The Heart of Glass (7 page)

Gracie made no reply, although her mind was racing. It seemed that there was some kind of danger in being a Trueheart; did that mean she would be wise not to mention the Ancient Crones? There was no doubt that Oolie was evil; every time she came close, Gracie’s skin felt cold and clammy. And what about Flo, the bat? She had retreated into the darkness beyond the candlelight, but it was just possible to pick out her shape against the tree roots. Was she trying to help? “She knew Marlon’s name,” Gracie told herself. “I’ve got to keep hoping for the best. . . . there’s nothing else I can do.”

Oolie gave Gracie one last stare, then nodded, as if she had come to a decision. “I knows who’ll know. The Old Trolls can always smell out a Trueheart; been warring with them for years, they have. And Mullius Gowk’s the oldest Old Troll of all. You come with me, Miss Oddity, and we’ll find out what you really is, and if old Oolie’s found her fortune.” And she seized Gracie’s wrist with one hand, picked up the candle with the other, and began dragging Gracie along the tunnel.

Gracie was astonished at the old creature’s strength; her wrist felt as if it were encircled by an iron band, and she realized that it would be hopeless to try to twist out of Oolie’s grasp even if she had any idea of where to run. But where was she being taken? And who was she going to meet?

“I’ll blow out the candle,” breathed a tiny voice in her ear. “She’ll have to light it again, and she’ll need two hands. When she lets go of you, turn and run back the way you’ve come. Quiet as you can.”

Before Gracie could answer, there was a muffled sneeze and a flutter of wings, and the candle was extinguished. Oolie muttered angrily, then gave Gracie’s arm a sharp and painful tug. Gracie lost her balance and fell heavily, and Oolie growled a furious growl.

“Ouch!” Gracie’s knees were in agony, and her hand was bruised and sore. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” Her wails were so genuine that Oolie stopped trying to haul her along and tried instead to heave her back on her feet, but without success. Gracie’s legs had turned to jelly, and she was quite unable to stand.

“Stay still!” Oolie ordered. “Don’t move, or I’ll bite you!” And she let go of Gracie’s wrist.

For a moment Gracie was too stunned to move, but then there was a flurry of wings and sneezing and a furious yell, and it was evident that Flo was harrying Oolie as she tried to light the candle. Gracie gritted her teeth and tried to get up. There was something hard under her hip; with a start she realized it was the tinderbox, and she slipped it into her pocket before forcing herself to stand. Then, with one hand on the side of the tunnel and the other stretched out in front of her, she began to half run, half limp as fast as she could, back the way she had come. Behind her she heard cursing and swearing, and finally the sound she was dreading most — the sound of shuffling footsteps.

“Hurry, Trueheart — hurry!” Flo was squeaking at her loudest, urging her on, and Gracie did her best to increase her speed. She was puffing too hard to hear the footsteps come to a sudden stop, as if their owner had heard something of immense interest. Nor did she notice when they began again — this time going in the opposite direction.

P
rincess Fedora of Dreghorn, soon to be married with bells and doves and hearts and every other romantic decoration that could be obtained from Madam Millicent’s Royal Emporium, was furious. Once her singing lesson was over and the music teacher had unblushingly assured her that she had the voice of an angel, a lark, and a fluting thrush, she had decided to have just one more peek at her wedding dress . . . a truly delicious sky-blue dress with little pink rosebuds. But on opening her wardrobe she had found it gone — and nobody could tell her who had taken it. Further investigation revealed that her sister Marigold was also missing; putting the two facts together led Fedora to the obvious conclusion.

“Mother!” she shrieked as she burst in through the door of Queen Kesta’s private sitting room. “It’s just too,
too
awful of Marigold! She’s miles and miles and
miles
fatter than me and she’ll absolutely ruin my beautiful dress and I HATE her!”

The queen, who was having her morning cup of coffee with the dowager duchess and their mutual friend Queen Bluebell of Wadingburn, looked up in surprise. “Whatever do you mean, my sweet child?”

Fedora stamped her foot in a distinctly unprincessy way. “It’s that horrible Marigold. She’s stolen my wedding dress, and she’ll ruin it — I just
know
she will, because she’s fat, fat, FAT!”

Queen Kesta’s large blue eyes opened wide. “Dearest one,” she remonstrated, “that isn’t at all a polite way of expressing yourself. I’m sure if Marigold has borrowed your dress — which I rather doubt — it’s only so she can . . .” The queen’s imagination failed to supply a reason, and she looked at her friends for support.

“So she can choose ribbons to match,” Queen Bluebell suggested.

Queen Kesta beamed. “Exactly so!”

Fedora folded her arms and glowered. “She wouldn’t do that. She’s wanted it ever since I got it. She thinks it’ll make Marcus think she’s pretty, as if a silly, fat pig like her could ever —”

“HUSH, dear!” Queen Kesta held up her hands in horror. “That’s quite enough! Look — you’ve made your dear great-aunt choke over her coffee with your horrid remarks about your poor little sister.”

Queen Bluebell banged Hortense on the back with such enthusiasm that the duchess all but fell over. Recovering her balance, she stopped choking and blew her nose. It had occurred to her that it was just possible that Marigold had taken her advice about going on an adventure, and she was wondering how much she should say. She was both impressed and appalled that Marigold had the temerity to steal her sister’s wedding dress; this was something Hortense had not anticipated. It certainly showed great determination if Marigold had decided to dress the part before setting out to find her prince. Or was she jumping to entirely the wrong conclusions? It was perfectly possible that Marigold was merely skulking in one of the hundreds of palace bedrooms, twirling around and around in front of a gilded mirror and admiring herself enormously. Hortense blew her nose for the second time and decided to await developments.

