The Robe of Skulls (17 page)

Gracie found Marcus wiping down the table with surprising efficiency, Marlon and Millie making helpful suggestions as he did so.

“Hi,” Gracie said, and lifted a pile of plates off a chair. “Foyce is here, but she’s quite safe. She’s been taken to the web room. She looks sort of . . .  I don’t know how to describe it. Kind of empty.”

“That’ll be the beginning,” Marlon said chirpily. “Bad seeping out. Takes a while before the other grows in.”

“It’ll be odd living in the same house as Foyce and not having her shouting at me all the time,” Gracie went on. “But I would like to stay here — for a while, anyway. It’s strange. I lived in Fracture all my life, but that never felt like a real home. But this does.”

Marcus took the plates from Gracie’s hands. “Might you care to explore a bit from time to time?” he asked diffidently. “There are a lot of places on the map I’d like to see . . .”

“Sounds good to me,” Gracie said, and her smile lit the room. She picked up the teapot. “But in the meantime, there’s an awful lot of washing-up waiting to be done.”

“OK,” Marcus said. “You wash; I’ll dry.”

In room seventeen, the Ancient One watched as the last vestiges of gray faded from the web, leaving a smooth sheet of shining silver. “So
that’s
all right,” she said.

“It’s nice to have a happy ending, isn’t it?” Elsie agreed.

Foyce muttered something, but the Ancient One ignored her. “It is, Elsie,” she said. “Very nice indeed. Let’s hope it lasts. . . .”

In room four, Gubble grunted happily in his cupboard. “Gubble’s Trouble gone,” he said to himself, and then paused. An idea was seeping into his brain. An amazing idea. An idea that was so incredibly brilliant that he had to close the cupboard door quickly in case it escaped and was lost forever.

“Gubble, Gubble —
got no Trouble
!” he said, and closed his eyes in ecstasy.

Out in the corridor, the purple quill was working overtime.
THE END,
it wrote.
THE END THE END THEENDTHEENDTHEEND . . .

And it was.

Or was it?

Late one evening, a small bat came flipping over the balustrade of Lady Lamorna’s castle as the old sorceress sat peacefully dreaming up unusual and unpleasant tasks for her new servant.

“I’m Alf,” he said proudly. “Bat in training. Uncle Marlon’s teaching me the tools of the trade, see, and I’ve brought a message!”

“Message?” Lady Lamorna asked. “What message?”

Alf puffed out his chest. “
DRESS READY ALL COMPLETE STOP. SEND CASH PLUS DEPOSIT FOR DONKEY STOP. DELIVERY BY DONKEY AS SOON AS CASH RECEIVED STOP. PRICE DEDUCTION FOR LATE DELIVERY STOP. END OF MESSAGE STOP.
”

Alf, panting hard, perched himself on a twirl of ivy to recover.

Lady Lamorna smiled and went to find Mange’s wooden brass-bound box. She counted out the gold into a small velvet bag and hung the bag around Alf’s neck.

Alf fell backward into the darkness.

“Watch it, kiddo,” said a voice from below. “Told ya to wait for me, didn’t I? Heavy stuff, cash. Never mind. Millie — you ready? We’ll do it easily with the three of us, but next time you’re on your own, lad.”

Lady Lamorna strode the battlements of her crumbling castle with a new spring in her step. The blood-red petticoats rustled in the most satisfactory manner, and the black velvet gown was patterned all over in silver with truly delightful spiders’ webs and twists of poison ivy. The hem was deeply encrusted with more silver; embroidered skulls of every size and shape jostled each other for space, while silver-painted walnuts, looking for all the world like tiny skulls, clittered and clattered on the cold stone floors.

It would have taken a much sharper eye than Lady Lamorna’s to see that the embroidery covered up many mistakes in the weaving — mistakes as if the weaver had been throwing the shuttle in a particularly angry fashion. . . .

There are more adventures to be had in the Five Kingdoms!

The Bag of Bones

The Second Tale from the Five Kingdoms

Vivian French

“
Dear
Mrs. Cringe! I’m so glad you’re with us tonight!
And
Mrs. Vibble and Mrs. Prag as well. Fabulous! And darling Ms. Scurrilous is here too!
And
Mrs. . . .”

The Grand High Witch faltered for a moment. What was the name of the hunched old witch on the far side of the fire? Even with the flames now burning brightly under the cauldron, it was too dark to see her face. It certainly wasn’t Mrs. Gabbage, and Ms. Pettigroan had sent a bat earlier that evening with polite apologies.

