The Bag of Bones (9 page)

“Put me down!” Gracie screamed, and she kicked and wriggled with all the strength she had — but Buckleup’s grip grew tighter.

“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.”

Marcus’s eyes lit up. “Or I could take it! With . . .” he tried desperately to think of another reason to convince his mother. “With . . . some roses!”

Queen Mildred looked at him in astonishment. “Marcus, dear, how extremely thoughtful of you! That would be most suitable. In fact, perhaps you both should go.”

“I’d be much quicker if I went by myself,” Marcus said hastily. “After all, we don’t want to keep Queen Bluebell waiting.”

His mother raised an eyebrow. She was not normally suspicious, but this concern for Queen Bluebell was distinctly out of character. “Marcus, dear — you’re not planning anything, are you?”

Marcus dug his elbow into Arry’s ribs, and Arry turned his grunt into a cough. “It’s OK, Mother. Marcus is quite right. His pony’s much faster than mine, and besides . . .” Arry blushed. “I was rather wanting to write Princess Nina-Rose a poem.”

“How very, very lovely.” Queen Mildred’s suspicions melted away, and she beamed at her oldest son as she settled herself on a sofa. “Did you ask her if she’ll dance with you at the Declaration Ball? You haven’t told me anything about your visit this morning, you know. How was dear Bluebell? And who else was there? Was Nina-Rose as pretty as ever?” The queen nodded knowingly. “Perhaps dear Nina-Rose will be chosen as Bluebell’s successor. Wouldn’t that be just too lovely?”

Marcus, on the point of exploding, folded his arms and glared. “Shouldn’t we be writing our letters?” he demanded. “Arry can tell you all about it after I’ve gone — can’t you, Arry?”

Arry, who had sat down next to his mother all ready for a comfortable chat, saw the look in his brother’s eye and leaped to his feet. “Er — yes. Yes, of course I can. That would be wonderful. I’ll be back in a moment, Mother.” And he followed Marcus out to their old schoolroom.

“Honestly, Arry,” Marcus said as he dug out paper and pens, “you could have tried to stop her from going on and on and on like that. Do you want this stupid feather or not?”

“Nothing stops her once she gets started,” Arry said with absolute truth. “You know that. If you hadn’t wriggled so much, she’d probably have stopped sooner, but she thought you weren’t listening.”

“I wasn’t,” Marcus admitted. “Anyway — let’s get these letters done, and then I’ll go.”

Arry gave him an anxious look. “Will you be back tonight?”

“Of course not!” Marcus stared at his twin. “I’ve got to ask Gracie to the ball before I go tearing off after your bird. Didn’t Nina-Rose say something about it being seen in Flailing?” He reached up and took an old rolled-up map down from a shelf. “See? It’s miles away.”

Arry looked at the map doubtfully. “Are you sure you’ll be OK? We’re not supposed to go outside the borders.”

“I’ve done it before,” Marcus said. “Besides, it’s not far from the House of the Ancient Crones. I’ll ask Gracie to give me a hand. It’ll be easier to catch the peacock with two of us.”

Prince Arioso, heir to Gorebreath, shuddered. “If you say so. I can’t think of anything worse than trailing around horrible forests full of scary animals and horrible trolls and —”

“Hey!” Marcus frowned. “Trolls are OK!” He tucked the map inside his jacket and sat down at a desk. “How do you spell
apologize
?”

Arry told him, and for a few minutes there was no sound except for the scratching of pens.

Then Marcus jumped up, waving his letter. “Finished!”

Arry glanced at his brother’s handiwork and opened his mouth to point out that there were at least five spelling mistakes and two large blots. Remembering how long it would take Marcus to correct these, however, he changed his mind and merely said, “Well done, bro — but maybe we should fold it up and seal it before Mother sees it.”

“Whatever,” Marcus said happily. Arry finished his own letter with several twirls and a flourish, and Marcus pounced on it. “I’ll seal yours as well,” he offered, and lit a taper. The smell of melting wax filled the air, and Marcus thunked down the royal seal with enthusiasm. “There!” he announced. “All done. I’ll be off now. Don’t forget to rumple up my bed tonight, Arry — and enjoy your two breakfasts!”

