The Heart of Glass (12 page)

Marigold shrieked at the top of her voice; Marcus looked down and began to smile.

“Agh! Get it away from me! It’s a bat!” Marigold’s screams were piercing. “It’ll get in my hair! It’ll suck my blood! It’s horrible!” She clutched at her head and ran to hide behind a tree.

“Hi, Millie,” Marcus said. “How are you doing?”

Millie skittered up and down his wrist. “Very well, thank you, Mr. Prince. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Dad anywhere, have you? Or Miss Gracie? The professor’s worried about her, and he’s sent me to the Ancient Crones with a warning.”

Marcus’s pulse began to race. “What kind of warning?”

“Trolls.” Millie pulled the piece of parchment from under her wing and handed it over. “He looked ever so upset about it.”

It took Marcus a moment to steady himself sufficiently to read the professor’s minute, scholarly handwriting. “Trolls . . . Truehearts . . . High Kings . . .” he murmured. “What? I don’t understand. They couldn’t really do anything dreadful to Gracie, could they? I mean, Gubble’s a troll, and he’s her friend.” A memory of the huge head that had appeared from the dwarves’ earthworks came into his mind, but he shrugged away the notion that it could be dangerous. After all, it had been entirely under the control of Master Amplethumb, and Marlon had made no comment about there being any risks involved. And Gracie was a Trueheart; surely that protected her from evil and wickedness. No, Marcus decided, Professor Scallio must have gotten his facts muddled. He gave the parchment back to Millie. “You’d better take it to the Ancient Crones if the prof told you to,” he said, “but I don’t think we need worry too much about High Kings, or whatever they’re called. I saw one of the underground trolls. He was absolutely enormous but about as clever as a brick. And I’m on a mission to make sure Gracie’s OK. She fell into some kind of hole, but the dwarves promised they’d get her out, and I’ve promised to sort out everything else.”

Marcus sounded slightly pleased with himself, and Millie gave him a sideways look as she put the message safely away. “If you say so, Mr. Prince. But I do sometimes wonder what goes on in those deep underground caverns. My mum used to scare me silly with stories when I was little. ‘You’ll be bat pie for a troll’s dinner if you don’t do as you’re told!’ she’d say.” Marcus chuckled, and Millie stretched her wings. “I’d best be going. If you do see Dad, tell him to warn Miss Gracie.”

As Millie departed, Marigold came out from behind her tree. “You’re weird, Marcus,” she said accusingly. “Really weird. If I’d known you talked to bats, I’d never have bothered with you. Now, are you going to take me home, or what?”

Marcus ran his hands through his hair, leaving it even wilder than before. Despite his brave assurances to Millie, he had no idea what to do next. “Take you home? I suppose I could,” he said ungraciously. “That is —” He took a deep breath as desperation drove him to try an outside chance. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come on an adventure? A
real
one?”

Marigold opened her mouth to say that she wouldn’t go on an adventure with Marcus even if untold riches, heaps of pretty frocks, and a truly handsome prince were waiting at the other end, but a thought struck her and she was silent. Putting her finger in her mouth, she considered the proposition. She was, after all, dressed in the most exquisite dress in the whole wide world, and it would be a shame to waste it. She no longer had any romantic aspirations for Marcus’s hand in marriage, but she was still piqued that he had chosen a pigtailed orphan as his companion . . . and wouldn’t the pigtailed orphan be extremely taken aback, upset, and jealous to hear that Marigold had taken her place? “What kind of an adventure?”

Marcus, who had been certain Marigold would refuse, gathered his wits together as best he could. “Erm . . . there’s a friend of mine . . . well, more a friend of a friend . . . and he wants to meet a princess.” Inspiration struck. “He wants to meet a really
pretty
princess. And he’d like her to . . . to come to tea.” It occurred to Marcus that he had no idea what trolls ate, but he remembered Gubble’s activities of the morning. “There’ll be chocolate cake, I expect.”

