The Bag of Bones

by Vivian French

  Marcus went a furious purple — but before he could utter a word of protest, a booming voice echoed from the doorway. “A friend of Marcus’s? Of course she’s invited. ATCHOOO!” Queen Bluebell produced an enormous handkerchief embroidered with the royal arms of Wadingburn and blew her nose with the sound of trumpets. “Especially if it’s that little girl who lives with the crones. Good girl, full of spirit. Not like some of the young royals around here, and I’m not talking about you, young Marcus!”

  Vincent looked at his grandmother in alarm. “You don’t mean me, do you, Grandmother?”

  Queen Bluebell gave him a withering glance. “If the cap fits, then wear it. Atchooo!” She swung around on Marcus, her lorgnette perched on the end of her aristocratic nose. “You tell Gracie Gillypot she’s to come on my personal invitation, and she’s to sit next to me. Vincent, you’re a fool. And a snob besides, and if there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s a snob. Now — out of my way! I need to talk to dear Kesta about something of the utmost importance!” And Queen Bluebell the Twenty-eighth thundered across the polished floor to where Queen Kesta was rubbing her eyes and try­ing to remember where she was.

  As Marcus hurried away to the waiting Arry, he saw something small dressed in black whisk quickly under the grandfather clock in the palace front hall.

  Weird, he thought. Almost looked like a tiny person! Must have been a rat. . . . Wonder if Queen Bluebell knows the rats are dressing up these days? He grinned as he leaped into the coach and slammed the door. Good thing Vincent didn’t see it. He’s always moaning about them. And then he forgot all about it as he urged the coachman to make top speed back to the palace of Gorebreath. Arry, rattling from side to side as the coach flew over the cobbled roads, couldn’t help noticing that Marcus whistled happily all the way home.

  Evangeline Droop stifled a squeak as she arrived, trembling, under the old wooden clock.

  “Told you to be careful.” Mrs. Cringe was unsympathetic, despite the fact that it was she who had persuaded Evangeline to creep out and listen from the inadequate protection of the radiator. “Did he see you?”

  Evangeline, still trembling, shook her head. “I’m sure he didn’t. He was in such a hurry — he jumped straight into the coach and was off.”

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Cringe made a note to report to her grandmother that the Grand High Witch had put their lives in serious danger. “Right, ladies. We need to get into that room and check what the old battle-ax is telling that pal of hers. ‘Utmost importance,’ eh? Bet that’ll be about the Declaration!”

  Mrs. Prag sighed wistfully. “I wish there was something to eat. I’m so hungry.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Mrs. Cringe snapped back, and it was true. The five tiny witches had found nothing to eat on their long journey from Wadingburn Hill to the palace gardens. Only the thought of Truda Hangnail’s wrath had kept them going — that, and the hope of being restored to their proper selves. They had reached the palace as dawn broke over the hills and had made their way inside, thanks to a forgetful maid who had left the boot-room window wide open. The Virginia creeper that covered the palace walls had proved easy to climb, and the five small spies had arrived in a heap among the boots and shoes piled up and waiting to be cleaned. There was a worrying number of rattraps; fortunately they remained unoccupied, and despite some suspicious scuttling noises that left Mrs. Cringe in a state of extreme nervous agitation, no rats had appeared. This was just as well, as the boot-room door was locked solid, and the witches of Wadingburn had had to wait there until the boot boy came, yawning and stretching, to begin his duties. It wasn’t until his departure to beg some bread and jam from the cook that they could go any farther. A terrifying dash along an endless corridor had led them to a swinging baize-covered door, and by all heaving together, they had managed to find themselves in the grand marble hall of Wadingburn Palace.

  Two minutes later, royal visitors had begun to arrive, and they had been lucky to find a hiding place beneath the clock, taking care to avoid yet another rattrap. They had stayed there, quivering, until Mrs. Cringe had dared Evangeline to make a dash for the radiator, but the gurgling of the ancient water pipes had effectively drowned out most of the conversation from the room beyond. Only the echoing boom of Queen Bluebell’s voice could be heard clearly from under the clock.

  “There’s one thing I noticed,” Evangeline said as she recovered her breath. “There are bookcases all around the walls, and there’s a gap underneath the bottom shelf. If we slide under at this end, we could creep around the room . . . apart from where there are doors, of course.”

