The Flight of Dragons (11 page)

Marlon waved a wing. “Down there. Under the table.”

Professor Scallio bent to see where Marlon was pointing, then straightened again. “That one’s propping up the table leg. The floor’s uneven, and there’s nothing I hate more than writing on a wobbly table . . . oh. Oh, I wonder . . . no. That would be too much of a coincidence . . . wouldn’t it?” With some difficulty, he bent down and pulled out the book.

It was old and very dirty; the housemaids who occasionally swirled a damp mop around the library floor had paid it no attention. The professor laid it carefully on the table, then gave it a quick wipe with his hanky before opening it. Dust flew everywhere, and Marlon and the professor both sneezed loudly.

“Let’s see. . . .” Professor Scallio turned the ancient crackling pages. “No. No, it’s a book of accounts. Accounts for the palace of Niven’s Knowe. Wonder how it came to be here. It’s quite old, but not what I was looking for. Not at all.”

Marlon was looking over the professor’s shoulder. “Hang on, Prof. Don’t put it back yet. How old is it?”

“Let me see . . .” There was a pause. “Refers back maybe fifty . . . no, more like sixty or seventy years ago. Difficult to say exactly because most of the entries are dated only by month, but there’s a bill for a carriage wheel for King Huzzell, and he’s King Horace’s grandfather . . . oh, my word! I don’t believe it! Here’s a date! They’re the accounts for eighty years ago! Marlon, you’re a genius!”

Marlon folded his wings in a nonchalant manner. “Modesty’s my middle name. All part of the service.”

Professor Scallio didn’t hear. He was eagerly turning page after page, muttering as he did so. “ ‘Sheets . . . chickens . . . county ball . . . christening party . . . three silver forks and a carving knife’ . . . Fascinating stuff, this, really fascinating. Why do you think they needed a bowl of frogs and twenty yards of thick green velvet?”

Marlon shrugged. Social history was not one of his interests. “Any mention of dragons, Prof ?”

“Dragons? Oh, yes. Let’s see.” The professor was glowing with enthusiasm. “Well, I never! Listen to this, Marlon! ‘Payment to Mrs. Grettishaw in compensation for fire damage to three lines of personal washing and the destruction of a newly planted beech hedge.’ That must have been caused by the dragons, don’t you think? And look . . . here’s more. Haystacks burned to the ground . . . schoolhouse roof singed . . . smoke damage to a cartload of apples . . .” More pages were turned, the professor murmuring happily, and then —“
Aha!
‘Five bales of finest nesting straw for dragons!’ NESTING STRAW!” Professor Scallio leaped to his feet and did a dance right around the table and back again. “There we are! Conclusive proof ! There were dragons in Niven’s Knowe eighty years ago, and at least one of them was nesting!”

Marlon coughed. “Erm . . . hate to pour cold water ’n’ all that, but aren’t you forgetting something?”

The professor stopped mid-prance. “Eh?”

“ ’Scuse me if I’m wrong,” Marlon said slowly, “but doesn’t a nest mean an egg? And doesn’t an egg mean a baby dragon? And isn’t that what the evil guys and gals out there want more than anything?”

The professor stared, gulped, rubbed his head, and collapsed into a chair. “You’re right,” he said dully. “You’re absolutely right. How could I have forgotten?”

Marlon flew up to a shelf. The news that had made the professor despair was acting on him like a tonic. “Don’t you worry! Leave it to me, Prof. Never fear, Marlon’s here. . . . Be back in five —
ciao
!” And he was gone.

I
f Tertius had not chosen that precise moment to come back from his walk, Fedora would never have employed the twins. Just being in the same room with them made her feel uncomfortable. Admittedly, they had claimed to be able to perform every single one of the tasks listed in the palace
Handbook,
but their shifty eyes and sly smiles were not at all engaging. She suggested a ridiculously low salary in the hope that they would throw up their hands in horror and leave immediately, but instead they nodded and said it was quite acceptable. Fedora furtively turned over a page of the
Handbook
. “When an applicant is to be rejected, no reasons or excuses are necessary. Merely state that the post has been offered to a more suitable candidate and dismiss the applicant with a polite but firm refusal.” Fedora sucked the end of her pen and pretended to be studying her notes. What should she do? Her mother was due for a visit, and she had told King Horace she would have everything sorted out by the end of the day. On the other hand, there was something in the way the twins were staring at her that made her feel decidedly nervous.

No. Fedora made up her mind: the twins would not do. She took a deep breath and looked up, fully intending to deliver her best attempt at a “polite but firm refusal,” but was distracted by the sight of Tertius signaling from the far end of the dining room. He was pointing at the twins and shaking his head, and as he hurried to Fedora’s side, he made the fatal mistake of frowning at her.

That’s so mean of Terty,
Fedora thought as she turned away from him.
Here I am, working my fingers to the bone trying to sort out his horrid palace affairs, and he’s not even trying to help.
She gave the twins the benefit of her most gracious smile. “Conducta and Globula, I’m delighted to tell you that you have been successful.”

“Hang on a minute!” Tertius, still frowning, took her arm. “Can I have a word, Feddy?”

