The Flight of Dragons

by Vivian French

  As the figure came closer, it became clear that it was a woman, a woman easily as wide as she was tall. Not only was she dressed in white, but her face was white — white with the pallid look and texture of well-kneaded dough. Her long, thin hair was also white, and when she turned her head and looked at Saturday from under white lashes, even her eyes appeared to have no color.

  “I’ve come to cook.” The woman’s oddly monotonous voice sounded as if she had stolen it from someone else and was not yet used to it. “Where is the kitchen?”

  Saturday swallowed hard. Every bit of her wanted to run away and hide in a cupboard until this woman and her hideous bird had gone, but she forced herself to say, “If you please, ma’am, Princess Fedora is in the dining room. She be interviewing there, like. If you tells me your name, I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  “Tell her she’ll find Mercy Grinder in the kitchen,” the woman said. “I am answering her advertisement for a cook.” The parchment was waved in front of Saturday’s nose. “Now, show me the way.”

  Saturday looked around to see if Bobby was anywhere in sight, but there was no sign of him.

  Mercy Grinder, with all the assurance of a large ship under full sail, moved herself and her luggage into the hallway with a smoothness that made Saturday wonder if she was on wheels rather than legs. “Show me the way,” Mercy repeated. “Show me —”

  “Follow me, ma’am.” Saturday gave up. She was only too well aware that Princess Fedora would be angry, but Mercy Grinder was as impossible to argue with as a mountain. “Follow me.” Saturday set off through a maze of marble corridors, finally arriving at a green- baize door. Opening this, she pointed to the flight of stairs that led down to the butler’s pantry, the storerooms, and the kitchen. “The kitchen’s at the bottom.”

  “What do they like to eat?”

  Saturday was a nervous girl; she found it all too easy to imagine creaking doors and rustles in the darkness hiding ghouls and ghosties that might spring out on her. Mercy Grinder’s voice was the opposite of scary in that it had the same regular metallic quality as the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, but nevertheless cold shivers ran up and down Saturday’s spine as she tried to find an answer. “Erm . . .” Her thoughts circled wildly. “Erm . . . the princess is very fond of chocolate cake. With chocolate-cream icing.”

  “Chocolate cake. I will make chocolate cake with chocolate-cream icing.” And Mercy Grinder descended the stairs without appearing to touch a single step.

  For the first time since she had come to the palace, Saturday Mousewater wondered about running away. If she had not had a proud mother who thought she was the luckiest girl in the world to live in a palace, she might have given in to the urge. As it was, she took a deep breath and went to tell Fedora that she, Saturday Mousewater, the most unimportant person in the palace, had inadvertently employed a cook. What was worse, she was a cook who had the most unpleasant and disreputable-looking bird Saturday had ever seen as a pet.

  As she approached the dining room, her heart thumping and her knees trembling, Saturday met Bobby coming out. “Did you see them?” he whispered, his eyes wide. “It’s those twins — the ones I saw before! They were knocking on the back door, and I’ve just brought them in, and they look weirder than ever! And they want to come and work here!”

  Saturday, relieved to be saved from certain dismissal for another few minutes, looked doubtful. “Surely ’tisn’t possible. The princess is that fussy — she’ll not take anyone if they be weird, like.”

  Bobby winked at her, then bent down so his eye was level with the keyhole. “I can see them in there!” he reported. “Princess F. is reading them a list of what they’ve got to do! That’ll be from that book of hers . . . sounds like there’s pages ’n’ pages of it. Oh!” An expression of intense excitement came over his face, and he watched carefully for several seconds before standing up and shaking his head in astonishment. “Blow me down and blow me over!”

  “What is it?” Saturday asked. “Tell me! What is it?”

  “Prince T. He must have come in through the other door.” Bobby rubbed his eyes. “Shaking his head and looking cross as two sticks, he was, so guess what? She gets all uppity doo-dah and tells them —” Bobby came to an abrupt stop, grabbed Saturday’s hand, and dragged her into hiding behind a substantial marble column. “Shh!” he whispered in her ear. “They’re coming!”

  Saturday held her breath as the dining-room door opened and the twins came sailing out. Smirking, they gave each other a thumbs-up.

  “Easy-peasy!” Conducta boasted.

  Globula held up the princess’s gold pen. “And look what I’ve got!” Conducta fished under her skirt and produced Fedora’s diamond hair clip. “Like taking candy from a kid!”

  Bobby and Saturday watched openmouthed as the twins hopped and skipped their way to the back door and slammed it shut behind them.

  Professor Scallio was tidying up the library, and Marlon was keeping him company. The professor had benefited from a good night’s sleep and was feeling much more positive; Marlon, on the other hand, was stiff after his long flights and decidedly cranky.

  “Marcus and Gracie should be here by teatime, with any luck,” the professor said as he heaved a pile of books off the floor and onto the table he used as a desk. “And hopefully they’ll bring us good news.”

  “Or bad.” Marlon yawned. “And that’s supposing old Unc actually knows anything.”

  “What?” The professor paused, book in hand. “I thought he knew all there was to know about dragons.”

  Marlon stretched his wings and winced. “So he says. Of course, he could be fibbing.”

  Professor Scallio put his book down. “Marlon, what do you mean? Have we sent Gracie and Marcus off on a wild-goose chase?”

  “Nah.” The bat shrugged, then sniggered. “Don’t you mean wild-dragon chase?”

  “This isn’t a joke, Marlon.” The professor pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Oh dear, oh dear. There haven’t been any reports of sightings since yesterday morning; I’d almost convinced myself everything was going to be all right. But now you tell me Great-Uncle Alvin is unreliable! I wonder if I should go see the Ancient One. But I suspect she doesn’t know any more than we do . . . oh dearie, dearie me!”

  Marlon realized he had gone too far. “Sorry, Prof. Didn’t mean to upset you. Old war wounds playing up a bit, dontcha know. No worries — no worries at all. Great-Uncle Alvin’ll put them straight. Born above the dragon lofts, he was — he and all his brothers and sisters. Dragons in the blood, you could say.” He coughed. “You’ve missed a book, by the way.”

  The professor inspected his informant somewhat doubtfully. Marlon was not above twisting the truth if he felt it was convenient, but on this occasion he sounded genuine. “Well, I hope you’re right. Now, what was that about my missing one?”

  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 . . .” Th
ere 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.

  If 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.