The Flight of Dragons (13 page)

“Oh. Yes. I suppose so,” Marcus agreed, but as Glee set off down the track that led to Gorebreath and beyond, he made sure the pony was moving at a swift trot.

K
ing Horace was deep in thought. He had been fed a rather less than substantial breakfast at Mrs. Basket’s cottage, and it had been made very clear that he could not expect to continue to dine at that good lady’s expense unless she was formally reinstated as palace cook. Mr. Trout — sitting in front of a plate piled high with eggs, mushrooms, bacon, beans, tomatoes, fried bread, and fried potatoes — had supported Mrs. Basket’s point of view, but with rather more deference and the offer of a couple of mushrooms. The footmen were too busy playing cards in a corner to make any remark, and the housemaids and pages were nowhere to be seen. King Horace could only presume they had gone home to their respective families.

Hmph,
the king said to himself as he wandered back across the park.
Wonder if Bluebell’s had any ideas about cooks? Might call on her.
He pulled his watch out of his pocket and consulted it.
Not far off till lunchtime. I’ll pop home and see how the two young ’uns are doing, and then I’ll take the carriage and go to Wadingburn. Unless the coachman’s gone as well, of course. Better go around by the stables and check.

His visit to the stables was reassuring, and King Horace made his way into the palace. To his amazement, he was greeted by a delicious smell of roast chicken and potatoes, and his eyes shone as he hurried toward the dining room. He burst through the door and found Tertius and Fedora sitting at the table, and in between them was the most astonishing array of food laid out on a snow-white cloth.

“Well, well, well!” The king rubbed his hands together as he settled himself beside Tertius and beamed at Fedora. “You’ve found us a cook, and a very good one, too, by the look of things. What a clever little thing you are!”

Fedora smiled a slow lazy smile, and King Horace jumped.
She looks . . . fat!
he thought.
But how can that be? I saw her only this morning!
He turned to Tertius and saw that he, too, had a puffy look about him.

“Food’s fantastic,” the prince drawled. “Help yourself, Daddy-o. After this we’ve ordered lots ’n’ lots of different desserts . . . and we’re going to gobble them all, aren’t we, my cuddly-wuddly-duddly princess?”

Odd,
thought the king.
Very odd, indeed.
He leaned forward and absently helped himself to a large plateful. “Don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to find a butler yet? Or any footmen?”

“Who cares . . . ’s long as we’ve got desserts.” Tertius stuck a fork in what was left of the chicken and waved it above his head. “ ’Ray for Mer . . . Mer . . .”

“Mershy Grinder.” Fedora nodded enthusiastically before toppling forward, her head in her plate.

“Oh, my goodness!” King Horace leaped to his feet. “Is she all right?”

Tertius tossed the chicken away. “Little diddums is fine. Eat your din-dins, Daddy-o, and don’t be a fussy-wussy ol’ fusspot.”

King Horace frowned. Something was wrong. Very wrong . . . but he had no idea what it was or how to deal with it. Fedora had begun to snore, so she was evidently not exactly ill — but Tertius? He had never spoken to his father like that before. The king rubbed his hair until it stood straight up on end and, while he was thinking, took a mouthful of crispy roast potato. At once a strange peacefulness wrapped around him. He took another mouthful and wondered what he had been worrying about. All was well. All was very, very well . . . and as he continued to eat, his cares fell away, until all he could think of was the entrancing crunchiness of the carrots, the sweetness of the peas, and the delicious creaminess of the cauliflower.

Down in the kitchen, Mercy Grinder was filling dishes with chocolate mousse, lemon sponge, apple pie, strawberry cheesecake . . . all the requested desserts. Saturday Mousewater’s arms were already aching from carrying heavy trays; Bobby, who had helped himself to several spoonfuls of cherry trifle when nobody was looking, was sitting in front of the fire with a dreamy smile on his face, ignoring requests for help. With a weary sigh, Saturday picked up yet another tray and set off for the stairs. When she reached the top, she began the long walk to the dining room; on arrival she found the three members of the royal family sprawled in their chairs, fast asleep.

“Ah . . . erm . . . ahem?” Saturday coughed as politely as she could, but there was not so much as a twitch in reply. With another sigh, she placed the dessert dishes on the sideboard and began to clear away the dirty plates and half-empty bowls of vegetables. A carrot slice fell on the tablecloth, and without thinking, she picked it up and put it in her mouth. “YEUCH!” The taste was astonishingly horrible; her tongue curled, then burned as if she had eaten a handful of peppercorns. It tasted like a panful of ashes swept from a dirty fireplace. Saturday gulped down first one glass of water and then another. Eyeing the other vegetables with suspicion, she tried a minute sliver of cheese. This was almost worse, and she rubbed furiously at her mouth with the back of her hand before drinking more water. Was
none
of it edible? Dumping the dirty dishes in a pile, she picked up a teaspoon and investigated the chocolate mousse. This time her nose began to tingle, and she sneezed several times in quick succession.

Fedora rolled her head off her plate and looked up, her eyes bleary. “Don’t feel well,” she said. “Feel . . . feel dizzy. Ever so dizzy. Whirly-whirly-whirly-woo . . . and hungry. Ever so hungry . . .”

