The Bag of Bones

by Vivian French

  It was a long wait; Arry could not know that Marcus was settling Glee in his stable and arguing with Gracie. “It’ll be all right,” he assured her. “Really it will. We can go in through the kitchen. I often sneak in that way.”

  Gracie shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m staying here. I can’t possibly walk into a palace looking like this.”

  Alf agreed. “You never get heroines in pajamas in the stories. No way.”

  Marcus, outvoted, admitted defeat. “I’ll get you a dress, then, and bring it here. Mother’s got loads — she’ll never notice if I take one. I’ll be back in two ticks.”

  Gracie opened her mouth to suggest that it would be really useful to have shoes, and petticoats, and maybe a cloak as well, but Marcus had already vanished. Gracie sighed and sat down on an overturned bucket.

  Alf flew up to a beam. “I’ll wait here and keep an eye on things, Miss Gracie,” he announced as he hung himself upside down.

  Marcus arrived in the twins’ bedroom panting, having taken the stairs two at a time. “Hi!” he said. “I’m back!”

  Arry gave him a reproachful look. “I can see that. Who on earth was that extraordinary girl?”

  “Long story, bro.” Marcus was hastily flinging off his travel-stained clothes. “Bit of a crisis. Where can I find a dress?”

  “What?” Arry stared. “Did you say a dress?”

  “Gracie can’t go to the ball in pajamas,” Marcus explained. “Said I’d find her something to wear. Where does Mother keep her spare stuff?”

  “Erm . . .” Arry scratched his head. “I’ve no idea.”

  Marcus buttoned up his best velvet coat and headed for the door. “I’ll go and have a look. Can you keep an eye out? Keep Mother busy if she comes asking for me. And tell her I’m dressed and ready.” The door slammed behind him. A second later it crashed open again, and Marcus reappeared. “Got your peacock feather,” he said.

  Arry took the feather reverently. “Marcus,” he said, “you’re amazing. Really amazing.”

  “I know,” his brother said, and was gone.

  It was fortunate for Marcus that Queen Mildred liked to take as long as possible getting ready for a party. She was still locked away in her marble bathroom in the midst of warm, scented bubbles, hair curlers, and fluffy powder puffs, having no idea that her son was inspecting the contents of her wardrobe.

  “Phew!” he whistled as he looked at the rows and rows and rows of royal dresses. “How on earth do I pick one?” A vague idea crossed his mind that there might be some discrepancy in size between the skinny Gracie and his well-upholstered mother, but he pushed it to one side. “A dress is a dress,” he told himself. “Hmm. Blue’s nice.” And he hauled out an evening gown made of deep blue velvet. As an afterthought he picked up a golden scarf and, pleased with his selection, bundled them into a cloth bag lying at the bottom of the closet.

  Hurrying to the stairs, he jumped down and was on his way to the kitchen door when he saw his father coming out of his study. “Oh! Hi, Father! Looking forward to the ball tonight?”

  King Frank frowned. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

  “But I am!” Marcus said indignantly. “Look — best coat, best boots, best everything!”

  “You haven’t used a hairbrush or washed your face,” his father said. “Go back to your room and try again.”

  Marcus sighed heavily, but knew better than to argue. “If you say so, sir. I’ll just run down to the stables and give this to . . . to Ger, and then I’ll be straight back.”

  “You’ll go to your room right NOW!” his father thundered. “I’ll see you by the front door in twenty minutes, and I’ll expect to see you looking like a prince, and not a tramp!”

  “Yes, sir.” Marcus bowed obediently, but he dashed out the door the second his father was out of sight. Arriving in a rush at the stables, he pushed the bag into Gracie’s arms. “Here!” he gasped. “Soon as you’re ready, get into the coach. They’ll bring it into the yard when they’re harnessing the horses. Look out for Ger. Say I said it was OK.” And he was gone before Gracie could thank him or ask any questions.

  Truda Hangnail had had a good night’s sleep and had awoken late. She spent the morning sending the increasingly nervous Mrs. Cringe running to and fro between the hayloft and the small wooden shed where the other witches had been forced to take shelter, the dairy being much in use.

