Lost Places (6 page)

“Paying the toll?” Tim cut in.
That's how it went in the story, anyway.

“How'd you know my name's Toll?” the creature asked in surprise. “That's supposed to be a secret, what I keep hid from all and sundry.”

This could work in my favor,
Tim thought.
Knowing someone's name gave you power.

The troll—for Tim figured that was what Toll was, peered suspiciously at Tim. “Say, you wouldn't be one of them magicians, would you?”

“Ah, right then,” Tim muttered.
Well, here goes.
He held his hands up and announced in the most authoritative voice possible. “I am Tim, the great and terrible! Uh, the terribly powerful…something like that.”

Toll didn't seem to be particularly impressed.

Tim licked his lips nervously and continued.
“These are my, uh, accursed minions. The, uh, mes!” He gestured at the little Tims. They sprang into action, hovering in a cloud around Tim. “Sowers of discord,” he declared, “bringers of headaches. Annoyers par excellence! Et cetera.”
And every word of that is true
, he added to himself.

The Tims waved at the troll. A few bowed. Then Tim crossed his arms over his chest and all the little Tims did, too. “Let us pass,” he demanded.

The little Tims all glared at the troll.

The troll cranked his platform so that he was now eye level with Tim. “Okey-dokey, terribly Tim. Which of my convenient payment options will your wizardliness be using today?”

Well, it worked. Sort of,
Tim thought. “Don't I get to cross for free?” he asked.

“Heh-heh. Nice try, boy.” The troll laughed, revealing mossy green teeth. “Magicians don't pay the same as other folks, but that don't mean they cross for free. So will you be putting this on your karma card or will you be reading me the story?”

“Karma card?” Tim repeated. “Uh, I seem to have left that at home. So I suppose I'll be reading the story. If it's not too long, that is, and if it won't whisk me anywhere or turn me into anything,” he added hastily.
You never know, with magic
.

The little Tims all seemed to be about to say something, but he gave them all a quick dirty look. They shut their mouths instantly. Tim smirked.
They must be afraid I'll get rid of them like I did that other Tim.

“Nothing like that, terribly Tim,” the troll said, waving a fleshy hand at him. “It's just a story. There's no magic in it. Apart from the usual, of course.”

“Of course,” Tim repeated as he watched Toll reach underneath his platform and pull out an enormous, thick book. “I, uh, I don't have to read you the whole thing, do I?” Tim asked. “I have somewhere I have to be.”

“No, no, just read your own story.” The troll handed Tim the book, then reached under the platform and pulled out a long pipe. He lit it and settled back comfortably.

Tim flipped the huge, heavy tome open. His eyes widened. “Hey, these pages are blank!”

“A
TOAST TO MOLLY!”
a pink dinosaur cheered, holding up a delicate teacup.

Molly glared at the pudgy pink creature sitting across the table from her. She was still trapped in the dollhouse, but somehow it had expanded. The chair she sat on was now the right size, though the ceiling was still close to her head. To make it all worse, it had transformed from the elegant mansion she had discovered in the woods into a pink nightmare of a plastic playhouse. She felt cramped by the odd scale and suffocated by the group of dinosaurs all grinning at her. And she felt furious at being trapped in this ridiculous situation. Most especially she was angry that she was feeling so afraid.

Afraid of dinosaurs who look like giant pink marshmallows. What is wrong with me?
She glanced down at the narl Crimple. He sat on the chair next
to her, dwarfed now by the size of the furniture.
If he can be brave,
she determined,
so can I.

“Sippy sip with us, Molly dolly!” another dinosaur chirped. “There is no bad caffeine in these cups.”

“To hairstyling appointments,” the third pink dino said, raising his delicate teacup toward Molly. “There will be many in your future. And fingernail painting. Toenails, too!”

“To the itsy-bitsy waist you will have and the pretty, shiny dresses you will always wear!”

“Do you have any idea what they're hinting at?” Crimple whispered.

“I wouldn't call it hinting, Crimple.” Molly picked up the Lacey doll that sat beside Crimple on the chair. She shook the doll in disgust. “They want to turn me into one of these. They want to make me grow up to be just what these dolls are—decorative, sexy, brainless, and silent.”

“But why?” Crimple asked.

Molly was too aggravated to sit still. She stood and paced in front of the table, ignoring the shocked expressions of the pink creatures sipping tea.

“They told me that I'm being groomed to grow up to marry some nasty old magician,” Molly explained through gritted teeth. Every time she thought about this plan it infuriated her all over again. “And they want me to grow up right now.”

“No!” Crimple exclaimed.

“Yes! Can you believe it? They said I have to learn to smile all the time and wiggle when I walk! And embroider. Of all things! As if anyone cared about making dainty doilies.” She glared at the Lacey doll again. “But most important of all, I have to look like this!”

She felt hot breath on the back of her head.

“Er, Molly,” Crimple said uncertainly.

