In his evil lair, Farland Phelps was plotting. Much like Julianna’s parents, Farland had been devoting considerable efforts to finding the boy who could break the curse. Part of his plan was to post fliers for harpsichord repair by the docks. He figured this approach was bound to yield fruit eventually, since it must be challenging to keep a harpsichord tuned and in good repair on the high seas what with all the humidity and motion of the ship and whatnot. He further figured that this seafaring curse breaker would eventually end up in the Bay of Fritillary since the capital was one of the biggest ports-of-call in the known world. So he had strategically positioned a few harpsichord repair ads, then paid some vagrants (It's super cheap to employ vagrants. They work for peanuts.) to panhandle in sight of the fliers and report to him when they saw some seafaring person express interest in the ad. From there, he just left it up to time while he devoted his energies to other plots and schemes.

Earlier that very day, one of his paid vagrants had come by to report that, at long last, some lady had taken a tab off a harpsichord ad. Of course, there was no way of knowing whether this lady had any connection to the boy he was searching for, but it would be silly of him not to pursue the lead. The vagrant had said that the lady had gone out to a ship after taking the tab, so that was at least a positive sign – it meant that the harpsichord in need of repair might be on a ship.

The plan was this: He would transform his evil lair into a harpsichord studio, then wait for someone to come visiting, asking about harpsichord repairs. He would visit their ship, ask a few leading questions, and find out whether anyone on the boat fit the bill as the lad who could break the curse. If it was a dead end, he’d just say he didn’t have the right tools to finish the job; but if he did, through this scheme find the lad, Farland would kidnap him and send word through one of Conroy’s spies (Farland had a double agent working as one of Conroy’s spies) that the lad had been located. From there all he’d need to do is slip the lad some time-release poison so he’d die shortly after being collected by the king, but before meeting the princess and breaking the spell. It was essential to the plan that Conroy get his hopes up as much as possible only to have them dashed by the lad’s death at the last possible moment.

Farland grinned, chuckled, then looked around his lair and muttered, “First thing’s first. I have to make this place look like a harpsichord studio.” He felt a bit daunted looking around at the heavy, black velvet curtains, tapestries of skeletons wielding swords, shelves full of colorful powders and liquids with alarming names and skulls-and-crossbones prominently displayed on the labels, big melty candles with black flames, and books with labels like Really, Really Deadly Poisons and Mind Reading Can Be Easy! and Compendium of Poison Substitutions. The only thing in the entire room that he wouldn’t have to hide or disguise was his fern in the front window. It would have been easier just to rent a storefront somewhere for the week, but unfortunately he’d put his own address on the advertisement, and plus he'd been short on funds of late.

He wished he could devote his life solely to his revenge plots, but there was unfortunately no money in vengeance (he knew this for certain because he had registered himself as a nonprofit and then written a grant to see if anyone would fund him) so he had to resort to scraping out a living doing black market black magic for nobles whenever necessary in order to keep himself housed and fed as he pursued his real dream: getting back at Conroy.

Farland packed up his books and put them in his bedroom, turned all his bottles around so the poison labels were facing the back of the shelf, then put up a sign on the shelf that read ‘Harpsichord Polishes and Oils’. Next, he scuttled off to a local music store to get some decorations.

Some time later, he came back with a few parcels and rolled up papers under his arms. The rolled papers were posters of harpsichords, fingering charts, and one big poster of Lonnie Green, the most famous harpsichordist around – Lonnie smiled out of his poster with nice teeth and long, curly brown hair. Lonnie looked most out of place in this room, Farland thought, as he hung the poster on the wall over the magical pool of raven blood and between a tapestry of a skeleton with a sword and another tapestry of a skeleton playing checkers with Death.

Next, Farland cleaned some poster putty off his fingertips and rolled up his beloved tapestries, then stuck up in their place some of the harpsichord pictures. The magical pool of raven blood informed Farland that he had better not move it anywhere, so Farland (not wanting to offend or anger it) just covered it up with a big wooden board that he stored under his bed and usually used as a surface for working jigsaw puzzles. With the board resting atop the heavy stone basin, it looked sort of like a table. After throwing a plaid flannel sheet from his bed over the jigsaw puzzle board for a tablecloth, Farland unwrapped one parcel to reveal some sheet music and magazines which he artfully arranged on the makeshift coffee table. Next, he opened up the other parcel and placed its contents (a metronome and a statue of a G clef) on the shelf in front of his magic powders and liquids.

