‘I don’t care who you are,’ said Imogen. ‘Move!’
‘Shan’t.’ The boy glowered at the sisters.
Imogen considered her options. There was a pair of axes hanging above the fireplace. They looked heavy. There was a crossbow by the door. She had no idea how to work that. And then she saw a sword mounted on the wall by the bed.
She climbed on to the headboard.
‘What are you doing?’ said the boy.
Imogen held on to the four-poster bed with one hand and reached for the sword with the other.
‘Leave that alone!’ cried the boy. Imogen grabbed the sword’s hilt. She tugged at it until it swung free. The boy let out a little squeak. The sword was heavier than Imogen had expected and it fell to the floor with a thud. Marie ran over, suddenly wide awake and eager to help. She picked up the sword with two hands.
‘Now,’ said Imogen, jumping down from the bed, ‘stand aside.’
The boy’s face fell. ‘Shan’t,’ he said, sounding a little less certain than before.
The sisters advanced. Marie was slashing at the air in a way that made Imogen nervous. ‘All right, Marie, rein it in,’ she hissed.
‘I’m not doing it on purpose,’ said her sister. ‘It’s really heavy.’
The boy’s eyes followed the blade. ‘You can’t go!’ he said, standing his ground. ‘Not until after dinner! It isn’t fair!’ At the last moment, he lost his nerve and dived to the right, leaving the door exposed.
Marie dropped the sword. Imogen opened the door and hurtled down the spiral staircase. ‘Come on!’ she called to her sister. ‘Follow me!’ But she didn’t get very far. She collided with a figure who was coming up the stairs. She stumbled back into the boy’s room, tripping and landing on top of Marie.
‘What’s this?’ said the figure. ‘A pair of peasants come to steal from His Royal Highness?’
‘We didn’t steal nothing!’ said Marie passionately.
‘Anything,’ corrected her sister.
‘Is that so?’ said the figure, stepping into the light.
An ancient man in a black robe stood wheezing in the doorway. His face was shrivelled and deathly white. He looked like a creature that had lived under a rock for too long. When he’d caught his breath, he pointed at Imogen and Marie.
‘We’ll let the king decide what to do with you two,’ he said.
‘Oh, Yeedarsh, it’s you!’ said the boy.
‘At your service,’ said the old man, giving a shaky bow. ‘I caught these thieves escaping down the staircase. I’ll get them taken to the dungeons, Your Majesty. Don’t you worry. We’ll find out how they broke in.’
Marie hid behind Imogen and Imogen turned to the boy. ‘We’re not thieves,’ she said. ‘Go on – tell him.’
The boy folded his arms and looked out of the window so Imogen couldn’t see his face.
‘Oh, we’ve got plenty like you down in the Hladomorna Pits,’ said Yeedarsh, and his mouth curled into a nasty smile. ‘Plenty who say they didn’t do it. But they always come clean in the end.’ He wet his lips, eyes darting between the boy and the two girls. ‘Don’t they, Your Highness?’
‘Um … yes. They do.’
‘I’ll get the Royal Guards,’ said Yeedarsh. ‘They’ll be no more trouble for you. Or perhaps we could just throw them out the window? Save ourselves the bother?’
The boy glanced around as if unsure what to say.
‘That’s what we used to do when we were short of room in the Pits,’ continued the servant. ‘Your grandfather never regretted tossing his enemies out of the window. Apart from that one who landed in a pile of manure. Hopped off with nothing but a sprained ankle—’
‘Yeedarsh, you’re getting carried away,’ said the boy.
‘Well, what do you want to do with them?’
There was a long pause.
‘What time’s tea?’ asked Imogen.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ snapped Yeedarsh, scrunching up his face so it looked like an old tissue.
‘We were going to stay for tea,’ she said quietly. The boy didn’t turn round. Imogen held her breath.
‘Pah! Thieving peasants for dinner?’ croaked Yeedarsh. ‘Our prince would rather dine alone than with the likes of you. Isn’t that right, Your Highness?’
‘Dine … alone?’ said the boy.
