The Heart of Glass

by Vivian French

  Prince Marcus second in line to the throne of Gorebreath

  Gracie Gillypot a Trueheart

  Marlon a bat

  Alf Marlon’s nephew

  Millie Marlon’s daughter

  Flo a bat (No relation to Marlon. Or Alf. Or Millie.)

  Gubble a domesticated troll

  Queen Kesta Queen of Dreghorn

  Princess Fedora Queen Kesta’s oldest daughter

  Princess Marigold Queen Kesta’s third daughter

  Great-Aunt Hortense Dowager Duchess of Cockenzie Rood

  Queen Bluebell Queen of Wadingburn

  Prince Vincent Queen Bluebell’s grandson

  Professor Scallio Prince Vincent’s tutor

  Fingle Queen Bluebell’s coachman

  King Thab King of the Underground Trolls

  Spittle King Thab’s scribe

  Mullius Gowk an Old Troll, servant to King Thab

  Clod an Underground Troll

  Oolie half Old Troll, half goblin, wholly evil

  Bestius Bonnyrigg a dwarf

  Master Amplethumb a dwarf

  THE ANCIENT CRONES

  Edna the Ancient One

  Elsie the Oldest

  Val the Youngest

  Foyce Gracie’s stepsister and apprentice crone

  “If I were you, kiddo,” the bat remarked, “I’d close your mouth. Dangerous, leaving it open like that. Never know what might pop in. Flies, midges, the odd moth. Furry things, moths. Not nice unless you’re used to them.”

  Prince Marcus, second in line to the throne of Gorebreath, did as he was told. “But where IS she?” His voice was shaking. “One minute she was leaning against that tree, and then — WHOOOMPH! She was gone!” He rubbed his eyes. “And was it that tree? Or that one? They all look exactly the same! Did you see, Marlon?”

  “Cool it, kid,” the bat said. “Alf’s ahead of you. Alf? Where are you?”

  “Here, Unc!” The small squeak came from some ways away.

  Marcus stared at Marlon. “What’s he doing?”

  “Hanging on a branch.” Marlon sounded pleased. “Marking the tree. Good work, Alf!”

  Marcus shook his head. “That can’t be right. Gracie was here beside me. I know she was!”

  Marlon sighed. “Look at your map, kiddo. Where are we? The Unreliable Forest. Now the thing about unreliable forests, in case you hadn’t guessed, is that they’re unreliable. See a handful of berries you fancy? Walk toward them, and — FFFFT! They’ll be behind you.”

  Seeing his companion’s doubtful expression, the bat sighed again. “Try it for yourself. Got a hankie? Well, tie it to a branch.”

  Unwillingly, Marcus did as he was told. The scarlet handkerchief, emblazoned with the royal arms of the House of Gorebreath, fluttered in front of him . . . and vanished.

  “That’s gone too!” The prince took a step backward and looked at Marlon. “What’s going on?”

  “Turn around.”

  Turning, Marcus was just in time to see the tree his hankie was tied to make a sudden sideways leap and hide behind a substantial oak. The oak showed no ­inclination to move, and Marcus leaned against it, feeling breathless. “That’s SO weird,” he said. “And however are we going to find Gracie?”

  Marlon twitched his wings. “Kiddo,” he said, and he sounded far more solemn than usual, “we need help on this one. You stay here. Keep an eye on Alf.”

  “What?” Marcus stared at the bat. “Where are you going?”

  “Trust me, kid. I’ll be back pronto.” Marlon was circling high in the air. A moment later he was gone.

  It had all started out rather well. Marcus, together with his very good friend Gracie Gillypot, had been planning a dwarf-spotting expedition for some time. It was well known that the dwarves had an access ­tunnel in the middle of the Unreliable Forest of Flailing. Marlon had told Gracie that Monday was the best day to visit, as that was when the dwarves emerged to deal with Aboveground Business, and she and Marcus had made their arrangements accordingly.