Molly whirled around and faced the pink dino looming over her squarely. “I'm not smiling or wiggling, blimpo,” she snarled. “I don't care what you do.”

She flung the doll across the table, scattering teacups and dainty sandwiches.

An angry pink lizard leaped to its enormous feet.

“Nasty girl,” the dinosaur growled. “You made me spill! Now there's tea on my tummy and on the pretty-pretty rug.”

“You made a messy mess,” the other dinosaur scolded. “You must tidy before it stains.”

“I don't see why,” Molly retorted. “You're a horrid color anyway. You
and
the rug. It's as if a bubblegum factory exploded in here. I wouldn't touch either of you with a ten-foot scrub brush.”

“I am going to tell on you, piggy Molly, who makes messes. I am going to tell your governess
and she will make you mind.”

“Yeah, right,” Molly scoffed. “I'd like to see her try.”

“I do not
try
, child. I succeed,” a voice behind Molly rasped.

Molly's scalp prickled. That voice. She'd never heard a sound that chilled her more. She forced herself to turn around. Her blood ran even colder as she gazed at the tall, ancient woman glaring down at her.

“I am your governess, child,” the woman said, sounding like a Halloween wind. She had a voice of decay, of darkness, of chills, and hostility. “My name is Vuall. But you will address me as miss.” A knitting basket dangled from the woman's scrawny arm.

Molly didn't want the woman to know how unnerved she felt.
Better to stand up to her right from the start. Make her back off.
“You don't look like much of a ‘miss' to me,” Molly retorted, “you stringy old cow.”

The woman's skull-like face creased with even more wrinkles, as if Molly had made a bad, and unfunny, joke. “Oho! Sauce from such a soft-skinned little rabbit.” She tapped her long, bony fingertips together, making a clicking sound as she did.
Does she have any flesh on her?
Molly wondered. She also noticed, with a growing sense of
dread, that the dinosaurs had all vanished. Were they afraid of Vuall? Or was Vuall so powerful and dangerous that she didn't need dinosaurs to help her? Neither thought was very reassuring.

“Do you know what a governess is, my pretty?” Vuall said.

“Only from the movies. They take care of snotty, pampered rich kids.” Molly placed her hands on her hips, holding her ground. “Which I am not!”
This eight-foot skeleton isn't going to scare me.

The old crone didn't seem fazed at all by Molly's defiance. She spoke calmly, almost as if she were bored. “Movies are not real.” Vuall sniffed. “Now I suggest you prepare yourself, Miss O'Reilly. You are about to learn.”

Molly narrowed her eyes and jutted out her chin. “Yeah? Try and make me.”

Vuall reached into her knitting basket and pulled out what looked like a nasty pair of gardening shears. Moving astonishingly quickly, Vuall picked up Crimple and slid his neck between the blades of the shears. It all happened before Molly could move.

“No!” Molly cried. “Don't hurt him!”

Crimple seemed too terrified to scream. He shut his eyes, and Molly could see his tiny wooden chest rising and falling rapidly with his short, shallow breaths.

“Let him go!” Molly demanded.

Vuall stared down her long nose at Molly. “Your plea is quite indelicately phrased. Far too forceful for a proper young lady.” She began to squeeze the handles of the shears. Crimple went limp.

“Okay, teach me!” Molly pleaded. “Tell me the correct way to save him!”

Vuall paused and pondered for a moment. “You might try saying something like this: ‘If you please, miss, do relent. I shan't disobey ever again. You have my word on it.' Then, perhaps, I won't dull my shears on your woody little friend.”

Molly could feel tears of frustration and fury spring into her eyes. She hated to give in to the rotten crone, but she could not allow Vuall to hurt Crimple. Even if that meant throwing aside her pride and anger.

“Please, miss,” Molly said in the softest voice she could manage. “Please do relent. I shan't disobey ever again.” She stopped and cleared her throat; she felt as if her meek words were gagging her. She crossed her fingers behind her back before continuing. “You have my word on it.” She gazed straight into Vuall's skull-like face, mustering an innocent expression.
That's right, eyes wide and cowlike,
Molly told herself.
That's what she wants from me.

“That is much better, child. Perhaps you are not quite the hopeless case you appear to be.” She placed Crimple on the floor.

He scurried behind Molly's legs and clung to them. She could feel him shaking. “Oh, thank you, Molly, my dear,” he gasped.

Molly knelt down, even though she knew it would probably displease Vuall.

“Are you all right?” she asked Crimple.

Crimple rubbed his neck and winced. Molly could see several splinters sticking out at odd angles where Vuall had applied pressure with her enormous scissors.

Crimple must have noticed Molly's worried expression. He smiled bravely and stood up very straight. “No permanent damage, miss. Faced far worse from woodpeckers and termites.”

“I promise I won't let her hurt you,” Molly told him.

“And I make you the same vow,” replied Crimple.

Clack-clack!
Vuall clapped her bony hands together. “Enough. It is time for lessons. Sit,” she ordered Molly, pointing to a hard, straight-backed chair near the fireplace.