‘Yes. As you always do, Your Majesty.’
‘Why would I do that when I have guests?’ He nodded at Imogen and Marie.
‘Guests? You mean to say you invited these … people into the castle?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why? Does the king know? He ought to know.’
‘Just leave it with me, Yeedarsh,’ said the boy.
Yeedarsh was visibly perplexed. He kept making as if to leave and then coming back, opening his mouth and then closing it again.
‘We’ll be wanting breakfast for three,’ said the boy. ‘Tell the kitchens.’
‘Er … very good,’ said the old servant. ‘But, if any of the silver cutlery goes missing, your uncle will have their heads. I’ll be counting the spoons …’
After breakfast, Imogen and Marie were given clear instructions on how to spend the hours before dinner. The boy said they were to play around the castle, but they mustn’t venture outside. They should return to the room at the top of the second tallest tower when the bells sounded at dusk.
The castle was so big and sprawling that the girls had no problem avoiding grown-ups. There hardly seemed to be anyone around. Instead of people, the castle was populated by strange and beautiful objects. Some rooms housed a few decorative items; others were so full that you could hardly open the door.
In one room, there was a large group of ferocious-looking warriors. At first, Imogen was terrified, but she soon realised that they were just suits of armour.
Marie tried on a helmet. ‘We’d better not be asked to eat anything with its face left on,’ she said. The helmet covered her eyes and nose, but her mouth continued to talk: ‘If he serves fish, I’m out of here.’
Another room was entirely dedicated to paperweights. There were paperweights of blown glass and paperweights of metal. There was even a wooden one carved into the shape of a bear. The room had a large window that overlooked the square that the girls had run across the night before.
‘There are the city walls,’ said Marie, ‘and the meadows we walked through to get here.’ Imogen joined her at the window.
Beyond the meadows there were forests and mountains. They seemed to enclose the valley, leaving no way out. The forests were dark and deep and the mountaintops were as sharp as arrowheads. Some of the trees were already turning gold, which was strange because at home it had been the start of the summer holidays.
‘Imogen, how are we going to find the door among all those trees?’
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ conceded Imogen. ‘We could go now, try to retrace our steps.’
‘What … not stay for tea?’
‘That boy isn’t going to stop us. He wouldn’t even know we’d gone until it was too late. He said he has his own affairs to attend to.’
‘But we promised we’d stay for tea,’ said Marie.
‘I don’t remember promising anything.’
Marie pressed her lips together in the way that she did when she was thinking. ‘What if the monsters are still out there?’ she asked.
Imogen looked down at the square where some kind of market was taking place. It didn’t seem as if there were any monsters, but she could still remember that terrible screeching and the fear of being chased. A shiver ran down her spine.
‘Perhaps it is worth staying for tea,’ she said. ‘Perhaps, if we play the boy’s little game, he’ll help us get home. He might even know how to make the door in the tree open.’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ said Marie, brightening. ‘With a bit of help from someone who lives here, we’ll be back with Mum in no time.’
Imogen nodded. There was a thoug
ht buried so deep in her mind that she was barely aware of it, but it was there all the same: the castle was interesting, and so was the city, especially now there were no monsters. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if Mum had to wait for them to come home. Maybe it was only fair.
After all, if Mum could go off with her ‘friends’, leaving Imogen behind, then Imogen could do just the same.
Prince Miroslav – whom Imogen thought of as the boy – never told his guests exactly how he spent that day.
He didn’t tell them that he’d been frantically making arrangements for the evening: instructing cooks, sending servants on errands. He wanted it to appear normal. He wanted the girls to think he had guests for dinner every week.
He certainly never told them how his belly squirmed as he approached his uncle’s study. Two guards stood to attention on either side of the entrance. ‘Is King Drakomor in?’ Miroslav asked.
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
He struggled with the heavy door, prising it open just wide enough to squeeze through.
The king had shut the sun out of the room, but it wasn’t to protect delicate parchment. There were very few books in this study. Instead, the shelves held golden trinkets, rare ornaments and precious stones.
