Chapter 3 - The Four Warring Kingdoms
At six o'clock the following morning, the Ralston mansion was shrouded in a thick, eerie gray fog.
Hannah stepped out of her bedroom dressed in clean black denim, a dark green sweater, and sensible leather boots. Ethan was still fast asleep under the heavy down comforter in his room, looking smaller and safer than he had in months.
She walked down the long carpeted hallway toward the boys’ wing, preparing herself for the inevitable morning ambush.
She reached the massive wooden double doors marked with four different colored nameplates: MASON (Red), NOAH (Blue), OLIVER (Green), and THEO (Yellow).
She didn't knock. She turned the brass handle and stepped inside.
The boys’ suite was less of a bedroom and more of an indoor tactical compound. Four raised loft beds lined the walls, each customized with climbing ropes, wooden slide exits, and built-in desks overflowing with Legos, circuit boards, books, and half-finished drawings.
In the center of the room, the four boys were huddled together over an iPad screen, illuminated by its blue light.
“If we put the maple syrup in her boots,” Mason whispered, his voice dripping with sinister intent, “she won't be able to run after us when we hide in the greenhouse.”
“No,” Theo countered, pointing his small finger at the screen. “The greenhouse has the old lock. She can lock us in. We need to grease the top step of the main staircase.”
“If you grease the staircase,” Hannah’s voice cut through the air like a silver bell, “I’ll break my neck, the police will come, they’ll put your father in jail for hiring an unsafe house, and you four will be sent to four different boarding schools in North Dakota.”
The four boys jumped, Mason almost dropping the iPad onto the floor. They spun around, staring at her in absolute shock.
“How did you get in here?” Mason gasped. “The floorboards outside the door creak!”
“I walk on the edges near the baseboards where the joists are supported,” Hannah said, walking over to the wide velvet curtains and pulling them open with a sharp tug. Bright, cold morning light flooded the room. “Basic carpentry. Now, get out of bed.”
Noah rubbed his eyes, squinting at the light. “It’s Saturday. We don't have school.”
“I know,” Hannah said, folding her arms across her chest. “Which means you have two choices today. Choice A: You stay in this room, plan your little pranks, and I spend the whole day confiscating your iPad, your syrup, and your grease, while making you write apology letters to the nineteen nannies you drove out into the rain.”
Mason narrowed his eyes. “What’s Choice B?”
“Choice B,” Hannah said, a slow, mysterious smile touching her lips, “is that you dress in your warmest clothes, come downstairs, and help my son Ethan build a fort out of the three hundred cardboard shipping boxes sitting in your father’s garage.”
The four boys blinked.
Oliver, who hadn't spoken a word since Hannah arrived, sat up in his loft bed. “Three hundred boxes?”
“Your father receives defense supply shipments every Tuesday,” Hannah explained. “The garage manager hasn't recycled the boxes in two months. They’re stacked eight feet high.”
Theo’s eyes lit up with wild, unholy excitement. “We can build a siege castle.”
“With a drawbridge,” Noah added, sliding down his wooden loft slide and landing on his feet.
Mason looked between his brothers, feeling his authority slipping away once again. He scrambled down from his bed, standing in front of Hannah with his small hands shoved into his pajama pockets.
“You’re lying,” Mason declared. “Nannies don't let us build cardboard castles. They make us do Kumon math sheets and play violin.”
“I don't play the violin,” Hannah said calmly, leaning down until her nose was six inches from his. “And I don't give a damn about Kumon until you learn how to make your own beds. You have ten minutes to put on pants, or I’m giving the best boxes to Ethan.”
She turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open.
Five seconds of silence passed.
May you like
Then, a chaotic explosion of rustling sheets, flying pillows, and frantic shouting erupted inside the room as four six-year-old boys fought over their socks.
Standing around the corner in the dark hallway, Victor Ralston lowered his coffee mug, a rare, faint shadow of a smile flickering across his face before he turned and headed down to his study.
