The Flight of Dragons

by Vivian French

Tertius could bear it no longer. “Hang on a minute! Mrs. Basket makes the best custard ever!”

  “I didn’t say she didn’t,” Fedora said petulantly. “I was just trying to be ‘observant of the kitchen and what goes on there,’ like it says in The Handbook of Palace Management that Great-Aunt Gussie gave me as a wedding present. The next bit says, ‘Always inform Cook of your desires and wishes in a firm but kindly manner,’ so that was what I was doing. And then she went all huffy and said she’d never had any complaints before, so I said there was a first time for everything, and that was when she asked if you knew I’d come to see her and I said no. And then she sniffed and said she’d always thought you’d end up with a bossy young thing for a wife. She was rude to me, Terty, and I’m not having her in my palace!”

  There was a brief silence while Tertius wondered what would happen if he pointed out that it was a long way from being Fedora’s palace. His father, King Horace, was very much alive and active; indeed, at this precise moment, he was doing his best to make his daughter-in-law happy in her new home by finding a new palace cook. Deciding to play it safe, Tertius said, “Well. Let’s wait and see what Father says. Shall we go and play spillikins, darling one?”

  Fedora shrugged. “If you want. But I won’t feel better unless I have some chocolate.”

  “Dearest — I’ll send for a page this minute.” The prince tugged at a velvet bellpull, and there was a resounding clang! clang! clang! somewhere deep down below.

  In the servants’ quarters, three tall footmen, four middle-size housemaids, and five small pages leaped to their feet, but the head butler waved them back to their seats around the kitchen table with an imperious gesture. “Nobody leaves this kitchen until we’re in agreement,” he boomed. “A stand has to be taken! Mrs. Basket was dismissed for no good reason. Thirty-five years she’s been here, and never a word against her or her cooking until that spoiled little madam arrived.”

  There were nods and mutters and murmurs of “You never said a truer word, Mr. Trout.”

  Mr. Trout nodded. “So — are we all agreed? Until Mrs. Basket is returned to her post, we’re on strike. No more answering of bells. No more cleaning or mopping or serving the meals. And”— he banged the table with a heavy iron ladle —“NO COOKING!”

  The youngest of the housemaids giggled nervously. “But what about our dinners, Mr. Trout, sir?”

  The head butler gave her a look that made her blush a deep crimson and wish she had never spoken. “Naturally we will look after ourselves,” he said stiffly.

  One of the footmen cleared his throat. “Ahem. Are we to presume you will be informing Prince Tertius of the state of affairs?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Trout put the iron ladle down and adjusted his tailcoat. “I shall take the opportunity offered by the ringing of that there bell to announce the situation to the young prince this very minute.”

  The smallest page wriggled uncomfortably on his chair. “ ’Scuse me for mentioning it, sir, but what about King Horace? He’s ever so kind and nice, and he does like his hot buttered toast and tea at five o’clock. ‘Bobby,’ he says to me, every single day, ‘Bobby, toast is one of the finest things a man can have.’ And he always cuts off the crusts, seeing as his teeth ain’t what they were, and he lets me have them with ever such a lot of butter on them.”

  Mr. Trout directed his look at the smallest page — but it had little effect. Bobby was lost in a dream of buttered toast crusts.

  “The lad’s got a point, Mr. Trout, sir,” one of the footmen ventured. “The old king didn’t want Mrs. Basket to go. I heard him pleading with Princess Fedora, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  Mr. Trout stroked his chin thoughtfully, then nodded. “Fair enough. Tea and toast for His Majesty, but that’s the end of it. And that’s —”

  He was interrupted by the bell in the corner of the kitchen jerking into action, and his words were lost in the urgent clang! clang! clang! of a second summons.

  “I’ll be on my way,” he said grimly, and left the kitchen with a heavy and purposeful tread.