  Mrs. Cringe, who liked to have the best ideas herself, sniffed. “How do we know there isn’t something in the way?”

  “We don’t.” Ms. Scurrilous was getting tired of Mrs. Cringe. “But you said we should try to find out what’s going on, and speaking for myself and, I am sure, others of our number, I do not wish to be rodent-size for the rest of my life.”

  “Hear, hear!” Mrs. Prag and Mrs. Vibble nodded, and Evangeline patted Ms. Scurrilous on the back.

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Cringe, outnumbered, changed her mind. “I was about to say the same myself. Let’s get going, then.” She eyed the distance between the clock and the bookcase, hesitated, and went on, “Perhaps we should let our leader go first.” And she nudged Evangeline.

  Evangeline peered out, saw that the coast was clear, and ran. Seeing her disappear safely behind a fretted wooden overhang, Ms. Scurrilous followed, and a moment later all five were creeping up the side of the Royal State Room.

  “Kesta, my dear friend,” Queen Bluebell boomed, making Evangeline jump. “SUCH a problem! Have you any suggestions? I’ve been racking my brain for months and months, and it’s my birthday tomorrow — and something has to be done! How can I declare that I’ve chosen an heir when I’ve no idea whom to choose?”

  Queen Kesta cleared her throat. “I’m sure you don’t need to worry just yet, Bluebell dear. Your mother was at least a hundred and thirty-five when she left us for . . . er . . . the great throne room in the sky.”

  One of Queen Bluebell’s exceptionally large feet began to twitch. “Now, now, Kesta. That is not helpful. It’s in the Rules of Wadingburn Kingdom: ‘The name of the heir apparent must be declared on the occasion of the current ruler’s eightieth birthday, and once declared, that name shall not be altered.’ All I need is a sensible girl to take over the kingdom — but can I find one? No. And as far as relations go, there’s only Vincent.” There was the sound of a large and gusty sigh. “We’ve never had kings in Wadingburn, and I don’t intend for us to start now.”

  Queen Kesta gave a small cough. “Erm . . . I don’t like to bring up an unhappy memory, but there’s no news of your . . . your daughter?”

  There was a second sigh, even larger than the first. “Kesta, my dear, you have the mind of a cuckoo. If there were, do you think I’d be worrying like this?”

  “I’m sorry, Bluebell, but it was you who asked if I had any ideas.” Queen Kesta was clearly offended. “I was only trying to help.”

  “My dear friend — forgive me.” The large feet stomped across the floor, and the witches guessed, quite correctly, that Queen Kesta was being enveloped in an apologetic hug. “It’s all so difficult. You’ve got plenty of well-behaved, docile girls. I had only one girl, and she was trouble from the day she was born. Never did what she was told, never wanted to be a queen, and hasn’t been heard of since the day she climbed out of the tower window to run away with the kitchen boy.” Queen Bluebell’s snort made the windows rattle. “Nice enough boy, Clovis, but no more brain than my grand piano. The whole thing was quite ridiculous! Broad daylight, and the front door wide open, but she has to climb down a rope made of sheets. Fourteen of my best satin sheets, completely ruined. And not a word for seventeen years. Not even a birthday card. Nothing except for that silly young Vincent dumped on my doorstep with his name on a label around his neck and one of Bella’s diamond-buckled shoes to show where he came from. Ty
pical Bella! Refuses to be queen, and then produces a boy — the first in twenty-eight generations. But you know all about that, Kesta — I’ve bored you with the story a hundred times.”

  There was the sort of polite “Um” that meant her listener had indeed heard the story a good many times but wished to suggest that she had never been bored.

  Bluebell took no notice and went on, “Of course, I still send out search parties, but there isn’t a sign of her. I’ve offered endless rewards, but I’ve had to accept it: she’s gone, and she’s not coming back. She’d have been Queen Bluebell the Twenty-ninth, and I can’t say that she’d have been any good at it, but at least she’d have had the royal blood in her veins.”

  “So . . . this Declaration Ball.” Queen Kesta was thinking out loud. “Are you hoping Bella will come to it? Or are you looking for a princess who can take her place? Or a wife for Vincent?”

