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said in a booming voice, "is it requisite that you disrupt these proceedings?"
    "Sorry, Your Majesty," she called down. "But these fel lows are a lot more exciting than you are!"
    Grandpa Smedry sighed, then whispered to me, "Do you want to take a guess at her Smedry Ta lent?"
    "Causing disruptions?" I whispered back.
    "Close," Grandpa Smedr y said. "She can say inappropri ate things at awkward moments."
    That seemed to fit.
    "Oh, don't give me that look ,” she said , wagging her fin ger at the king. "You can't tell me you're not excited to see them back too."
    The king sighed. "We will take a recess of one hour for family reunions. Lord Smedry, did you return with your long-lost grandson, as reports indicated you might?"
    "Indeed I did!" Grandpa Smedry proclaimed. "Not only that but we also brought a pair of the fabled Translator's Lenses, smelted from the Sands of Rashid themselves!"
    This prompted a reaction in the crowd, and murmuring began immediately. One small contingent of men and women sitting directly across from us did not seem pleased to see Grandpa Smedry. Instead of tunics or robes, the m embers of this group wore suits – the men with bow ties, the women with shawls. Many wore glasses, which had h orned rims.
    Librarians.
    The room grew chaotic as the audience members began to stand, producing an excited buzz, almost like a thousand hornets had suddenly been released. My aunt P atty began to speak animatedly with her father, demanding the details of his time in the Hushlands. Her voice managed to carry out over the noise of the crowd, though she didn't appear to be yelling. That's just how she was.
    "Alcatraz?"
    I glanced to the side, where Bastille stood shuffling uncomfortably. "Yeah?" I said.
    "This . . . might be an appropriate p l ace to mention something."
    "Wait," I said, growing nervous. "Look, the king ’s com ing up this way!"
    " O f course he is," Bastille said. "He wants to see his family."
    "Of course. He wants to . . . Wait, what ?”
    At that moment, King Dartmoor stepped up to us. Grandpa Smedry and the others bowed to him – even Patty – so I did the same. Then the king kissed Draulin. That's right. He kissed her. I watched with shock, and not just because I'd never imagined that anyone would want to kiss Draulin. (Seemed a little like kissing an alligator.)
    And if Draulin was the king's wife, that meant . . .
    "You're a princess!" I said, pointing an accusing finger at Bastille.
    She grimaced. "Yeah, kind of."
    "How can you 'kind of' be a princess?"
    "Well, I can't inherit the throne," she said. "I renounced claim on it when I joined the Knights of Crystallia. Vow of poverty and all that."
    The crowd milled about us, some exiting the room, others stopping – oddly – to gawk at my grandfather and me.
    I should have rea liz ed that Bastille was royalty. Prison names. She has one, but her mother doesn't. That was an easy indication that her father's family was of an important breed. Besides, stories such as this one always have at least one hidden member of royalty among the core cast. It's, like, some kind of union mandate or something.
    I had several options at this point. Fortunately, I chose the one that didn't make me look like a total dork.
    "That's a wesome !" I exclaimed.
    Bastille blinked. "You're not mad at me for hiding it?"
    I shrugged. "Bastille, I'm some kind of freaky noble thing myself. Why should it matter if you are too? Besides, it's not like you were lying or anything. You just don't like to talk about yourself."
    Brace yourselves. Something very, very strange is about to happen. Stranger than talking dinosaurs. Stranger than glass birds. Stranger, even, than my analogies to fish sticks.
    Bastille got teary eyed. Then she hugged me.
    Girls, might I make a suggestion at this point? Don't go around hugging people without warning. To many of us (a number somewhere near half), this is akin to pouring an entire bottle of seventeen-alarm hot sauce in our mouths.
    I believe