  A certain amount of subterfuge had been necessary on Marcus’s part; not only was Flailing a good ­half-day’s ride beyond the border of the Five Kingdoms (and therefore regarded by his parents with much ­suspicion), but his home life was far from simple. A good deal of his time was being taken up with ­rehearsals for a ­wedding, soon to take place in the Kingdom of Dreghorn, and he had had to make sure his absence would not cause his mother to collapse in a fit of the vapors. He and his twin brother, Prince Arioso, had been asked to take part in the wedding procession; Arioso, always the perfect prince, was delighted, but Marcus was horrified. At first he had refused to have anything to do with it, but his father, King Frank, issued an ultimatum. “No son of mine,” he declared, “will disgrace the Royal House of Gorebreath. If you don’t do your duty, young man, you’ll not be allowed to leave the palace grounds for the rest of the year. And don’t think I don’t mean it, because I do!”

  Huffing and puffing, Marcus had fought his way to a compromise: He would attend rehearsals and walk in the procession, but he was to be allowed weekends off, together with every other Monday — and no one was to question what he got up to. Or where.

  Gracie was more fortunate. After an unpleasant and unhappy early life with a wicked stepfather, during which she was forced to endure the company of a stepsister who was an all-time expert in pure evil, she had managed to escape to the House of the Ancient Crones hidden deep in the hollows of the More Enchanted Hills. The three old women who lived there had adopted her, and she was now free to plan expeditions and outings whenever she felt like it . . . a freedom much envied by Marcus.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are,” he said ­gloomily as he and Gracie walked out of the House and into the early morning sunlight. “All I get all day and every day are orders and instructions. And I’m ­supposed to be prancing along in this stupid wedding procession arm in arm with Marigold, and she’s the silliest girl I ever met in my entire life.”

  Gracie, who knew exactly how lucky she was, made soothing noises and tried not to feel pleased that Marcus was so dismissive of Princess Marigold. It wasn’t that she was jealous — after all, who could be jealous of someone who was kept awake all night by the thought of a new bottle of nail polish? — but she was very aware that Marigold was positioned right under Marcus’s nose by his anxious parents as often as possible. She had also noticed Marigold’s tendency to blush and flutter her eyelashes whenever Marcus was nearby.

  “It’ll all be over soon,” she said. “And you never know. Prince Vincent might sweep her off her feet at the reception.”

  Marcus brightened. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “Maybe I could bribe him. He’ll do anything for a box of chocolates.”

  Gracie smiled and opened the gate. The path showed signs of wanting to follow her, and she frowned at it. “STAY!” she commanded, and waited until it had tucked itself away. “GOOD path,” she said, and gave it a farewell wave.

  Marcus looked around in surprise. “Isn’t Gubble coming with us?”

  Gracie shook her head. “He’s still asleep in his ­cupboard. When he wakes up, he’s going to make a cake with Auntie Elsie. Chocolate with nuts. With any luck it’ll be ready when we get back.”

  “Are trolls any good at cooking?” Marcus sounded doubtful, and Gracie laughed.

  “Auntie Elsie’ll make sure it’s delicious. Come on — let’s get going!” And the two of them set out along the rough track that led away from the House of the Ancient Crones and toward the Unreliable Forest.

  To begin with, they walked beside Marcus’s pony, Glee, but as the track gradually narrowed, they took turns riding. The trees became more and more twisted and bent on either side, and the undergrowth thicker. Glee shied
as a large root snaked suddenly across the path in front of him. Marcus soothed him and stroked his neck, and the pony trotted unwillingly on, his ears flicking to and fro.

  “I think we must be nearly there,” Gracie said at last. “Listen! Can you hear voices? I can!”

  Marcus pulled Glee to a halt. “No . . . I don’t think so . . .”

  “They’re arguing,” Gracie reported. “One of them’s telling the other — OH!” A huge smile spread across her face. “It’s not the dwarves! It’s Marlon! And Alf!”

  Even as she spoke, the two bats came swinging out from the trees and circled around Glee’s head. “Miss Gracie! Miss Gracie!” The smaller bat dived into a loop and came up looking anxious. “Uncle Marlon says you won’t want me coming with you to watch the dwarves because it’s a . . . a . . . a himposition — but you don’t mind, do you?”

  “Just tell him to buzz off, kiddo.” Marlon was gruff. “Getting above himself. Doesn’t know when he’s not wanted.”

  Gracie smiled. “He’s very welcome,” she said. “It’ll be much more fun if the two of you come with us.”

  “There!” Alf made a face at his uncle, then zoomed out of the reach of his leathery wing. “I told you, Unc, but you wouldn’t listen!”