He gave the arm of the metronome a tap to get it moving, and the steady tick-tick of a calming 58 beats per minute permeated the room.

Farland finally stepped back and surveyed his work with satisfaction. It was not perfect, but certainly passable; anyway, it would easily convince anyone who had no reason to be suspicious. He reached into his desk for paper, ink, and a quill and wrote on good sturdy card-stock ‘Farland Phelps. Harpsichord Repairs and Tuning’, then used a bit more poster putty to affix the sign to the front door of his modest ground floor Evil Lair in a cul-de-sac just off the textiles district of the city.

He rented in a building that housed a tailor to his right, a lady who spun and dyed yarn to his left, and a family with about a million kids by the sound of it above him. Back when he’d lived in the castle, his Evil Lair had been much more grand, but his free ride as Conroy’s BFF was long over, and rent in the city was insane even with an income helping the lords and ladies with the black market black magic making truth serums and invisibility spells (the lords and ladies all seemed to have the same problem: not trusting their spouses).

Surveying the results of his redecorating project, he gave a satisfied nod. Then, having nothing else to do, Farland grabbed a book at random out of his closet and went to lay down on his bed and maybe take a nap or something. He couldn’t kill time doing a puzzle since his puzzle board was doubling as a coffee table, and he didn’t want to leave the apartment for fear of missing the visitor who might or might not even show up, and might or might not lead him to the one who might or might not be able to break the curse. With a sigh, Farland snuggled up under a quilt and began to read.

#

Bright and early the next morning, Corrine and Bernard sallied forth for the harpsichord studio. After their epic search for a doctor the previous day, they had a pretty good idea of how to get around the slippery, grimy, disgusting streets. So, they were able to locate Farland’s lair – er, harpsichord studio – before the morning dew had even evaporated from the piles of muck that lined the city streets. Bernard knocked on the door, then noticed that the poster putty affixing the sign to the door had nearly come undone, so he helpfully pushed it back into place. Why did the owner of this store use poster putty instead of nails, he wondered, and why was the sign made of paper instead of wood?

The door swung open, and they were greeted by a smiling, attractive man of about forty with long, black hair and lots of jeweled rings on his long fingers.

Corrine wondered whether all those rings got in the way of his harpsichord playing.

“May I help you?” he asked in a sleazy voice that, when paired with the over-eagerness with which he asked the question, made her skin crawl.

“Yes, we need a harpsichord repaired,” she said hesitantly, as he ushered them into the sparse storefront that was strangely devoid of actual harpsichords, though it did have a lot of posters and some sheet music and magazines. “The harpsichord is on a pirate ship. I hope that is not a problem?” Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned the pirate ship right off the bat, but part of her was hoping he’d say no – she had a bad feeling about this guy, but she didn’t know if the bad feeling was just because he sounded slimy, or if there something else about him that was causing her intuition bells to ring.

He raised an eyebrow with surprise when he heard about the pirate ship, but said, “That shouldn’t be a problem. Let’s go.” And then he headed toward the door. They didn’t know it, of course, but pirates didn’t scare him in the least – he could disappear at will whenever he wanted, so getting into dangerous situations never fazed him.

“Wait--“ Corrine said. “Don’t you need to know what’s wrong with the harpsichord? Talk payment? Anything?” Why was this dude flying out the door at the first mention of a broken harpsichord without getting any information from them or grabbing any tools?

Shoot, Farland thought, I’m being too eager. Calm down, Farland. Calm down. You’ll know soon enough if this lead is going anywhere. He turned and said, “Ah, well, we can talk payment after I see what’s wrong with it. And, er, as to what is wrong with the instrument, I never ask laymen to, er, diagnose. I would rather go in with a head unclouded by preconceptions.”

