Page 111 of The Prince and the Ice King

But the knights inPillars of Virtuedidn’t find their way to each other, and those knights, in that fairy tale, were righteous men. Jack had never been that and didn’t deserve a happy end.

He didn’t think so much as let his feet carry him from his chambers, like he’d let them carry him to Josie to hold her. Slipping into the tunnels, Jack kept his steps quiet and his ears alert for anyone he might encounter but came across no one and snuck into Reardon’s room.

Once there, he placed Reardon’s doublet on the bed, then walked to the bathing area, where a mirror hung over the wash basin. He hadn’t looked in it when he was last here. As much as he’d forgotten Josie’s beauty, he hardly remembered his own face, but something pulled him forward to see.

The sight was not what he expected.

His hair was fairly neat, long as it had grown, white and stark against his tan skin. The scars were many, but his eyes burned bright, and wearing the doublet Reardon had made for him, Jack felt a little like a king. All he needed was his crown.

He had locked it away once, though he barely remembered where. The only crown he was used to was the one made of ice—the one he’d earned.

“I don’t know why you would ever wish to come back to me,” Jack said to his reflection, trying to imagine Reardon’s face instead of his own, “but if you do, if you’d still have me, I will never let you go again.”

There was no Reardon to answer him, and with the quiet came sorrow deeper than any before.

Jack hung the doublet in the wardrobe so he could lie upon the bed and breathe in Reardon’s fading scent, until the hour grew late.

Reardon

Reardon’s vision was swimming, but he had to find the answer.

“My prince, please,” Master Wells implored him. Reardon had begged him to help him discover the missing ingredient or alchemicalproperty that would finally make the right potion, but Wells kept refusing, demanding answers about the Frozen Kingdom.

“I don’t have time to explain,” Reardon snapped, taking Barclay’s notes that he had memorized by now and pushing the parchment at Wells. “I need your expertise, not your doubts or curiosity.”

“This is Barclay’s handwriting….”

“It is.” Reardon didn’t spare a look at Wells but heard the man’s quiet sigh and soft crinkle of paper. He had tried several more experiments, but he feared he was going in circles. “Barclay alsosawyou making a potion. I don’t understand why you keep refusing….” Perhaps it was his franticness or determination to push past his exhaustion, but the most awful realization struck Reardon, and he turned slowly to look back at Wells. “In a vision, he saw you making a potion… but that doesn’t mean it was the cure.”

“What?” Wells looked up from the parchment, as if he hadn’t fully heard Reardon.

The truth was all so clear then. Barclay had visions, something very dangerous to someone who had something to hide. If Reardon thought about it, even before Wells condemned Barclay as a witch, he couldn’t remember ever seeing Wells touch Barclay or allow himself to be touched.

He was an alchemist, set against magic.

At the time of Reardon’s mother’s and Stevie’s deaths, ingredients were missing fromhisshop as well as Caitlin’s.

He had access to the castle and everyone’s trust.

The soldier Reardon sent home was supposed to report tohim.

“Guards, take Master Wells to his shop and lock him inside.”

“What?” Wells spouted, lowering the parchment and looking around anxiously as the two guards at the door came forward upon Reardon’s request. “My prince, I am doing everything I can to help your father. If this is about Barclay—”

“Now,” Reardon said without further explanation. Technically, he had no proof, not yet, but the answer seemed so obvious.

As the soldiers seized Wells to take him away, Reardon snatched the parchment back from him and tucked it into his tunic. Once he knew for sure, he would deal with Wells as the man deserved.

“My prince.” Lombard came in not much later, though when Reardon looked over, he thought the candles had burned down muchlower, and he couldn’t be sure how long it had been since Wells was taken away.

“I don’t have time to stop—”

“It’s nearlydawn,” Lombard said firmly. “I’ve been told you sent all the physicians away and had Master Wells confined to his shop. I know you mean well, but if you don’t rest and take care of yourself, you’ll be of no use to anyone, least of all your father. Now eat something.” He set a plate of bread, meat, and cheese on the table where Reardon was working, as insistent as he’d been when Reardon was a boy, lost in studies or a good book. “Then please, you must rest.”

Reardon turned, slumping back against the table, and in that moment with his eyes finally away from the vials and flames and components he’d been testing, they felt as heavy as though literal weights clung to them, and his stomach rumbled from the smells on the plate. “I… I know you’re right, but I feel like I’m so close, and there’s no telling how much time my father has left.”

“He has more than hours,” Lombard assured him. “Eat. Rest. Your work will still be here when you wake.” He pushed the plate closer to Reardon, expression stern until Reardon acquiesced to snag a piece of meat. Then Lombard leaned back against the table too, casting a curious glance at the mess Reardon had made. “And what is your work, exactly? Master Wells and the physicianshavebeen searching for a cure.”

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