The Bag of Bones (21 page)

Nor was she in the kitchen, where Prince Vincent was grumpily eating sausage rolls. “A sister,” he muttered. “What’ll I do with a sister? She looks as if a puff of wind’d blow her away, and I suppose I’ll be expected to explain what’s what. Teach her how to behave. Show her the ropes and stuff . . . Hmm.” He reached for another sausage roll and sat up straighter. “I suppose I could start with royal etiquette and stuff like that. And it does mean there’ll be someone my age around when Grandmother gets in one of her bossy moods. . . . Hmm . . .” He got off the draining board and smoothed his hair. “Maybe it won’t be so bad after all. I’ll go and see how she’s getting on.”

As Vincent left the kitchen, there was a rustling from under the dresser. “He’s gone,” Bodalisk announced. “Coast’s clear. Come on, you guys. You deserve a feast.” He crept out, followed by Doily, Sprout, and Brother Brokenbiscuit. “Here.” He pushed a golden crust of pastry toward Doily, but she shook her head.

“Will us see our Loobly soon?” she asked plaintively.

“Our Loobly’s going to be a queen,” Sprout said gently. “She won’t have time for the likes of us, Doily.”

Doily sniffed. “But I do so be missing her.”

Bodalisk gave her a sympathetic look. “Know how you feel, doll. Lost my one true love, I have. Gorgeous, with wonderful whiskers — and now she’s five foot eleven, and she’ll never look at me again. Still . . . life has to go on.”

“Shh! There’s a Large One coming!” Brokenbiscuit scuttled back under the dresser, but Doily stayed where she was, her whiskers trembling with excitement.

“Is my Loobly!” she whispered, and a moment later Loobly, towing Queen Bluebell behind her like a small skiff towing a battle cruiser, came into the kitchen.

“Here I was working,” she explained — and then she saw the rats.

The next few minutes left Queen Bluebell bewildered as Loobly cooed and kissed and hugged and cooed again. At the end of it, the Queen asked, somewhat faintly, “Do you have
many
friends who are rats, my dear?”

“Only mostly,” Loobly rocked Doily in her arms. “Ratties are good and kind to Loobly. More kindly than Large Ones. . . . But you be nicely Large One, Grandma.”

“Harrumph.” The queen shook her head. “Poor child. Poor child. You’d better bring them back with you. Our guests will be wondering where we be. I mean, are. And I still haven’t found Gracie Gillypot and that prince of hers. Owe her a lot, from all that I’ve heard this evening.”

But Gracie Gillypot was sitting on the front doorstep of Wadingburn Palace, her blue velvet skirts spread out around her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to dance?” Marcus asked. “I really don’t mind if you’d like to.”

Gracie grinned. “I don’t think I’d exactly fit in with all those princesses. They . . . they’re . . .”

“Silly.” Marcus nodded. “You’re absolutely right.” He leaned back to look up at the stars, and something in his pocket rustled. “Hey! I’d almost forgotten. I brought my map with me. I was going to ask you. There’s a strange little place called Flailing, and it’s near where you live. Near the House of the Ancient Crones. Prof. Scallio told me once you can sometimes see dwarfs there, if you’re very, very quiet. Would you like to have a look?”

“WOW!” Gracie’s eyes shone. “Sounds good to me!”

The prince stood up and stretched. “I’m an idiot. If I’d brought Glee with me, we could have gone now.”

Gracie sighed. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could go now? We could go home, have a cup of tea, and tell the crones what’s happened. They must be worrying. And then tomorrow maybe we could look for the dwarves.”

“You can go right away, kiddo.” Marlon swooped over their heads, followed by Alf. “Nothing to stop you.”

“What? How?” Gracie and Marcus stared at him.

Marlon pointed. “The path . . . see? You did good, see? House of the Ancient Crones — it’s a Trueheart House. Like the path.”

And as Marcus and Gracie watched, their eyes growing rounder and rounder, the path came rippling up to tickle their toes.

