I told him how I’d seen Katya’s blue toenails. Katya asking me to pass on the message, and my promise not to tell a soul. The tall, thin waitress. Hiding by the lake. I pointed to the boat under which I’d hidden, still lying upside down just along the bank from us. Seeing the boat brought my tale to vivid life for him (my father said).
I told him about the people I’d heard eating toffees and saying they wouldn’t send protection for my school. How I’d decided it was my job to protect the school, and how I’d gathered items from the kitchens and garden shed and so on, and how I’d been patrolling the walls, watching from the windows. How Imogen and Astrid had been away swimming and helping the mayor.
How I’d been alone.
I talked very quickly, my words spilling over each other. I told him all about my encounters with Witches, Sterling Silver Foxes, Radish Gnomes and Sirens.
Father went quite pale at several parts of my story. He didn’t speak, just nodded as I talked, shaking his head at some bits, widening his eyes, and muttering, ‘What?’
When I described chasing Shadow Mages away, he was absolutely still, his face whiter than paper.
‘And I’ve been so tired,’ I said, trying not to cry, ‘and it’s hard to get my homework done, and there are still two weeks before the Spellbinders come, and—’ It was tricky saying all this without crying again, ‘—and now I’ve betrayed Katya because I’ve broken my promise not to tell.’
I finished by telling him about the three demerits, the detention and missing the twilight picnic. For some reason, this did make me cry again, properly—sobbing, really.
Father hugged me fiercely. ‘So unfair! All the work you’d done protecting the school and you’re rewarded with detention? And missing out on the twilight picnic! Ridiculous!’
A few moments later, he murmured, ‘Still, what with breaking into kitchens and garden sheds, stealing school property and running around the forest in the middle of the night, you could technically have been expelled about fifty times over.’
He chuckled a little, and I did too. He couldn’t really stop chuckling for a while, and I accidentally joined in because, it turned out, you could also fall from crying into laughter.
After we’d laughed for a while, Father became serious again.
‘A tall, thin waitress, you say? At the Orange Blossom Teashop?’
‘Yes. With a silver apple pendant.’
‘Back soon,’ he promised.
He ran up the stairs and onto the street. I waited on the bench. A few parents and students from Katherine Valley strolled by, some smiling at me.
Not long after this, Father came down the steps again, the waitress beside him. Following them was a square-shouldered man with an important nose. I mean that his nose seemed to be proud of itself, and to take up a lot of room in the world. I knew who it was. Carson Brody. Local mayor. Astrid’s employer.
The three of them turned right and stopped on the far side of the upturned boats. They waited until there were no passers-by about, and then Father began talking.
I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could hear his tone. Grim and angry. Now and then, both the waitress and the mayor interjected. The mayor, I realised with surprise, was the owner of the other voice I’d heard from underneath the boat.
Now and then, Father’s words became a kind of roar, and both the mayor and waitress touched his arm, trying to quieten him.
Once, I heard Father half-shout, ‘Carabella–the–Great!’ and then something-something-something.
Eventually, all three voices lowered to murmurs, then the waitress and mayor shook Father’s hand, and hurried up the stairs and away.
Father stood with his back to me for a moment, then strolled towards the bench, whistling. He sat beside me.
‘Right then, Esther,’ he said. ‘All sorted.’
‘All sorted?’
‘An experienced Spellbinder will be at your school within the next hour. He or she will set up a solid Spellbinding around the perimeters. It will keep the school safe at least until the Spellbinding conference begins in two weeks, and you, my child, can go back to being a schoolgirl.’
I stared at him. I’m sure my eyes were shining.
‘Another thing,’ he continued. ‘Katya asked you not to tell anybody about this, yes?’
I nodded, miserable again. He was going to remind me not to break promises.
But Father held up his hand: ‘You can always tell me anything. Understand?’
‘Well,’ I began, doubtfully, but he interrupted.
‘Esther,’ he said. ‘A promise not to tell never applies to your parents.’
‘It doesn’t?’
