I glanced over at Hudson. I didn’t want to, but somehow I couldn’t help myself. I had to see him in real life.
He noticed my stare and stopped eating. “What’s wrong?” 229/356
I didn’t answer, just turned the page. It showed King John, tied up in gold string and weighed down by his gold wardrobe. On the page after that, Hudson carried me across the wall—but not flung over his shoulder, like I’d really been. In the painting he held me in his arms as though I was a new bride going over the threshold. My hair lay grace-fully around my shoulders in radiant blond waves. The muscles in his biceps rippled. It could have been the cover of a romance novel.
“What is it?” Hudson asked. He stood up and walked over.
My father, who sat next to me, leaned over and read, “The young guard carried the miller’s daughter to the wall where they escaped from the king’s men, making their way into the surrounding wilder-ness. That night they slept under a blanket of stars.” It was the last sentence written on the page, the new end of the story. Dad examined the picture more closely. “Is that supposed to be last night?”
From my other side, Hudson looked at the picture. “How come it doesn’t mention anybody else?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Artistic license, I guess?” Nick reached over and took the book from my hands. “Hey,” I said, trying to snatch it back. “I’m supposed to write the moral.”
“It will help us figure out the moral if we know the story.” Nick proceeded to read the entire thing, including the passages about the handsome young guard who came to the miller’s daughter’s rescue.
Nick snorted during those paragraphs, then turned to Hudson. “I think this book seriously has a crush on you.” I blushed. Did the book know I found Hudson attractive, that I had liked the feel of his hand around mine last night? Is that why it had painted him as some romance novel hero?
“So,” Nick said, “the new moral of the story would be what? ‘Make sure you’ve got a buff guard to carry you around’?” 230/356
I reached for the book again, but Nick still held it away. “No?
Okay, I’ve got the real one. It’s ‘Always be prepared.’ ”
“That’s the Boy Scout motto,” Hudson said, like this automatically disqualified it from being the moral.
“Then what is it?” Nick asked Hudson. “The new part of the story is about you, so you should be able to figure out the moral.” He handed the book to Hudson, who flipped through the pages, searching for clues. Or maybe he wasn’t searching for clues. Mostly he seemed to be examining the paintings. He looked carefully at the ones of us together. He took in the details, noting the way I held on to his neck while he carried me and the longing that had been painted into my eyes.
I expected him to laugh like Nick had, but he didn’t. He lowered the book and looked over at me, examining my eyes in real life. I could barely hold his gaze. It felt like he could see into my mind, like he could open up my thoughts and sort through them. Did he know I had a crush on him? Would it make things awkward between us now … or was it possible that he liked me too?
I kept my voice casual, unconcerned. “So what do you think the moral is?”
He paused, keeping his gaze on mine for another moment. Then he handed the book back. “I wish I knew.” I’m not sure why that answer disappointed me, but it did.
Chapter 17
While everybody else cleaned up breakfast and worked on packing our stuff, I sat by the fire and wrote down morals, starting with the Boy Scout motto.
It did sound like a good moral: Be prepared. If you’re going to travel to the Middle Ages, do it with boxes of canned goods, fire extinguishers, and automobiles with loud horns.
Nothing stuck.
Maybe the moral of the story was that magic books are evil and they want to make you suffer. I didn’t bother writing that one. There was no point in antagonizing it.
Finally, I put the book down on my lap in disgust. “This should work. We escaped. The story is over.” Only Hudson was listening to me. He was shoving one of our sleeping bags into its sack while Nick and Sandra took down the tent.
Dad had gone over to talk to Robin Hood.
I ran a finger over the book cover dismally. “The hero and heroine made a dramatic escape and slept underneath a blanket of stars.
That’s a good ending.”
“It’s not even accurate,” Hudson said. “You slept in a tent with your family. I slept on a bedroll next to a bunch of outlaws.”
“It doesn’t have to be accurate,” I said. “It just has to be good.” Hudson gave the sleeping bag one last shove, pushing it into its sack. “So the moral of the story is that if you can turn things into gold, you can buy off people to help you do anything you want.” I tapped the pen against my hand. “That doesn’t sound like a very good moral for a children’s story.”