Arry nodded. “You will be back by tomorrow evening, won’t you? Mother’ll have fifty-nine spasms and a fainting fit if you aren’t here in time to get ready for the party.”

Marcus was already in the doorway. “No worries. I’ll be back with handfuls of feathers by then. You get busy practicing your dance steps for Queen Bluebell’s Declaration Ball!” And he was gone.

Arioso sighed. He found himself wishing that his tutor, Professor Scallio, was still living in the palace instead of in a cottage with his sister somewhere in the Less Enchanted Forest. The professor was the only person who had ever been able to direct Marcus’s wilder ideas into more practical channels; King Frank and Queen Mildred made no impression on him whatsoever. If anything, they made him worse; Arry had noticed long ago that the more his parents put pressure on Marcus to conform, the more he refused to do so. Arry sighed again. He hated having to ruffle his hair and rush around, pretending to be his own brother, but perhaps it was a small price to pay for the bliss of dancing with Nina-Rose for an entire evening. He went to wash the ink from his fingers before going downstairs to give his mother a blow-by-blow account of the morning’s visit, with certain careful omissions — notably the demand for a white peacock feather.

Marlon was frustrated. He had thought that he, Loobly, and Alf would arrive at Wadingburn Palace early in the morning, but he had completely failed to realize how slowly Loobly would travel once she thought they were out of danger. Years and years of being incarcerated in the orphanage washhouse meant that, for her, the outside world was a place of wonder, and she stopped to look at every plant and tree. She peered into rabbit burrows and whistled up at nests, and it was nearly lunchtime before they finally reached the back door of the kitchen.

Then, to Marlon’s intense irritation, she refused to go inside. “No like meeting peoples,” was all she would say when Alf asked her what was wrong.

“But you won’t
be
meeting people, kiddo!” Marlon said in exasperated tones. “You’ll be scrubbing floors and washing dishes and all that stuff. Lowest of the low. You’ll be emptying all the rattraps, I expect, and —” Marlon stopped.

An expression of interest had flickered across Loobly’s thin little face. “Rats?” she whispered.

“Horrid things,” Alf chipped in. “But they’ll be dead as doornails. Deader than . . .” His voice faded away as he saw the tears begin to roll down Loobly’s cheeks. “Erm — that is — maybe some of them won’t be as dead as all that.”

Quick to seize the opportunity, Marlon nodded. “Loads of rats here, kid. Palace is heaving with ’em. Like rats, do you?”

Loobly smiled a watery smile. “Ratties is my friends. Was always kind to Loobly. Nicer than peoples.” She pulled the pickled rat out from her pocket. “See? Poor Ratty. Was almost dead like doornut. But getting better.”

Marlon very much doubted she was right but was too tenderhearted to say so. Instead he concentrated on his task of getting Loobly safely hidden away from Buckleup Brandersby and Truda Hangnail. “Just think,” he said encouragingly, “you’ll be able to rescue loads of his merry little mates if you work in the kitchens.” Loobly’s face brightened, and Marlon added hastily, “Make sure nobody sees you at it, kiddo.”

Loobly’s eyes widened. “Can tippytoe. Nobody sees Loobly on tippytoe.”

As she tiptoed toward the palace by way of demonstration, the back door was flung open and a red-faced cook came storming out, waving a wooden spoon. In front of her scurried an undersize boy in an oversize apron who cannoned into Loobly with such force that he knocked her over. A string of sausages sailed up in the air and was caught by the cook with a triumphant grunt. Grabbing the small boy by his ear, she was about to haul him back into the kitchen when her eye fell on Loobly. “Oi! What do you think you’re doing out here? There’s a heap of pans waiting to be washed. Get back in that kitchen this minute!”

And before Loobly had any opportunity to protest, she was whisked inside with the now sniveling boy, and the door slammed shut behind her.

Marlon inspected a claw in a casual manner. “See how it’s done, kid? One orphan, safe and sound.”