Phillip had made it impulsively and meant it absolutely, but that wasn’t the same as having a plan. And it seemed all he could think of were the things Maleficent would be able to do if only she weren’t surrounded by iron, like bending the bars or perhaps turning him into an ant the way she had turned Diaval into a dragon. Then he could walk out of the prison, get the keys, and free her.

The more he thought and thought without having a single useful idea, the more he felt like the callow youth he had denied being.

But then, after all, he did have an idea.

He would wager that just as Maleficent had entertained an idea of who he was, the guards did, too. They had heard Lord Ortolan call him a prince. So he would behave like one.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Guards! Hullo!”

“What are you doing?” Maleficent hissed.

“I’m cold and hungry,” he informed her, pitching his voice loudly enough to be heard outside the room, “and unused to hardship.”

After a few minutes of Phillip’s shouting as loudly as he could, a guard entered, bearing a torch.

For a moment, the light was so bright that it was painful to Prince Phillip’s eyes. He blinked against it, scowling. But now he could see the room. And he could see that another guard had come in after the first, this one with a set of iron keys dangling from his belt—the same iron keys he’d noticed when Lord Ortolan was giving his speech.

“What’s all this howling for?” asked the guard with the torch.

“We require water and food and blankets,” Phillip said in his best approximation of what people thought a petulant prince ought to sound like.

The guards laughed. “Oh, do you now, Your Highness? I suppose you think we’re servants at your beck and call?”

“I imagine that your master would like the full ransom from Ulstead rather than the war he will get if I go missing in the kingdom of the Moors.” The guards shared a glance. No, Phillip thought. Between that look and Lord Ortolan’s words, he could tell they knew he was never intended to go home. “You can’t expect me to believe that ridiculous story we were told about murder. No one would wish to begin their reign by inviting their neighbor to make war on them.”

“You’re probably right,” agreed one of the guards.

“And,” continued Phillip, “even a doomed man is given a last meal. Should your master really mean to put a period to my life, I can’t believe he would do so without feeding me decently.”

One of the guards shoved his torch into a holder with a sigh, relenting. “I’ll see what I can find you, Prince.”

He went out, which left only one guard—the one with the keys.

Perfect.