The Boy with the Hidden Name (25 page)

the same striking features as our guide, but they are more

attractive, their cheeks rosy and their eyes bright with evident amusement. Did they send me to the bizarre forest with the

Urisks? Maybe the Hidden Folk are as crazy as the faeries.

Both the man and the woman have masses of dark hair.

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The man’s hair curls playfully down to his shoulders, like a

French king in the age of Versailles, but the woman’s is gath-

ered into a heavy bun at the back of her neck. Each of them

is wearing a heavy gold crown, the sort of ornate bejeweled

affairs you see in illustrations in faerie tales, and this makes sense, since they are dressed in velvet and ermine.

“Three fays, a human, a goblin, a traveler, and a wizard

walk into the court of the Hidden Folk,” proclaims the man

who is evidently the king. He sounds delighted, like he’s tell-

ing his favorite joke. Maybe the Urisks are just an elaborate

joke. A girl walks into a forest…

“And him,” responds his queen, pointing to Safford.

“And him,” agrees the king. “Three fays, a human, a goblin,

a traveler, a wizard, and
him
walk into the court of the Hidden Folk.”

They have been staring at all of us, studying us closely, and

we are too astonished to say anything.

Then the king abruptly turns to Ben. “Speak to us, trav-

eler,” he commands. “Tell us the words of your prophecy, and

beware, for you are in the court of the Hidden Folk, those

who assist at will and at whim.”

Ben hesitates. I don’t know what he thought the Hidden

Folk would be like, but I can see that this isn’t it.

So I’m the one who speaks. “We’re the fays of the seasons,”

I tell the king. “We’re prophesied to save the Otherworld.

But we need to find the other fay to do it, and we think he or

she might be here.”

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“The fays of the seasons,” answers the king musingly. “And

a traveler.”

“The box, my love,” the queen tells him gently.

“Oh! Yes! The box! Ingolfur Arnarson left the box specifi-

cally for Benedict Le Fay. Would that be you, traveler?”

Ben, startled, nods.

And the king beams. “Oh, excellent. What has taken all of

you so long?”

x

There are thrones at the other end of the room, and the king

and queen lead us over to them. They don’t offer any seats to

us as they settle themselves.

“Erlking of Goblinopolis,” the king says to him.

“Your Majesty,” the Erlking responds politely with a

small bow.

“The crowns are quite lovely. My wife adores them.

Thank you.”

The queen beams at the Erlking and blows him a kiss flir-

tatiously. I wonder if the Erlking has his special seduction

power set on high. And I’m annoyed, because the clock is

ticking. We don’t have time for
flirting
.

“Good,” the Erlking replies. “I am pleased.”

I want to lean over and ask him what time it is, just to

remind him that we’re on a schedule, but before I can, the

king says, “As for the rest of you, none of you have gained

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proper entrance to the court of the Hidden Folk. We grant

you this hospitality at will and at whim.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Will says respectfully.

“You, sir,” the king says to him sharply. “Through the look-

ing glass, you do not exist.”

“So I have been told,” Will responds.

I notice Ben look at Will with his eyes narrowed, and I

wonder what the phrase means.

“Faerie Le Fay,” announces the king. He has a goblet in his

hand now, gold and heavily bejeweled, like everything else

in this place. I have no idea where it came from. “You have

come for the box.”

“Well,” says Ben. “I thought we were coming for a fay.”

“We have no fay here. Only the box. Do you know how

long the box has been sealed? Waiting for the touch of

Benedict Le Fay?”

“I do not,” Ben confesses.

“Neither do we.” The king sips from his goblet and consid-

ers. “But it’s been a long time.”

“Or no time at all,” contributes Will.

“Spoken like a wizard,” the king smiles at him.

“Where is the box?” I say, tired of this pointless conversation.

“In the museum, of course,” answers the king.

I can’t wait to have conversations that don’t constantly

make me feel like an idiot. “What museum?”

“‘What museum?’ she asks,” scoffs the king. “‘
What

museum
.’ What a mopple you
have
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have to ask me what museum. Don’t you know where you

are? You’re in Iceland. What other museum would it be in,

but the Museum of Iceland?”

Ben contributes, “But…I have never heard of the

Otherworld having museums.”

“Don’t be daft, faerie,” snaps the king. “We had to keep the

box safe, didn’t we? How would we ever have accomplished

that in the Otherworld? Seelies listening at every corner and

rattling every box, for that matter. And naming travelers with

a quickness. How, I ask you, could such a thing be safe in the

Otherworld, as a box meant for a traveler?”

“It’s a
human
museum,” Ben realizes.

“Of course it’s a human museum. Have you ever heard of

any other type? Dear me,
what
a mopple. Are you sure you’re Benedict Le Fay? I had the notion he was going to be clever,

was Benedict Le Fay. Perhaps you’d better verify your iden-

tity. Perhaps a middle name or two.”

“Ingolfur Arnarson left the box for me, with middle names

as collateral?” Ben drawls.

“And what if he did?”

“Your Majesty,” Ben responds calmly. “I am the best trav-

eler in the Otherworld.”

“So I have heard. If that is the case, Benedict Le Fay, by all

means, collect your box, sir.” The king makes an expansive

motion with his hand.

x

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I wake with a gasp, lying on cold, dewy grass growing in a

scraggly manner amid waves of rolling black rock.

