The prince nodded. “In the practice cantos, every time you leave, it is as if you have never been there. But the Oracle will advise you only once in your lifetime, and until her story was moved to the teaching cantos, where there is continuity, my ancestors could never get any meaningful answers from her.”
“And she will only help you to help someone else, right?”
“Right—and she can see through you. When I pretended that I want to help the Bane remain in power, she laughed. When I said I wanted to protect my people, she laughed again. And when I asked how I could help you get to me, she told me to mind my own business, because you had no interest in my schemes.”
He could joke about it now, but she wondered how the Oracle’s blunt, unhelpful answers must have struck him when he desperately needed guidance and assurance.
The path led them to a clearing. The Oracle, at the center of a clearing, was not a pond, as Iolanthe had thought, but a round pool six foot across built of fine, creamy marble. The water was as beautiful as the light elixir she’d made with her lightning.
“Lean over the edge and look at your reflection,” said the prince.
As she did so, the water ruffled. A pleasant, feminine voice greeted her. “Iolanthe Seabourne, welcome.”
Iolanthe drew back in surprise. “How do you know my name, Oracle?”
The water danced, as if laughing. “I wouldn’t be any good if I didn’t know who had come to ask for my help.”
“Then you also know why I have come.”
“But there is more than one person you wish to help.”
Iolanthe glanced behind her shoulder. The prince stood at the edge of the clearing, out of earshot.
“Think carefully. I can help you only once.”
She rubbed her thumb along the raised rim. “Then help me help the one who needs it the most.”
The pool stilled to an almost mirrorlike smoothness. Not a ripple distorted Iolanthe’s reflection. All at once her reflection disappeared, as did the reflection of the cloudless sky above. The surface of the water turned ink dark and swelled like a rising tide.
The Oracle’s voice turned deep, rough. “You will best help him by seeking aid from the faithful and bold. And from the scorpion.”
“What do you mean?” But of course, one was not supposed to ask oracles such questions.
The pool turned clear again. Water receded from the edge, hissing with steam. The marble beneath her hand, cool to the touch a minute ago, was now hot, as if it had been in the sun for hours.
“As for your guardian, he will not long remain in the custody of the Inquisitor,” said the Oracle, her voice low. “Good-bye, Iolanthe Seabourne.”
They had entered the Crucible sitting a respectable distance apart on the bed. But Titus opened his eyes to find her head on his shoulder, his hand holding hers on the cover of the book.
He did not immediately release her hand. He should, but somehow he remained exactly as he was. His breath came in shallow, almost ragged. Her hair brushed against his jaw, as if she were tilting her face to look at him.
A hot urge pulsed through his veins. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. If he counted to five, and she still did not move . . .
Four seconds. Five sec—
Her fingers tightened around his. But the next moment she was already rising and walking away. At the opposite wall, she turned around and crossed her feet insouciantly at the ankles, as if nothing had happened. Nothing had happened, but almost five seconds was an awfully long time to teeter on the brink.
He collected himself. “What did the Oracle say about your guardian?”
“That he won’t be in the Inquisitory for much longer.”
“How will he escape?”
“Do oracles ever answer such questions?”
A loud knock came, not on his door, but hers. “You there, Fairfax?” asked Cooper. “I could use some help with my critical paper.”
“My flock bleats. I’d better shepherd.” She opened the door. “Cooper, old bloke. Have you missed me?”
Titus already missed her.
When she had left, he opened the Crucible to the illustration for “The Oracle of Still Waters.” Her face looked back at him from the surface of the pool. As he had hoped, the pond’s ability to capture the likeness of anyone who looked into it was immune from the reach of the Irreproducible Charm.
Titus VI had built the trick into the pond because he had wanted all the great and terrible mages who dwelled inside the Crucible to resemble him. Titus VII didn’t even like to look at his own face in the mirror, but he was immensely grateful that his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather had been so silly.
Now he could work her likeness into any story of his choosing.
Now he could fight dragons for her.
And now he could kiss her again.
CHAPTER 
19
PART OF A BRITISH BOY’S education consisted of memorization. In repetition class, pupils had to recite the forty of so lines of Latin verse they had been assigned to memorize.
Titus seldom viewed anything through the same prism as his classmates did. But on this mind-numbing exercise, he and they were in agreement: it was a colossal misuse of time. To make matters worse, although a boy could leave as soon as he had said his lines, sprinting out of the classroom like a puppy that had been kenneled too long, he could not say those lines until he had been called upon to do so. And Frampton invariably kept Titus waiting until almost everyone else had gone.
On the day Titus first returned to class after a weeklong convalescence, however, Frampton called on him second, immediately after Cooper, who always provided a perfect recital to set the standard for the rest of the class.
Titus, who had come to rely on listening to the lines repeated dozens of times during class to memorize them, stumbled badly.
Frampton tsked. “Your Highness, you are shortly to assume the reins of an ancient and magnificent realm. Surely the thought ought to compel you to do better.”
This was new. Frampton might have delighted in making Titus cool his heels, but he had never been openly antagonistic.
“The success of my rule does not rely on my ability to recite obscure Latin verse,” Titus said coldly.
Frampton showed no sign of being humbled by the rebuke. “I speak not of the memorization and delivery of specific lines, but of the understanding of duty. From everything I have seen of you, young man, you have a poor grasp of obligation and responsibility.”
Next to him, Fairfax sucked in a breath. She was not alone. The entire class was riveted.
Titus made a show of examining his cuff links. “It is irrelevant what a lackey such as you thinks of my character.”
“Ah, but times change. Nowadays princes from thousand-year-old houses may very well find themselves without a throne,” said Frampton smoothly. “Next, Sutherland. Let’s hope you’ve prepared better.”
Titus wasted no time in leaving. As soon as he was back in his room at Mrs. Dawlish’s, he inserted a piece of paper under the writing ball. No new intelligence awaited him. Not very surprising—only three hours ago Dalbert had reported that there had been little changes in the Inquisitor’s condition.
But if the Inquisitor remained unconscious, why had Frampton gone on the offensive? Simply to remind Titus that he was now persona non grata in Atlantean circles for having incapacitated one of the Bane’s most capable lieutenants?
He was jittery. More than a week after the Inquisition, he still had no idea how to interpret the rupture view of a skyful of wyverns and fire-spewing armored chariots. Fairfax’s march to greatness had stalled since her breakthrough with air. Their only concrete progress he could point to was an escape satchel that they had prepared and stowed in the abandoned barn.