every day he stayed in Kingfountain would only increase the danger. If he made it to the sanctuary of Our Lady, the king’s sister-in-law might be able to protect him. She was Princess Elyse’s mother and had been queen up until two years ago when King Severn had stolen the throne from his brother’s heirs. The princes were dead. Owen risked sharing their fate. The solution seemed obvious: He needed to find a way to escape the palace and make it to Our Lady without being caught by the king’s men. But how could he arrange that? What would he need to do? He needed to know the grounds. Drew knew the grounds. Drew had even offered to take him for a walk.

Owen set the last tile on the floor. He was sitting amidst a twisting spiral of tiles, which started at his knees and wound farther and farther around him, loop after loop. How many tiles had he placed? A hundred? He did not remember.

Owen noticed that the kitchen was unusually quiet. He looked over his shoulder and saw Liona and the others staring at him, mesmerized by what he had done. He gave Liona a small smile and then tipped over the tile nearest his knee.

The cook startled as the tiles fell, clinking softly and rapidly as they raced around the circles. It only took a few moments for the last one to fall.

“Well,” Liona said with surprise. “I’ll be blessed. That is the most curious thing I’ve seen a lad do.”

Owen flushed at the praise, feeling the pressure of the gazes of the kitchen helpers. And just at that moment, a frantic young woman came rushing into the kitchen, her long dark hair trailing as she ran.

“Has anyone seen a little boy? The duke’s son? He’s missing. Has anyone . . . ?” She was gasping, almost out of breath, but she heaved a sigh of relief as a few fingers pointed his way. She was Monah Stirling, his young governess he had met the previous evening. “There you are! Owen! The king’s breakfast! Hasten!”