  The House of the Ancient Crones lay hidden in a hollow on the fringes of the Less Enchanted Forest, protected from prying eyes by a thick green mist. Gracie Gillypot, who was a Trueheart, was aware of the mist but could easily see through it; strangers hoping to visit the house found this mist to be an impenetrable fog. They inevitably got lost and walked around and around in ever-decreasing circles until rescued. The crones were elderly and had no desire to leave the comfort of their warm rooms unless it was absolutely necessary; it was much easier to ask Gracie to run outside to check on any visitors — either Gracie or Gubble. Gubble, however, was less reliable. He was a squat green troll with firm ideas. If he didn’t like the look of an incomer, he was inclined to leave them to their own panic-stricken devices while he stomped back home, humming tunelessly. Sometimes this was unfortunate; the crones boosted their income by weaving cloth of the highest quality on their second loom, and messengers who had already endured the dangers of the long journey from the Five Kingdoms did not take kindly to this extra peril and demanded lower prices in recompense.

  “We’re going to have to sort this out,” the Oldest One told Gracie. She was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by pieces of paper, and her sums were not adding up. “It was so much better when Marlon organized our orders for us.”

  “Rubbish, Elsie.” The Ancient One had popped in to WATER WINGS to make herself a cup of tea. “Your mind’s failing. It was a nightmare. Marlon was always doing special deals without asking us, and it lost us a fortune. Don’t you remember the black velvet dress we made for Lady Lamorna? She practically got it at cost. That bat has a lot to answer for!”

  Elsie took off her wig of tumbling red curls, scratched her bald head, and put the wig back on. “I suppose so,” she said, “but all the dresses we made for Princess Fedora’s wedding had to be reduced in price because Gubble led Queen Kesta’s messenger into the Unwilling Bushes and never mentioned it until the following morning.”

  Gracie hid a smile. “The messenger did call Gubble a lot of nasty names when he first met him, Auntie Elsie. And the next time he came, he was very polite.”

  Elsie sighed. “I don’t suppose we could lift the mist, could we?”

  The Ancient One looked appalled, and her one blue eye flashed. “Elsie! The very idea! We’re not here just to supply the people of the Five Kingdoms with dresses and robes, you know. We’re here to keep them safe. If the web of power had no protection, all kinds of dreadful things might happen. There are forces of evil and wickedness just biding their time out there . . . waiting for the moment when the web breaks to wreak havoc in every way they can. Don’t EVER let me hear you mention such a thing again!” She picked up her cup and sailed out of the kitchen.

  “I know, I know.” There were tears in Elsie’s eyes as she went back to her bills. “I really do. But sometimes I think things would be so much easier if it wasn’t all so terribly mysterious and magical. If only people could just come and knock on the door, collect their parcels, and leave again.”

  Gracie leaned across the table and patted her hand. “Auntie Edna didn’t mean to be cross,” she said. “She’s worried about something. She snapped at Auntie Val earlier for not working hard enough, and she was furious with Foyce when she muddled up the threads. I think the web isn’t flowing as smoothly as it usually does, and she doesn’t know why.”

  Elsie gave Gracie’s hand a squeeze. “What did we ever do without you, dear? It’s been a different place since you came to live here. How that dreadful step-father of yours could have treated you the way he did I just cannot understand.” She shook her head with one careful hand on her wig to keep it in place. “It only goes to show how wicked he must have been. He and Foyce. Why, when you came here, you brought the sunshine with you.” Elsie gave a sentimental sniff before taking out a large handkerchief and blowing her nose. “And I’m sure you’re right about Edna and the web. There’s a roughness on the sur
face; I noticed it yesterday, and it’s not getting any better.” Elsie shook her head. “I’ll just get on with my adding up and try not to be a silly old woman.”

  “Why don’t I make us some tea,” Gracie suggested. “And there might be some cookies, if Gubble hasn’t taken them all —”

  “UG!” A cupboard door opened, and an outraged figure peered out. “UG! Gubble not take cookies! Gubble EAT cookies!”

  Gracie smiled and went to put the kettle on.

  Gubble, after a couple of failed attempts, installed himself on a stool next to Elsie. “Gubble help,” he announced. Picking up a card of thread samples, he ate it with an expression of martyred duty.

  “The most helpful thing you could do, Gubble,” Elsie told him as she hastily removed the more important orders, “is show visitors the right way to the front door and not leave them up to their necks in mud.”

  “Maybe Gubble and I could have a little practice tomorrow?” Gracie put a plate of bread and butter on the table. “Unless you want me to work on the looms, that is.”

  Elsie shook her head. “Val’s coming in early, and Foyce is beginning to be much more reliable. You take Gubble out for the day. It’ll do you both good to get some fresh air. And you never know; you might meet that nice young man of yours.”