“Will I get something nice if I come?” Marigold wanted to know. “Like treasure, or something?”

This was almost too much for Marcus, but he swallowed hard and kept a smile pinned to his face. “Of course you will.” He mentally reviewed the contents of the ancient piggy bank that was lying somewhere at the bottom of a cupboard. “You can have anything you want. Well, almost.”

Marigold fixed him with a gimlet eye. “What do you mean, ‘almost’?”

“Why don’t we get going?” Marcus suggested, with a degree of cunning he had never known he possessed. “And you can tell me all the things you want as we go.”

“All right.” Aware that she now had Marcus at a useful disadvantage, Marigold began to smile. “And I want to ride your — Oh! What’s that?”

Both Marigold and Marcus swung around as a large and opulent traveling coach came rattling down the track. On seeing Marigold, the coachman gave a loud whistle and pulled on the reins, and the four white horses came to a halt. The door opened, and Prince Vincent of Wadingburn stepped out.

“Princess Marigold,” he announced with a grandiloquent bow, quite unaware of the jam liberally spread around his mouth, “I have come to rescue you from your adventure and take you safely home.”

Marigold, delighted to be the object of such attention, curtsied. “Thank you, Vincent,” she said. “But would you mind waiting a little while? I’ve got to go on an adventure with Marcus — but I won’t be long, and it would be simply lovely to go home in a coach afterward.”

“Oh.” Vincent frowned. His instructions from his grandmother had been to drive to the border of the Five Kingdoms, collect Marigold, and bring her home again. “Can’t you come straightaway? I’ve got a splendid picnic for us to share.”

Marigold dithered. She had provided herself with a basket of sweets and cookies before leaving the palace, but the basket had gone off with Fedora’s pony and cart and she was hungry. “I know!” she said. “You can come too, and we’ll ride in your coach and eat our picnic as we go.” She gave Marcus a cool glance. “Marcus can lead the way on his pony — can’t you, Marcus?”

It was Vincent’s turn to dither. “I don’t know. Which way would we be going?”

Marigold looked at Marcus, and Marcus said, “That way.” He pointed up the rough and stony track. “We’re going to Flailing.”

“No.” Vincent shook his head. “No, no, no, no, no. That’s not safe. We couldn’t possibly.” He turned to the coachman for support. “Grandmother would never allow it, would she, Fingle?”

The coachman, who had been chosen for his substantial bulk and muscle rather than his intelligence, shrugged his massive shoulders. “I couldn’t say, Your Highness.”

“There you are.” Marigold took control of the situation. “Your grandmother won’t mind at all, Vincent. Don’t be so feeble. It’ll be much more fun if we all go. Hurry up and get in the coach. Coachman, drive on!”

A
fter she sat up, wiped the dirt out of her eyes, and smiled at Marlon and Alf, the first question Gracie asked was, “Where’s Marcus?”

“He’s gone to find a princess,” Alf squeaked.

“A princess?” A chill gripped Gracie’s stomach.

“It’s a swap, see. He gets a princess for —”

“Alf!” Marlon cut his nephew short. He had noticed Gracie’s bleak expression, and the tender heart that beat under his cool exterior would not allow him to leave her under any misapprehension. “It’s a deal, kiddo. Nothing more. We wanted you dug out, and Bestius here agreed to do the deed, but he needs a princess for . . .” Marlon decided details were inappropriate. “We promised him a princess in exchange. The kid’s gone riding off to find one. Be back soon.”

“Oh.” The chill lifted, and Gracie’s thoughts went straight back to Gubble. “Marlon, you’ve got to help me! I must find Gubble. We were in a tunnel — it was really scary — and he found a way out for me, but somehow he got left behind.”

Alf waved a cheery wing. “You don’t want to go back down there, Miss Gracie.”

“But I have to,” Gracie said. “I absolutely
have
to.” She looked pleadingly at Marlon.

