“Another game of Rheumie?” Frike asked, shuffling the cards.
“No, I’m tired of card games.”
“What would you like to do then, young sir? Lawn tennis? Quoits? Push and shove?”
“I’m sick of all those namby-pamby pastimes,” Charming said. “Can’t you think of anything interesting?”
“Hunting?” Frike suggested. “Fishing? Kite flying?”
“No, no . . .” Prince Charming narrowed his eyes, then looked up. His features took on a look of animation. “I know!”
“I await your pleasure, sire.”
“Let’s go peek in the room I’m not supposed to look into.”
Frike had been well schooled. Concealing the smile that threatened to break out, he said, “We couldn’t do that!”
“Could we not, now?”
“Certainly not, sire. The master would be dreadfully cross.”
“But he wouldn’t have to know, would he?”
Frike’s expression revealed that he had never thought of that. “You mean . . . not tell him?”
“That is precisely what I mean.”
“But we always tell the master everything!”
“Let’s make an exception this time.”
“But why?”
“For a game, Frike, that’s why.”
“Oh … A game.” Frike seemed to ponder. “I suppose that would be all right, if it’s only a game. Are you sure it’s a game?”
“Frike, I swear to you, it is only a game.”
“Well then,” Frike said, “so long as it’s only a game.”
“Let’s go!” Charming cried, bounding up the stairs four at a time, the keys jingling in his hand.
Outside the manor house, Azzie, who had parked his horse in the wood and returned on foot, or rather, on wing, since he had fully operational wings beneath his resplendent tunic, hovered above the high bedroom window and smiled to himself. He had never heard of this psychology stuff Hermes had spoken about, but it was going all right so far.