“I’ll put the desserts out at once, miss,” Saturday said quickly.

The princess pulled herself up with an effort and stood swaying by her chair. She had intended to help herself to a generous portion of strawberry cheesecake, but her eye was caught by
The Handbook of Palace Management
lying beside her plate. It had fallen open at the title page, and the formidable author was directing a strongly disapproving gaze straight at Fedora. Underneath were the words “Moderation in all things must be your watchword. There is no room in a well-run palace for self-indulgence of
any
kind. An example must always be set.” Fedora gulped and sank back on her chair. Her mouth was watering and her stomach was insisting it needed cheesecake, but . . . She swallowed hard and shut her eyes.
An example must always be set.

Saturday gave her employer an anxious glance. “Would you like some water, miss?”

“Yesh . . . I mean, yes, please.” Fedora opened her eyes again and saw the sleeping Tertius and King Horace. “What’s been going on?”

“You’ve been eating your dinner, like,” Saturday said. She poured a glass of water and handed it to the princess. “Maybe something didn’t agree with you, miss.”

Fedora drank the water and held out the glass for more. Three glasses later she was looking and feeling more normal. “Why are there so many desserts?” she asked in tetchy tones. “I’m sure I never ordered as many as that.”

“If you please, miss, they was all asked for. You and the prince chose them. And His Majesty, like. His Majesty wanted the apple pie ’n’ the sponge cake ’n’ the rice pudding —”

“That’s enough!” Fedora held up her hand. A sudden suspicion floated into her mind, and she asked, somewhat tentatively, “Saturday . . . have the king and the prince been drinking?”

Saturday looked shocked. “Oh, no, miss. Nothing like that.”

Fedora sat up straighter. “No. Of course, I didn’t think for a moment that they had. Clear all this away, Saturday. We won’t be wanting much tonight. Perhaps a couple of boiled eggs each.”

“Certainly, miss. I’ll tell Mrs. Grinder.” Saturday bobbed a curtsy and went back to clearing the table.

The princess picked up her handbook, stood up, and then sat down again. The mention of Mercy Grinder had reminded her of an unanswered question . . . but what was it? Try as she would, the memory kept escaping. She shut her eyes again, and all of a sudden it was there. Was it Queen Bluebell who had sent Mercy Grinder to the palace? Or had King Horace appointed her? Was she — Fedora frowned at the thought — a friend of Mrs. Basket? Or had she simply appeared . . . in which case the rules in the
Handbook
had been severely violated. She began to shake Tertius. “Tertius! Wake up! Wake up this minute!”

There was no response. Fedora’s shaking became more frenzied.

“I think he’s down for the count, miss,” Saturday offered.

Fedora, quite unaware that she had gravy in her hair and a jaunty piece of broccoli tucked behind one ear, put on her most superior expression. “Don’t gawp, girl. Kindly get on with clearing everything away. It must be getting late. . . . Oh! That reminds me. Have the two new housemaids arrived? I asked them to come this afternoon.”

Saturday had been doing her best to forget about Conducta and Globula. She shook her head. “No, miss. There don’t be no sign of them.”

“Tell them to report to me as soon as they get here,” Fedora ordered, “and then they can go down to the kitchen. I’ll be in the upstairs sitting room. Now, take those dishes away.”

Saturday bobbed another curtsy, picked up a tray, and departed.

Fedora waited until the door had closed before bursting into tears and throwing herself on Tertius in a storm of weeping. “Terty! TERTY! Wake up! There’s something weird going on and I want to ask you something and I need you to wake up right NOW!” As her husband took no notice, she picked up a jug of iced lemonade and poured it over him. “Wake up!” she screamed. “WAKE UP!”

It was King Horace who raised his head. “What’s all the noise about?” he inquired. “Devil of a rumpus goin’ on! My apple pie here yet? I’m starving!”

T
he twins were making their way slowly back to the palace. It was nearly four o’clock; they had decided to take Fedora’s instruction of “after lunch” as a general suggestion rather than an order and had gone home for several large helpings of stew and potatoes. Their mother was in a state of acute shock brought on by their announcement that they had found work at the palace; as a result, she was willing to cook whatever they asked for.

“Do you think there’ll be any chocolates around?” Globula asked hopefully as they reached the top of the drive.

Conducta shrugged. “Dunno. We can have a snoop while we’re doing dusting or whatever it was that book said.”

The memory of the
Handbook
made Globula giggle. “ ‘Rise at five to light the bedroom fires!’ They should be so lucky!”

“We could set fire to the bedrooms,” Conducta suggested. “We’d only be doing as we were told.” She opened the door, and they walked in. The smell of roast chicken and apple pie still lingered heavily in the air, and the twins sniffed appreciatively. Following their noses along the corridors and down the kitchen steps, they arrived just in time to hear Bobby squealing in pain.

“Ow! Ow! Let go of my ears! That hurts — it really, really hurts! I promise I won’t eat anything else! Please let me go! Please!”

Delighted, the twins gave each other a thumbs-up.

“Don’t ever touch the food I cook.” The voice was strange and yet familiar. Globula frowned. Where had she heard it before?