Medveditze stood by the door like a furry bodyguard. Imogen waited.
‘You pick up the chess pieces,’ said Yeedarsh. ‘I’ll light the torches.’ Imogen did as she was told. When the old man had lit every torch in the room, he pointed to the ceiling.
‘Can you read?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Climb up there and fetch me the black book called The Book of Winged Things.’
‘What?’
‘Or I’ll get you and your little friend thrown out. Miroslav is only allowed to keep you so long as the king allows it, and guess who has the ear of the king …’ He tapped his ear. There were hairs poking out of it.
‘Okay, okay.’
Yeedarsh tied a bit of cloth in a knot and handed it to Imogen. ‘Use this to carry the book,’ he said. Imogen put the makeshift bag round her neck and looked up at the bookshelf. The ceiling was a long way up and her feet were sore from running from the skret.
‘Come on, we haven’t got all night,’ said Yeedarsh. Imogen wanted to say that they had, but she bit her tongue.
She climbed slowly, searching for spaces where the books weren’t too big or too densely packed – spaces where she could fit a hand or a foot. A spider’s web broke on the crown of her head. The web’s creator scurried off.
When she was about halfway up, she paused to catch her breath. It was hard to see up here, away from the torches, but her eyes were adjusting. The books in front of her nose had strange names: The Witch of the Kolsaney Forests, A Myriad of Mushrooms, Blue Blood of Yaroslav.
‘Which shelf is it on?’ she called down.
‘The top one.’
Her left foot nudged something and she fumbled for a foothold. An ornament fell, smashing close to the old man. He cursed and shuffled away from the broken glass.
‘What’s the book called again?’ said Imogen.
‘The Book of Winged Things.’ His voice sounded distant. She didn’t dare look down.
And then she saw it. A shiny black poisonous toad of a book. The title was etched down its spine in green.
Imogen hesitated just long enough to wish she was at home. She wished for her familiar bedroom. She wished for crumpets and chores and the smell of Mum’s perfume. She wished she wasn’t so high up.
She put the book in the cloth around her neck and began her descent. The book banged against her knees as she climbed. A few minutes later, she stepped on to the floor and handed Yeedarsh his prize. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘An encyclopaedia of moths. Every single nasty species.’
Imogen inched closer. It wasn’t like any encyclopaedia she had seen before. There weren’t many words, just a few sentences per page, scrawled in wonky handwriting that bunched at the page edges. Most of the space was taken up by detailed illustrations of moths. But despite the detail they looked lifeless. At first, Imogen put it down to the shading. The artist hadn’t coloured in the right places to make the insects look three-dimensional. A bright purple moth was the size of a fingernail. A midnight-blue one had oversized antennae. The page had been extended to show their full length.
And then Imogen realised that they weren’t illustrations at all. They were real moths that had been flattened and sewn into the book. Some of them even looked like they had been killed by the book – as though the author had slammed the pages shut on the insects as they flew, pressing them like flowers.
Tiny blots of blood and smudges of shimmering wing-dust confirmed that her suspicions were correct. It must have taken a long time to collect them all.
‘Aha!’ cried Yeedarsh, triumphant. He pointed to the page with a yellowing nail. ‘Is THAT the moth you saw?’
The moth’s body was covered in fine fur. It had long antennae and grey wings that glistened if you looked at them from the right angle. Imogen recognised it instantly. ‘Yes, that’s my moth!’ It was horrible to see it like this: a specimen in a book. Next to it there were two words in spider-leg writing:
Mezi Můra
‘What does that mean?’ said Imogen.
‘Trouble,’ said Yeedarsh. ‘Mezi Můra are an ill omen. I didn’t think there were any left …’
‘What’s an omen?’
‘Don’t your peasant parents teach you anything? I suppose you don’t even know your shneks from your slimarks?’
Imogen blinked.
The old man rolled his eyes. ‘Skret have a kinship with moths,’ he said. ‘Moths like the dark. Skret like the dark. Moths creep and crawl. So do the skret.’
‘Moths are their friends?’
