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guard, who accepts them and bows.
    “What could King Fennrick possibly want with Mister Travers?” Cordon asks. He turns to me, looking concerned. “When he went into the kitchen, did he say anything to you?”
    My hand slides down my cloak. I feel the edge of the book, hidden in my pocket. I glance back at the carriage and make a decision. “Nothing. He said nothing at all.”

    A fter I finally pry Mister Ogden away from the Draughts and we begin our walk home, I wonder how Mister Travers came to be in possession of a book belonging to my mother. I consider every possibility I can think of until one of them fits.
    Mister Ogden, though incapable of managing Ogden Manor, has been able to sustain a side business by systematically selling off the contents of the manor. He’s made some-what of a name for himself as an antiques dealer. Few of his customers realize it’s his own possessions he sells.
    If my mother left a handful of items to be passed on to me, I have no doubt the Ogdens would see it as nothing more than their right to sell them. And I’m sure Mister Travers, being a schoolteacher fond of history, would have jumped at the chance to own such an expensive-looking book. Though how he could’ve found out the book was my mother’s, I don’t know. And if she left me a book, what else did she leave? Had there been other items that would have given me a clue to my family’s origins?
    But that doesn’t explain why palace guards were after Mister Travers or his insistence that I not be seen with him. And the guard had said they were looking for the man we know as Travers . Is that not his real name?
    “Harold, you’re drunk!” Mistress Ogden cries as I drag him into the kitchen.
    “Not a bit, dearest,” Mister Ogden says and sways before sitting down heavily on the stool I pull out for him. “I’ve just had a wonderful run of the cards.” With a flourish, he produces several worthings. “And you’ll never guess what just happened at the Draughts—”
    “I don’t care,” Mistress Ogden snaps. “You’re late. Mister Blackwell will be here soon.” She glares at me. “I had to start the potato stew myself.”
    “Mister Blackwell, bah!” Mister Ogden says, belching. “Never liked the look of that man. Calculating, like a snake—though perhaps that’s why you like him so, dearest. Don’t like his sneaky black eyes glaring like he thinks he’s better than me.”
    “He is better than you. He’s the one with the worthings.”
    While they bicker, I quickly hide the book in the pantry and promise myself I’ll look through it later.
    “Worthings? What did I just say—” Mister Ogden leans back—and promptly tumbles off the stool. His worthings scatter across the kitchen floor.
    “Harold, get up this instant!” Mistress Ogden practically stamps her foot in frustration.
    “The candles in the dining room are lit,” Serena says, glowering as she enters the kitchen. Upon seeing Mister Ogden on the floor she rushes to his side. “Father, what’s happened?”
    “I’ll tell you what’s happened, my love!” Mister Ogden picks up a worthing and brandishes it like a sword. “I’ve just won at the Draughts of Life! Don’t need creepy Mister Blackwell coming into my house telling me what’s what. Am I not Ogden of Ogden Manor?” He spreads his hands wide, as though Ogden Manor is a grand palace, instead of the rotting dump it actually is.
    Mistress and I glance at each other. She may despise me, but when she really needs something done, it’s to me—and not to Serena—that she looks.
    “Come Mister Ogden,” I say in my most humble voice. “Dinner will be soon and I feel you should be dressed in a manner befitting your station. After all, you are the lord of Ogden Manor, are you not?”
    Serena stands up. “Don’t you dare talk to him like he’s a fool.”
    “Serena!” Mistress Ogden snaps. “Accompany your father upstairs and help him clean up.”
    Serena lowers her voice so only