‘In fact, if somebody makes you promise not to tell your parents something? That actually means you probably should tell them. If you have excellent parents, I mean. Which you do.’
He was so serious that I nodded. ‘All right.’
‘Good girl. Come on then,’ Father brushed down his trousers. ‘I’ve been dreaming of those scones.’
‘Mother didn’t like them,’ I told him.
Father laughed. ‘Of course she didn’t. Let’s go join them—oh, wait a moment, mind if we pick up some shoelaces? Need them for my cover story.’
Back at the teahouse, Father ordered scones.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ Mother advised.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ he replied and asked for double scones, adding a strong coffee to his order. Then he turned to Imogen and Astrid.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘every single thing that has happened so far this term at Katherine Valley Boarding School, and every single thing that happened during your swimming tournament, Imogen, and during your tour with the mayor, Astrid.’
‘But wait, how did you get here?’ Imogen asked. ‘I thought you were out of reach!’
‘I was,’ Father agreed. ‘But I needed to travel back to this region for a meeting. And I wanted to see you and your mother.’
‘Hmph,’ said Mother.
‘What?’ Father asked, turning to her curiously. ‘Why hmph?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it’s good to see you.’
‘Of course, it is. You’re delighted. Hmph is just automatic with you even when you’re over the moon.’
Mother allowed a small smile, then rolled her eyes.
‘I’d hoped to get here by yesterday afternoon,’ Father continued, addressing my sisters and me. ‘But the meeting that was meant to end at noon yesterday carried on until well past noon today. Such a shame. I wanted to come to your Art Show and Classroom Visits today. Not to mention your twilight picnic last night, of course.’
All three of us girls glanced over at Mother, but she was squinting fiercely at the tea leaves in her pot.
Father’s scones arrived then. He took a mouthful and said these were the most delicious, mouth-melting, light-as-air delights he had ever eaten, and ordered extra for my sisters and me. My sisters chatted with Father, Mother drank her tea, and a piece of each of our scones, and I leaned back in my seat.
I felt wrung out. Lightheaded with relief. Zingy with joy.
No more getting up in the night to climb over the school wall. No more zipping up the stairs at morning tea and lunch. No more figuring out how to scare off Shadow Mages.
I could not believe it.
I was so dreamy, I closed my eyes, and might have been drifting off to sleep when Mother suddenly exclaimed.
‘Oh gosh!’ (That’s what she exclaimed.) ‘Almost forgot!’
She reached into her satchel and drew out a gold-embossed card.
‘You know the Stolen Prince of Cloudburst?’ she asked us.
‘You mean Alejandro?’ Imogen said.
‘Bronte’s friend?’ Astrid put in.
‘That delightful boy from the pirate ship? The one who later turned out to be the lost prince from the Kingdom of Storms?’ Father put in.
‘Yes, yes,’ Mother said impatiently. ‘The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst. Well, you know
how they’re having a big party to celebrate his return?’
We all nodded.
‘They’ve only gone and invited our whole family,’ Mother said.
That was such exciting news it needed a new chapter.
We all gasped.
‘Why would they invite us?’ Imogen breathed. ‘We don’t know the King and Queen of the Kingdom of Storms.’
‘But we know the prince,’ Astrid pointed out. ‘Remember? We met him at the Whispering Kingdom when Bronte was a hero! And he’s been living with Bronte since then so he’s practically our cousin too! He must have asked for us!’
Mother laughed. ‘Oh, you only met him for an afternoon! And we’ve not had any visits—too much work—so he wouldn’t remember you girls. But Bronte will be going, of course, and she must have been allowed to invite you. I can’t possibly attend, as I’m so busy—but I think your father is heading to Vanquishing Cove, which isn’t far from the Kingdom of Storms, and so it might work out that he could take you girls along?’
Father was nodding vigorously as he studied the invitation. ‘You’re right! I have a conference there, right around the time of the party. I could go. And bring the girls!’