  “Someone’ll see me for sure,” Mrs. Cringe whined, but her grandmother was without pity and sent her away with yet more instructions. It was on her return journey that Mrs. Cringe heard a shriek from the kitchen.

  “RATS! I’m sure I saw a rat! Down there by the dresser. Girl — did you see it?”

  There was a tiny pause, and then, “Loobly no did see ratty. No ratty be here, missus. . . .”

  Mrs. Cringe froze. Loobly. Wasn’t that the name of the skinny little runaway orphan? She waited another moment, but hearing nothing other than the clanging of saucepans, she scurried to the hayloft to report to Truda. Malice raised his head at the news, and the old witch’s nose sharpened. “Loobly? That’s the Trueheart!” Her green tongue flickered as she turned around and around. “There’s no taste of Trueheart. Only rat, and they’re everywhere. Sure you heard right?”

  Mrs. Cringe nodded. Above her head, balanced on a narrow roof beam, Bodalisk kept very still.

  Truda snapped her bony fingers. Hundreds of tiny purple wasps zinged around and around the hayloft, and she gave her granddaughter a cold look. “See? See how my spells are working? You must have gotten it wrong. Do the little witchy women know what they have to do?”

  “Oh, yes, Grandma. They’ll be ready to let in the rats, just as you told them.” Mrs. Cringe hesitated. “Are you sure you’re not making a mistake? Once they’re back to their proper size, won’t they turn on you?”

  Truda Hangnail smiled nastily. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she said. “As soon as they’ve opened the doors and the windows, I’ll shrink them again.” Her eyes glittered, and she cracked her knuckles in glee. “They’ll shrink and shrink until they’re no bigger than beetles. And then what’ll I do? Step on them, that’s what! I’ll crush them! Squish them and squash them! Queen Truda of Wadingburn wants no other witches around!”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Cringe felt a cold chill spreading through her veins. “Er . . .”

  Her grandmother sneered. “Worried, are you? Thinking of yourself? You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you? Just make sure you do as you’re told!”

  “Of course, Grandma,” Mrs. Cringe whispered, and she huddled in a corner.

  Malice licked his lips with pleasure at her discomfiture, then paused. Did he detect a hint of Trueheart? A wasp whined past him, and he snapped at it, missing Truda’s ear by a fraction.

  “Down,” his mistress hissed, tweaking his tail.

  Malice glowered and decided to keep his information to himself. The wasp, suddenly aware of danger, flew through a crack in the wooden walls, buzzed across the yard, and whizzed in through the open kitchen window.

  “Ooooh! It’s a horrid hornet!” The boot boy picked up a dishcloth and began flapping it wildly. “I hates hornets!”

  Loobly glanced up from polishing teaspoons. “Please not to sting boy,” she said quietly, and a blue butterfly swirled away from the dishcloth and drifted across the ceiling.

  The boy swiveled around and around. “Oi! Where’s that dang hornet gone?”

  “Hornet? There’s no hornets here.” The cook marched toward the door and opened it. “Make your­self useful and help that pretty butterfly out into the sunshine — EEEEEEEEEGH!” Her scream made everyone in the kitchen jump. “A rat! I’ve seen a rat! Running out of the hayloft, bold as brass . . . Quick, Tommy, quick! Fetch a trap!”

  Gracie couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. The blue velvet dress was at least seven sizes too large, which meant that it successfully covered her bedroom slippers but had a worrying tendency to slide off her shoulders. After some experiments, she
twisted the golden scarf into a belt, knotted it tightly, and hoped for the best.

  Alf, woken up to see the finished effect, was realis­tic: “You need to be MUCH fatter, Miss Gracie.” And then, worrying that he had been rude, he added, “But it’s better than pajamas.”

  There was a rumbling noise in the stable yard, and he flew out to see what was going on. A golden coach was being rolled out of a large shed and, as Alf watched, six white horses were backed into place and harnessed up. Ger, the stable boy, caught sight of Alf and winked; he was used to seeing bats flitting in and out of the palace. He was far more surprised when a skinny girl draped in yards of blue velvet appeared out of Glee’s stable to make her way to the coach.

