“You thievin’ little beggar!”
A hand clamped around his neck and, for a moment, Boy was frozen. Then he fought. He kicked and punched and scratched, but nothing worked. The fist refused to loosen. Wriggling, he tried to see who held him. It was a man, solid and squat and wearing what was surely the brightest red waistcoat in the whole of Edinburgh.
“Oi, Crimple. Sling this runt up there will you? He won’t be able to go nowhere.”
Another hand grabbed his collar. He was winched into the air, and brought face-to-face with a giant—one of the keepers who had tackled the Siberian bear. Hope bled away.
“Over here, Gov?” The keeper reached a tall column beside the pavilion gate. Once, a marble statue would have stood there, but now it was empty. Boy was thrown up. Roughly. The bricks scraped his shins.
“That’s the place. He won’t be shiftin’ in a hurry.” Red Waistcoat was already scurrying back towards the auction stage. “You keep an eye out. I’ll deal with him later.”
Boy glanced down and his stomach lurched. The ground looked far away. For one moment he considered jumping, but the cold spring had hardened the earth to rock. A fall was certain to break a bone, most likely one in his neck.
Desperately, he searched for another escape. The stage was only a stone’s throw away, but everyone’s attention was on the sale. And even if they saw him, it was unlikely anyone would help. He was trapped, his throat so clogged with fear he needed to breathe faster to get enough air.
“… I must tell you that Mr. Angus MacKeith, a leading butcher in this fair city, is keen to introduce elephant steaks to Scotland. I hope that will influence your bids, gentlemen. I’m certain none of us would want to see such a fine beast on our dinner plates.”
A hand snapped up.
“Yes, five hundred and fifty guineas—now with Mr. Albright. Will anyone give me five sixty?”
From his perch, Boy spotted Red Waistcoat waving furiously at the back of the bidders. A rush of anger mixed with his fear. This man was to blame. It was his fault that he was caught as firmly as a fish on a hook. Then Boy realized something; something which brought a small spark of satisfaction.
Red Waistcoat was in trouble of his own.
People had pushed forwards for the final sale, blocking the auctioneer’s view. What Boy could see, Mr. Trott could not. Red Waistcoat, and his attempts to bid for the elephant, might as well be invisible.
“Five hundred and sixty from Monsieur Clemontard of the Ménagerie du Jardin in Paris. Am I offered more?”
Frantically, Red Waistcoat waved again, but the auctioneer’s gaze was fixed on the front row. “Mr. Albright?” A nod. “That’s five seventy from you, Mr. Albright.”
The words seemed to jolt Red Waistcoat. Boy saw him whirl away from the stage like a scarlet spinning top. Puffing and panting, he broke into a waddling run, darting between the spectators. On another day, Boy would have laughed. Today, he couldn’t even smile. Red Waistcoat was heading back towards the column. But why?
“Raise your arm, lad. Raise your arm!” He was getting nearer. “Do it now. Now! I’ll not be outgunned by that Yorkshire cheat.”
Boy hesitated. It made no sense at all, but every instinct screamed that this was a golden opportunity. So how could he twist it to his advantage?
“Just put your arm in the air and wave. He’ll see you up there.” Red Waistcoat’s voice was growing more desperate as he got closer. Crowds still blocked his path. “Come on! COME ON!”
But Boy didn’t wave. He did something much better. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he whistled. Loud, clear, and shrill. The note soared over the heads of the spectators. They turned in one movement as though pulled by a single string. Boy made sure everyone was looking—and then he lifted his arm.
“Well, well! It seems we’ve a late bidder.” Peering across, Mr. Trott pointed with his hammer. “Five hundred and eighty … there on the column.”
“But he can’t.”
“He’s just a child!”
The shouts from the front row were loud enough for Boy to hear. He dropped his arm quickly. What had he done? After a lifetime of trying to stay out of sight, he was caught center stage. And there was no one to blame but himself.
“Of course he can.” Red Waistcoat had reached the column. He leant against the stone base, breathless but triumphant. “The lad’s with me. WITH ME!”
But Boy knew it was never going to be that easy. Nothing ever was. Sure enough, Mr. Albright was already pushing through the crowd, his gray whiskers quivering.
“This is outrageous, Mr. Trott. You can’t go along with it! I was invited on the understanding that this would be a fair sale among gentlemen. Not children. And certainly not grubby street urchins.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Albright, but as long as there’s money to back up the bid I have to accept it.” The auctioneer lifted his voice. “Mr. Jameson, if the boy’s with you, can I be assured you have the funds?”
“I’m good for five hundred and eighty guineas. And more besides that.”
“Then let’s finish this now.” Mr. Albright’s gold buttons rose on his chest. “I’ll give you six hundred and twenty. But that’s my final offer. You won’t get a better one.”
Faces turned expectantly. The sideshow wasn’t over yet. Boy looked down at Red Waistcoat. Even at this distance, he could see a gleam in the man’s eye.
“What say we go higher, lad? About seven hundred should do it.”
Never in his whole life had Boy imagined being in reach of so much money. It was just possible that seven hundred guineas could buy all the food in the city. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled.
“Seven hundred!” Red Waistcoat shouted. “SEVEN HUNDRED GUINEAS!”
Boy waved again and the crowd roared. For several moments, nothing else could be heard. Not even Mr. Albright’s protests.