My sisters and I prepared to gasp again, but Mother was talking. ‘I’ve looked into transport,’ she said. ‘And you’d have to leave tomorrow morning. You’d miss the next two weeks of school. And Imogen and Astrid have already missed the last two weeks! And after that, it’s not long before your poker jaunt! Can you miss that much education? Will you be able to do schoolwork while you travel, do you think?’
We all assured her, very earnestly, that we could.
Father spooned more cream onto his scones. ‘Wait a moment, I’m remembering something,’ he said. ‘It’s on the tip of my …’ He made a sudden swipe at his elbow. ‘Got it! It was on the tip of my elbow. Your father is a history professor!’
‘Is he?’ we exclaimed.
We were joking, of course. We know he’s a history professor. I mean, he’s been our father all our lives.
‘I am,’ Father nodded. ‘And therefore I can tutor my daughters! Missing school won’t matter! Let’s do it!’
Mother nodded. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘We’d better get you back to school so you can pack—and maybe spend this afternoon doing as much homework as you can in advance? We’ll talk to your principal. What’s her name again?’
‘Principal Hortense,’ we all replied at once—including Father.
Mother called for the bill.
My sisters and I were in our pyjamas. So was my father. His pyjamas are blue-and-white striped. Imogen’s are spotted with rosebuds, Astrid’s with balls of yarn and kittens, and mine have a friendly-snowman print.
That’s in case you want to know what our pyjamas are like.
We had plates of cinnamon toast and mugs of hot milk. Moonlight shone through the window—wait, what do you call a window on a ship? A pothole? No, that’s in the road.
A porthole.
It was the third day of our journey, and Father had been spooning honey into our hot milk when he remembered his promise to tutor us.
‘Righto!’ he said, excited. ‘Let’s get to it!’
He becomes very enthusiastic about schoolwork. This can be pretty irritating, to be honest. Otherwise, I like him.
We took out our workbooks. Right away, Astrid got buttery fingerprints on one of her books, and Imogen spilled milk on hers.
Meanwhile, Father had opened my Composition book and was reading my narrative account: The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst.
When he’s concentrating, his lips purse as if he’s whistling. Now and then he stopped pursing his lips and chuckled.
At one point, he looked up at me.
‘How old are you again, Esther?’
‘Twelve,’ I replied.
‘Twelve.’
Then he carried on reading.
When he finished, he read Mrs Pollock’s comment and now his mouth flew wide open. It no longer appeared that he was whistling, it was more as if he was stuck in a yawn.
Next, he took out a red pen and set to work editing Mrs Pollock’s comment.
He handed my composition book back to me.
Esther, yes, I have read much of this story, or its basic facts anyway, in the newspapers. is the best I’ve ever read. You have not made them more interesting here. Worse, you have tried to put yourself in the story. You might be related to some of these interesting people, but that does not make YOU are so interesting. Do not put yourself in stories where you do not belong. more often!
Also, do not begin sentences with the words ‘And’ or ‘But’. Do not break your sentences and paragraphs into pieces; it makes your tale very disjointed. Do not boast by saying that your asides are VERY ‘helpful’—that is not becoming. and I love how you break up your sentences in such funny, unexpected ways! Like syncopated rhythm! Fun!
I see that you stayed up past midnight to do your homework. Wow! That’s so dedicated of you! Well done! Dreadful behaviour. DEMERIT. As this is your third demerit, please accept my congratulations. attend Detention on Friday evening as punishment.
Finally, you began this story with the words, ‘Long ago, far away, on a damp and sniffly day’. Please write out the following, 100 times:
A DAY CANNOT ABSOLUTELY BE ‘SNIFFLY’! ORIGINAL! DESCRIPTIVE! LOVE IT! GENIUS!
C– A+++
Imogen read all this over my shoulder, scrambled for her history test, thrust it at Father and told him to please change her D+ grade to an A+++.