  “Prince Marcus said it was OK if I got a ride with you,” the girl said. “Are you Ger? He said to look for you.”

  Ger, trying not to smile at the sight of bedraggled bedroom slippers under the velvet, bowed and opened the coach door. Gracie climbed in and managed to arrange herself so that most of the surplus velvet was underneath her, and she looked almost passable.

  “Very nice, my lady,” Ger told her.

  Gracie grinned, despite the fact that her stomach felt as if it were tightly packed with blocks of ice. “Thanks.”

  There was a shout, and Ger vanished. A moment later the coach lurched as the coachman took his place. He shook the reins, and the horses trotted away up the drive toward the palace. As the coach stopped outside the front door, Gracie held her breath.

  Marcus bounded up at once. “Here we are, Mother,” he said loudly as he swung the door open and peered in to check that Gracie was inside. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her, but he made no comment. “Mother! We’re giving Gracie Gillypot a lift; you remember I told you? Queen Bluebell asked her to come — in fact, she wants Gracie to sit next to her.”

  Queen Mildred, whose wide skirts only just allowed her to enter the coach, was far too preoccupied to say anything except, “Yes, yes! Delighted to meet you, my dear.” She sat down with a sigh of relief and was quickly followed by King Frank and Arioso.

  “Very pretty dress, Gracie dear,” King Frank said gallantly. “Think my wife has one much the same color. Lovely blue, what, what, what?”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Gracie was aware of Marcus’s elbow nudging her in a meaningful way and did her best not to smile.

  Queen Mildred, having finally arranged her many skirts to her satisfaction, tapped King Frank on the knee with her fan. “Isn’t this so exciting?” she said. She turned to Gracie. “We’ve all been wondering who Queen Bluebell will choose as her successor. Who do you think it will be, my dear?”

  Gracie was taken aback by the question. She remembered Edna and Elsie talking about Queen Bluebell but had no clear memory of what they had said. “Erm . . . I don’t think I can guess, Your Majesty.”

  “Of course, I’ve always hoped her daughter would miraculously reappear,” Queen Mildred said happily. “That would solve the problem nicely. Queen Bluebell the Twenty-ninth she’d be, of course. And then when she had a daughter, that would be Bluebell the Thirtieth. And after that —”

  “Mildred! That’s QUITE enough!” King Frank tut-tutted and sat back in his seat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Bluebell still hadn’t made her mind up. Fine woman — in fact, a very fine woman — but Bluebell’s one of a kind. Believes in saying what she thinks and doing what she says. That’s why she never got along with her daughter, you know. Both exactly the same; both wanted their own way. Bound to clash.”

  “Poor dear Bella.” His wife fluttered her fan.

  King Frank snorted loudly. “Rubbish, Mildred. Nothing poor about Bella. Never wanted to be queen, right from the time she was a baby. Don’t you remember? She was always running away from royal parties, always preferred to be in the stables or on the farm. I’d stake my crown she was laughing fit to bust when she left young Vincent on the palace steps, tucked up in a basket with her diamond-buckled shoe. Wish I’d seen Bluebell’s face when she found she had a grandson and not a granddaughter. Whoops! Are you all right, Gracie, my dear? You jumped.”

  “Oh — I’m so sorry,” Gracie said. “It was just . . . I just thought of something. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I feel sorry for Vincent.” Arioso shook his head. “Poor fellow! Prince of Wadingburn but can’t ever be king.”

  “Hang on a minute! I’m a prince, but I’ll never be a king,” Marcus interrupted. “But I don’t mind. Much rather not be king, actually.”

  “But the new Queen of Wadingburn might be quite delightful, and you could fall in love with her, and the two of you could rule together,” his mother suggested.

  Marcus made a face. “Not likely. No wonder Queen Bluebell’s finding it difficult to choose. There isn’t a princess in all the Five Kingdoms that isn’t as dull as dishwater.”

  “Nina-Rose is wonderful,” Arry said dreamily.

