The Heart of Glass

by Vivian French

  Queen Bluebell was feeling extremely pleased with her success in sending Prince Vincent on a mission to rescue Marigold. It seemed to her it had all the right ingredients: not too much danger and possibly even the beginnings of a useful romance. She was comfortably settled in her favorite armchair drinking a large, self-congratulatory glass of something considerably stronger than tea when the Dowager Duchess of Cockenzie Rood was announced.

  “Hortense!” Bluebell said in surprise. “I thought you’d be helping soothe Kesta’s ruffled feathers!” She shook her head. “Kesta’s a good woman, but she does get herself into a terrible state about those girls of hers. Have a glass of Wadingburn’s Best Old Malt. Excellent stuff.”

  The duchess shook her head. “That’s kind of you, but not just now. I’ve come to ask your advice.”

  “Advice?” The queen raised an eyebrow. “What sort of advice?”

  Hortense sat down on the edge of a sofa. “I’ve been wondering if I should go after Marigold.” She saw Bluebell’s eyebrow rise even higher and hastily added, “I know you’ve sent Vincent to rescue her, and it’s a splendid plan if it works — but I can’t help worrying. I never expected her to help herself to Fedora’s dress and her pony and cart, and if she’s surprised me once, she might surprise me again. What if the silly girl hasn’t stopped at the border of the Five Kingdoms? What if she’s gone chasing into the Enchanted Forests to find Marcus? He was off to Flailing to look at the dwarves.” She paused and looked guilty. “That’s what I told her to do. I haven’t told Kesta, though.”

  “Hmph.” Bluebell frowned. “I see your point. Vincent’s far too chicken to go looking for her if she’s not where she’s meant to be.”

  “I feel so responsible.” The dowager duchess sighed. “I thought it would do her good to have an adventure. I should have realized that she doesn’t have the sense to do it properly. Do you think she’ll come to any harm if she has gone to Flailing? She’s wearing her sister’s wedding dress, so she’s not exactly hiding the fact that she’s a royal princess. Stupid girl. You and I used to borrow the milkmaids’ dresses, and nobody looked at us twice.”

  Her friend took her feet off her footstool, sat up, and rang the large bell on the floor beside her. When a small page appeared, Bluebell said, “Be a chum and fetch the professor for me.” The boy shot off, and the queen turned to Hortense. “We’ll ask Scallio what he thinks about it all. Good chap, even if he can’t do a thing with Vincent. His sister lives in the More Enchanted Forest, and she tells him things I know nothing about. Gets a bit excited, sometimes — was wittering on about trolls earlier, and we all know they’re no trouble these days — but overall he talks a lot of sense.”

  The duchess nodded and sat back among the sofa cushions.

  A moment later, Professor Scallio appeared, a large book tucked under his arm; Queen Bluebell waved for him to join them. “Need your help,” she said. “This adventure I told you about — Princess Marigold. What if she goes as far as Flailing? Any danger, would you say?” She paused. “Girl’s all dressed up in her sister’s wedding dress.”

  If Professor Scallio was in any way taken aback by this information, he did not show it. He stroked his chin while he considered what to say. His first thought was that this could be an excellent opportunity to make sure Marcus and Gracie were safe, but he was a man of honor and not prepared to take advantage of his employer. “Well,” he said slowly, “am I right in supposing she has a pony and cart?”

  Bluebell and Hortense nodded.

  The professor went on thinking. “The roads are decidedly rough beyond the border, so traveling is not always easy, and the different tracks — such as they are — have no signposts. I would suspect the princess might well give up long before she reaches the Unreliable Forest, which is where there might perhaps be some”— he coughed —“some uncertainty.”

  Bluebell gave him a hard stare. “Is that meant to be a joke?”

  “Certainly not, Your Majesty.” The professor looked shocked at the idea.

  Hortense leaned forward. “That — what did you call it? Unreliable Forest. Sounds nasty. Should we call out the army, do you think?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am.” Professor Scallio’s tone was ­definitive. “There are a number of treaties and truces in place that mean the armies of the Five Kingdoms can cross the border only in an extreme emergency. There are some who would consider a military ­presence ­beyond the border to be a declaration of war.”