“Wow, there must be more going on in the inside of a harpsichord than I thought,” Bernard muttered. “You really have to worry about misdiagnosing?” As he asked this, his gaze began to travel over the various bottles of liquids and powders. There definitely was more to this whole harpsichord thing than he’d thought – just look at all those bottles of colorful stuff! He reached out to touch a bottle with big shiny pink crystals inside.

“Don’t touch that!” barked Farland with anger and alarm.

Bernard’s hand froze an inch away from the bottle, and he stared at Farland with astonishment. “What--?”

“Fool! Don’t meddle with things you don’t understand,” Farland spat venomously as he swooped over to the shelf and laid a protective hand on the side of the bottle, then remembered too late that the contents of the bottle were supposed to be mere harpsichord maintenance crystals, not potentially explosive minerals used to concoct an invisibility spell. He met their surprised eyes and said after an awkward pause in which he was painfully aware of the ticking of the metronome, “I take harpsichord repair and maintenance very seriously.”

“Clearly,” said Corrine, looking at him with an unmasked expression that indicated what she thought of his sanity or lack thereof. Every move this guy made and every word he uttered convinced her further that something was off with him.

“Look,” Bernard said, “I have no doubt that a person who feels as deeply as you do about your art will be able to fix our harpsichord. You’re a little loony, but I don’t care as long as you can fix my kid’s harpsichord. He’s a sensitive boy and I want him calmed down as soon as possible. You see, he’s been injured and I just want him to take it easy and relax so he can heal, but he’s not going to do that until the harpsichord is repaired. He’s got some strange connection to that thing that defies reason. So, if you are willing to come with us aboard the pirate ship, then I think we have a deal!”

“A strange connection that defies reason?” Farland mused. Now that sounded like something that could indicate magic was involved – when a thing defied reason, it could very well be because there was a spell or potion involved that was bending things in a way that was contrary to the norm.

He would have loved to read their minds right about now (assuming they were weak-minded enough), but he was currently out of his mind-reading powder (it was expensive to concoct), and even if he’d had the powder, he had to have been taking it for 48 hours, one dose every 12 hours, in order to effectively read minds at will. Without the help of the mind-reading powder, his skills were remedial at best; it was physically draining without the powder, and mostly he heard just a bunch of muffled rumbling, and jumbled up sounds, with only a hint of the subject’s actual thoughts. He missed the good old days in the castle when he’d had the ability to obtain whatever ingredients he wanted in whatever amounts he required. Currently he only had one bottle left of his mind reading powder, and he was saving it for a special occasion since he didn’t know how he’d ever be able to get any more of the key ingredient: the pollen of a flower that grew half the world away at only a certain altitude on a particular mountain, and, of course, it bloomed only once every three years.

When he’d been pals with Conroy, he had sent expeditions to the mountain whenever he fancied. Sometimes he wished that when he’d been younger he’d have realized what a cost to his material comfort this whole revenge thing would turn out to be – if he had consulted the magical pool of raven blood, would it have told him that the path of revenge would lead him to a slummy little apartment and a pittance of an income? And, if the magical pool of raven blood had actually condescended to reveal this information (which was unlikely since the magical pool of raven blood was moody and peevish on its good days), would the knowledge have swayed Farland from following his dreams? Probably not. He had been so darn idealistic in his youth.

Fortunately, he had another plot brewing that would hopefully end up landing him back in the castle.

“Yeah. He’s a born musician when it comes to his banjo and accordion, but with that harpsichord he touches it and it sounds like a rabid squirrel is running across the keys. But he keeps trying and trying.”

Farland’s eyes bugged out and his jaw dropped. He thought, Banjo, harpsichord, and accordion?! Those were the instruments specified in my counter-curse! This is it!

The girl was staring at him with a funny look.

Farland realized the expression on his face was pretty crazy. He shut his mouth, blinked his eyes, tried to contain his excitement. But now that he was almost 100% sure he had found the one who’d break the curse, it took every ounce of his self-control to remain in character and not fly out the door demanding that they take him at once to the pirate ship or suffer the consequences. Then it occurred to him, why couldn’t he just do that? Demand that they take him to their son/brother pronto or be cursed with some dreadful curse?