  Marlon sighed and settled himself on Marcus’s shoulder. “If you’re sure. Don’t want to spoil any two-by-two stuff.”

  Marcus winked at Gracie and was surprised to see her blush. She covered it quickly by laughing and shaking her head at Alf. “You’d better be polite to your uncle. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. I’d still be living in a pitch-black cellar surrounded by spiders. He’s a hero!”

  The older bat looked pleased. “All in the line of duty, kid. Now, let’s go. Best to leave the pony here, I’d say.”

  Marcus nodded. He knotted Glee’s reins and led him toward a patch of grass. “Wait here, boy,” he instructed, and the pony looked around warily before lowering his head to graze.

  “Will the dwarves be very hairy?” Alf twittered as Marlon flew ahead. “Will they have beards to their knees?” The older bat heard him and looped back.

  “Watch it, Alf. Those guys are ancient. Respect ’n’ stuff.”

  Alf looked suitably apologetic. “Sorry, Uncle Marlon.”

  As Marlon swooped off to lead the way, Gracie tried to remember what she knew about dwarves. Auntie Val had looked doubtful when she mentioned the ­expedition, but the Ancient One had pooh-poohed any suggestion that it might be dangerous. “Our Gracie’s a Trueheart,” she’d said. “She’ll be fine. Dwarves know more about Good and Evil than almost anyone; they’ve been around such a long time. Can be tricksy, of course, but they’re hardworking. Very hardworking. Not like some I could mention . . .” And the Ancient One had given Auntie Val a meaningful stare that had sent her scuttling back to her weaving.

  “Dwarves mine for gold, you know,” Marcus said, as if he were reading Gracie’s thoughts. “Father told me they’ve got a huge order in for the wedding. Crowns galore.” He snorted derisively. “Apparently Queen Kesta is expected to give Fedora and all her sisters new crowns, and Fedora has to have a special one to give Tertius, and then he has to bow and present her with yet another one — and goodness only knows what happens after that. They probably play hoop-la with them all afternoon.”

  Gracie laughed, then stopped as the narrow pathway made a sudden sharp turn around a bent and twisted tree. In front of her was a green grassy hollow. A tingle ran up and down her spine when she saw that in the center was a large hole and a heap of freshly dug earth.

  “Dwarves!” Alf squeaked, and zoomed over Gracie’s head.

  Gracie jumped and put out her hand to steady herself when dry twiggy fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist. She had no time to cry out; she hardly saw the tree trunk opening before she was hauled deep inside and swallowed up.

  Marcus, turning to ask her what they should do next, saw no sign of her. Gracie had vanished.

  Great-Aunt Hortense, otherwise known as Dowager Duchess of the kingdom of Cockenzie Rood, was not happy. “This,” she told herself, “is not what I expected.” She fished in her ample handbag, pulled out her niece’s letter, and began to read aloud. “‘DO come and stay in Dreghorn for darling Fedora’s wedding to precious Prince Tertius, Auntie dear. It’ll be SUCH fun having you here, and we’ll make sure you have a lovely rest. Loads of love and kisses, Kesta.’ HMPH! I’d have had more of a rest if I’d stayed at home organizing tea parties for the entire population.” She did her best to suppress a sigh and turned her attention back to the third of Queen Kesta’s many daughters.

  Princess Marigold was standing in front of a heap of discarded dresses, frowning fiercely. “I’ve nothing to wear,” she said accusingly. “Nothing at all. How can I make Marcus think I’m the wonderfullest and prettiest princess in the whole wide world if I don’t have anything to wear?”

  “Most wonderful,” her great-aunt corrected her. “There’s no such word as wonderfullest.”

  Marigold took no notice. “It’s SO not fair,” she went on. “Fedora’s got everything new, and Mother won’t even buy me a new dress. If I had a sky-blue satin dress covered in tiny pink rosebuds with a hooped petticoat and lace borders, I just know Marcus would fall madly in love with me forever and ever. Fedora doesn’t need a dress like that — I do!”