  There was a loud and cheery snort from Bluebell as she banged the duchess on the back. “Well done, Hortense! There’s a thought! All-out war! Distract us nicely from Fedora’s wedding, and you can’t tell me that wouldn’t be a blessed relief.”

  Professor Scallio smiled but shook his head. “I’m sure it won’t come to that, Your Majesty. If I might make a suggestion, perhaps I could look for the princess myself? I have the advantage of knowing the forests well.” He did not add that he also had the confidence of a number of highly intelligent bats who would be invaluable in the search for the lost princess.

  Both Queen Bluebell and the duchess looked at him with undisguised relief. “Splendid!” Bluebell told him. “Excellent idea. Take any horse you want. Any carriage.”

  The professor bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty. And if I find all is well and your grandson has found the princess and is happily escorting her home, I will not interfere.” There was a twinkle in his eye as he added, “Neither will I inform him that I am . . . shall we say, the reserve rescue mission.” He bowed once more and left the room.

  “There.” Bluebell reached for her glass. “Problem solved. Was almost expecting you to say you’d go with him, Hortense.”

  The duchess smiled. “I did think of it — but I’d better go back and try to keep Kesta calm. At least I can reassure her that everything’s under control and there’s a responsible adult on his way to look for Marigold.” She reached for a glass. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  The queen laughed and filled Hortense’s glass to the rim. “Here’s to secondhand adventures. Cheers!”

  Marcus was not happy. His idea of being a hero did not include riding slowly in front of a laboring coach, especially when the occupants were very obviously enjoying a substantial and delicious picnic from which he was excluded. Nothing had come his way other than a couple of cheese sandwiches and an overcooked sausage. It sounded as if Marigold and Vincent were getting along extremely well; Marcus was far too modest to guess that Marigold’s shrieks of girlish enthusiasm were designed to make him go green with jealousy and realize how foolish he was to prefer a mere orphan to a princess.

  Vincent, who, when his grandmother was elsewhere, was inclined to regard himself as something of a beau, was delighted by Marigold’s smiles and laughter. He managed two quite reasonable jokes and began to think she was the prettiest princess he had ever seen; this pleased Marigold even more, and she asked if he would like her to sing him a song. “Go for it,” Vincent told her. “Although I’m not very good at singing myself. Can’t tell ‘Pop Goes the Star’ from ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Weasel.’”

  Marigold gave him a forgiving smile and began to sing. The coachman woke up with a jolt, and the horses broke into a trot. Glee’s ears flickered, and Marcus winced as he rode as far ahead as he dared.

  Vincent, completely unaware of the sudden increase in speed, gazed at Marigold. “That’s amazing,” he breathed. “You sing like . . . like . . . nothing I’ve ever heard before. It’s SO amazing. Are you going to sing at the wedding?”

  This possibility had already occurred to Marigold, but her suggestion had been firmly quashed by Fedora. Even Queen Kesta had failed to support her, and the refusal had rankled. Now, it seemed, she had found an ally. She fluttered her eyelashes. “Dear Vincent — do you think I should? Truly?”

  Vincent nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve never heard anyone sing the way you do. It made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. You’re . . . you’re amazing, Marigold.”


  Marigold’s heart beat faster. If Vincent had been just a little taller, she would have kissed him, but she did not hold his size against him. He would grow, and she could wait. In the meantime, she could use him for other purposes. “Vincent,” she whispered, “will you walk with me in the wedding procession?”

  Vincent stared at her. “But you’re walking with Marcus.”

  “I’ll tell Mother I don’t want to. I want to walk with you.” Marigold squeezed his arm. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? And when we get to the cathedral steps, we can stop in front of Fedora and Tertius, and I can sing a song to them while you make sure nobody interrupts.” Marigold did not think it necessary to say that she had already put this plan to Marcus, and he had laughed so much he had gotten the hiccups.

  Vincent’s eyes grew wide. “Wow, Marigold! You’d really sing to them in front of everybody? What an amazing girl you are!”

  Marigold looked smug. “I am, aren’t I? So it’s all settled, then? You’ll walk with me, and we’ll keep our surprise a secret just between us two.”

