Safe in his room, he huffed out a breath. He pressed his hands together and pulled them apart to release the illusions on himself and Reginald, then tore at his corset strings. As the gray garment dropped to the floor, he whirled on Spar. “What kind of horrifying creatures do you think elves are?”

“I had to come up with something on the spur of the moment! It was the best I could do,” Spar whined.

Twain glared at him, furiously undoing the buttons at the back of his neck. He grabbed his dress between the shoulders and yanked it off in one go. In short breeches and little else, he rolled his eyes at Spar. “Horse-brain.”

“Oh dearie me, we haven’t even been in your room a minute,” Spar whinnied, covering his face.

Fierce eyes narrowed. “I thought you only wanted to—mount horses.”

“Also. Also wanted to,” Spar amended.

Twain jolted to a halt. A second passed. He shook his head and turned away. “Do you know what sexual harassment is?”

“Is that something you can eat?” Spar replied cheerily.

Twain sighed and shook his head. From the trunk beside his bed, he pulled on trousers and a loose shirt, then turned to Reginald.

He pulled the sheet back. A red, gasping face appeared, eyes half-open and unfocused. Twain twisted his lips, considering.

After a moment, he darted to one of the trunks by his bed. Glass rattled as he carefully opened the largest one.

Bottles filled the trunk. All sizes, all shapes, cluttered so close they couldn't move. Tiny ones trapped by leather straps clung to the lid and sides. Larger ones nestled in cotton batting. Thick felt separated layers of bottles, from the top to bottom of the trunk. Liquids jostled and powders shifted inside. A light yellow powder coated the walls of its bottle. Next to it, a thick black liquid oozed slowly along the side. Bright red sap sloshed near to it, against a big bottle with a solid green disk at the bottom.

Twain's fingers traced over the bottles. His hands hesitated over one bottle, then another. All at once, he snatched out one of the smaller ones, half-full of a sparkling blue liquid, and moved back to Reginald.

“Wha… where…” Reginald asked. Hazy eyes roamed the room. Lips moistened dry lips. His hands twitched, shifting under the sheet.

“Here. Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.” He tipped a single drop from the bottle to Reginald’s lips.

Frowning, Reginald opened his mouth, almost instinctively. His throat bobbed. The next moment, his eyes rolled back.

“Uh… did you just…” Spar backed away. “Regicide is a little… I’m just a fun-loving stallion…”

“It’s not regicide, he’s not king yet. And it’s not poison, anyways. Just a little potion to give him pleasant dreams.” Twain smiled darkly.

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Spar sniffed the bottle. “Can I have some?”

Twain corked it and slid it back in his bag. “No.”

“Party-pooper.”

Businesslike, he raised an eyebrow at Spar. “Do you know a good place to hide a crown prince near the south wing?”

Spar considered. His eyes lit up, and he smiled. “Actually…”

Twain crossed his hands over Reginald again. This time, the man took on the appearance of a pile of dirty sheets. Icy cold ran up the fresh marks on Twain’s arms, and he couldn’t suppress a shiver.

“We’ll be in trouble if we run into that maid again,” Spar muttered.

“You cast the illusion, then,” Twain grumbled. He pushed the door open with his hip.

“Finally. I thought I was going to wait all night,” the maid grumbled. She scooped up the illusion, sheets, and crown prince with one sweep of her hamper.

Twain reached after her, then froze. Stop, that’s the prince? Come back, I want those sheets?

“Oof, that’s heavy.” Grunting, the maid hobbled off down the hallway.

Paralyzed by indecision, he could only watch as the maid retreated.

“Uh… that’s not good, is it?”

Spar’s words jolted him back to life. Twain slammed the door shut, eyes wide with fear. Braced against the door, he looked up at Spar. “We’re in so much trouble. If she finds out, it’s all over. We’re dead.”

“You’re dead. No one’s going to behead the unicorn,” Spar corrected helpfully.

“Thanks. What a consolation.” Twain paced the room, once, twice, then turned to Spar. “The laundry. Where’s the laundry room?”

“Downstairs and around the back. Not too far.”

Twain threw open the windows and strode onto the balcony. He peered over the edge of the bannister. Elegant pillars supported the balcony from below.

He threw his legs over the railing and dropped down, dangling from the railing. Slowly, reached down, down, and hooked one foot around the nearest pillar. He found the pillar with his other foot and eased himself down the railing's support bars hand-over-hand until he was gripping the pillar. He slid down the pillar gracefully, momentarily disturbing the ivy that clung to it.

He looked up. Silvery eyes reflected the moonlight. “I’ll meet you there—”

Spar leaped over the balcony and landed beside Twain. His knees bent slightly to absorb the force. Rolling out his shoulders and cracking his neck, he jogged off. “This way.”

Twain raised his eyebrows. Horses.

They ran around the south wing at a quick jog, past a set of ornamental ponds and a picturesque orchard. Distantly, a massive gray wall separated the castle grounds from the rest of the world. Twain cast the wall a short glance, but banished it from his mind seconds later.

They rounded edge of the wing. A low stone building, stout and short, wallowed in the distance. Spar made a beeline toward it.

Twain grabbed him suddenly and yanked him behind a tree. They crouched there, so close Twain could hardly breathe without smelling the hay on Spar’s breath. Spar glanced at him and started to pull away, but Twain pulled him back. He shook his head and lifted a finger to his lips.

The maid appeared around the corner of the castle, trundling under the weight of her hamper. Grunting, she hefted it up with a knee and wobbled on. The illusion shimmered as she bumped the hamper, and for a second, Twain could clearly see the shape of a human body wrapped in a sheet. She settled the hamper and continued into the low stone building, grumbling all the way. With a muted thump, she vanished behind a wooden door.

Twain dashed to the building, Spar at his heels. He crept around the outside of the wall until he reached a window. Small and high, it was only just large enough for him to squeeze through. He stood on his tiptoes and peered through the warped glass.

In a dark room, lit faintly by a candle in the next room over, the woman brushed down her skirts and bustled away. The door shut, and only pale moonlight lit the room.

He pushed at the window. It creaked open an inch.

“I’m going in,” Twain whispered, patting Spar on the shoulder.

Spar crouched and knitted his hands together. Twain stood in his hands, and Spar boosted him up through the window. Twain squeezed his shoulders in, twisted his hips, and scraped through. Stone rushed up at him. He caught himself on his hands and rolled with the hit, somersaulting to his feet.

Slowly, he surveyed the room.

“You find him?” Spar hissed.

“How does one castle produce this much laundry?” Twain breathed.