“It looks as though the boy’s bought himself an elephant!” Mr. Trott brought his hammer crashing down. “Sold for seven hundred guineas to the Belle Vue Zoological Gardens in Manchester, owned by Mr. James Jameson.”
For one glorious moment, Boy actually believed Maharajah was his. It was as good as dipping for a sixpence and finding a sovereign instead. Maybe it was even better than that. And then he remembered. This wasn’t his victory. It wasn’t even his fight. And it certainly wasn’t his money.
On the ground below, Mr. Jameson was bouncing up and down on short legs like an excited toad, his red waistcoat bloated with pride. “I beat that snobby, stuck-up buffoon. I beat him fair and square.”
The crowd cheered again, so loudly that at first only Boy noticed Maharajah lumbering towards them. Then people were forced to shuffle aside. Boy envied them. If he had been on solid ground, he would have run until his legs gave out.
But he could only watch as Maharajah stopped in front of him. Gold eyes, bright as candle flames, stared back, then blinked.
Suddenly, the elephant swung his trunk.
Boy jerked away, then cursed his own stupidity. There was nothing behind him but air. He was going to fall, straight on to the cold, hard earth. In that terrifying half second, Boy wondered if it would be easier just to let it happen.
He never found out.
A tight grip stopped his dive backwards. Maharajah’s trunk curled around his wrist, warm and rough. Boy’s heartbeat slowed. The clever, gold eyes blinked again, and when they opened, he saw himself reflected back. A scrawny boy in stolen clothes. For a moment it was just the two of them.
“My good Lord, will you look at that! The lad and the elephant. They’re shaking hands.”
And later Boy realized that this was how it all began.
There is a triumvirate of angels without whom I could not be an author. I want to thank my husband, Sam Sparling, for the personal sacrifices he’s made for my writing career. He is my first reader, greatest cheerleader, and trusted partner in crime. Thank you to my dear friend Claire Rakich, beta reader extraordinaire. Her honesty, feedback, and en
thusiasm helped steer this story and all my stories. Special thanks to Jane Sparling, my mother-in-law, Nana Jane to my children, and the most generous and kind person I know. Without these three angels, Revenge of the Beetle Queen would be sitting on my desktop half-written.
I owe an immeasurable debt of thanks to Dr. Sarah Beynon, scientific consultant for this trilogy of books. She has helped me get over my fear of insects, letting me hold my first beetle, and has become a great friend. If you love beetles you should visit the Bug Farm, Sarah’s wonderful visitor attraction in Pembrokeshire, Wales, where you can handle insects and learn all about the little creatures that run the planet. More information here: www.drbeynonsbugfarm.com.
Huge thanks to the National Theatre for granting me a sabbatical, and especially Alice King-Farlow, who has been generous and understanding about every single thing. The year 2016 would have been a different experience without your support, Alice.
I want to thank my awesome agent, Kirsty MacLachlan, and everyone at Chicken House. Jazz, Esther, Laura, Sarah, and Kes, you are all awesome. Elinor Bagenal, I’m secretly in love with you, but you probably knew that. Thank you for sending the beetles out into the world and finding homes in over thirty countries. Thanks to my trusted editor, Rachel Leyshon—I hope you edit every single book I ever write. Thanks to Rachel Hickman for the amazing cover, and artwork for both books, which has made people pick them up and take a risk on an unknown author. I must thank the powerhouse that is Liz Hyder, a truly passionate and wonderful communicator, and a giant thank-you to Nick and Lori at Scholastic USA, Anja at Chicken House Germany, and all the wonderful people working in publishing companies around the globe bringing beetles into young people’s lives.
Barry Cunningham, you are the ultimate beetle champion. I never take your generosity for granted. A big heartfelt thank-you for everything you have done, and continue to do, for me and the beetles.
I would like to thank the Royal Entomological Society, and the entomological community, for embracing, celebrating, and supporting Beetle Boy, and forgiving me my fear of insects. In particular I would like to thank Peter Smithers, Simon Leather, Luke Tilley, Patrice Bouchard, and Max Barclay for their support and friendship; you are all heroes in my eyes.
My final thanks goes to you, the reader, and anyone who has written blog posts or reviews on Amazon, recommended my books, or given them as gifts, and especially to Michael Morpurgo for the quote on the cover. You are all wonderful.
A heartfelt thank-you, from me and your coleopteran friends.
If you want to do more, go to www.buglife.org.uk and get involved with the only organization in Europe devoted to the conservation of all invertebrates, everything from beetles to bees.
M. G. Leonard is a writer of books, poems and screenplays. She works as a freelance digital media producer for clients such as the National Theatre and Harry Potter West End, and previously worked as Senior Digital Producer at the National Theatre, Royal Opera House, and Shakespeare’s Globe. Her debut novel, Beetle Boy, was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year and a New York Public Library Best Book for Kids. She lives in Brighton, England, with her family. You can visit her online at www.mgleonard.com and follow her on Twitter at @MGLnrd.
Text copyright © 2018 by M. G. Leonard Ltd
Illustrations by Júlia Sardà copyright © 2018 by Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, CHICKEN HOUSE, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 as Beetle Queen by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
ISBN 978-0-545-85348-4
First edition, March 2018
Jacket art © 2018 by Julie McLaughlin
Jacket design by Baily Crawford
e-ISBN 978-0-545-85357-6
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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