by Holly Grant
The door creaked and the queen and her adviser entered. Ollie’s fingernails bit into Anastasia’s arm as papers rustled atop the desk. “Here’s the letter,” Wiggy said. “You’ll take it to Senator Gibbeous yourself?”
“Of course, Your Wigginess,” Lord Monkfish replied.
“Good.” Wiggy sighed.
“What is it, My Queen? You seem bothered.”
“I am,” Wiggy said. “I am always uneasy this time of year.”
“The anniversary of the Dastardly Deed, you mean,” Monkfish said. “Yes, ’tis a date scorched into memory. But you won the war, O-Most-Glorious-Queen.”
“But I lost my husband.”
“Verily,” Monkfish assented. “A hard sorrow to bear. You may at least take solace knowing we served the deed’s architects an end both terrible and quick.”
“Too quick,” Wiggy said. “My temper blinded me. I realize now I erred profoundly in those early hours of war. I should have chased answers instead of revenge.”
“My Queen, we had to retaliate!” Monkfish objected. “A crime of that magnitude cried for blood! Morfolk could not suffer such injuries in silence!”
“You misunderstand me,” Wiggy said quietly. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t have killed them. Calixto Swift and his apprentice deserved to die, and die horribly. Yet I should have given those warlocks more time to betray the whereabouts of the Silver Hammer and Chest—they can’t tell us from the grave, Monkfish. But Calixto was deep in his before telling us anything.”
“Calixto was the world’s most powerful wizard, My Queen,” Monkfish argued. “Had we let him live even a moment longer, he would have injured us all the worse. He would not have surrendered his secrets.”
“Perhaps,” Wiggy allowed. “But what of his apprentice? All we gleaned from Dagfinn Few was this: the Hammer is the key to finding the Chest. Had we waited longer to draw blood—”
“We would know no more,” Monkfish said. “Dagfinn Few was Calixto’s flunky, not his confidant. He knew nothing.” He spat. “Besides, the witches we did interrogate—later, at length and at leisure—told us nil. And we were most persuasive.”
The queen and her adviser sank into heavy silence.
Sweat beaded Anastasia’s armpits. When would this gruesome chat end? Her muscles twitched, and one of Gus’s snakes (Lilybelle?) was licking her cheek.
“As you know, Lord Monkfish,” Wiggy said slowly, “this castle originally housed no monarch and held no throne. Cavepearl Palace was Calixto’s whimsy.”
“I do know,” Monkfish said.
“There’s old magic sleeping in this place. It’s hiding here. It’s skulking here.”
“Such is the case all over the Cavelands.”
“Yes, but Calixto Swift didn’t live all over the Cavelands. He lived here. And in his hasty flight from our mortal coil, he left behind some powerful magic.”
“Yes…?” Monkfish prompted.
“Have you ever heard of the Cavern of Dreams?” Wiggy asked. “Or of the Moonsilk Canopy?”
“I heard tell of it in the days before the Dastardly Deed,” Monkfish said. “Witches gossiped at the pub that Swift devised a magical bed for—for magical dreams. Dreams to guide one, to illuminate the path to any hope or the cure for any woe…but everyone dismissed it as empty boasting. No one has ever seen the bed.”
“I have,” Wiggy said. “The Cavern of Dreams is in this castle.”
“What?” Monkfish said.
“I have thought for centuries that it might hold a clue about the Silver Hammer.”
The eavesdroppers squashed beneath the desk held their collective breath.
“Alas,” Wiggy lamented, “the Canopy remains an enigma.”
“Forgive me, Your Wigginess,” Lord Monkfish hazarded. “If you believe the Canopy might lead to the Hammer, then surely we should at least try—”
“I have tried, Senator,” Wiggy replied sadly. “Secret attempts, over the course of two and a half centuries, and all without success. Whatever alchemy couches within the Canopy, it failed to gild my dreamers’ sleep with any glimmer of the Hammer. I suspect Calixto hexed his bed to prevent Morfolk from dreaming in it.” Her voice was now little more than a murmur. “And yet, I do think upon the Canopy whenever the anniversary of the Dastardly Deed draws near, magnifying our tragic memories.”
“My Queen, we should have every great Morfo thinker investigate that bed! Secrecy is not serving you.”