‘If monsters can have friends, yes. The Mezi Můra are the skret’s favourite species. They bring people bad luck.’ Yeedarsh wrinkled his nose. ‘A favourite beastie – have you ever heard of anything so disgusting?’
Imogen glanced at Medveditze, thinking she seemed very much like the old man’s favourite.
‘They might not look like much,’ continued Yeedarsh, ‘but the Mezi Můra are smart. They’re always making plans. Always up to no good.’
‘What about the other moths?’ said Imogen. ‘They can’t all bring bad luck.’
‘No,’ said Yeedarsh. ‘Most of them are too stupid to do any harm. Back in the old days, they used to carry messages. These days, they’re little more than a flappy pest.’ Yeedarsh slammed the book shut. ‘But … it’s possible that your moth has been sent for a reason. The fact that it’s a Mezi Můra is very troubling indeed. So, next time you see it, be sure to squash it flat.’
He put the book on the bottom shelf and shuffled over to the door. Medveditze was scratching her back against a giant sculpture of a naked woman. Imogen didn’t move. Her moth. Had it been tricking her all along? Had it really meant for her to be skret supper?
‘Come on, peasant,’ said Yeedarsh. ‘It’s time for bed.’
It was just before dawn when Imogen opened the door at the top of the second tallest tower. She was exhausted. She was planning to slip under the quilt and catch a few hours’ rest before the others woke up. What a surprise Miro and Marie would have when they saw her there.
But Marie wasn’t asleep. She was sitting by the fireplace with her hair sticking out at all angles and her bloodshot eyes fixed on her sister.
‘Oh,’ said Imogen. ‘You’re awake.’
‘Shhh!’ Marie eyeballed a pile of sheets at the bottom of the bed. The sheets snored softly.
Imogen hadn’t expected it to be like this. ‘Why are you awake?’ she said, whispering this time.
‘Why do you think?’ said Marie.
Imogen thought about leaving – going back out of the door, down the stairs and away from that stern face. But she was so tired.
She slumped into the chair on the other side of the hearth and put her feet up. She hoped she looked indifferent. ‘So, what happened?’ she said. ‘Did you have a nightmare?’
‘No.’
‘Miro hog all the covers?’
‘You know why I’m awake, Imogen. You and your stupid temper. Stomping off just because you didn’t get your way. You could have been killed!’
‘What do you care?’ snapped Imogen. ‘You clearly prefer Miro to me. Bet you don’t even want to go home. Bet you don’t remember what home is!’
‘Of course I want to go home, but home isn’t much good if you’ve been killed by skret. Mum doesn’t want us to be eaten by monsters – that’s what you said when we first arrived! Remember?’
Imogen couldn’t bear this. Who did Marie think she was? ‘Well, I am alive, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘No thanks to you.’
‘Oh yes. And who do you think sent Yeedarsh?’
Imogen stared intently at the candles on the mantlepiece.
‘Do you think he wanted to go out there at night?’ said Marie. ‘Do you think he cared whether you were okay? Because I’m telling you – he didn’t.’
‘I was doing fine,’ said Imogen, the blood rising to her cheeks.
There was a long pause.
‘You sent Yeedarsh to rescue me?’
/>
‘I got Miro to send him. I was worried about you.’
Imogen fiddled with a stray thread sticking out from her tunic. ‘I suppose that’s … I suppose I … thank you.’ She snapped off the thread. ‘And I’m sorry.’
The corner of Marie’s mouth twitched. ‘That’s okay.’
The morning bells tolled and the girls turned to look at the clock. A miniature planet flew anticlockwise, looping round all five of the clock’s hands. The hatch popped open and a wooden skeleton came out. It danced a wonky jig, took a bow and trundled back in. Imogen thought about the one-eyed man she’d met, the one who said he made clocks. Had he made this clock?
‘I preferred it when it did the hunter,’ said Marie, breaking Imogen’s train of thought. ‘So what did you do out there?’
‘Oh, you know, fought off a few skret. Showed them who’s boss.’ Imogen felt around for the dagger. She didn’t have it.
‘You fought skret?’ said Marie.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Wow. What else did you do?’