Fedora’s smile became fixed. “Of course, dearest one. Poppet. Sugar chops. But first I’d like you to meet our two new housemaids. This is Conducta, and this is Globula. No. This is Globula, and this is Conducta . . . at least . . .” Fedora hesitated, but the twins offered no help. She went on quickly, “And I’m sure they’ll be quite wonderful, and they’ll start work just as soon as they can. Perhaps”— she looked inquiringly at her two new employees —“perhaps this afternoon? After lunch?”

“OK, miss.” Conducta did not sound enthusiastic.

“See you later,” Globula agreed.

Both twins gave Tertius a triumphant glare before marching away. As the door closed behind them, the prince sank into a chair. “Honestly, Feddy! What on earth are you playing at? We can’t possibly have those girls here. They give me the creeps!”

Fedora bridled. “I’ve told them they can come, so you’re too late. They can do absolutely everything on the list in my handbook, and they’ve agreed to a really tiny wage, so I think you should be congratulating me, not telling me off.”

Tertius slumped further. “Whatever will Father say? He’s sure to want to know whether you asked them for references, and I bet you jolly well didn’t.”

There was a pause while Fedora arranged her pencils in a complicated pattern. “Oh. Erm. That is, not exactly. I . . . I sort of forgot about references. But I’m sure they’ll be fine.” Aware she had made a mistake, she changed her approach. “Darling lovely gorgeous beautiful Terty, don’t be cross with your silly-billy Feddy!” She jumped up from her desk and wrapped her arms around the prince’s neck. “Feddy was only trying to be a good girl and make you happy!”

Tertius gave in and shortly afterward found himself apologizing for criticizing his wife’s amazing interviewing skills.

Fedora forgave him with a kiss on the end of his nose, and peace was restored. “Shall I bring you a lovely cup of tea?” she suggested.

This reminded Tertius of his lack of breakfast. Disentangling himself from his beloved, he asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve found a cook, have you?”

Fedora was saved from having to reply by a tentative knock on the door. “Come in!” she called — and Saturday, anxiously twisting her duster around and around her fingers, came slowly into the room.

“If you please, miss,” she began, “there’s something I needs to tell you, like . . .” She stopped, quite unable to think of a way to explain Mercy Grinder’s arrival. “You see, miss . . . I means, ma’am . . . that is . . .”

But Fedora wasn’t listening. Neither was Tertius. They were both sniffing the air. The unmistakable smell of rich dark chocolate cake was floating along the corridor, and the prince let out a wild whoop of joy. “It’s Mrs. Basket! Darling,
darling
Feddy — you’ve asked her back!” And he set off at a run along the corridors and down the stairs to the kitchen. “Mrs. B.!” he gasped as he hurtled around the kitchen door — and froze.

“Chocolate cake,” said Mercy Grinder as she swirled chocolate cream inches thick. “I’ve made chocolate cake.”

Tertius was a true prince of the Five Kingdoms. It took him only seconds to recover his composure and remember his manners. Stiffly he bowed. “Madam. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. I presume you are the new cook. Welcome to the palace of Niven’s Knowe.”

Fedora, following behind him, hardly noticed the enormous white shape on the other side of the kitchen table. She was staring at the miracle that was the cake. “That looks utterly amazing!” she said breathlessly. “Can I have some right now this minute?”

Mercy picked up a knife and cut the princess a more than generous slice.

“Oooooh.” Fedora sighed in rapture. “Do try this, Terty. It’s . . . it’s magic.”

“I’m sure it’s excellent.” Tertius was still recovering from his shock at finding Mrs. Basket’s place in the kitchen taken by someone who looked so very large and so very pale, and so very unlike any cook he had ever seen before. “Almost as good as Mrs. Basket’s. Well done.” Then, noticing Fedora’s rapturous expression and the undoubted quality of the cake, he began to see there might be advantages in the situation. “Erm . . . I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cooked breakfast? Eggs and bacon and mushrooms . . . that kind of thing? Toast? Marmalade?”

“Eggs and bacon and mushrooms,” Mercy repeated in her monotonous voice, and she left the cake and made her way over to the stove. “Toast and marmalade.” As Mercy picked up the frying pan, Saturday crept cautiously around the door. She looked nervously at Fedora, but the princess was helping herself to a second slice of cake with a blissful smile on her face.

“Ah! Saturday! Could you bring me up my breakfast when it’s ready, please?” Tertius beamed at her. “I’ll be in the dining room. Feddy, darling . . . I don’t think you should eat all that cake at once. Why don’t you leave some for Father?”

Fedora looked up as Tertius left the kitchen, a glazed expression in her eyes. “Why shouldn’t I eat it all?” she said thickly. “Itsh the beshtish cake I’ve ever eaten.” And she cut another slice.

Standing at the stove with the frying pan in her hand, Mercy Grinder gave a small satisfied nod. Carrion, perched on the top of the dresser and hidden from sight by a large soup tureen, opened his beak wide in a silent laugh. Saturday Mousewater, watching openmouthed from the doorway, felt a cold chill settle in the pit of her stomach.

A
lf, baffled by Gracie’s rejection of his romantic efforts on her behalf, had decided she must be suffering from shyness and took it upon himself to encourage her to talk to Marcus. To this end, he had been asking a stream of questions ever since leaving the House of the Ancient Crones.

“So, Mr. Prince, is it fun in your palace? What’s it like having a twin brother? Miss Gracie’s only got a stepsister, so she must be ever so lonely sometimes — isn’t that right, Miss Gracie? But having a friend who’s a little bit special must make ever such a difference —”