  “Who’d want a boy like that?” Vincent’s grandmother sniffed. “Which isn’t to say he may not improve in time, although I’m not convinced as yet. I put him in charge of getting rid of the rats in time for the ball tomorrow, and all he did was call for the rat catcher and scream every time he saw a trap. No — you’ve put your finger on the spot, my dear. I still haven’t made up my mind. Thought I’d have a look around this morning and see if anyone caught my eye, but I can’t say that any one of them stands out from the rest. They’re all pretty, and they’re all polite . . . and all as dull as dishwater.” Realizing that this comment was not entirely tactful, she hastily added, “Don’t mean your girls, of course.”

  “I think you should go on looking.” Queen Kesta spoke firmly. An interesting possibility was establishing itself at the back of her mind. The mother of seven daughters always has to be aware of every opportunity. “You should look at the girls here very carefully, whether they come from Wadingburn or . . . or somewhere else. Perhaps you could even arrange for a little parade as they leave? Or a test or two. Perhaps I could help you? I’d be very happy to think of some ideas. A demonstration of needlework? Recitation of inspirational poetry? Then later today we could have a chat and see which princess impressed us most.”

  Queen Bluebell gave her friend a sideways look. “Hmm,” she said. “I’ll think about it. You’re a good woman, Kesta, and I could do worse than one of your girls. I promise I’ll bear it in mind. Not at all sure I want to leave Wadingburn in the hands of a queen who recites inspirational poetry, though. Could cause mutiny among the peasants. ATCHOOO! Oh, this dreadful cold! Addling my brain, just when I need to be able to think. Come and try some cake, and tell me which one to choose for tomorrow. . . .”

  As the booming voice moved away, Evangeline decided she could risk stretching her very cramped limbs. Behind her she could hear Mrs. Cringe whispering urgently to someone, and the Grand High Witch frowned. Any noise could be dangerous, and this was most irresponsible. As she turned to hush Mrs. Cringe, she became aware that she was being stared at . . . stared at by the owner of a sharp nose, long whiskers, and extraordinarily sharp teeth.

  “Ho, ho, HO!” said the rat, and he winked seductively. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?”

  Gracie was whistling as she and Gubble trudged down the track that would shortly take them into the village of Gorebreath. Despite the fact that they had had very little sleep, she was feeling remarkably cheerful and had almost convinced herself that the shadow on the loom would turn out to be nothing too serious after all. “Still,” she told Gubble, “we should tell Marcus about it, don’t you think?”

  “Ug,” Gubble agreed without having much idea what Gracie was talking about. “Dog.”

  “What?” Gracie looked at him in surprise. “What dog?”

  Gubble waved an arm. “Dog, dog, dog. More dog.”

  Gracie listened, but the troll had sharper ears than she did, and she could hear nothing. “Don’t worry. I like dogs, and they like me. I expect it’s chasing a cat somewhere in Gorebreath. We’re nearly there now. It’s probably best if we go straight to the marketplace.” Gracie took Gubble’s hand and swung it as they walked. “Oh, Gubble! Is it very bad of me to feel excited? I know there’s Deep Magic somewhere, and that’s serious, but it’s been ages and ages since I’ve been here . . . and we’ll be seeing Marcus soon. And maybe Marlon too —” Gracie stopped. She could hear the sound of barking now. It wasn’t the sound of a dog wanting its breakfast or a dog seeing off an intruder. It was the sound of hunting dogs baying as they searched for a trail, and a shiver ran down her spine.

  Gubble nodded as he saw her expression. “Bad dogs,” he remarked. “Hide!” And he stomped off toward the bushes and trees beyond the grassy verge edging the track. Peering around a tree trunk, he said encouragingly, “Safe here!”

  Gracie looked after him, then gave herself a little shake. Come along, Gracie Gillypot, she thought. Even if they are bad dogs, they aren’t looking for you. If you’re frightened by a few dogs, whatever will you do if you come across Deep Magic? She took a big breath and called, “You go that way, Gubble. I’m staying here.” Then she straightened her back and marched on.

  As she went she attempted a brave whistle, but as the sound of the barking grew louder, the tune began to wobble, and by the time she had turned a corner and seen the dogs rushing toward her, she had no whistle left . . . until Snarler ran straight by her with­out giving her a second glance.