‘I found this.’ Imogen got up and handed the black box to Marie.
‘There’s gold in here,’ said Marie.
‘I know.’
‘Whose is it?’
Imogen shrugged. ‘One of the Royal Guards dropped it, but there’s something else …’
She waited until Marie had finished inspecting the rings. She wanted her sister’s full attention. ‘You know when you followed me through the door in the tree?’
Marie nodded.
‘Well, I was following someone too,’ said Imogen.
‘I didn’t see them.’
‘You wouldn’t have done. It was a moth.’
‘A moth?’
‘Yes. But it wasn’t like other moths. It was out in the daytime – in the rain. And it was like it knew me, like it wanted to show me something. I suppose I thought it was my friend.’
‘You thought an insect was your friend?’
‘Let me finish. Last night I saw the moth again and now I’m not so sure about it being friendly. It led me to a statue of a skret, and Yeedarsh made me look it up in the library. He says that my moth is the skret’s favourite and seeing it is a bad omen. That means bad luck.’
‘The skret’s favourite …’ said Marie. ‘So what are we going to do?’
‘I’m going to bed.’ Imogen kicked off her boots.
‘And after that?’
‘Breakfast.’
‘Imogen!’ cried Marie. ‘Don’t you see? If the moth was sent by the skret and the moth led you here, then the skret must know about the door in the tree. They must know how we can get home.’
Marie looked at Imogen as though she was waiting for the penny to drop.
Imogen narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh, you’re right,’ she said at last.
‘So we need to talk to the skret,’ said Marie.
‘But how? We’d have to find one. We’d have to find the skret that sent the moth.’
‘Don’t they have some kind of ruler?’
‘He’s called the Maudree Král,’ said a voice from under the sheets.
‘Where does he live?’ said Marie.
‘In a cave at the top of Klenot Mountain,’ said Miro.
‘Can we meet him?’
‘Impossible.’
‘A door in a tree is impossible,’ said Imogen, ‘and we need to meet the king of the skret.’
‘And you have to help us,’ said Marie. ‘Because you’re our friend.’
Under the covers, Miro sighed.
On the final morning of her visit, Anneshka sat in the king’s study. She’d found a spot in the corner of the room where the torchlight was good enough to do her needlework.
Drakomor was inspecting his collection of ancient coins. He sat at his desk, stacking the coins into towers.
The couple hardly spoke, at ease in each other’s company. A knock at the door disturbed their peace. ‘Who is it?’ called the king.
‘Petr and Jan Voyák of the Royal Guards, Your Highness.’
‘Let them in.’
Two men came into view. They edged round the king’s collection with all the daintiness of a pair of ballet-dancing hippos. When they stood in front of Drakomor’s desk, they bowed. They didn’t notice Anneshka, sitting in the corner between a marble pillar and a giant sculpture of a hand. She kept as still as a hunting cat.
She recognised the man with the round belly. He’d delivered the invitation to her parents’ house. She didn’t know the thinner man with the greasy comb-over.
Drakomor removed his monocle. ‘Petr and Jan,’ he said, ‘I expect you’ve come back from the jeweller’s with the rings? I am so looking forward to seeing them all polished and shining like new.’
Even from her hiding place, Anneshka could see that something wasn’t right. The thin man had a black eye and they both looked uncomfortable.
‘Don’t dither,’ said the king. ‘I’ve waited long enough.’
‘Your Highness, we have some bad news,’ said the fat guard.
‘What kind of bad news?’
‘It’s about the rings …’
‘What about them?’ The smile was slipping from Drakomor’s lips. He turned to the thin man. ‘Come on, Petr. You’re the Chief of the Royal Guards. Don’t hide behind your brother.’ Petr swallowed. Neither guard spoke.
‘What’s going on?’ snapped the king. ‘Got dumplings stuck in your throat?’
‘Sorry, Your Highness. No, Your Highness,’ said Petr. ‘The rings have been stolen.’
Drakomor sat back in his chair and ran his fingertips along his moustache. He let the silence stretch out.