“Alf’s right. You’ve only just gotten out, kiddo,” the bat protested. He had been delighted to see Gracie safe and sound, if covered in mud, and was distressed by her insistence on going back for Gubble. “I tell you — if
you
got out, the troll can too.”

“What if he can’t?” said Gracie, tears in her eyes. “I’d never forgive myself. No, I’ve got to find out what happened to him. Something huge was coming after us. I only got away because Gubble was so strong . . . but he didn’t come with me.” She fished in her pocket for a hankie and blew her nose hard. “I’m not going to cry about him. I’m going to find him.”

“Yeah!” Alf squeaked. “Miss Gracie to the rescue!”

Marlon suppressed his nephew with a quelling glare and tried another approach. “What about the crones? Shouldn’t you check with them?”

“And leave Gubble on his own? Never!” Gracie frowned.

Marlon sighed. “You’re the truest of Truehearts, kid,” he said. “OK. Where’s the entrance to this tunnel of yours? The tree’s hopped it.”

It hadn’t occurred to Gracie that there would be any difficulty in finding the tunnel entrance, and she looked around, perplexed. “It can’t be far. Don’t you know about it, Mr. Dwarf?”

Bestius shook his head. “Sorry, miss. Sounds like that was a troll tunnel, and we don’t concern ourselves with those. There’s only one we share, and we usually leave it well alone unless we have business with them.”

“Couldn’t I go down that?” Gracie asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. Seeing a small bat flitting between the trees, she leaped to her feet, waving her arms. “Flo! Flo? Is that you? I’m over here!”

Flo swooped down, saw Marlon and Alf, and was seized with such a paroxysm of sneezing that she landed flat on her back by Gracie’s feet. Gracie picked her up and tried to calm her, but it was a couple of minutes before the little bat was able to speak.

“Wow! Some sneezing fit!” Alf was impressed. “Have you got hay —”

“Yes, she has,” Gracie said quickly. “Flo, dearest Flo, I haven’t got time to explain, but please, please,
please
will you show me the way back into the tunnel? I’ve got to find Gubble. And as soon as you’ve shown me where to go, Alf’ll take you to the Ancient Crones, and they’ll make you better. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Alf ?”

“I’d do anything for you, Miss Gracie,” Alf declared, “but if you’re going into a tunnel, then I’m coming too.”

“Cut the heroics, kid.” Marlon eyed his nephew with exasperated affection. “You do as you’re told.
I’m
going with Gracie. Which way, young Flo?”

Seeing Flo was about to be overcome again, Gracie said, “Quick! Point, Flo — point with your wing!” She looked over her shoulder at Bestius. “Are there any planks nearby? Or even a ladder? There’s a simply enormous pit in the tunnel floor and there’s no way I can get around it. I’ll need to crawl over . . .”

The dwarf’s face cleared, and he nodded. “Back in a sec.” He hurried off.

Gracie, Marlon, and Alf followed the speechless Flo’s waved instructions. It was a short walk to a small mound covered in briars and bracken; the entrance to the tunnel was neatly concealed behind a fallen pine tree, its roots bare and pointing to the sky.

A moment later, Bestius appeared, carrying a sturdy ladder and a spade; his eyebrows rose as he joined Gracie and her party of bats. “Well, I never! Fancy me not knowing there was an entrance here. The Old Trolls used to have secret spy-holes and tunnels all over this forest, but I thought they’d been sealed up for safety’s sake.” He pulled at his beard thoughtfully and crooked a finger at Marlon. “Excuse me for asking,” he said in a low voice, “but this doesn’t alter our agreement, does it? I mean, the young lady got out safe and sound without our help, and now she’s going underground again of her own free will. The prince won’t hold it against us, will he? He’ll still bring us a princess?”

Marlon blinked as he realized that things were beginning to get complicated, but, being a bat with a strong belief in his ability to survive any crisis, he merely said, “No worries. The kid’ll come good.”