“Oh, but it is,” Wiggy maintained. “Can you imagine the catastrophe if our enemies discovered that the Canopy exists? That the entrance to the Cavern of Dreams is in my room?”
“In your room!” Monkfish cried.
“It is hidden, and hidden well,” Wiggy said. “And that is how it must remain. What if tales of the Canopy reached the Dellacavas? They might worm a spy into the palace to sleep in that bed, to dream up a way to seize the throne. You know Dellacava ambition waxes fatter than a full moon, and far darker.”
“Their hunger for power knows no satisfaction,” Monkfish said. “I think the crumbs of authority we allow them in the Senate Cave merely whets their appetites.”
“And then,” Wiggy added, “there are…the others.”
Lord Monkfish gasped. “Surely you don’t mean—witches?”
“That is exactly who I mean. If they knew the Canopy was real—not a fable passed down hundreds of years, but real and here—would witches spring from their lurking holes to storm the castle? We cannot underestimate the power of that bed, and the dreams dreamt therein. Might the witches return to dream up the way to eradicate Morfolk? Perhaps a witch would know how to loose the Canopy’s magic….”
“Witches,” Lord Monkfish swore.
Anastasia squirmed against Gus and Ollie, her heart thumping her tonsils. How many more minutes might tick by until Wiggy pulled out her chair and found them crouched under her desk, ears stuffed full of her precious secrets?
“Your Mommyness!” The office door banged open. “Your Mommyness! Poison—attempted murder—éclairs—afoot at the palace—” Ludowiga broke off into retches.
“And worst of all, my party is ruined!” Saskia wailed.
“What in Caves—” Wiggy exclaimed.
“Hurry! Follow us to the rock garden!”
Anastasia waited until Ludowiga’s yowls had faded from hearing range, and then she crawled from the cramped cranny, followed by her cohorts.
“Gadberry, that was a close call!” Gus said. “Well, at least Ludowiga and Saskia survived Ollie’s éclairs.”
“Oooooh,” Ollie said. “My foot fell asleep.”
Anastasia barely heard them. She didn’t even realize Pippistrella was nipping her earlobe and peeping. Thoughts wrung her brain like saltwater taffy whirling in a taffy puller. Perhaps you have seen one of these contraptions in an old-fashioned candy shop: a great machine twists and twirls and stretches taffy betwixt two metal levers to make it soft and supple. It felt like Anastasia’s mind was going through the same contortions.
Maybe the Moonsilk Canopy was hexed not to work for Morfolk. But Anastasia wasn’t a Morfo, not entirely; she was a Halfling.
17
The Dreadfuls’ New Mission
UPON THEIR RETURN to Cavepearl Library, the frazzled group found Quentin wrestling an eerie melody from his saw. “Salutations!” he greeted them. “The servant who showed me in said this was the last place anyone had seen you.”
“Actually,” Ollie confessed, “the last place anyone saw us was the kitchen.”
They recounted the Great Éclair Debacle, beginning with Ollie’s Not-So-Brilliant Idea and concluding with their Noteworthy Strides in Eavesdropping.
“The Cavern of Dreams!” Quentin breathed. “It sounds most magical!”
“Now it’s even more like a fairy tale,” Ollie said. “An enchanted bed in a castle…”
“But it isn’t a fairy tale,” Anastasia said. “It’s real. And”—she hesitated—“I’m going to try to find it. That bed is goi
ng to help me find the Silver Hammer, and the Hammer will help me find my grandfather. And my father.” She told them about Fred McCrumpet vanishing from their Mooselick abode.
The boys stared at her in shocked silence.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Anastasia said. “Baldwin and Penny made me promise not to try to find Nicodemus. And they would definitely think snooping around the Moonsilk Canopy was too dangerous. Because of the magic. Because of the witches.”
“They’re right,” Quentin said. “Witch magic is—can be—very nasty.”
“Besides, Anastasia,” Ollie said, “you heard the queen: people have already tried napping in that bed, and nobody’s dreamed about the Silver Hammer. The Canopy won’t work for anyone.”
“For any Morfolk,” Anastasia corrected him. “And I’m only half Morfo. My mother was human.”
“You’re a Halfling?” Ollie cried. “I didn’t know that!”
“Neither did I, until a week ago,” Anastasia said. “I thought I was—um—one hundred percent human.”
“Then perhaps the bed would work for you,” Gus hypothesized.