  “Princess Marigold is a sweet little thing,” Queen Mildred pointed out, “and so is Princess Evelina . . . or do I mean Charlotte? Or is it Mirabella who has those charming golden curls?” As she began to list the possibilities for future brides, King Frank’s eyes closed. Marcus began an argument with Arry over the speed at which they were traveling, and Gracie looked out the window. There was an extremely thoughtful expression on her face.

  Brother Bodalisk was not happy. He had risked everything in his dash from the hayloft to the shed, but when he arrived and blurted out the dreadful news Evangeline refused to believe him. “Truda promised she’d let us go,” she said. “She absolutely promised, just as long as we do exactly what she says. We’re to creep into the Royal State Room, where the party’s going to begin, and wait until the speeches are over. Then, just as Queen Bluebell is about to declare her successor and everyone’s looking at her, we’re each to go to a door or a window and — abracadabra! We’ll be back to our normal sizes.” Evangeline sighed wistfully. “She’s even said we won’t be whiskery anymore. Won’t that be wonderful?”

  “Matter of taste,” Bodalisk said shortly. “But doll, it’s Deep Magic. You can’t trust her —”

  “But I have to,” Evangeline interrupted him. “Don’t you see? There’s no other way.”

  “You could stay as you are, babe. The moment I saw you, my heart went pit-a-pat!”

  Evangeline shook her head. “I’m sorry, Boddie. Once Queen Bluebell and all her guests see the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of rats, she’s sure to make Truda queen — and then Truda’ll let us go, and everything will be just fine.”

  Bodalisk sighed heavily. “Whatever.” He took himself off to a corner and slumped against the wooden wall. Cute babe, Evangeline, but she doesn’t care. A sudden thought popped into his head, and he sat up. Told that kid in the kitchen I’d let her know what was going on. Might as well do that as hang around here. Kitchen’ll be crazy, but do I mind? No. Broken-hearted, that’s me.

  And Bodalisk set off down the rat hole that led from the shed to the kitchen.

  Marlon was also watching and waiting for an opportunity to speak to Loobly. On arrival at the palace, he had been almost deafened by the noise of the preparations for the party. Servants were running in all directions; one orchestra was tuning up in the grand ballroom and another on the terrace; and small and flustered pageboys were everywhere, misunderstanding instructions and passing on incorrect messages. Marlon took a deep breath and headed for the kitchen. There he found such chaos that he flew straight out again, followed by loud screams from the cook — but not before he had seen Loobly struggling with a large sack of potatoes.

  Flying higher, he investigated other windows. Queen Bluebell the Twenty-eighth was already in the Royal State Room. She was marching up and down, studying a long list of names, looking worried. Prince Vincent was lurking by a side entrance, looking anxious. Various officials, including the Prime Minister, were in their rooms admiring themselves in their mirrors.

  Marlon flew higher still. From this height he could see numbers of coaches
and carriages all heading toward the palace, although only one or two had gotten as far as the huge stone pillars at the entrance.

  “Goin’ to be some party,” he thought. “That dame may be evil, but she’s clever with it. Kings and queens all over the place. If she’s declared queen, she’ll have Deep Magic in the Five Kingdoms in no time at all.” He slipped into a rolling dive and headed back toward the kitchen. It was still frantically busy, although now the back door was wide open, presumably to cool down the perspiring cook and her assistants.

  Marlon grinned and headed for the dairy. With a twist and a spin, he settled himself under the slated roof near a small open window that looked directly onto the kitchen door and prepared to wait.

  Gracie was shaken out of her thoughts by the coach going over a series of bumps as they approached Wadingburn. King Frank continued snoring, and Queen Mildred stirred but sank back into a doze. For a moment Gracie wondered why she had a cold, sick feeling at the pit of her stomach — and then she remembered. She was on her way to meet Deep Magic in a dress seven times too large for her, armed with not much more than a wild idea and the crones’ belief in the power of Truehearts.

  Think positive, Gracie, she thought. You’ve got Marcus with you, and Marlon’s already at the palace. Oh, and there’s Alf as well. The thought of Alf made her smile, and Marcus winked at her.

  “Well done!” he mouthed. “You look . . . OK.”

  “I can’t get out of the coach until your parents have gone,” Gracie whispered back. “If I get up, this dress is likely to fall off.”