  The dowager duchess rolled her eyes. Marigold had talked of nothing but new dresses and Marcus for the last three days. Today the somewhat one-sided conversation had started before Hortense had even had her breakfast, and as a result she was both hungry and tetchy. Marcus had been pointed out at the last wedding rehearsal, and Hortense had noticed his unbrushed hair and mud-covered boots, together with his tendency to stand on one leg and gaze out the window when he was meant to be paying attention. He seemed an unlikely candidate for Marigold’s affections, even though there was no doubt that he was good-looking. His twin brother, Arioso, neat and tidy and attentive in every way, looked far more suitable, but when Hortense suggested this, Marigold rolled her eyes.

  “Arry? Oh, he’s madly in love with Nina-Rose. Besides, he’s boring. Marcus likes going on adventures and having fun.” Marigold put her head on one side and looked wistful. “I wish I could go on adventures. He’d be sure to notice me then, but he likes that horrible Gracie Gillypot, and she’s not even a princess! She’s just ordinary. AND she’s got a friend who’s a troll!”

  Marigold’s great-aunt studied her thoughtfully. She was well aware that Marigold, in common with her many sisters, was not a clever girl. Pretty, opinionated, and somewhat spoiled, but not clever. Her eldest sister was about to be married to Prince Tertius of Niven’s Knowe, and no doubt the two of them would live together comfortably enough to rate as a “happy ever after.” Nina-Rose apparently had her eye on Arioso; they too would make a delightfully dull royal couple. Was Marigold any different? Possibly. It was certainly unusual for any princess from the Five Kingdoms to express an interest in adventure.

  The old duchess stroked her chin. She had had many adventures in her youth and firmly believed that they had made her a more interesting person. Perhaps some kind of carefully contrived expedition into the world beyond the kingdoms would knock some of the foolishness out of Marigold’s brain. Hortense nodded. It was worth a try. After all, anything was better than hearing Marigold endlessly complain about the contents of her wardrobe.

  “What kind of adventures does Prince Marcus like, exactly?” she asked.

  Marigold’s eyes began to shine. “He helped rescue Fedora and Nina-Rose from a horrible sorceress! And he found Queen Bluebell’s long-lost granddaughter as well. He’s . . . he’s WONDERFUL. And I heard him telling Arry that he was going on a hunt to find the dear little dwarves who make our crowns for us, and he wanted nasty Gracie to go with him.” Marigold pouted. “What’s so special about her?”

  Her great-aunt thought of pointing out that anyone who had been invited to live with the powerful Ancient Crones must be very special i
ndeed, but decided this was not the right moment. Instead she said, “Have you thought of going to see the dwarves for yourself?”

  Marigold’s mouth fell open.

  “Tut, child!” Hortense frowned. “That is a most unattractive look. I repeat, have you thought of going to see the dwarves for yourself? Flailing is the place, I believe. The Unreliable Forest.”

  Marigold gulped. “But . . . but that’s miles and miles outside the border! We’re not allowed. There are horrible things out there. Really, really, REALLY horrible!”

  “I thought you wanted to have an adventure!” Hortense’s tone sharpened.

  “I do!” Marigold wailed. “But I want a nice safe adventure here in the Five Kingdoms!”

  There was a moment’s silence while the duchess gathered her thoughts. “Perhaps you could go just a little way beyond the border — a place where Prince Marcus would come across you on his return? That would be quite safe, but it would show a splendid spirit.”

  “But I can’t!” Marigold looked horrified. “What if I meet”— her not very active imagination did its best —“a wasp?”

  “Then, Marigold,” her great-aunt snapped, “you will run away screaming. And with any luck your gallant prince will come galloping up to rescue you. He does have a horse, I presume?”

  Marigold nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes! It’s the sweetest little pony called Glee! And he just adores ­carrots! He’s got dear little whiskers on his nose, and —”

  “Thank you, dear. That’s quite enough information.” Hortense raised a warning finger. “And it might be wise to curb your enthusiasm just a smidgen.”

  Marigold looked blank. “Pardon?”

  “Less of the ‘sweet little this’ and ‘dear little that,’” her great-aunt explained. “Boys don’t care for it.”

  “Oh.” Marigold thought about this, frowning deeply. At last her face cleared. “You mean I shouldn’t talk about the pony?”

  Hortense gave up. “Don’t worry about it, dear. It was foolish of me to mention it.” She heaved herself to her feet and headed for the door. “Excuse me, but I need my breakfast. I need it badly. I’ll see you later.”