I RESTED FOR THREE MORE DAYS, until most of my wounds had healed.

Then Emilie knocked on the door, seeming excited. She inquired as to my health. Are you able to walk?

Yes, of course. I hopped out of bed to show her, though still a bit impaired.

That'll do. She seemed pleased. Then come along with me.

She marched to the door and I hurried, with a slight limp, to keep up with her. She led me through the halls, wide and arched and adorned with beautiful tapestries, then down a steep flight of stone stairs.

Where are we going? I asked, pushing to keep up. It felt good to be out of my sickroom.

To view your new pretext, I hope, she said.

We traveled to a different part of the castle. I had never been so close to the abode of royals before.

On the main floor there were large rooms, with long rows of tables and huge hearths, guarded by uniformed soldiers at every door. Knights milled about in their casual tunics, trading stories and rolling dice. Mounted torches lit the halls.

Then we passed the kitchen, with an inviting smell of garlic in the air, maids and porters shuffling around, casks of wine and ale.

Still we traveled, down a narrow corridor leading beneath the ground. Here the walls were of coarsely laid stone. The air grew stale and damp. We were in some sort of keep now. In the womb of the castle. Where was Emilie taking me? What did she mean by my new pretext?

Finally, when the halls were so ill-lit and dank that the only living thing must be some slumbering beast, Emilie stopped in front of a large wooden door.

My new pretext is a mole, I said with a laugh.

Do not be rude, she said, and knocked.

Come in, groaned a voice from deep inside. Come, come. Hurry before I change my mind.

Curious, I followed Emilie as we stepped into a cool room. It was more of a cell, or a dungeon, but large and candlelit; on the walls were shelves filled with what I took to be toys and props.

In the rear, on an ornately carved chair, sat a hunched man in a red tunic, green tights, and a patchwork skirt.

He lowered a yellowy eye toward Emilie. Come in, auntie. May I have a lick? Just a lick would do...

Oh,shut up , Norbert, Emilie retorted, though not crossly. This is the man I spoke of. His name is Hugh. Hugh, t............