The Bag of Bones (19 page)

Prince Vincent shuffled his feet. “No need to give me a lecture,” he said grumpily. “OK. I’ll ditch the cake idea. But if we’re going to be so responsible and boring and grown-up, then we’d better go straight to the Royal State Room.”

“A good decision.” Arry took Vincent’s arm. “We’ll go together. Marcus, Gracie, are you coming?”

Marcus looked at Gracie, and she gave a tiny shake of her head.

“We’ll catch up with you later,” Marcus said. “You’re far more important than we are, Vincent. You go and meet your visitors.”

Vincent hesitated. “Are you teasing me?”

“Of course he isn’t,” Arry said as he marched the little prince away, leaving Gracie and Marcus on their own.

“We’d better look for the kitchen and Loobly,” Gracie said. “If we meet her, maybe we could make some kind of plan . . . and she and I should stick together.”

Marcus was only half-listening to her. “Gracie,” he said, “do you know what? Vincent was right. That cellar was
stuffed
with rats! They were making their way out by the time I saw them, but they were all in rows, just like he said. I didn’t tell him, ’cause he’d only have freaked out even more. Where do you think they were going?”

“I don’t know.” Gracie pulled anxiously at the end of her braid. “I don’t like the feel of this place at all. It’s giving me the shivers. . . . Let’s find Loobly and see what she knows.”

Truda Hangnail was striding to and fro in the hayloft, cracking her knuckles and muttering, “Time to get ready. Time to have some fun.” She gave Malice’s tail a vicious tweak and he snarled, making her cackle with laughter. “The rats will be waiting, and those little witchy women too.” She cackled again. “All bright-eyed and thinking I’m going to set them free! Ha!” Her eyes flashed, and Mrs. Cringe, who was cowering by the stairway, shuddered. Truda marched to the window and spread her arms wide. “See that palace? That’s all going to belong to me! ME, Truda Hangnail!”

Malice, whose tail was extremely painful, gave a sour chuckle, and the old witch heard him. “What’s that? I’ll teach you to mock the Queen of Wadingburn!” With a grandiloquent gesture, she flung him away.

“Begone!” she chanted. “Begone!” There was a flurry of purple dust, and Malice sneezed, coughed, choked . . . and disappeared. In his place was a small black beetle, but before Truda could crush him, he scuttled under the hay.

Loobly, sweeping the kitchen floor on the other side of the yard, opened the door to let the dust out. As she did so, she glanced up — and her mouth opened in a silent scream as she saw the witch framed in the hayloft window, wisps of purple smoke surrounding her. Frantically she looked around, her breath catching in her throat and her heart trying to thump its way out of her chest. There was only one place to hide, and she had no time to think what she was doing. When the cook and the other maids came hurrying back from the dining hall, she had vanished.

Truda swung away from the window, unaware that she had been seen. Her eyes were gleaming as she climbed down from the hayloft. At the doorway she stopped, snapped her fingers, and shrank to the size of her quivering granddaughter. “The time has come!” she announced, and after a quick glance left and right, she scurried across the yard and into the shed. Evangeline, Mrs. Prag, Mrs. Vibble, and Ms. Scurrilous were waiting for her, and she greeted them imperiously. “Follow me!” she ordered, and set off down the long, winding tunnel that led to the Royal State Room. The tunnel was curiously empty; not a single rat could be seen.

“They’re all in place,” Mrs. Cringe promised as they slipped out of the tunnel and under the bookshelves.

“So I should hope.” Truda poked Evangeline in the back with a sharp finger. “Get going!”

The Grand High Witch of Wadingburn said nothing as she crept away, followed by Mrs. Prag. Mrs. Vibble and Ms. Scurrilous went in the other direction, and Truda watched until she saw that they were as close to the doors and windows as was possible. Then, and only then, she whisked around and hurried under the shelter of the shelves toward the gilded platform where Queen Bluebell was standing to greet her guests.

Queen Bluebell shivered as she smiled at Queen Mildred and King Frank. “Goose walking over my grave,” she said cheerfully, quite unaware that Truda’s piercing eyes were fixed on her crown. “What a delight to see you, my dear friends! And are your handsome sons here yet?”

Queen Mildred beamed proudly. “Arioso’s over there,” she said, “with Prince Vincent.”

“Hmph.” Queen Bluebell pursed her lips. “Hope Arioso’s talking some sense into him. I love Vince dearly, but he’s a silly boy. And where’s Marcus?”

King Frank chuckled. “On his way with that little Gillypot girl. She was having a bit of trouble with her dress. Got the wrong size, if you ask me. Not that I know much about these things, of course.”

“Excellent!” Bluebell smiled again and turned to her next guests.

Truda cracked her knuckles, and a single purple wasp buzzed around Queen Mildred’s head. As the Queen exclaimed and flapped at it with her fan, Truda chuckled darkly.

Gracie was indeed having trouble with her dress. It kept tripping her up and slipping off her shoulders, but she bunched it under one arm and marched gamely on, in what she and Marcus hoped was the direction of the kitchen. Various footmen and upper parlor maids looked at them in surprise and tried to direct them back toward the State Room, but they refused all offers of assistance and kept going.

“It’s like a maze,” Marcus complained. “Unless we’re going around and around in circles. I’m sure that suit of armor’s laughing at us.”

“Turn left at the next passage, then take the first right,” said a familiar voice, and Gracie clapped her hands.