  “Phew!” Gracie heaved a sigh of relief, and she skipped onto the grass to watch the rest of the dogs hurtling past. “There! Didn’t I say they weren’t looking for us?” And she gave the purple and perspiring Buckleup Brandersby a cheery smile and a wave as he thundered up the path.

  Buckleup, wheezing hard, might not have noticed Gracie if she hadn’t waved. He was purple with rage as well as exhaustion; there had been no sign of Loobly anywhere in Gorebreath, and after the dogs had upset three market stalls and helped themselves to a variety of sausages, ham bones, and cheeses, he had been forced to leave at some speed. In Buckleup Brandersby’s head this had become Loobly’s fault, and the fault of all orphans high and low wherever they might be, and he was muttering such hideous and terrible threats as he pounded away from Gorebreath that the leaves on the trees on either side of the path shriveled and fell off as he passed.

  But then Gracie waved, and Buckleup saw a tall, skinny girl in a bathrobe, her hair in straggly braids, with soaking-wet bedroom slippers on her feet. Every one of his very basic instincts screamed “Runaway Norphan.” He discounted the fact that none of the orphans in his care had ever been known to enjoy the comfort of bathrobes or bedroom slippers; it was after ten in the morning, and in Buckleup’s opinion anyone of Gracie’s age still in her nightclothes had to be on the run. He lumbered to a stop and peered at her. The dogs, grateful that their master was no longer shouting and screaming at them, sat down at a safe distance.

  “So who are you?” Buckleup inquired with what he fondly believed to be a disarming smile.

  Gracie, taken aback that he had stopped to speak to her, hesitated, and Gubble grunted a warning from behind his bush. “Erm . . . I’m Gracie Gillypot,” she said.

  Buckleup, always on Orphan Alert, noticed the hesitation. “ ’Oo’s your mother?”

  Gracie saw the bushes behind Buckleup shaking and, knowing that Gubble was watching, thought it safer to reply rather than risk annoying this huge purple-faced man. “I haven’t got a mother. Or a dad. I live very happily in the Less Enchanted Forest, though, and if you’ll excuse me, I’m on a rather important —”

  She had no time to explain further. Buckleup was trembling with excitement. He had lost one orphan, but now, without any help or assistance, he had found another . . . and a wondrous idea exploded in his head. With a shout of triumph, he grabbed Gracie. “GOTCHER!” he yelled, and, slinging her over his shoulder, he turned and set off at a run.

  “Put me down!” Gracie screamed, and she kicked and wriggled with all the strength she had — but Buckleup’s grip grew t
ighter.

  “Shut it,” he growled, and then, as Gracie showed no signs of obeying, he pulled his Orphan Snuffer from his pocket. Gubble, scrambling out of the bushes as fast as he could go, saw the Snuffer whirl through the air, followed by a most unpleasant thud — and Gracie’s limp body was hoisted back over Buckleup Brandersby’s shoulder and borne away at a steady jog.

  Gubble stood frozen in the middle of the path. Two large tears rolled down his cheeks, and a massive sob shook his solid body. “Bad Gubble,” he whispered. “Gubble not help. Gubble BAD.” He took a few indecisive steps in the direction of Gorebreath and paused. “Gubble think,” he said, and an expression of acute agony overspread his flat green face. Seeing a puddle at the side of the track, he took off his head and dunked it in the muddy water. After a few moments he put himself back together again and smiled through the dribbles of mud. “Find Marcus!” he said. “Clever Gubble!” And he began to stump along the track at a determined trot.

  Prince Marcus was having troubles of his own. He and Arry were safely back at Gorebreath, but his plan to leave almost immediately had been frustrated by his mother. Queen Mildred had been deeply shocked to see the twins returning early and insisted on reading them a long lecture on the Importance of Always Observing Royal Etiquette. Marcus wriggled and squirmed and tried to explain that they’d left for the best of reasons, but his mother took no notice and simply talked over him. After half an hour he was beginning to wonder if his only hope of stopping the tirade was to fall on the floor in a wild fit of remorse, but at last the queen ran out of breath. “So,” she said, “I do hope that you will never do such a thing again. The two of you must write Queen Bluebell a letter of apology, and we’ll send it by royal courier this afternoon.”