The study was becoming increasingly crowded. Prince Miroslav had to suck in his tummy so he could fit past an enormous painted vase. That was a new one.
The king magpie, collector of it all, sat at his desk in the centre of the room.
One jewel, mounted on a marble base, stood taller than Miroslav. As he walked behind it, his figure turned orange.
‘Miroslav, is that you?’
Miroslav froze like an insect in amber. ‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘Don’t skulk. I can’t bear skulkers. Especially not among my collection.’
Miroslav peeped out from behind the jewel. ‘Sorry, Uncle,’ he said.
‘You didn’t touch that vase, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Good. It’s five hundred years old, from the Nerozbitny Dynasty. The only one of its kind.’
Miroslav didn’t know how to respond to that information.
King Drakomor was busy at his desk, cleaning a necklace with a tiny brush. He was wearing a single glass lens, so that, when he turned to Miroslav, it was with a blinking, oversized eye.
He didn’t look like his nephew. His nose was smaller, straighter. He was fair-skinned with grey, close-set eyes, and he wore his hair parted to the side, as was the fashion. Miroslav sometimes wondered if his uncle would love him more if they looked alike.
‘Why are you here?’ said the king, putting down the necklace. Miroslav’s heart beat fast in his chest. What if the old servant, Yeedarsh, had got here first? What if he’d told Miroslav’s uncle to send the girls to the dungeons?
‘Out with it,’ said the king, and he drummed his fingers on the table so his rings tapped against each other.
‘You know how I don’t have a tutor at the moment,’ said Miroslav.
‘How could I forget? Yeedarsh never shuts up about it.’
‘Well, I was wondering if, in the meantime, perhaps I might have some other children to play with?’
The king raised an eyebrow, sending the glass lens tumbling to the desk. ‘What other children?’ he said.
‘Oh, just a few friends.’
‘You don’t have any friends.’ The king didn’t say this unkindly, but in a matter-of-fact way. Still, Miroslav flinched.
‘They’re just a couple of peasants I met when I was visiting the market,’ he said. ‘No one important.’
‘Peasants? I don’t want them stealing my collection,’ said the king. ‘And I don’t want you picking up their dirty habits.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And I certainly don’t want you getting in my way. I’m expecting some guests of my own. I can’t have a load of children running around.’
‘You won’t see us, I promise. You won’t even know we’re here.’
‘Hm.’ The king stroked his moustache.
‘Please, Uncle,’ said Miroslav.
King Drakomor put the glass lens back in his eye and continued to polish the necklace. He didn’t look up as he spoke: ‘All right, boy. You can keep them. But, if I so much as smell a child over the next few days, your little friends will be thrown out after dark, to be killed by the skret. Do we understand each other?’
Before Miroslav could answer, the king jumped up. ‘Damn it!’ he shouted, climbing on to the desk. ‘It’s one of those moths – the ones that eat cloth.’ The king swatted the air above his head. ‘If that thing has got at my silk, there’ll be hell to pay!’
A pale purple moth fluttered above him, just out of reach. ‘Quick, boy, go and fetch a servant!’ cried the king. ‘Tell them to bring a net!’ The moth flapped away, circled the giant orange stone and settled on the five-hundred-year-old vase. Miroslav followed it.
‘Kill that moth!’ shouted the king. Miroslav could hear his uncle scrambling down from the table.
He approached the vase cautiously. The moth was beautiful, with wings like faded peacock feathers. His uncle was advancing at speed. ‘Move out of the way!’ cried the king.
Miroslav pounced. He caught the insect in his cupped hands and hopped aside. His uncle came careering towards him, tripped over a stuffed lynx and – for a moment – was suspended in mid-air, before he flew towards the vase.
There was a terrible crash followed by a howl. The guards dashed in and Miroslav dashed out. He ran to the nearest window and released his prisoner. The moth fluttered away, leaving spots of silvery dust on his palms.
The evening began like clockwork. The sun slipped down and, as if connected to it by invisible pulleys, the crescent moon swung into position. It was the kind of dusk where even a passing moth sounds mechanical – with the soft whirring of wind-up wings.