‘Of course,’ Father agreed, but then he studied Imogen’s test and said: ‘Imogen, your answers are all wrong. Even this one that’s been marked correctly is wrong actually. Mr Dar-Healey’s made a mistake there, or maybe felt a bit sorry for you and said to himself, oh, close enough. I’m afraid I can’t change this grade. I am an historian, remember, so this is more or less my area of expertise. I’d have given it an F, to be honest. I could change it to an F if you like? Yes, actually, hand me that pen, and I’ll—’
Imogen grew very loud and passionate, shouting: ‘DON’T YOU DARE!!!’ and snatching her book away, but then, when she realised he was only joking about the F, she went back to trying for an A+++.
‘You must treat all your daughters equally,’ she reasoned. ‘If you change Esther’s grade to an A+++ then you must change mine. Otherwise, I will forever believe that you love Esther more than me. Is that what you want? Is it?’
And so on.
I mean, she was joking herself but she got caught up in the splendour and sense of her argument (as she put it), and became so thunderous that the person in the next stateroom thumped on the wall.
Father laughed loudly, congratulated Imogen on her debating skills, and said, ‘Great lesson, girls, well done. Let’s call it a night.’
And we climbed into our bunks and fell asleep.
The next morning at breakfast, Father frowned at the coffee pot.
There was nothing wrong with the coffee pot. It was shiny silver with an elegant lid. That’s just what Father does when he’s thinking deeply: chooses an innocent object and glares at it.
After a while, he reached out a finger, flicked the coffee pot, turned to me and said, ‘This Mrs Pollock.’
There was a pause.
‘Yes?’ I prompted. ‘My teacher?’
‘You say you like her?’
I nodded. I’d already told him about Mrs Pollock, and how much fun she is. ‘She’s funny!’ I reminded him. ‘At first, everyone was frightened, because we thought she was an Ogre.’
‘An Ogre,’ Father nodded. ‘Well, you would be frightened.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But she’s not. She’s tiny. And she does silly faces and voices! We never stop laughing.’
Astrid, I noticed, was frowning intently at me, as if I was a coffee pot.
Father himself shifted his frown to the chandelier. It was swaying gently above us.
‘I mean,’ I said, ‘it’s true that s
he’s sometimes stricter than other teachers, and tougher at marking. But that means she’s a good teacher. She’s helping us improve.’
‘Hmm.’ Father’s frown reached the pastry basket. ‘So you think your work is improving because of Mrs Pollock?’
At this point, I should say, we were in the ship’s dining room.
Through the windows, the day was calm, islands passing now and then, like creatures rising from the ocean surface before sinking down again. The ship rocked softly.
The ship, by the way, was the Riddle and Popcorn Cruise Ship. My Aunts Maya and Lisbeth are captains, and talented sailors. As we are related, we always sat at the Captains’ Table.
Mostly, though, the aunts did not dine with us. We hardly saw them for the entire voyage, actually. Aunt Lisbeth apologised for this, saying, ‘The ocean currents are acting up! Running in the loopiest directions—no time to scratch our rear ends!’
And Aunt Maya added, ‘Sea creatures popping up in the entirely wrong part of the ocean! It’s the cat’s pyjamas! A real hoot!’
Still, they both looked more lined, puffy-under-the-eyes and old than I remembered them.
(‘You mean they look tired,’ Father corrected me, when I mentioned this.)
They were not at the Captains’ table this morning either, which was a shame as I was beginning to feel itchy.
‘Yes, of course my work is improving!’ I said—or maybe snapped. I didn’t know why I felt cranky suddenly, I just did. ‘Why don’t you ask Astrid more about working for the mayor? Ask Imogen more about her swimming tournament!’
Astrid and Imogen both straightened in surprise.
‘Well,’ Astrid said, after a beat. ‘I could tell you about the day when the mayor fired me.’
‘He what?!’
We all swung to look at her.
Astrid reminded us that her job had been to listen behind glass as the adults took turns speaking.
‘There was a button to push to talk into the mayor’s earpiece,’ she said, ‘and tell him who was lying. Well, one day the mayor himself was talking, and he started lying. I pressed a different button and told the whole room.’
The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst Page 18