“No,” Ollie insisted. “You shouldn’t mess with magic, Anastasia. Magic is dangerous. For pudding’s sake, just look at your own family! Your grandpa is trapped in a magic trunk, and some witch burned off your grandma’s eyelids with a magic spell! You shouldn’t sleep in that bed, and you shouldn’t even go into the Cavern of Dreams.”
“For someone who loves fairy tales so much, you seem awfully scared of magic.” Quentin poked Ollie’s arm.
“Shut up, Q.” Ollie blushed and slapped his brother’s hand away. “Magic in a book isn’t the same as magic in real life. I read about space explorers, too, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever get into a rocket.”
“I’m just kidding.” Quentin ruffled Ollie’s hair. “You’re right; magic is perilous.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t do it, Anastasia,” Gus said.
Anastasia closed her eyes. She had spent hours studying Nicodemus’s tattoo in the illustration in her textbook, and those hours had engraved the golden rings and stars in her memory. Her memory now projected the compass onto the black insides of her eyelids, pointing the path to her vacuum-cleaning, waffle-griddling, guinea-pig-loving father. She shook her head. “I have to try. What if my dad is locked up in some creepy place like St. Agony’s Asylum? And Nico-demus has been stuck in a box for centuries.”
Gus shivered. “You’re awfully brave.”
“No, I’m not,” Anastasia said. “But I know how it feels to be trapped. It’s horrible.”
“I know what it’s like to be trapped, too,” Ollie said. “Remember how Prim and Prude shut me in their dungeon?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a dungeon,” Anastasia said. “It was just a really awful basement.”
“Isn’t that what a dungeon is?” Ollie frowned at some greeny glow beneath his fingernails. Then he lifted his eyes to Anastasia’s face. “I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll help you find the Silver Hammer and your missing kin.”
“You mean it?” Anastasia cried.
“I do,” Ollie said. “Q and I would never have escaped St. Agony’s if it weren’t for you.”
“That’s right,” Quentin said. “We’ll both help.”
“I’ll help you, too,” Gus said. “I mean, if you want my help.” He ducked his head shyly.
“Squeak peep prrrip!” Pippistrella added.
“She’s in,” Quentin said.
A lovely combination of hope and gratitude, warm as sunshine and just as sweet, swelled Anastasia’s heart. The feeling crept from her ticker and welled into her eyes, and there it shone. “Thank you,” she said.
“So the League of Beastly Dreadfuls has another top-secret mission,” Ollie said solemnly. “A Daring Search and Rescue Mission this time.”
“League of Beastly Dreadfuls?” Gus asked.
“Prrrp?” Pippistrella quizzed.
Ollie froze. His brown eyes, bright with a question, darted to meet Anastasia’s and Quentin’s. They nodded.
“It’s our secret league,” Quentin said. “And I think you two are our newest members.”
That night, hugging Mr. Bunster in the safety of her own perfectly nonmagical bed, Anastasia listened to Pippistrella’s little peep-snores and considered the obstacles blocking entry into the Cavern of Dreams. The Beastly Dreadfuls had discussed these during their great scheming session in the library (the boys, of course, had to translate Pippistrella’s contribution to the conversation).
First of all, the entrance to the Cavern of Dreams was somehow hidden. It was hidden well enough within the queen’s chamber that it wouldn’t be obvious to courier bats and bats-in-waiting and chambermaids and anyone else who might enter at Wiggy’s behest. This all made perfect sense, as Gus pointed out: Calixto Swift would have used all his magical trickery to camouflage the door. But, as he added, Wiggy had somehow discovered it, and so would the Dreadfuls.
That challenge, however, would have to wait until they managed to infiltrate Wiggy’s cavern itself, forbidden to anyone lacking a royal summons.
There was, Pippistrella informed them, a Royal Guard Bat policing the door to Wiggy’s chamber. And as everyone living in the Cavelands knew full well, you couldn’t distract a Royal Guard Bat. They couldn’t lure it away with a juicy mango loaded with laxatives. Gus and Ollie couldn’t make a ruckus down the hall so Anastasia could slip in behind the guard bat’s furry back. They couldn’t sweet-talk their way into the queen’s cavern, even if Anastasia was a princess. No, none of these tricks would work on one of the capable guard bats.