Ben stands up beside me and brushes himself off, nose

crinkled with distaste.

“I just had the strangest dream,” Kelsey gasps.

“I think we all did,” I reply grimly and sit up.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” says Trow. He has

already stood up and is surveying the ocean of black rock

stretching around us for as far as can be seen. He turns

and helps Merrow up and says, “What do you propose we

do now?”

“Well, obviously we have to go to the Museum of Iceland,

like the king said,” Merrow replies.

“And where is that?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t sound sour—

Merrow’s just trying to help— but I hate how confidently

know- it- all she seems to be.
I
want to be confidently know-it- all like that, and instead I never know what I’m going to

do from moment to moment.

“Come along,” Ben says. “I’ll get us there.”

Merrow looks at him. “You know where it is? A second ago,

you’d never even heard of the place.”

“I’m the best traveler in the Otherworld,” Ben tells her, and

we all join hands.

The Erlking says, “I’ll meet you there.”

And then we are standing in front of an unassuming

and modern building that is helpfully labeled the National

Museum of Iceland. The Erlking is lounging against the

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wall by the door, and I wonder once again how he seems to

manage to get everywhere before we do.

“What time is it?” I ask him.

“11:52,” he tells me. “And I think we should really stop

checking. There is nothing we can do about it.”

Ben walks through the front door of the museum, which

slides open accommodatingly, and we follow him and stand

in the lobby, which is a high atrium with windows. Ben turns

in a circle in the middle of it, looking up.

“So we’re going to steal an artifact from a museum?”

says Kelsey.

“Looks that way,” responds Trow.

“Then shouldn’t we wait until it closes?” she suggests.

“Why?” Ben counters absently.

“I don’t know.” Kelsey looks at Merrow. “Does the proph-

ecy say we’re going to be successful stealing this?”

Merrow frowns briefly, saying, “That’s not how prophe-

cies work. I wish it was. I didn’t even know what we had to

get here.”

Ben sets off up the escalator in front of us, walking with swift purpose. No one stops us or asks for any tickets or anything.

We follow Ben through the galleries. He is moving quickly,

wending through them without hesitation, until he abruptly

stops. It is as if he knew all along where the thing was.

“Here we are,” he says. He is looking down at a small

wooden box, only about the size of a brick, trapped under

glass and clasped with an old iron lock. There is nothing

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overly remarkable about this box, other than the fact that it

looks to be old.

Curious, I lean over Ben, reading the description of the box.

“It says here that only a knowledgeable man named

Benedikt could open this box,” I note and look at it. “Have

you opened it before?”

He doesn’t look away from the box. His eyes are an extremely

pale blue, like a sun- bleached sky. He shakes his head.

“Then why does it say that?”

“Because Ingolfur Arnarson left it for me. It’s a message

for me.”

“A message in a caption by a museum exhibit?”

“Can you think of a better place to put a message to

someone?”

“Maybe in a letter,” answers Kelsey pragmatically, read-

ing the caption over my shoulder. “It says here that the man

named Benedikt was a man of many skills. Is that true?”

“Inconclusive,” I say.

That gets Ben to look away from the box, his nose crinkled

in annoyance. I smile sweetly at him.

“Well,” says Merrow. “I guess you should go ahead and

open it. Maybe the whereabouts of the other fay are inside.”

Ben lifts up the glass that had been protecting the wooden

box. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be able to lift up

that glass, but he does it effortlessly, and nothing happens in

response, no alarms or anything like that.

He touches the box, hands grasping either side of it.

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And then he frowns.

“We have to go,” Will says.

“Something’s wrong,” Ben replies, not taking his eyes off

the box. “There’s something wrong with the box.”

“We’ll figure it out later. Take it and let’s get out of here.”

Will’s voice is low and urgent, and I look at him in surprise.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“It’s not opening.” Ben turns the box over, still frowning at

it, clearly trying to make it function properly.

“I’m telling you,” Will says, “we’ll deal with it later.

Right now— ”

Will cuts himself off. I look up and all around and see

nothing out of place, but I can’t help the feeling of panic.

And it’s contagious. I can feel everyone else draw closer to

each other too.

“What?” Kelsey says, sounding a bit frantic. “What is it?”

“Run.” Ben grabs my hand, tucking the box against his

body. And he takes off at a sprint, dragging me behind him,

just as I finally hear it: the chiming of bells.

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p anic makes us sloppy. Merrow half slides down the

staircase we are descending, which almost starts a chain

reaction of all of us sliding. Ben’s hand is firm in mine and

he doesn’t let go, keeping me upright and moving. He is run-

ning like he has a goal in mind, although I don’t know what

the goal could be.

The chiming grows louder. The ground starts vibrating

beneath our feet. For a brief, wild moment, I wonder why

we’re even running. If the Seelies are this close, then they’ll

catch us easily; they’re so very fast. I look over my shoulder,

but they don’t seem to be behind us. They seem, rather, to be

all around us, a terrifyingly invisible presence that is going to swoop over us at any moment.

We’ve reached the ground floor, the lobby with its wall of

windows. Ben’s pace does not slow. He rockets toward the

glass in front of us. I register our pale reflections superim-

posed over the gray world outside, quickly getting larger and

larger as we get closer and closer, and I am sure the look

on my face is alarm. Just as I am about to ask him what he

could possibly be doing, he smashes head- on into the glass.

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