Chapter 1: The Banquet Blast

In the Kingdom of Pufforia, people took three things very seriously.

Crowns.

Prophecies.

And not farting at dinner.

Benny Tootrick knew this because his uncle had told him twelve times on the cart ride to the castle.

“Do not touch anything shiny,” Uncle Bristle said, steering their wagon with one hand and balancing a stack of folded royal napkins with the other. “Do not speak to anyone important. Do not stare at the king. Do not sneeze on the duchesses. And above all, Benny, if your stomach starts making those little warning noises, you hold it in.”

“I know,” said Benny.

Uncle Bristle narrowed his eyes. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Because this is not just any meal. This is the Great Royal Feast of Fresh Peas and Buttered Beans.”

“I know that too.”

“The grandest meal in all Pufforia.”

“You’ve said that five times.”

“Twelve.”

Benny sighed and looked out at the towering castle ahead of them.

Castle Puff was even bigger than people said it was. Its silver-blue towers curled into the sky like swirls of whipped cream. Its windows flashed in the afternoon sun. Banners snapped in the wind, all embroidered with the royal crest of Pufforia: a golden crown floating above seven curling clouds.

Benny stared at it with a tight feeling in his stomach.

That feeling had nothing to do with beans.

He was only there because Uncle Bristle was the kingdom’s official assistant napkin deliverer, which was not an important job unless you asked Uncle Bristle, in which case it was one of the highest callings in civilized society. Usually Benny stayed home while his uncle worked, but today half the napkin boys had come down with Turnip Sneezes, and the castle needed every clean cloth in town.

So Uncle Bristle had brought him along.

“Just carry the small stack,” Uncle Bristle had said.

Then he had given Benny a stack so tall he could barely see over it.

By the time they rolled through the castle gates, Benny’s arms already hurt.

The courtyard was bursting with movement. Stable boys ran in every direction. Servants hurried past carrying trays of steaming food. Musicians tuned lutes and flutes near a fountain shaped like a heroic goose. A man in a powdered wig was shouting at three gardeners because one rosebush leaned slightly left.

Everything in Pufforia seemed more dramatic near the castle.

Uncle Bristle hopped down from the cart and pointed a stern finger at Benny. “Stay close. Walk carefully. Shoulders straight. Napkins high. No nibbling.”

“I was not going to nibble a napkin.”

“You nibbled a wax candle once.”

“I was six.”

“You knew better then too.”

Before Benny could answer, Uncle Bristle was already marching toward the servants’ entrance, muttering about proper fold angles and napkin dignity.

Benny followed, weaving through cooks and footmen and trays and ladders and crates of peas. There were peas everywhere. Great sacks of them. Bowls of them. Tiny silver spoons for scooping them. Buttered beans by the barrel. Buttered beans in polished serving boats. Buttered beans shaped into little towers.

“Why are there so many beans?” Benny whispered.

A passing cook heard him. “Because it is the Feast of Fresh Peas and Buttered Beans.”

That did not really answer the question.

Inside the castle, things only got stranger.

A woman with a clipboard shouted, “Napkins to the west corridor. Bean platters to the hall. Pea pyramids to the center tables. Emergency mint leaves to the royal platform.”

A nervous boy in a velvet cap ran by carrying a crystal bowl twice the size of his head.

Two footmen argued over whether the king’s chair should be polished clockwise or counterclockwise.

An old servant in white gloves gasped when Benny stepped one shoe onto a gold carpet stripe.

“Off the stripe!” she cried.

Benny leaped back so fast he nearly dropped all the napkins.

“Sorry!”

“That stripe is for ceremonial shoes only.”

“What kind of shoes are ceremonial shoes?”

“The ceremonial kind.”

Benny decided it was safer not to ask.

At last they reached the Grand Hall.

Benny had never seen anything so enormous in his life.

The ceiling rose so high it felt like a second sky. Hundreds of candles floated in iron chandeliers. The walls were lined with banners, portraits, shields, and ancient statues of kings who all looked as if they had never laughed once. Long banquet tables stretched from one end of the room to the other, already crowded with silver plates and shining goblets.

At the far end stood the royal platform, where the king’s great table sat beneath a giant stained-glass window of the Seven Winds of Pufforia. Colored light spilled across the floor in blue, gold, and green.

And right beside the royal platform stood a massive stone statue of King Bartholomew the Blustery, one of Pufforia’s oldest rulers. He had a square jaw, a stone cape, and a carved crown that looked heavy enough to flatten a horse.

Benny stared at the statue.

The statue stared heroically into the middle distance.

“Less gawking, more napkins,” Uncle Bristle hissed.

Together they placed folded napkins at every table setting, though in truth Uncle Bristle did most of the placing, since Benny kept getting distracted by everything. Trumpeters warming up near the doors. A table centerpiece made entirely of peas. A tiny noblewoman with a dog wearing a pearl collar. A man in green velvet sniffing every spoon before allowing it on the table.

“Why is he sniffing spoons?” Benny whispered.

“To check for polish fumes,” Uncle Bristle whispered back.

“Do spoons usually have polish fumes?”

“In a careless kingdom, yes.”

Pufforia, Benny decided, was a very unusual place.

Soon the guests began to arrive.

They swept in wearing silk and satin and feathers and jewels. Ladies in giant gowns floated like colorful clouds. Lords strutted in polished shoes, with chests puffed out so far they seemed one surprise away from tipping over. Advisors, dukes, duchesses, scholars, generals, and one man who introduced himself very loudly as Master of Ceremonial Salt all took their seats.

