Eight hours later, Bristal’s gyrocopter gently touched down on a cobblestone landing strip beside a small island castle. The girl retrieved a pocket mirror and checked her hair. Perfect.

Morchymond fell from the sky and collided into the fuselage with a yelp, crumpling in a heap below the craft and whimpering.

“I told you we were almost there,” said Bristal. “Now get up.” He didn’t.

A woman in a shimmering silver gown approached from the keep. Her demeanor was calm and graceful, and she appeared to almost float across the ground when she walked. “Welcome to the Castle Nairdess, lady and sir,” she greeted softly.

“Queen Samantha!” cried Bristal, dropping to one knee.

“I am not Queen Samantha,” replied the woman extremely softly. “My name is Farrah. I am the royal shopmistress and innkeeper.”

“Come again?”

“I’m Farrah.” Still ridiculously soft.

“Farrah?”

“Yes.”

“Got it. I’m Bristal, and this is my serfpage Morchymond.”

“He doesn’t look well.”

“He’ll be alright.”

“Very well. Please, come with me.”