Mrs. Cringe shuffled up, looking distinctly guilty, and the Grand High Witch’s heart sank. Even worse, her little toe had begun to throb, which was a far more reliable warning of impending trouble. She had always been wary of Mrs. Cringe, not least because she was known to have relations outside the Five Kingdoms who were suspected of indulging in Deep Magic of the nastiest kind.

“Ahem,” Mrs. Cringe addressed the Grand High Witch, whose toe was becoming increasingly painful. “That there’s my grandmother, Truda Hangnail. She’s come visiting from the other side of the More Enchanted Forest. Asked if I could invite her in for a week or two. Things got troublesome for her over there, she said. Too many two-headed cows and sheep with five legs appearing all over the place.” She stepped closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Best to be polite. She’s in a bit of a temper. Fell in a ditch on the other side of the border gate.” She nudged the Grand High Witch. “Shouldn’t even be here in the Five Kingdoms. Deep, she is. Very Deep. But we won’t tell, will we?”

Evangeline Droop, Grand High Witch of Wadingburn, froze. It was a serious offense to invite a Deep Witch to cross the border of the Five Kingdoms. They had been banished many years before, together with werewolves and sorcerers. On the other hand, she had absolutely no idea how to confront a Deep Witch, let alone how to tell her to go home.

Evangeline’s little toe was now excruciating. All the same, she extended an unwilling hand and said as gracefully as she was able, “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Hangnail!”

The visitor stared at her with beady little eyes, and the strangely sinuous animal draped around her neck lifted its head and stared too. “Deep or Shallow?” the witch croaked.

Mrs. Cringe took her elderly relation by the arm. “I told you, Grandma. There aren’t any Deep Witches in the Five Kingdoms.”

Truda Hangnail gave a laugh like knives scraping steel. “There’s no fun in that,” she sneered. “You can’t turn princes into toads with Shallow Magic. How d’you put red-hot nails in a milkmaid’s shoes? And how d’you scare folk into giving you plump young chickens and apple pies and bowls of eggs and dishes of cream?”

“Actually, Mrs. Hangnail,” the Grand High Witch said haughtily, “we are respected members of our community.”

Mrs. Prag looked smug. “We’ve all been invited to Queen Bluebell’s eightieth-birthday party to hear the Declaration.”

“It’s a Declaration Ball, Vera,” Mrs. Vibble corrected her. “
Do
get it right.”

“
So
exciting!” Ms. Scurrilous beamed with pleasure. “We’ll be among the very first to know who she’s chosen as her successor!”

Truda stiffened like a fox who has seen a foolish young rabbit. Even her nose sharpened. “Successor?”

Ms. Scurrilous heaved a romantic sigh. “So sad. Her daughter ran away, and there’s only a grandson. And of course we don’t have kings in Wadingburn, so it’s been a terrible worry.”

“Serves the old bag right,” Truda snapped.

“Excuse
me,
Mrs. Hangnail!” Evangeline’s voice rose several octaves. “You are speaking of our beloved monarch!”

“Oooh — beg your pardon, I’m sure.” The old witch bobbed a sarcastic curtsy. “So what else do you do, besides visiting royalty?”

Mrs. Vibble bridled. “We offer charms and soothing cures for the afflicted.”

“That’s right,” Ms. Scurrilous added. “And we get paid for our work without frightening anyone.”

“YAH!” Truda stuck out her long green tongue. “Mimsy-whimsy sort of stuff. Cough drops and love potions as well, I’ll be bound.” She hobbled toward the bubbling cauldron and peered inside. “Just as I thought. Moldy mushrooms, shriveled spiders’ legs, chicken soup, and nail clippings. Call yourselves witches? Spineless old hags is what you are! Now, let me see . . .” She began to fish in the pockets of her shabby old cloak, then pulled out a tattered cloth bag. “Frog bones, bat bones, rat bones, cat bones . . . How about a few dragon bones to begin with? Nicely ground into dust, of course.”

Mrs. Prag grabbed Evangeline’s arm. “What’s she doing?” she hissed. “Stop her! Dragon bones are illegal!”

Evangeline swallowed hard. As Grand High Witch of Wadingburn, voted into the post by every witch in the kingdom, she knew she should take command. She should order this terrible old hag to go, scat, vamoose, and refuse to take no for an answer. But there had been something in Truda Hangnail’s eyes that was making Evangeline feel oddly indecisive.

“Erm . . .” she began. “We don’t usually use those kinds of ingredients.”

“You don’t, eh?” Truda sneered. “Well, could be it’s time you did. I’m thinking we could have some fun and games in this cozy little kingdom of yours. I’m thinking we could make it a tad more exciting. Could just be I’ve found something worth staying for!” She gave an evil cackle, opened the bag, and tossed a handful of gray dust into the cauldron.

What happens when a lonely troll king decides he’d like a princess of his very own?