“Marlon! Oh, where have you been? Where’s Loobly? Has the Deep Magic begun?”

“Stay cool, kiddo, and follow me.” Marlon fluttered in front of them, and only moments later they were surrounded by steaming pots and pans and facing an agitated red-faced cook.

“’Scuse me, Your Highnesses,” she said, “but this isn’t the place for you.”

Marcus bowed his best bow and switched on his most charming Arioso smile. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said. “But might we speak to Loobly? Loobly Higgins?”

“She’s gone,” the cook said shortly. “Skipped out. Without asking, too. She’ll feel my hand when she gets back, I can tell you. And now, if you don’t mind . . .” she indicated the kitchen back door and the yard beyond. “You’ll find the front entrance just around the corner.” Marcus and Gracie found themselves hustled outside, and the door slammed shut behind them.

“Really!” Marcus said indignantly, but Gracie hushed him.

“Loobly is here somewhere,” she said. “I know she is. I can’t exactly tell you how I know, but I do.”

“Trueheart stuff,” Marlon said wisely.

Marcus was frowning. “Could she be hiding in the cake? Didn’t Vincent say it was hollow?”

Gracie clapped her hands. “Of course!”

“Oi!” The voice was small, and Gracie had to peer into the darkness before she saw the owner. “Oi! What do you want with Loobly?”

“It’s a rat!” Marcus stepped backward — but Gracie stayed where she was.

“Hello,” she said. “Excuse me, but are you another of Loobly’s friends? Like Doily and Sprout?”

“Brother Sprout?” Bodalisk came out into the light. “I know him. One of the brethren. But why’re you looking for Loobly? Not another witch, are you?” He studied Gracie carefully. “No. You’re like her. You’ve got that sunshine thing.”

Gracie crouched down so that she was nearer Bodalisk’s level. “I’m definitely not a witch. I don’t like witches. Especially Deep Magic witches.”

“So you know what’s going on?” Bodalisk came closer still.

“No.” Gracie was conscious of a cold feeling in her bones. “Please tell me. I — I might just be able to help.”

“That Truda Hangnail. She wants to be queen.” Bodalisk looked at Gracie, and she was reminded of the pleading look in Doily’s eyes. “You’ve got to stop her. You’ve got to stop her before the Declaration. She’s going to blackmail the queen. If you can’t stop her, she’ll win, and there’ll be Deep Magic everywhere, and . . . and then someone I . . . I’m fond of will get squished.”

In the distance was the sound of loud clapping, and Marcus froze. “They’ve started the speeches,” he said.

“Quick!” Bodalisk sat up. “HURRY!”

Gracie gulped. “We’d better go.”

“But what about Loobly?” Marcus asked urgently. “Didn’t the crones say it needed the two of you? We’ve got to get you together! I’ll see if that cook’s out of the way.” He hurried to the kitchen window. “OH!” he said as he peered inside. “Oh, no . . .”

“What is it?” Gracie asked anxiously.

“They’re wheeling the cake out of the kitchen,” Marcus said. “She’s gone.”

Gracie took a deep breath. “We’ll have to manage without her.” She stooped to scoop up her skirts, and as she did so she heard a tiny squeak.

“Girlie!”

“Doily?”
Gracie’s eyes opened wide. “Doily? And Sprout as well? What are you doing here?”

“Us is finding our Loobly.” Doily’s voice was even fainter than usual. “Was longly way with shoe . . .”

“Oh! OH!” Gracie gasped. “Oh, however did you manage?”

Sprout and Brokenbiscuit, covered in dirt and dust and with drooping whiskers, hauled the shoe closer until it rested against Gracie’s foot.

“We fetched it for Loobly,” Sprout said, and Brother Brokenbiscuit gave a feeble salute.

“You’re wonderful,” Gracie told them. “This could make all the difference!”

Marcus, who had been anxiously listening to the speeches, swung around. “Gracie,” he said, “we really,
really
have to go.”

“I’m coming.” Gracie picked up the shoe. “Stay close,” she told the rats. She took Marcus’s hand, and the two of them ran as fast as they could toward the imposing front door of Wadingburn Palace.

The Royal State Room was crowded. Truda, who had been amusing herself by sending a couple more tiny wasps whizzing around the room, had already managed to create an atmosphere of some unease. Every so often a king would suddenly duck to avoid being stung, or a queen would stifle a scream as a wasp flew too near. The princes and princesses were finding conversation difficult as first one and then another stopped in midsentence to flap a glove or a fan wildly in the air, and tempers were getting ruffled.

As Gracie and Marcus hurried through the door, Queen Bluebell was speaking, her stentorian tones echoing through the room. “It is with much regret that I have to inform you that all efforts to find the natural heir to the throne, namely my daughter, Bluebell, known as Bella, have failed, and I have been forced to accept that she will never take her rightful place as Queen Bluebell the Twenty-ninth. She has been missing now for seventeen years and is, I fear, lost to me forever. Nevertheless, on this, my eightieth birthday, the laws of the kingdom of Wadingburn require a new queen to be named before you all.”

Under the platform, Truda took a deep breath of eager anticipation, and the witches of Wadingburn prepared to rush out from their hiding places.

“Dear friends”— Queen Bluebell’s voice grew louder —“it is all but time for my Declaration — but first I would like you to celebrate my birthday in the traditional way. Bring in the cake!”