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seconds his nails were torn and bloody.
    Victor Vigny had dragged him away from the wall. “Wait, Nick. This is not over yet. Wait. The boy . . . he’s . . .”
    Nicholas’s eyes were wild and anguished. “What? He’s what?”
    “You have to see it. Come now. We need a boat, in case the wind takes them.”
    “A boat? A boat? What are you saying?”
    “Come, Nick. Come.”
    Nicholas howled and dropped to his knees as his daughter flew into the air.
    Victor watched, amazed. This boy. He was special, whoever he was. Maybe nine, no more than ten. What ingenuity. The explosion took them high; Victor watched their trajectory and then set off for the pier at a run, dragging the king behind him. “The flag could drown them,” he puffed. “The frame will collapse, and the flag will wrap around them both.”
    The king had recovered himself and soon outstripped the others through a trader’s gate and down to the jetty. There were already a half dozen boats on their way to the fallen flag. The first to reach them was a small quay punt, sculled across the wave tops by two muscled fishermen. A line of slower vessels trailed behind them to the pier.
    “Alive?” Nicholas roared, but the distance was too great. “Are they alive?”
    The flag was pulled from the sea, and wet bundles rolled from it. Victor caught the king and gripped his shoulder tight. The little punt spun in a tight circle, and the fishermen pulled for shore, their oars kicking spume from the water. The news traveled faster than they could, passed from one boat to the next. The words, inaudible at first, became clearer with each fresh call. “Alive. Alive. Both of them.”
    Nicholas sank to his knees and thanked God. Victor smiled first, and then began to clap with delight.
    “I came to teach the princess,” he shouted to no one in particular. “But I will teach that boy, too—or perhaps he will teach me.”

CHAPTER 2: LA BROSSE
    Conor Broekhart was quite the hero for a time. It seemed as though everyone on the island visited him at the castle infirmary to listen to the tale of his improvised glider, and to knock for luck on the gypsum cast on his broken leg.
    Isabella came every day, and often brought her father, King Nicholas. On one of these visits he brought his sword.
    “I didn’t want to jump off the tower,” Conor objected. “I couldn’t think of another way.”
    “No, no,” said Nicholas. “This is the Trudeau ceremonial sword. I am making you a peer.”
    “You are making me appear?” said Conor doubtfully. “Is this a magical trick?”
    Nicholas smiled. “In a way. One touch of this sword and you become Sir Conor Broekhart. Your father then becomes Lord Broekhart, and of course your mother will become Lady Broekhart.”
    Conor was still a little worried about the crusader’s blade five inches from his nose. “I don’t have to kiss that, do I?”
    “No, just touch the blade. Even one finger will do. We will have a proper ceremony when you are well.”
    Conor ran a finger along the shining blade. It sang under his touch.
    Nicholas put the sword aside. “Arise, Sir Conor. Not straight away, of course. Take your time. When you are well, I have a new teacher for you. A very special man who worked with me when I flew balloons. I think that you, of all people, will really like him.”
    Balloons! As far as Conor was concerned, the king could keep his peerage, so long as he could fly balloons. “I am feeling much better, Your Majesty. Perhaps I could meet this man today.”
    “Steady on, Sir Conor,” laughed the king. “I will ask him to drop by tomorrow. He has a few drawings you might like to look at. Something about heavier-than-air flying machines.”
    “Thank you, Your Majesty. I look forward to it.”
    The king chuckled, ruffling Conor’s hair. “You saved my daughter, Conor. You saved her from my carelessness and her own tinkering fingers. I will never forget that. Never.” He winked. “And neither will she.”
    The king