But no, if he did that, something could go wrong; they could try to be heroic and alert the lad once they neared the ship, or they might be wearing protective amulets – doubtful, but possible, and he had waited for so long that he didn’t want to take the risk of messing it all up just because he couldn’t be patient for a few more hours. No, it was best if he tried to play it cool for a bit more. He cleared his throat, and said carefully, “How odd! Well, it sounds like this harpsichord is very important to him. Let’s get it fixed up all shiny and new! The sooner the better, I say!”

“Indubitably!” Bernard said with a grin.

The two men capered out the door, one happy to have found someone who could help Warren and give him some peace of mind, the other happy to be shortly killing Warren dead.

Corrine didn’t like this guy one bit, but she couldn’t put into convincing words what exactly it was that bothered her, so she followed at a distance, close enough to listen to him talking to her father, but far enough that he’d be disinclined to try to talk to her.

“So, have you always liked the harpsichord?” Bernard was asking, trying to strike up a conversation with Farland.

“Oh, yeah. Totally,” Farland said, sounding like he was not paying much attention.

“What do you like most about it?”

“Oh – the – um – the plinky plinky things – you know, the black and white bits--“

“The keys?” Corrine supplied incredulously, finding herself unable to keep quiet.

“Yeah, them!” Farland replied. “They’re what I like best about the harpsichord for sure.”

“Ah, yes, they are nice,” Bernard said, still trying to give Farland the benefit of the doubt. “But I didn’t mean what part of the instrument do you like best – I meant, what drew you to the harpsichord as opposed to some other--“

“Dad!” Corrine roared. “This guy doesn’t know what keys are! If it weren’t for the fact that there is no conceivable reason a person would impersonate a harpsichord repair man and venture onto a ship filled with pirates, I would say he was not who he says he is! Something is not right!”

“You don’t need to know what keys are called in order to fix them,” Farland pulled out of the blue, and even managed to say it condescendingly.

Bernard nodded in agreement at this logic. “That does make sense.”

“No it doesn’t!” Corrine exploded.

Bernard said to Farland, “Will you please excuse me for as moment while I talk to my daughter?”

Farland said, “Indeed,” then gave Corrine a shifty glance that Bernard didn’t see, and wandered down the road a bit to do some window shopping.

“What’s up, kid?” Bernard asked her. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m acting weird?”

“I’m not saying he’s not weird, dear. I’m just saying that you are too. So what if he’s got some quirks? Like you said, there’s no conceivable reason for him to be impersonating a harpsichord repair man. To get onto a pirate ship, no less. If he can fix the darn instrument and thus make Warren calm down and rest so he can heal, then that is all I care about.”

She glared at Farland’s back but said, “I guess you’re right…” Farland was looking into the window of a gourmet dog food boutique, appearing to be surveying some baked-on-site bone-shaped biscuits and a pyramid of bejeweled food- and water dishes “For that special pooch in your life!” as the sign in the window said.

As she watched him at the window, she caught his gaze through the reflection. Had he been watching them though the window’s reflection? Creepy. There was definitely something more going on here than innocent harpsichord repair.

“Sweetheart, let it go. You’re just stressed from these past few days. The storm, Warren’s injury, your first time off a ship in your entire twenty-two years of life. There’s been a lot going on.”

Though she knew she was indeed a bit stressed, she also knew that stress didn’t make her imagine things. However, she supposed she might as well ignore this Farland’s weirdness and just keep an eye on him to make sure he didn’t try anything stupid. And of course, she didn’t have to worry for long. Once they were back on the pirate ship surrounded by a hoard of murderous thugs, she’d feel worlds safer. This Farland didn’t look like he would be able to hold his own in a fight against even the pirates’ scrawny, asthmatic cabin boy, Frank. “OK, Dad. I’ll let it go. But once he’s seen to the harpsichord and been paid, he is off the ship.”

Bernard nodded in agreement and went over to let Farland know that they were ready to move on. Corrine sighed and joined them.