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28
When I enter the Spring Room, I’m surprised to find Arthur already seated at a table near the far corner.
I thought for sure he’d act like one of those high-powered executives who’re always running a minimum of fifteen minutes behind, for the sole purpose of making everyone wait so they’ll know who’s in charge.
But as I rush toward him, my sneakers squealing so loudly I cringe at the sound, I realize that Arthur is onto a much better strategy. By him being the first to arrive, it leaves me feeling so flustered and off balance, I immediately start apologizing, and just like that I’ve lost any small bit of power I had.
His face pulls into the sort of enigmatic Mona Lisa smile I recognize from hisTime“Person of the Year” magazine cover. According to what I was able to research on the plane, it was the last interview he ever gave. Shortly after, he disappeared from public life. Though I’m willing to bet he’s been hiding out here the whole time.
The question is, why?
He leans forward, rests his forearms on the table. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says, “but I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you.”
Of course you did. I’m tempted to roll my eyes but settle for nodding instead. Unlike last night when I had to force myself to hold back every hateful thing I wanted to say, now, sitting alone with him in this large, empty dining room, the words just won’t come.
“I’m sure you have lots of questions,” he says. “Now’s your chance to get some answers.”
I swallow hard, gaze down at the white linen tablecloth, the gleaming silver flatware, the leaded crystal water goblet with the thinnest slice of lime floating on top. “Why is it called the Spring Room?” I ask, noting that while the décor is perfectly nice, there’s nothing to distinguish it from the Winter, Summer, or Autumn Rooms.
With a look of bemusement, he waves a hand, and the next thing I know, the light warms like sunshine, the song of chirping birds sounds from every corner, a hologram of a sparkling river lined with cherry blossom trees twists along the tables, and a monarch butterfly lands on the tines of my salad fork.
The sight is so amazing, I audibly gasp.
“Go ahead, touch it,” he says.
I glance from Arthur to the butterfly, then tentatively tap the top of its wing with the tip of my finger, only to feel a shimmer of vibration reverberate all the way up my arm to the top of my shoulder. A moment later, the butterfly flits toward a field of gleaming red tulips.
“How is that even possible?” I stare after the monarch.
Arthur’s gaze narrows. “I’m sure you’ll find much about Gray Wolf that skews toward the impossible.” His fingers idly tease at the jeweled ring he wears on his right hand. Though, unlike Braxton, it’s not a nervous tell. It’s more like he wants me to notice it.
My hunch is confirmed when he catches me looking, and immediately slips it from his finger and offers it for closer inspection.
The band is gold and thick, with intricate carvings marked all around. The bezel has similar etchings and a dark glimmering ruby placed in the center.
“It belonged to Edward the Black Prince,” he says.
“Why did they call him that?” I ask. It’s not one of the questions I’d meant to ask. Then again, showing interest in Arthur’s treasures is probably a better move than the kind I might normally make.
“Some say it’s because of his distinctive black armor and jousting shield. Though there are other theories, of course.”
I have no idea what he’s hinting at. I’ve never had much interest in history. Though the irony is not lost on me that by choosing to ditch AP History so I could hang out with Elodie, I ended up here.
I return the ring, watching as he slides it onto his finger. “Looks like the sort of thing you might find in a museum.” I reach for my water glass and take a sip, even though I’m not thirsty.
“Have you visited the Louvre?” Arthur asks.
I look up in surprise. Surely, he’s well versed on the details of my completely unadventurous life. To him, I say, “I’ve made a few trips to the website.”
His eyes glint with something unknowable as he pushes at the cuffs of his burgundy sweater, exposing a set of bare wrists. I’m surprised to see he’s not wearing some big expensive watch. Then again, to a man like Arthur Blackstone, king of this castle if not planet Earth, time is his to command.
“Maybe someday you’ll visit Paris and see the Louvre in person,” he says.
I shrug. I mean, sure, I hope to visit a lot of faraway places someday. But from where I sit now, it’s like dreaming of a trip to the moon.
“Maybe I can spearhead a Gray Wolf Academy field trip,” I say, tacking an awkward snort onto the end that I instantly regret, until Arthur joins in with a surprisingly genuine, full-bodied laugh.
“Oh, I’m sure we can do much better than that,” he says, continuing to chuckle softly to himself long after the joke has worn itself out.
And while it’s nice to think I’ve managed to amuse him, and while seeing him laugh does help to humanize him, I can’t help but worry that there’s something more behind it. Because judging by the dark glint in his eyes, I get the terrible feeling that the real joke is on me.
