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asked.
    "King Dartmoor," Sing said.
    Dartmoor. "Wait," I said. "That's a prison, isn't it? Dartmoor?" (I know my prisons, as you might guess.)
    "Indeed, lad," Grandpa Smedry said.
    "Doesn't that mean he's related to us?"
    It was a stupid question. Fortunately I knew I'd be writ ing my memoirs and understood that a lot of people might be confused about this point. Therefore, using my powers of awso m osity, I asked this stupid-sounding question in order to lay the groundwork for my book series.
    I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.
    "No," Grandpa Smedry said. "A prison name doesn't necessarily mean that someone is a Smedry. The king's fam il y is traditional, like ours, and they tend to use names of famed historical people over and over. The Librarians then named prisons after those same famous historical people to discredit them. ”
    “Oh, right,” I said.
    S omething about that thought bothered me, but I c ouldn ’ t quite put my finger on it. Probably because the t hought was inside my head, and so "putting my finger on it" would have required sticking said finger through my skull, which sounds kind of painful.
    B esides, the beauty of the hallway beyond those doors stopped me flat and cast all thoughts from my mind.
    I'm no poet. Anytime I try to write poetry, it comes out a s insults. I probably should have been a rapper, or at least a politician. Regardless, I sometimes find it hard to express be auty through words.
    Suffice it to say that the enormous hallway stunned me, e ven after seeing a city full o f castles, even after being car ried on a dragon's back. The hallway was big. It was white. It was lined with what appeared to be pictures, but there was nothing in the frames. Other than glass.
    D i ff e rent kinds of glass , I rea liz ed as we walked down the magnificent hallway. Here, the glass is the art! Indeed, each framed piece of glass was a different color. Plaques at the top listed the types of glass. I recognized some, and most of them glowed faintly. I was wearing my Oculator's Lenses, which a llowed me to see auras of power ful glass.
    In a Hushlander palace, the kings showed off their gold and their silver. Here, the kings showed off their rare and expensive pieces of glass.
    I watched in wonder, wishing Sing and Grandpa Smedry weren't rushing so quickly. We eventually turned through a set of doors and entered a long rectangular chamber filled with elevated seats on both the right and the left. Most of these were filled with peo ple who quietly watched the pro ceedings below.
    In the center of the room sat a broad table at which were seated about two dozen men and women wearing rich clothing of many exotic designs. I spotted King Dartmoor i mm ediately. He was sitting on an elevated chair at the end of the table. Clothed in regal blue-and-gold robes, he wore a full red beard, and my O culator's Lenses – which sometim es enhanced the images of people and places I looked a t – made him seem slightly taller than he really was. More n oble, larger than life.
    I stopped in the doorway. I'd never been in the presence of royalty befor e , and –
    "Leavenworth S medry !" a vivacious feminine voice sq uealed. "You rascal! You're back!"
    The en tire room seemed to turn as one, looking at a f u ll-figured (remember what that means?) woman who leaped from her chair and barreled toward my grandfather. S he had short blond hair and an excited expression.
    I believe that's the first time I ever saw a hint of fear in m y grandfather's eyes. The woman proceeded to grab the diminutive Oculator in a hug. Then she saw me.
    "Is this Al atraz?" she demanded. " S hattering Glass, boy, does your mouth always hang open like that?"
    I shut my mouth.
    "Lad ,” Grandpa S medry said as the woman finally released him. "This is your aunt, P attywagon S medry. My daughter, Quentin's mother."
    "Excuse me," a voice called from the floor below. I blushed, realizing that the monarchs were watching us. "L ady Smedry," King Dartmoor