The stars turned on, the city lights turned out and, at the top of the second tallest tower, the stage was set. A long table had been erected. It was piled high with tempting delicacies: candied orange peel, airy pastries filled with lemon curd and pistachio truffles. The boy had lit the candles again and the room was ablaze with light.
Servants, balancing a dish in either hand, careered past each other, with all the pace and poise of prima ballerinas. There were too many of them for the space, but somehow they managed their movements without touching each other. Conducting the performance, standing on a chair so his gestures could be seen, was the boy.
Imogen entered the room and looked about in amazement. Marie stared too, her eyes like saucers. The boy clapped his hands and the dance came to an abrupt end. ‘Please,’ he said, hopping down from his chair. ‘Have a seat.’ Chairs were pulled back. Napkins were placed on laps.
The only diners seemed to be Imogen, Marie and the boy. He’d changed his outfit for the occasion, and was now sporting a blue tunic covered in gold stars. His boots had pointy toes and flared out at the top, where they almost touched his knees.
‘Sparkling wine, madam?’ asked a servant with a curled moustache.
‘Er, no thank you,’ said Imogen, wrinkling her nose.
‘Perhaps some Parlavar?’ The servant brandished a bottle of pink liquid. Imogen shook her head.
‘Red Ramposhka?’
‘I’m eleven,’ said Imogen. ‘I normally drink lemonade.’
The servant straightened up. ‘Hmm, limon-eeeed. I’m afraid we don’t have that vintage.’
There was a lot of cutlery. Five knives, six forks and three spoons. Imogen caught sight of her warped face in a dessertspoon. What on earth, she wondered, was she supposed to do with all this?
A chain of servants passed dishes up and down the spiral staircase – taking away the empty plates and bringing up more food. During one course, a violinist played and Marie clapped along, even though it wasn’t the right kind of music for that.
At the end of the third course, Imogen turned to the boy. ‘Isn’t it strange?’ she said. ‘We’re all here
, eating together, but we haven’t even been properly introduced.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Your name would be a good start.’
The boy cleared his throat. ‘I’m Prince Miroslav Yaromeer Drahomeer Krishnov, Lord of the City of Yaroslav, Overseer of the Mountain Realms and Guardian of the Kolsaney Forests.’
‘And what do people call you?’ said Imogen.
‘Your Highness.’
‘No, I mean what do your friends call you?’
The boy looked uncomfortable. ‘Your Royal Highness?’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Imogen.
‘You can call me Prince Miroslav, son of Vadik the Valiant … or Miro. That’s the name my mother used.’
‘Miro,’ said Marie. ‘That’s a nice name.’
They tucked into the fourth course: honey-roast pig and steaming, buttered veg. Imogen attacked it with a soup spoon. Marie tried the fish knife.
‘Don’t you want to know our names?’ asked Imogen. Then, not bothering to wait for an answer, she said, ‘I’m Imogen Clarke and she’s Marie Clarke. We’re sisters.’
‘Sisters. I se—’
Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by a terrible scream. The girls dashed to the nearest window. ‘It’s the monsters again!’ said Marie. ‘It sounded like it came from over there.’ She pointed to the city outskirts.
Miro helped himself to mint tea and waited for his guests to return to their seats.
Imogen peered at him. ‘You don’t seem very concerned.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s normal.’
‘What are they?’ asked Marie.
‘The skret,’ said the boy.
‘Skretch?’
‘Well, you certainly can’t be from the forests if you’ve never heard of skret.’
‘We’re not really from the forests,’ said Marie. ‘Please … tell us about the monsters.’
‘The skret are nocturnal mountain creatures,’ said Miro. ‘They’re not much bigger than you or me, but they have bald heads like old men and they can see in the dark. Their teeth are sharp and their hands are clawed. Sometimes they walk like humans and sometimes they crawl like spiders. They come down from the mountains at dusk, running through the city and killing anything they find. If you don’t have skret where you’re from, you’re lucky.’ He took a sip of his tea. He was clearly enjoying having an audience.
A Clock of Stars Page 4