  Gracie turned a startling shade of pink. “I’ve told you, Auntie Elsie. We’re just good friends.”

  “And my name’s Lillibelle Lackabone,” Elsie said, and winked at Gubble. “We know about Prince Marcus, don’t we, Gubble?”

  Gubble chuckled a deep chuckle. “Prince like Gracie. Gracie like Prince. Hand-holding and —”

  “If you don’t want any bread and butter, Gubble,” Gracie interrupted, “I’ll take it away.”

  With an effort, Gubble wrenched his mind toward the needs of his large green stomach. “Want bread. Jam, please.”

  Elsie got up and fetched the jam from a cupboard. “There you are. And tomorrow morning, I’ll make you a nice picnic, with enough for three.”

  Gracie blushed again but said nothing.

  By twelve o’clock the following day, the situation at the palace of Niven’s Knowe had taken a distinct turn for the worse. Princess Fedora was sulking, and Prince Tertius was staring at his feet. The Handbook of Palace Management was lying abandoned on the floor beside Fedora’s chair; every so often Tertius gave it a baleful glare. Thanks to Fedora’s passionate belief in the Handbook’s words of wisdom, the palace was not only without a cook but also missing a head butler, three footmen, three housemaids, and four pages. Only one of the housemaids — a pale, dutiful girl called Saturday Mousewater — and Bobby, the smallest page, remained.

  “I don’t know what Father’s going to say,” Tertius said gloomily. “He’ll be back from his walk soon, and he’ll be expecting his lunch.”

  “Is that all you can think about?” Fedora snapped. “What about ME?”

  Her young husband shrugged. “I thought you said you were going home to your mother.”

  Fedora sat up straight. She had, indeed, in the heat of the moment announced her immediate return to the arms of Queen Kesta but on second thought had decided against it. Her sisters would ask too many questions, and there was a faint possibility that her mother might not be entirely sympathetic. Kesta had given her daughter a number of Helpful Hints on a Happy Marriage, and number one had been to throw away Great-Aunt Gussie’s gift.

  “It’s a dreadful book,” the queen had said. “The thing is, you must always be terribly, terribly nice to servants. They’re far more important than visiting royalty. If you can’t have a comfortable life with lots of lovely meals and pages to bring you cups of tea when you want them, WHAT is the point of being a queen?” Fedora, however, had been instantly attracted to the steely-eyed monarch gracing the title page of the Handbook and had resolved to follow all of its instructions to the letter. She had often thought her mother was much too easy-going; she herself was going to be a model of etiquette and style and the undisputed ruler of all palace affairs. Tertius’s mother had died many years ago; what King Horace and his son undoubtedly needed was a Strong Hand in Charge. (Page 43: “Always make it clear that instant dismissal will follow if your orders are not immediately obeyed; argument, hesitation, or delay will also result in termination of contract. No discussion is to be permitted; this will suggest WEAKNESS, and WEAKNESS has no place in a well-run palace.”)

  “No, Terty dearest. I’ve been thinking. All we have to do is put up a notice in the marketplace saying there are one or two vacancies here at the palace.” Fedora picked up her Handbook. “There’s a whole section here about appointing new staff, and of course I’ll interview them myself.”

  Tertius took a deep breath. For a second he considered throwing the book out of the window into the weed-infested moat, but a smile from his beloved — the first for some long time — melted his resolution. “Fedora, darling . . . if that’s what you want. You write the notice, and I’ll send Bobby.”

  Fedora gave him another gracious smile. “Thank you, Terty. Now, let me see . . .” She picked up a piece of parchment, complete with a shining royal seal, and sucked the top of her pen. “One cook. Do we really need a head butler?”

  “Yes,” Tertius said firmly. “Father would be miserable without one. He and Mr. Trout used to play checkers together every night. You’d better add a note about that. Not chess, mind. Father hates chess.” He rubbed his nose. “Actually, it might make Father feel better about losing Mrs. Basket if you can find a new head butler who sometimes lets him win. Mr. Trout used to win all the time.”