Molly did as she was told. She wouldn't risk Crimple's life for the sake of her pride. Somehow, she would find a way to save them both. Until she
had a plan, she would play along.

Molly suffered through a series of absurd so-called lessons. She pricked her fingers a hundred times while being taught to embroider. She was instructed in proper posture, and Vuall told her that once she'd mastered basic deportment, they would move into the more advanced skills of walking in high-heeled shoes and sashaying. All along Vuall kept talking about Molly's future and the real purpose behind all this training. “Remember, child, you are being groomed to be the perfect wife of a powerful magician.”

Every time Molly made a mistake, Vuall would say, “The master was quite explicit about what he wanted,” or “Oh, no, that will never do for the master.” It gave Molly the creeps—not just the idea that she'd been kidnapped and was going to be handed over to some horrible magician like a piece of property. No, what was far worse was that he had gone to all the trouble of choosing her and trapping her, only to be this intent on changing her. And what he wanted her to become disgusted her: passive, docile, empty-headed, doll-like.

Now Molly sat in the darkening room, with Crimple at her feet. She peered at a thick book of etiquette and rubbed her eyes. “Can we have some more light?” she asked. “I can hardly see the words.”

Vuall clucked disapprovingly from her rocking chair opposite Molly. “You are to make do,” she said. “Accept your lot with a smile. Others wiser than you will make your decisions and determine what you do and don't have.” Vuall put down her knitting. “And now a quiz.”

Oh joy,
Molly thought.

“What have you learned so far?”

Molly bit her lip. There was no good way to answer that question without getting herself into trouble.

“Come now, child. Speak up. Certainly I have not wasted my time in instructing you, have I? You must have learned
something
today.”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, yes, miss,” Molly corrected herself hurriedly as she noticed Vuall reaching for her shears again. Crimple scurried behind Molly's chair.

“Give me an example.”

Molly ran over some of the lessons shoved down her throat. “I learned that the key to happiness is to spend a lot of time doing your hair.”

“That is a start. And why is it important to pay attention to your grooming?”

Molly remembered the “instructive stories” Vuall had read to her, all about well-behaved girls who came to be happy in their captivity, who spent hours on their appearances and lived happily ever
after. Who snared princes as husbands because of their legendary beauty. But what had struck Molly the most was that beauty was their only asset. None of them had any spunk or integrity or did anything, although as princesses they had the thrill of being able to order other people around, eventually.

“Because if you're pretty enough you can get away with anything,” Molly muttered.

“Hmph.”

Molly could tell that Vuall didn't approve of her interpretation of the day's lessons.

“You know what else I learned?” Molly continued. “That according to you, there's no point in worrying about who you are inside. Not when you're a girl, anyway. Because nobody cares about that. It's just your accessories that count.”

“I sense you object to these truths.”

That was it. Molly couldn't take anymore.

“Of course I object! You cynical old bag of unliberated bones,” she shouted. “What would you know about anything, anyway? You're stuck in a demon's world. And you're just kowtowing to some stupid old magician's orders.”

“Tut, Miss O'Reilly. If your intent is to injure my feelings, I'm afraid I must disappoint you. I have no feelings.” She reached into her basket and pulled out the shears again. “Unlike your
easily pruneable little friend here.”

Molly hurled her book straight at Vuall's head. She would not let that horrible crone harm Crimple. The book connected with Vuall's skull with a loud
thwack
. “Score!” Molly cried as Vuall lost her balance and toppled over, knocking over the chair. “Crimple, grab her earring.”

Crimple flung himself at the looping metal chains hanging from Vuall's ears. As she tried to pick herself up off the floor, he gripped the chains and swung, tugging with all his might.

“Aaaaaahhh!” Vuall shrieked. “My ear!”

“You naughty thing,” Crimple scolded. “You lied. You
do
have feelings. In your earlobes, at any rate.”

“Stop! Stop right now!” Vuall screamed.

“Good job.” Molly praised the little twiggy fellow who hung a few inches from the floor. She crossed to Vuall and yanked the chain dangling from Vuall's other ear, forcing her down to the floor. Crimple managed to get his footing again.

“Now what?” Crimple asked. Molly handed him the other earring and he wrapped the chains around his arms and lay down on the floor. He used all his weight, bracing himself so that she wouldn't be able to wriggle free.

“Now we convince the old bat to get us home.”

“Never,” Vuall rasped.

Crimple gave the chains a sharp jerk. “You really should have been more careful,” Crimple said. “These dangly things can catch on all sorts of inconvenient items.”

“She never expected to have anyone stand up to her, I suppose,” Molly said. She knelt down and spoke directly into Vuall's wrinkled, dried-up face. “You underestimated us,” she told the crone. “After all, I'm just a girl, right?”

“And I'm just a narl,” Crimple added. “But together we're formidable.” He grinned up at Molly.

“So how do we get out of this place and back home?” Molly demanded.