Benny stayed near the back wall with the servants, trying to make himself small.

That was not easy when Uncle Bristle kept pushing him into useful tasks.

“Water pitcher.”

“Bread basket.”

“Extra napkins.”

“Mint tray.”

Benny did his best.

He truly did.

But the entire hall made him feel like a smudge on a clean window. Everyone else seemed to know where to stand, when to bow, how to hold a tray, how to sit, how to blink, and probably how to breathe in a royal manner. Benny knew none of those things.

Worst of all, the smell of buttered beans floated through the room in warm, rich waves.

His stomach made a deep little wobbling noise.

Benny froze.

No.

Not now.

He shifted from one foot to the other and pressed a hand lightly against his middle.

Maybe it would pass.

It did not pass.

A line of musicians played a grand tune. Trumpets sounded. Drums rolled. Every guest rose.

The king entered.

King Cuthbert of Pufforia was round, rosy, and dressed in robes so heavy they probably needed their own servants. His beard was trimmed into a perfect silver puff beneath his chin. His crown glittered. His shoes shone. He waved to the room like a man who fully expected everyone to be delighted by him, and to be fair, everyone was.

Beside him walked Princess Petunia Sparkletoes, who looked about Benny’s age, though much less nervous and much more likely to tell someone exactly what she thought. Her dark curls were tied back with a ribbon, and her expression suggested she had already found several things wrong with the evening.

As the royal family took their seats, a man in gold robes stepped forward and banged a silver staff against the floor.

“Let it be known,” he boomed, “that by ancient custom, all shall remain in perfect silence during His Majesty’s First Bean Speech.”

The whole room went still.

Benny blinked.

First Bean Speech?

There was more than one?

Uncle Bristle, standing nearby with a tray under his arm, whispered without moving his lips, “Do. Not. Make. A. Sound.”

Benny nodded very carefully.

King Cuthbert stood.

He lifted his goblet.

The hall became so quiet that Benny could hear the candle flames flickering.

“My beloved people,” the king began grandly, “we gather tonight to honor the blessed harvest of the pea, the noble bean, and the everlasting winds of Pufforia, which guide our kingdom with strength, dignity, and grace.”

Benny’s stomach lurched.

He squeezed every muscle he had.

Not now.

Please not now.

King Cuthbert raised one hand. “For as my father said before me, and his father before him, a kingdom that honors the bean honors the crown itself.”

Benny’s eyes widened.

Something terrible was happening.

He shifted his weight. His shoes squeaked on the floor.

Uncle Bristle turned his head just enough to glare at him.

Benny tried to breathe through his nose.

He tried to think of quiet things. Snow. Mud. Blank walls. Cabbages.

It was no use.

The pressure in his stomach rose like a marching army.

The king spread his arms wide. “And so, on this most sacred evening, let every heart in Pufforia be fille,"

Benny Tootrick farted.

It was not a small fart.

It was not even a medium fart.

It was a giant, echoing, thunderously disrespectful fart that burst into the silence like a trumpet being sat on by a horse.

BRAAAAAPPPPPP.

The sound bounced off the high ceiling.

It rolled across the long tables.

It rattled goblets.

Candles flickered.

A spoon launched straight off a plate, spun through the air, and landed in a bowl of peas with a wet plip.

Someone shrieked.

One old advisor clutched his chest, whispered, “Good heavens,” and fainted directly into the lap of a baroness.

The musicians stared in horror.

A footman dropped an entire tray of butter rolls.

The king froze with his arms still open.

Princess Petunia slowly turned her head.

Every eye in the room locked onto Benny.

For one terrible second, nobody moved.

Benny felt his whole body go hot.

His ears burned.

His face burned.

His soul burned.

“I,” he said weakly, “am so sorry.”

Then came a cracking sound.

Crrrkk.

Everyone looked up.

A thin jagged line had appeared down the side of the ancient stone statue of King Bartholomew the Blustery.

Another crack split across its chest.

There was a grinding scrape of stone against stone.

And then, with a heavy clunk that echoed through the grand hall, the statue’s great carved crown slid from its head, tipped forward, and crashed onto the floor.

CLONNNG.

A gasp rushed through the room like wind through leaves.

The king lowered his arms.

A duchess dropped her fan.

Uncle Bristle looked like he might faint next.

Even Benny forgot to be embarrassed for half a second.

The crown lay on the marble floor at the base of the statue, tilted on its side.

The cracked stone face of King Bartholomew still stared forward, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody breathed.

Then, from the high table, a chair scraped sharply backward.

An ancient court scholar rose to his feet.

He was so old and thin that he looked like he might crumble if somebody sneezed near him. His robes trailed behind him like dusty curtains. His white eyebrows stuck out like frightened caterpillars. He lifted a trembling finger and pointed straight at Benny Tootrick.

His mouth fell open.

His eyes went huge.

And in a voice dry as parchment, he gasped, “It is him.”

The whole hall leaned forward.

The scholar’s finger shook.

“The prophecy,” he whispered. Then louder, with awe and terror tangled together in every word, “The prophecy has begun.”

Benny stared at him.

Then at the fallen crown.

Then at the horrified faces all around him.

Then at Uncle Bristle, who looked ready to leave the kingdom entirely.

Benny swallowed.

He had a very bad feeling that his evening was about to get much, much worse.