  Nobody had ever asked Vincent to keep a secret before. Nor had a beautiful princess with golden curls and big blue eyes ever fluttered her eyelashes at him. He gulped, coughed, blew his nose, tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket, and took Marigold’s hand. “Marigold,” he said hoarsely, “I’d do anything for you. Absolutely anything. You’re the most amazing girl I’ve ever met, and I’ll keep your secret forever and ever and ever.”

  “Not forever, darling,” Marigold said with another flutter of her eyelashes. “Just until the wedding. And now that I see you do have a hankie, perhaps you could use it to wipe the jam off your face?” She sweetened this request by giving him her most charming smile, and Vincent’s capture was complete.

  Marigold celebrated her success by peeping out of the coach window; she was horrified to see that they were deep in the middle of a forest of tall and twisted trees, with branches pointing menacingly at her. She let out a shriek, and Vincent hurried to her side. He shrieked too, and they clutched each other like two babes in the wood.

  “Stop the coach! Stop this minute! Where are we? Stop! Stop, I say!”

  The coach lumbered to a halt, and Marcus rode back to see what was the matter. Two indignant faces glared at him.

  “We don’t want to be here!” Marigold said in her most imperious tones. “And I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go on an adventure with you. We want to go home, don’t we, Vincent darling?”

  Vincent nodded. “We certainly do.”

  Marcus sighed. “Don’t you want any chocolate cake?”

  Marigold, who had been eating cake nonstop for the past couple of hours, shook her head. “What kind of baby do you think I am? Fingle, turn the coach around this minute!”

  Fingle looked to the left and mumbled something under his breath. He looked to the right and mumbled again.

  “What’s he saying?” Vincent demanded.

  “I think,” Marcus said, trying not to sound too pleased, “he’s saying he can’t. There isn’t room. We’ll have to go a bit farther to find a turning place.”

  The two heads disappeared, and there was a lot of loud whispering before the door opened and Vincent got out, looking self-important. “I’m checking for myself,” he announced. But he soon saw there was no option other than to continue. The trees grew thick on either side; there was only just room for the coach to move forward. Vincent held up a commanding hand. “Turn the coach around just as soon as you can,” he ordered. The coachman nodded, and Vincent climbed back inside. “We’ll soon be home,” he reported. “There’s sure to be a turning place. Why don’t you sing me another song?”

  Marigold, who had never ever been asked to sing a second song by anyone who had heard the first, began to feel a genuine fondness for the stout little prince. “Darling Vincent,” she cooed, “of course I will.”

  As the tuneless wailing began once more, Marcus groaned and encouraged a more-than-willing Glee to increase the distance between him and the coach. From close by, a familiar voice squeaked, “Hello, Mr. Prince! What’s that noise?”

  “Alf!” Marcus slowed his pony and grinned. “It’s Princess Marigold. She’s singing to Vincent, and he actually likes it!”

  Alf looked pained. “Hurts my ears. What do you think, Flo?”

  Another bat, much the same size as Alf, came winging toward Marcus, then stopped to perch on a twig. She began to speak but was overcome with a fit of sneezing so violent that she was unable to continue.

  “Hay fever,” Alf explained. “Miss Gracie says she’ll get it cured for her.”

  “Have you seen Gracie?” Marcus asked eagerly. “Have the dwarves dug her out? Is she OK?”

  Alf nodded. “Gone down a tunnel to rescue Gubble. Uncle Marlon’s there too. And a dwarf. Me and Flo are on our way to the crones, but Flo’s never been out of the tunnels, so I was showing her around a bit — and then we saw you.” Alf twirled in a circle around Marcus’s head. “Never met a prince before, have you, Flo?”

  There was another explosion of sneezing, which Marcus ignored. “What do you mean, she’s ‘down a tunnel’?” His voice sharpened. “What kind of tunnel? And why’s Gubble stuck? Where did he come from?”

  Alf, delighted to impress Flo with his familiarity with royalty, settled himself on Glee’s saddle and made a full report. He finished by describing the enormous feet sticking out from the pile of earth from the tunnel roof, and Marcus looked thoughtful. “I expect that’s the huge troll I saw in the clearing. He didn’t look very clever; maybe he brought the roof down by mistake.”