They couldn’t even wait for the guard bat to take a bathroom break. Apparently the guard bat’s elite training regimen included learning to hold it for the entirety of its eight-hour shift. And as soon as the bat on duty completed its stint, another bat arrived to take its place.
The post of a Royal Guard Bat was always covered.
Anastasia kicked at her comforters, her worries shifting now to their science project. It wasn’t just about her grades anymore: she wanted to win the fair. More specifically, she wanted Gus to win the fair. The thought of Marm Pettifog pinning a blue ribbon on Saskia’s pilfered hiccup cure made Anastasia’s blood boil.
Confident now that Saskia and Ludowiga wouldn’t perish from mushroom poisoning (as Dr. Lungwort had assured the royal family), Anastasia let herself stew about the tea party to which she had not received an invitation. Of course, she had no actual desire to sip tea with a passel of snooty duchesses, but the Loondorfers’ chilly reception of their long-lost Mooselick relation rankled Anastasia.
She thought of Ludowiga vomiting onto Saskia’s dress, and her lips twitched into a little smile.
“So,” Gus asked at lunch the next day, “did Ollie’s éclairs kill anyone?”
“Nope,” Anastasia said. “But now Ludowiga insists a royal food-taster test everything she eats. She’s convinced someone’s trying to poison her.”
“It looks like Saskia has the same idea,” Gus observed, gazing across the caveteria. “She’s making Taffline Plimsole take a bite of everything in her lunch.”
“Do you think Sir Singeworth will tell the queen he caught us in the kitchen?” Ollie pothered.
Anastasia shook her head. “He quit last night. He said he wouldn’t tolerate anyone questioning his pastry. And everyone else thinks some twinkle beetles flew into the cream and leaked green glow everywhere.”
“Whew.” Ollie sagged in relief. “That’s good news. Gus, aren’t you hungry? You haven’t even opened your lunch box.”
Gus plastered his palms atop his tin. “I ate a big breakfast. So, I have news, too.” He lowered his voice. “I have a secret weapon, ninety-nine percent guaranteed to get us past any guard bat.”
“Really?” A thrill zinged through Anastasia. “What is it?”
“I can’t tell you about it here,” Gus said. “Come over to my house after school and I’ll show you. And sorry about my pare
nts.”
“What have your parents done?” Anastasia asked.
“Just wait,” Gus said darkly.
So it was that the Dreadfuls found themselves on the stoop to the suburban lair of a lady gorgon that afternoon. Of course, for Gus it was just home. Anastasia felt a little twitchy, however. She didn’t want to be a glorified hat rack.
“Now, kids,” Mr. Wata cautioned, “be ever so careful not to look at Mrs. Wata. We wouldn’t want you turning into stone.”
“Dad.” Gus rolled his eyes. “I’m sure Mom will be wearing her sack.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Mr. Wata reasoned, swinging the door open.
“DO-RE-MI-FA-SO-LA-TI-DO!” rang a powerful voice from the depths of the cavern. Pippistrella squeaked awake from her afternoon snooze.
“Dearest!” Mr. Wata called. “We’re home! Angus brought friends. They’re here to work on their science project!”
“I-WILL-BE-RIGHT-THERE-MY-DAR-LING!” Mrs. Wata sang back.
“We always have tea after school,” Gus said. “But nothing as fancy as Saskia’s party.” He led them to a small sitting room stuffed with furniture covered in clear, protective plastic. An elderly man, small and dark, with moon-white hair, was sitting in one of the chairs, his hands folded over the golden handle of a slim cane. His eyes crinkled behind his spectacles when he saw Angus.
“Hi, Grandpa Baba,” Angus said, kissing the man’s cheek. “These are my friends Ollie and Anastasia and Pippistrella.”
“I’ve heard all about you,” Grandpa Baba said. “The great scientists!”
“Maybe Gus is a great scientist,” Ollie said, “but I just want to be a baker.”
“Baking is a science unto itself,” Grandpa Baba said. “It’s much like a chemist’s experiments: adding a bit of nutmeg here, subtracting a bit of vanilla there, until you determine the exact combination of variables to produce, for example, a delicious cupcake.”
“I do make delicious cupcakes,” Ollie preened, apparently forgetting the éclair debacle of the day before.
“Speaking of baking, I’ll go get the tea things.” Mr. Wata hurried off.
