Chapter Two
“Horatio,” said someone who might possibly have been an angel, commissioned to bring me to Heaven. “Wake up, buddy.”
I opened my eyes, then grimaced at Marcellus. Definitely not an angel. No angel could sport such a horrible, scruffy beard. God Himself could not possibly sanction such a monstrosity in Heaven.
“Oh good, he ain’t dead.” Bernado squinted at me.
I nearly choked on my own saliva as I jerked upright. A face like Bernado’s was not one a man wanted to wake up to. In fact, when I glimpsed his face, I almost believed I was still asleep, trapped in some horrible nightmare about bear-men.
“Well?” Marcellus sat back, crossing his arms.
“Well what?” I yawned and scooted away from Bernado. The man stank like a bear too.
“Well, what do you think we should do about the ghost?” Marcellus huffed.
Right. The ghost. I glanced around, just to be sure he wasn’t hovering nearby. What could we do? I mean, what was one supposed to do when one saw the ghost of one’s best friend’s dead father?
I could attempt to solve this puzzle myself … or I could sit back and watch Hamlet do it exponentially better.
“We should probably tell Hamlet.” I staggered to my feet. “He’ll know exactly what to do.”
“Will he?”
“He will.” I grinned. “He’s Prince Hamlet, after all. The smartest man I ever met.”
I took the lead on the way off the rampart—thank God, it was terrifying up there—and into Castle Elsinore with Marcellus and Bernado puffing along behind me. Down the hall we trotted, past boring, overly stern guards and fancy, breakable vases and portraits of grumpy old people.
“Oi,” I called to a page as he bounded past. “Where is the prince?”
“Throne room.” The page bounced in place, the oversized feather in his hat bobbing comically. “Can I go, mister?”
I waved the kid away and hurried—with Bernado and Marcellus on my tail—to the throne room. The guards at the entrance nodded to me as I passed through the doors.
Inside, the recently crowned King Claudius lounged on the throne beside his new wife, Queen Gertrude, attending to some late-night court affairs. Hamlet slumped in a smaller throne beside theirs, his blue eyes absorbing every detail of the room and the feather-headed courtiers who conversed with the king. His sharp gaze lit on me as I slipped inside, then scanned Bernado and Marcellus. I could almost see him figuring us into his calculations, the gears whizzing in his head.
I leaned beside a thickly woven tapestry of some old king in battle with a dragon. With arms crossed, I fixed my eyes and ears on the royal family.
“My dear Hamlet,” said King Claudius, shifting in his throne to face Hamlet. “You look troubled.”
Hamlet frowned. “Indeed. And I have every right to be, Uncle.”
Marcellus bumped into me, then stepped on my foot. He made a small noise, possibly “whoops” or “sorry” or “sardines.” Why he was muttering about sardines, I’ll never know.
I elbowed him away. This was followed by a wince on my part—he wore chain mail. Ouch.
“—academy in Wittenburg,” continued King Claudius, “will be quite beneficial.”
“Oh, don’t go.” The queen leaned around Claudius to fix Hamlet with her stricken expression, big eyes and trembling lips activated in full force.
I rolled my eyes.
“I shall do my best to obey you, Mother.” Hamlet inclined his head to Queen Gertrude, his dark hair falling into his eyes. All the girls in the room swooned. “I will not go.”
The Queen beamed. She leaned back in her throne and arranged her delicate hands on her skirt. “What a wonderful son.”
Ugh. How could Hamlet stand this woman? I watched until Hamlet excused himself, then beckoned for Marcellus and Bernado to tag along as I followed Hamlet out of the throne room.
Out in the hall, Hamlet spun to face me and crossed his arms. His pensive gaze searched Marcellus, Bernado, and I. “Horatio. It has been a while. Were you not visiting your cousins in the countryside?”
My cousins, I should mention, are rowdy country folk who like to do exhausting things like run and hunt and exercise. Foolish lot.
“I came right before your father’s funeral.” Wincing, I rubbed my elbow and shifted on my poor feet—my cousins had blackmailed me into joining in a devastating form of torture called a race. I hadn’t won.
“My father’s funeral?” Hamlet snorted. “Rather, my mother’s wedding.”
“Yes.” I hesitated. “They were awfully close together, weren’t they?”
Hamlet’s eyes darkened.
Marcellus elbowed me. He shot me a look, which I returned.
“Who are your friends?” Hamlet gestured to Marcellus and Bernado.
I introduced them, then jumped to the point. “Hamlet, we’ve seen your father.”
“Most people did before he died,” Hamlet responded with a wry—yet devastatingly sad, Hamlet, stop depressing me—smile. He raised a brow at me.
“No, we saw him just moments ago.”
“Why were you visiting his grave so late at night?”
I ran a hand through my hair and tried again. “No, we were not visiting his grave. We saw him standing there. He walked right by us.”
“You’re saying,” Hamlet began, narrowing his eyes, “that you saw his ghost?”
I nodded. “In full armor and everything.”
“Armed.” Hamlet rubbed his chin. “I sense that all is not well.”
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