  “If you say so, dearest.” Fedora blew him a kiss. “And what about six footmen, all the same height? They’d look SO smart! Much better than the old ones . . . and a couple of housemaids. That should be enough, don’t you think? I’m sure Bobby can manage on his own. And if we don’t have any more pages, it’ll pay for the extra footmen.” The young housekeeper looked pleased with her thoughtful economies. “And we could get an extra coachman . . . AND a new coach.” At which point Fedora drifted off into a wonderful dream, where she was driven around the Five Kingdoms in a pink-and-silver coach with her name and coat of arms emblazoned in large gold letters on the door. She was trying to decide whether she should have a matching pink dress or go with a contrast in delicate turquoise, when the door opened and Bobby announced, “Look out, all! Here comes the king, Your — erm — Highnesses.”

  King Horace came bustling in, his brow furrowed. “Tertius! Whatever’s happened? I came home and there was nobody around except that poor little housemaid with big feet. Had to hang up my own coat. Poor soul couldn’t reach, although she did try. And Bobby tells me the footmen have gone!”

  Tertius looked meaningfully at Fedora, who bristled. “You tell him,” she whispered. “He’s your father!”

  “But it was you who got rid of them all!” Tertius hissed back.

  Fedora glared at him. “Actually, Father-in-Law,” she began, “there’s been a bit of a . . . a bit of a change.” Seeing King Horace’s face, she hastily added, “It’ll all be fine — I promise. I’ve got it all under control. Haven’t I, Terty dear?”

  Tertius, considerably braver now that his father had come home, shrugged. “If you say so, darling.”

  “I do. Dearest. Sweetie pie. Poppetty woozle.” Fedora turned her back on her beloved as she scribbled furiously. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll have a lovely new cook and housemaids, and as soon as they’re settled in, I’ll sort out the butler and the footmen and the pages, and it’ll all be as right as rain. Only lots better. Bobby! Would you run to the marketplace and pin this on the notice board?”

  Bobby, who had been hovering in the doorway, dashed forward. “Sure thing, Your Highness. And when I get back, shall I bring King H. some toast? I’m an expert at making toast. Mrs. Basket says —”

  “Thank you, Bobby. That’s quite enough.” Fedora was beginning to feel she was losing control. “Take the notice, and then you can come back and make t
oast. And tea. In fact, you could make it for all three of us.”

  King Horace looked shifty. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve already had a little snack. Called in on Mrs. Basket, as I happened to be in that direction, and she just happened to be taking a steak-and-kidney pudding out of the oven. Felt a bit peckish after nothing but cold porridge for breakfast, y’see.” Catching sight of Fedora’s appalled expression, he felt it might be tactful to change the subject. “Expect you know what you’re doing, m’dear.” The king fished in his pocket and extracted a shiny silver coin. “Off you go, Bobby, my lad, and buy yourself a pie while you’re out.”

  “Yikes! Thanks very much, King H. I’ll be back in a jiffy!” And Bobby sped out of the door, his face one huge happy smile.

  Tertius sat down with a flump. “You could have asked him to get a pie for me, too, Father. I don’t suppose that Mousewater girl is any good at cooking, and Feddy can’t even boil an egg. I’m not going to survive for the rest of the day on nothing but toast and tea, I can tell you.”

  Fedora stood up and marched across the room. “You’re an ungrateful pig, Terty, and you don’t deserve me. I’m going straight to the kitchen, and I’m going to cook us the most delicious lunch ever. So there!” And she flounced through the door, slamming it hard behind her.

  “Dear me . . .” King Horace’s eyes were very round. “Is that how girls usually behave?”

  Tertius had no time to reply. Fedora had reappeared, her eyes still flashing thunderbolts; she was storming back across the room to collect her Handbook. “We’ll see,” she said through gritted teeth, “what the suggested menu is for Tuesdays. I’ll ring the gong when it’s ready. Good-bye!” And she was gone with another mighty CRASH! that left the portraits swinging on the wall in mute protest.

  A mile or so away from the palace of Niven’s Knowe, Thistly Canker, arms folded, was glaring at her twin daughters. “I’ve had enough,” she announced. “More than enough. You’re big girls now. Far too big to be cluttering up my house, lying around like pigs in a sty and never lifting a finger except when you want to push food into your greedy, grasping mouths. There’s nothing I can do with that useless lump you call your father, but I was a Mousewater before I was stupid enough to take up with a Canker, and Mousewaters have always earned an honest wage. Now, you two may be Cankers by name, but you’ve Mousewater blood in you — so out you go, and don’t come back until you’ve got work. Understand?”