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to sea had his father not grabbed his elbow.
    Kite. Saltee colors. The flag.
    On the parapet, Conor pounced on the flagpole, pulling at the knots holding the bamboo frame. The knots twisted in his hands, pulled by the wind that flapped the flag in its frame.
    “Help me, Isabella,” he cried. “We must untie the flag.”
    “Forget the flag, Captain Crow,” said Isabella dully. “Leave the goat, too. I don’t like goats. Sneaky little beards.”
    Conor struggled on with the knots. The ropes were thicker than his slim fingers, but they were brittle from the heat and fell apart quickly. With one momentous wrench, he pulled the flapping flag out of the wind, wrestling it to the parapet. It bucked and cracked under him like a magic carpet, but Conor kept it secure with his own body.
    He could barely see Isabella now. She was like a ghost in the smoke. He tried to call her, but smoke went down his throat faster than words could come up. He retched and arrk ed like a seal, flapping his arms at the princess. She ignored him, deciding instead to lie down on the parapet and wait for her father.
    Conor fumbled with his belt buckle, pulling the leather strip out from the loops of his trousers. Then he rolled onto his back and passed the belt behind the flag’s bamboo diagonals.
    This is an insane plan. You are not a pirate on some fantastic adventure.
    This wasn’t a plan, there was no time for plans. This was a desperate act. In the melee of smoke, explosions, and jets of flame, Conor struggled to his feet, keeping the flag’s tip low, hiding it from the wind.
    Not yet. Not yet.
    He almost stumbled over Isabella. She seemed to be asleep. There was no reaction when his fingers pulled at her face. Dead. Is she dead? The nine-year-old boy felt tears flow over his cheeks, and was ashamed. He needed to be strong for the princess. Be a hero like his papa.
    What would Captain Declan Broekhart do? Conor imagined his father’s face in front of him.
    Try something, Conor. Use that big brain your mother is always talk ing about. Build your flying machine.
    Not a machine, Papa. There is no mechanism. This is a kite.
    Flame was climbing the parapet wall, blackening the stone with its fiery licks. Crossbeams, carpets, files, and furniture tumbled into the hungry fire, feeding it. Conor lifted the princess, dragging his friend upright.
    “What?” she said grumpily. Then the smoke filled her windpipe, and any words dissolved into a coughing fit.
    Conor stood straight, feeling the massive flag flap and crackle in the wind. “It’s like a big kite, Isabella,” he rasped, words like glass in his throat. “I will hold you around the waist, like this, and then we move to . . .”
    Conor never finished his instructions because a further explosion, funneled by the tower, caused a massive updraft, plucking the two children from the parapet and sending the flag spinning into open air like a giant autumn leaf.
    The circumstances were unique. Had they jumped, as was Conor’s plan, they would have not had enough height for the flag to slow their descent. But the updraft caught their makeshift kite and spun them up another hundred feet, taking them out over the sea. They hung there, in the sky at the plateau of the air tunnel. Weightless. Sky above and sea below.
    I am flying, thought Conor Broekhart. I remember this.
    Then the flying finished and the falling started, and though it was drastically slowed by the flag, it seemed devilishly swift. Sights dissolved into a kaleidoscope of fractured blues and silvers. The flag caught a low breeze and flipped. Conor watched the clouds swirl above him, stretching to creamy streams. And all the time he held on to Isabella so tightly his fingers ached. He was crying and laughing, and he knew it would be painful when they hit the water.
    They crashed into the ocean. It was painful.
    When he saw his daughter on the parapet, King Nicholas had tried to scramble up the tower like a dog climbing out of a well. In