The fat one, who must have been Jan, broke first. ‘We were ambushed!’ he cried. ‘There was nothing we could do. We were arresting a lesni woman for hunting when they sprang on us without warning.’
‘How many were there?’ demanded the king.
Petr smoothed down his comb-over with both hands as if that was the real cause of his distress. ‘One, Your Highness,’ he said.
‘One?’ The king stopped stroking his moustache. Anneshka suppressed a smile.
‘But she was very quick,’ blurted Jan. ‘I’ve never seen anyone run down an alley so fast.’
‘She?’ The king slammed his hand on the desk, making the coin towers tremble.
‘We caught the woman, Your Highness. You don’t need to worry about that.’
‘So you do have the rings?’ The guards looked at each other.
‘No.’
‘Well, who does?’
When Petr spoke, it was in a voice barely above a whisper: ‘A little girl.’
The king’s fist smashed into the coin towers. Money flew in all directions.
‘Are you seriously telling me,’ he bellowed, ‘that my finest soldiers were outsmarted by a child?’
The king pointed at the coins. ‘Pick them up.’ The men dropped to their knees. ‘And what did she look like, this amazing little girl? This child with the strength of one thousand men? Would you recognise her if you saw her in the street?’
‘Oh yes, Your Highness.’ Jan nodded furiously. ‘She was dressed like a boy, with short hair and trousers. Must’ve been some kind of disguise.’
‘And the woman that you caught. What do you know about her?’
‘She’s a lesni poacher, Your Highness,’ said Jan. ‘Caught hunting rabbits.’
‘I want to make an example of her,’ said the king. ‘But, before we do that, the child must be found. I don’t care if you have to round up every girl in Yaroslav and burn every house to the ground. You can say that the child will be spared. Offer a reward. That ought to get tongues wagging.’
‘The girl won’t be punished?’ said Petr, looking up with surprise.
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Very good, Your Highness.’
‘And if you don’t find the child – if my brother and his wife’s rings don’t turn up – you can be sure that I will be holding you idiots res
ponsible.’
The guards placed the coins on the desk and got to their feet. They saluted out of time with each other.
‘Why are you still here?’ demanded the king. ‘I want word putting out about the reward, along with a description of the girl. There’s no time to lose.’
‘There was one other thing, Your Highness.’ Jan reached into his pocket. ‘She left this behind.’ He pulled out a shred of cloth and handed it to Drakomor.
When the guards had left the study, Anneshka walked over to Drakomor’s desk. He looked like he’d forgotten she was there. His face changed when he remembered. ‘Sorry you had to witness that,’ he said.
‘No need to apologise. I actually quite enjoyed it,’ said Anneshka. ‘You were very … regal.’
She took the scrap of cloth from her beloved. It was dark blue, embroidered with stars. ‘A fine cloth,’ she said, feeling the velvet.
‘The finest,’ agreed the king. ‘In fact, it looks familiar. I think Miroslav has something similar …’
Anneshka seized her chance. ‘That reminds me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking about the prince.’ The king looked uncomfortable, but Anneshka kept going. Who knew when they’d be alone again. ‘I’ve been thinking that perhaps something ought to happen …’
‘Happen?’
‘… to him.’
Yeedarsh could tell by the way Anneshka looked at him out of the corners of her violet eyes that she despised him. But that wasn’t a problem. He felt little love for her. Every step she took was too graceful. Every glance was loaded with meaning. Her hands were tipped with fierce pointed nails and her face was shaped like a cat’s. Yeedarsh sometimes imagined he could see her tail swishing – the tip of it flicking at the bottom of her skirts.
The king hadn’t told Yeedarsh much about Anneshka. He hadn’t announced that he planned to marry her. He hadn’t even said he was considering it, but he didn’t need to. Yeedarsh could see that he’d fallen for the woman. He could see that she was beautiful too, but Yeedarsh was a traditionalist at heart. And the tradition had always been for the king of Yaroslav to marry a princess. Anneshka was not a princess. Not even close.
So during the midday meal, while Anneshka was packing for her return to her parents’, the old servant voiced his concerns about the lady’s ancestry. He did it as delicately as he could.
A Clock of Stars Page 10