“Happly after,” said a familiar voice, and Gubble came stumping around the corner. With a grunt he climbed on board and patted the path invitingly. “You too. Happly after.”

In the House of the Ancient Crones, the Ancient One watched the faint remains of the stain on the web fade into nothingness. “It’s gone,” she said.

“Well done, Gracie Gillypot.” Elsie yawned. “Shall I make some tea?”

“That’s an excellent idea,” said the wisest of the Ancient Crones. “I’ve a feeling in my bones that we’re about to have company. Is there any cake?”

Find out how Gracie, Marcus, Marlon, and Gubble met in the First Tale from the Five Kingdoms!

The Robe of Skulls

The First Tale from
the Five Kingdoms

Vivian French

“Lady Lamorna, an evil sorceress . . . wants a gown ‘beyond all compare.’ . . . Only the Ancient Crones can produce such a garment. . . . Unfortunately, the Crones charge dearly for their work, and Lady Lamorna has neither gold nor silver. So she devises a clever scheme: find all the princes in the land, turn them into frogs, and then ransom [them] to their parents. . . . An adventure where everyone gets his, her, or its due, where goodness is rewarded and evil punished oh-so-wickedly.”
— The Horn Book

What happens when a lonely troll king decides
he’d like a princess of his very own?

The Heart of Glass

The Third Tale from the Five Kingdoms

Vivian French

“Silence!” King Thab waved an imperious arm. “Write, Spittle.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty.” The goblin’s pencil squeaked furiously on the slate. “Erm . . . how about, ‘Thab, King of All Trolls, presents his compliments to Master Amplethumb, and is delighted and ekstatik’”— Spittle paused and crossed the last word out —“’Is delighted and happy to agree to his request for assistance in the matter of extracting gold from the valleys of Flailing. Thab, King of All Trolls, is willing to offer . . .’” Spittle paused again and put down his pencil. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but how many trolls will you be sending?”

Thab turned to the dwarf. “How many? He ask.”

“One or two would be sufficient, sir,” the dwarf told him, “trolls being that much bigger than us dwarves. And stronger,” he added with a sideways glance at Mullius.

“That’s right. That was in Master Amplethumb’s letter, Your Majesty.” The goblin picked up the parchment. “Erm . . . here we are. ‘The pressures upon us are immense owing to the forthcoming wedding in the Kingdom of Dreghorn. All our able-bodied dwarves are already actively employed in the extraction of gold, but I fear the order will not be ready in time unless you are able to assist us. One, or at most two, of your strongest trolls would be invaluable.’”

The king nodded. “Yes. Write, ‘Agree. One troll. One troll to dig.’”

Spittle’s pencil began to squeak again.

He put down his pencil, but the king snatched it up and thrust it back into his hand. “Write more, Spittle. Exchange! Payment! Write, ‘Troll dig for dwarves. Exchange pretty princess.’ Pretty for me — for King Thab!” Exhausted by this effort, the king lay back in his throne and closed his eyes, thus missing the expression of total horror on the dwarf’s face.

Spittle gave a sly chuckle and went on: “‘In exchange for this act of generosity, King Thab will expect delivery of a princess —’”

“Pretty!” interrupted the king without opening his eyes.

“So sorry, Your Majesty. I was about to add that requirement. ‘One PRETTY princess, to keep His Most Royal Majesty company.’”

Bestius stood first on one foot, then on the other, as Spittle went on writing. How could he promise a princess in return for a troll? “Your Majesty,” he began, “there . . . there might be a bit of a problem.”

The king of the trolls frowned. “No problem. No. No pretty, no troll.”

“Ah.” Bestius pulled at his beard. Judging by King Thab’s expression, the matter was best left alone for the moment. He made a decision. Master Amplethumb had asked for a troll; Master Amplethumb could solve any ensuing difficulties. Bowing, he said, “Agreed.”

When a pair of evil twins threatens the Five Kingdoms with Total Oblivion, Gracie Gillypot and her intrepid friends must save the day
.