Queen Kesta was trying hard to think of a way to improve Fedora’s temper. “Why don’t we go for a little walk in the gardens, dear one?” she suggested. “Or you could show us that sweet pretty pony of yours. I don’t think you’ve seen him yet, have you, Bluebell? Or you, Auntie?”

The duchess smiled. “No. No, I’ve not seen the pony. That would be delightful.” If what she was beginning to suspect was indeed the case, it would be extremely interesting to have a look in the royal stables.

Queen Kesta, pleased to see Fedora beginning to look more cheerful, heaved herself to her feet and bustled her guests out of her sitting room and down the splendid marble staircase. Fedora hung back to fill her pockets with sugar lumps, then followed her mother and her companions as they crossed the black-and-white checkered marble hall to go out into the drive leading to the royal stables. Once outside, Fedora hurried ahead while Queen Kesta took the opportunity to tell Hortense and Bluebell how well Fedora drove her pony cart, and how she hoped that when Fedora was married she would drive over to visit at least three times a week.

“Good idea,” Queen Bluebell said heartily. “Nice to keep in touch. Hope my granddaughter, Loobly, does the same when she gets hitched. Don’t care so much about Vincent. Silly boy. Does nothing but sit around. Needs a quest. Don’t suppose you know of anything, do you, Hortense? Seem to remember you were a bit of an adventurer in your time.”

The dowager duchess was saved from replying by a piercing scream, followed by a short silence, then several agonized squeals. Queen Kesta went pale and clutched at Bluebell’s arm. “What is it?” she said with a gasp. “Who is it?” In her agitation the queen lost all sense of punctuation and became almost incomprehensible: “Whatever could have happened we must hurry and see oh my goodness gracious could it be my darling precious daughter has been hurt?”

At that moment Fedora appeared, her face scarlet with rage, dragging the stable boy behind her by one ear. “Mother!
Mother!
You’ve got to throw this horrible boy in the dungeon this MINUTE! He let Marigold take my pony and cart and he never tried to stop her, and I’ll hate Marigold forever and ever and
ever
for this, and don’t think I’ll forgive her because I WON’T. And what’s more, I wouldn’t let her be my bridesmaid now if she were the last girl left on earth!” Then she burst into a furious fit of weeping and threw herself on her mother’s ample chest.

It was left to Hortense and Queen Bluebell to question the stable boy, and Hortense quickly discovered that she had been right in her suspicions. Princess Marigold of Dreghorn had broken with every royal tradition and had gone on an adventure.

Well, well,
well,
the duchess thought as Bluebell reassured the boy that he had done nothing more than his duty by obeying Princess Marigold’s orders, and that the dungeon would remain empty.
Well, well, well! Maybe there’s more to that girl than I thought. . . . Let’s hope it’s all worth it, and she finds her prince!

She did not mention this thought to either Queen Kesta or Fedora. Fedora was still weeping copiously, and Queen Kesta had just realized that Marigold had run away. The stable boy, when questioned, had no idea where the princess might have gone, and the queen became more and more hysterical — until at last Queen Bluebell stepped forward and boomed, “Silence!”

Even Fedora stopped wailing, and she, her mother, and her great-aunt looked at the queen in astonishment.

“Sorry if I shouted,” Bluebell said without any sign of being sorry at all. “Had to stop you, Kesta dear. No good shrieking like that. No good getting the army involved, either; the girl won’t have come to any harm. No — if she’s gone off in frills and finery, there’ll be a boy involved, you take my word for it. I’d say she’s eloped, and good luck to her.”

This was not a helpful suggestion; Queen Kesta immediately collapsed in a heap of skirts and petticoats and began to weep piteously. Fedora, realizing that the attention had moved away from her, joined in.

Great-Aunt Hortense sighed. She was going to have to own up. She hauled her niece to her feet and said, “She hasn’t eloped, Kesta.
Kesta?
Can you hear me? She has NOT eloped. She’s gone to the border of the Five Kingdoms, and I can assure you that she won’t go more than a step or two beyond.”

Marigold’s devoted mother turned to the duchess, her bosom heaving. “Hortense! How do you know? Why ever would she go there?”

“Because,” Hortense explained, “I suggested it.”

Queen Kesta was, for once in her life, entirely speechless. She stared at her aunt while she tried to find the words to express her horror and indignation.

Before she could speak, however, Queen Bluebell clapped her hands and roared with laughter. “Well done, Hortense! I knew you were a wild one! An adventure will do the girl a world of good. Too much mollycoddling of princesses these days, too much by half. But don’t you worry about young Marigold!” Bluebell looked triumphant. “I’ve worked it all out. I’ll send my Vincent to find her; it’s exactly what he needs. Can’t send him riding after her on a snow-white steed, I’m afraid — don’t have one, and besides, he’d fall off. No, I’ll send him in my royal carriage. He’ll find your girl, rescue her, and bring her home safely. That’ll make them both happy. She’ll have her adventure, and he’ll feel useful for once. Never know — they might even fall in love! But I’d better be off. No time to be wasted, although the longer Marigold has to wait, the more pleased she’ll be to see Vincent. And I’ll make sure there’s a hamper of goodies in the coach — nothing like a nice picnic to set two young things off on the right path. No need to thank me — the pleasure’s all mine!” And Queen Bluebell waved a regal wave and set off at a quick march toward her waiting carriage.

“Oh,” Queen Kesta said, and she sank down onto a convenient step. “Oh . . .”

Hortense sat down beside her and put a comforting arm around her niece’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, Kesta dear. I never thought Marigold would take me seriously. But I do think Bluebell’s plan might solve the problem rather neatly. I really do.”