  “Unc wouldn’t let me tickle his toes,” Alf told him. “Said it might wake him up.”

  “I wish I’d been there to help,” Marcus said. “Gracie always has better adventures than me.”

  He sounded as if he thought Gracie had been ­having fun, and Flo took a deep breath. “She’s very brave, Gracie Gillypot is.” She forgot her fears in her desire to defend Gracie and landed on Marcus’s arm. “When that horrid Oolie had hold of her and was dragging her to the king, she never screamed —”

  “What?” Marcus sat bolt upright and stared at the tiny bat. “What are you talking about? What king?”

  Flo, unnerved, went into a fit of sneezing.

  Marcus looked at Alf, but Alf looked blank. “Miss Gracie didn’t say anything about kings. All she said was she wanted to rescue Gubble . . .”

  Marcus turned back to Flo. “Please,” he said, “please try to tell me.”

  Struggling between nerves and sneezes, Flo did her best to explain. “Trueheart!” she gasped. “Trolls! Oolie . . . BAD. Oolie . . . danger . . .” It was too much for her, and she collapsed in a heap.

  Marcus picked her up as gently as he could, but she showed no signs of recovery. “What’s the matter with her?” he asked Alf. Alf shook his head helplessly, and Marcus, after a moment’s consideration, slipped Flo into his pocket. He was beginning to feel seriously concerned. The desperation in Flo’s words had cut through his romantic dreams of heroic deeds and brought him back to reality with a bump. “We need to find Gracie,” he said. “And I want to find out what’s really been going on. I’ve got a feeling it’s not nearly as simple as Marlon made out.”

  “I’ll show you where Miss Gracie is,” Alf volunteered, and Marcus gave him a thumbs-up before swinging around and riding back to the coach.

  “Marigold! Vincent!” he called. “I’m going to ride on ahead!”

  Vincent’s head popped out of the coach window. “You can’t,” he began — but Marigold appeared beside him.

  “He can make himself useful and look for a turning place,” she said. “Can’t you, Marcus? And hurry up. It’s getting late. We want to get home.” She thumped the side of the coach to make her point. “I’m so not coming on any adventures with you again! Not EVER!”

  Marcus, glad of the excuse and only too aware of how time was passing, waved agreement, but Marigold had seen Alf circling above his head.
With a loud scream she pulled Vincent back inside and slammed the window shut. Marcus eased Glee into a canter and rode on.

  The Ancient One was icing Gubble’s chocolate cake when Millie came flitting through the window. “Hello, Millie,” she said, her one blue eye twinkling — and then she saw Millie’s face. “Oh, dear. Bad news?”

  “It’s not very good, Miss Edna.” Millie shook her head. “The professor sent a message to remind you about some prophecy.” She pulled the piece of parchment from under her wing and held it out. “Here.”

  Edna read it, then read it again. “‘When Trueheart’s life is ended here . . .’— oh, dearie, dearie me —‘the High King’s heart will beat once more . . .’— that sounds thoroughly unpleasant —‘and power come to those who reign.’ Hmm. No wonder the professor thinks the trolls will get excited. ‘A King of Kings will rule again.’ Well — that’s obvious enough, and yes, it’s really rather worrying. It’s been so much quieter since the trolls agreed to sign the Charter of Peace — although I understand there were shady goings-on at the time and the new king wasn’t, strictly speaking, the one who should have taken power. Hmph. Have you seen Gracie? Your father said she’d fallen down a troll trap. I suggested he ask the dwarves to help her.”

  Millie sighed. “I saw Prince Marcus, and he said she was down some hole but it was all OK; the dwarves were going to dig her out — but then I saw Dad, and he said Miss Gracie was crawling around in a tunnel, and I’ve got such a nasty feeling about it.”

  Edna did not say that the curious stains spreading across the web suggested that Millie might be right. Instead she asked, “What kind of tunnel?”

  Millie shook her head. “I don’t know, Miss Edna. But Dad . . . he’s got one of his plans, and I don’t like it at all. Something to do with a princess and a huge troll digging for the dwarves, and Mr. Prince was going to rescue the princess — and surely he should be looking out for Miss Gracie, not playing at being a hero!”