The Chestnut King: Book 3 of the 100 Cupboards by N. D. Wilson Page B

But then, while he watched, each spot greened where it landed. One hundred plants spun themselves leaves and burst into fiery bloom.
    Henry laughed, and the great, grinding death fought the noise and the heat and the life. A flower had become a choir, a flame had become a blaze. As more were killed, more bloomed, and suddenly, the gray serpents were gone. Henry, bodiless Henry, watched a single, slowly twisting flower say its name, and that name was a poem, and that poem was the history of the world—of all the worlds.
    The dream was his again.
    “Nimiane,” Henry said. Could the witch hear his mind’swords? Had she gone? The words of his christening, spoken by his grandmother, flooded back to him. “I shall be your curse.”
    A queen, a witch, rose from her bed between the trees and gathered up a cat in her arms. She was feeling something new. Was this fear? No. This was … urgency. The boy could not be allowed to grow.
    She walked into an oval clearing and passed through it. She walked beside a black pool and its fountain. It was time to begin bigger things. The fingerlings would bring her Mordecai, or he would bring himself, pursuing the bait of his family. The witch smiled. She looked forward to meeting his wife.
    There was no more reason to hide since the galleys had fallen on Hylfing. She had shown herself, and she was ready. She had made her fingerlings, and armies and fleets waited on her. She stood behind the throne of the empire.
    Old enemies would die. A new world would bow.
    “I just think there has to be a better way,” Henrietta said. Three backpacks sat on the kitchen table.
    Only one looked even slightly new.
    Zeke handed her a red plastic flashlight, now with fresh batteries. “Maybe,” he said. “But it’s not like Henry would want to go if he could think of anything else.”
    Mrs. Johnson was making a loaf of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “How bad is this place?” she asked.
    “Bad,” said Henrietta. “Super creep.”
    Zeke turned around and faced his mom. “But Henry’s dad and Caleb are there. And they don’t know what happened.”
    Tilly Johnson bit her lip. She didn’t like seeing knives and a hatchet going into backpacks, especially not when she wasn’t sure how they’d be used. “You all at least need to get some sleep first,” she said.
    Henrietta pulled her wet hair back tight and rubber-banded it into a ponytail. “Maybe,” she said. “See if you can talk Henry into it.”
    “Henry,” Grandmother said. She kicked the afghan to the floor, but she was still asleep. “Henry? She has him. Henry?”
    Tilly hurried to the chair, grabbed Grandmother’s hand, and felt her forehead.
    Henrietta ran to the bathroom.
    “Henry?” She banged on the door. “Henry!” She tried the knob, but it was locked.
    Zeke swiped a straightened paper clip off the top of the door jam and stuck it in the small hole centered in the knob. With a pop, the door was unlocked, and Henrietta threw it open.
    The bathroom was cool, despite the shower. The mirror over the sink was perfectly clear, no steam.
    “Henry?” Henrietta asked, and she rattled the shower curtain. “Henry!”
    She pulled the curtain back.
    Henry was curled up with his knees to his chest. Hiseyes were shut, and his mouth was frozen open. His skin was the color of paper. A thick black liquid, unaffected by the water, had oozed out of the center of the burn on his jaw.
    Henrietta dropped to her knees and grabbed her cousin’s arm. The water was frigid. Henry’s right arm flopped limply over the side of the tub, and his hand opened. A fat wad of wet dandelion down fell out onto the floor. The same fuzz had mounded up around the drain.
    “C’mon, Henry,” she said. She slapped his hand; she slapped his cheek. She stuck two fingers on his neck, but she wasn’t patient enough to feel around for a pulse. “Wake up!” she yelled. “Wake up!” She reached out and tried to wipe the black goop off Henry’s jaw.
    He