“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!”
The 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?
Conducta pinched her arm. “Grandma!” she hissed. “Isn’t that Grandma’s voice?”
Globula nodded. “But what’s she doing here?”
“Let’s see!” Her sister grabbed her, and they hurried inside — and froze, their eyes popping out of their heads and their mouths hanging open.
Mercy Grinder, who had been suspending Bobby by his ears above a pan of boiling water, dropped him on the floor. “Twins,” she said, looking the sisters up and down. “Housemaids.” She pointed at a large fruitcake. “King Horace is waiting. Go to the dining room. Now!”
If Globula and Conducta had not been totally dazedby Mercy Grinder’s appearance, they would have pro-tested strongly at such a bald instruction. As it was, theymeekly picked up the cake, and it wasn’t until they were halfway up the stairs that Conducta regained enough presence of mind to whisper, “Was that Granpappy? Or did it just look exactly like him?”
“It wasn’t his voice,” Globula said doubtfully. “And I think it was a woman.”
“Hmm.” Conducta hated to be wrong about anything.“Do you think it might be Granpappy in disguise?”
“I suppose. . . .”
The twins climbed the rest of the stairs in thoughtful silence, but as they reached the top, Conducta e
xclaimed,“I’ve got it! We’ll look at her hand! You remember it got burned? By Ma’s brooch? We can see if there’s still a scar. If there is, we’ll know it really is Granpappy.”
“Said you were sly. Knew I was right!”
Both twins jumped. They were passing a window, and Carrion was perched on the sill.
“Better be careful. Too sharp, and you’ll cut yerselves.”
Conducta and Globula turned to each other. “It must be Grandpappy!” they said together.
Carrion pulled at a tail feather. “It might be. Or it might not be. Word to the wise. Eyes and ears open . . . but mouths shut.”
“But if it is Granpappy,” Globula protested, “he’ll look after us.”
Carrion found this statement so incredibly funny he all but fell off his perch. Globula glared at him, and he managed to pull himself together sufficiently to gasp, “Look after you? Look after you? Old Malignancy’s never looked after anything, ever. He’d have the breath out of yer body if he needed it. Or wanted it. Look at the way he’s taken the voice from the old woman. Never asked, neither. Left her silent as a cabbage and about as much use.” And he fanned himself with his wing in an effort to recover.
Conducta’s eyes had sharpened. “So it is Granpappy,” she said thoughtfully. “And he’s stolen Grandma’s voice.”
Carrion stopped laughing. “Never told you that,” he snapped. “Never. Never said any such thing.” And with a couple of flaps of his wings, he was gone.
Globula jabbed her elbow in her sister’s side. “Clever,” she said admiringly.
“Yes.” Conducta smirked.
Globula pushed at a nearby door. “Here’s the dining room . . . oooh! Look! Is that the king?”
It was indeed King Horace, but a rather different King Horace from the man who had crossed the park earlier that morning. This King Horace had a bright red face, and his clothes were straining at the seams. There were smears of food down his bulging velvet front, and his chair was surrounded by crumbs; on the table in front of him were the remains of an apple pie and a sponge cake. Saturday Mousewater hovered in the background, clutching a well-licked bowl of chocolate mousse.
“Are you sure it’s finished?” the king was asking. He sounded plaintive. “Isn’t there even a little bit more? Just a teensy-weensy little spoonful?”
“ ’Tis all gone, Your Majesty,” Saturday told him. “Truly.” She caught sight of the twins and shivered before adding, “But there’s a fruitcake just arrived, like.”
King Horace beamed. “Fruitcake, eh? Now you come to mention it, I could fancy a slice or two. Bring it here, m’dears.”
The twins advanced and placed the cake in front of the king, who immediately cut himself an enormous chunk and stuffed it into his mouth.
Saturday took advantage of this activity to escape. “Princess Fedora said you were to report to her when you got here, then go to the kitchen,” she said as she passed the twins. “She said she’d be in the upstairs sitting room, like. She’s up there with Prince Tertius.” She did not think it her place to add that the prince had been torn away from the food only by the strength of Fedora’s personality. If he had had his way, he would have stayed with his father; on recovering from his cold and sticky lemonade shower, he had demanded cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and, with most uncharacteristic tenacity, had refused to move until Fedora agreed he could have his wish. Bobby had been sent for and had obliged by cutting the bread and cheese himself. The prince had then unwillingly followed his beloved, who, having taken charge of the sandwiches, refused to let him touch them until they were upstairs.
The twins shrugged. “S’pose we’d better go,” Globula said. “Where’s the upstairs sitting room, then?”
“At the top of the grand staircase,” Saturday told them, then fled before she was asked to show them the way.
King Horace took no notice as the twins left the room. He was too busy finishing the fruitcake and peering around to see if there was anything else left to eat. “Might go and look in the kitchen,” he decided. “Good woman, that Mershy . . . Mercy Grinder. Might ask for a little more of that chocolate mousse. Excellent stuff. Excellent! Or even a lot more. Yes! I’m king, aren’t I? Can ask for whatever I want!”
Fortified by this decision, he set off to find his new cook. As he descended the stairs, he was alarmed to hear raucous shouting, but by the time he reached the bottom, there was only the sound of pans clattering and the delicious smell of fresh baking. Carrion, keeping a careful watch from the shadows, had had time to warn Mercy Grinder of the king’s approach, and she had shut Bobby in a cupboard.
Bobby, whose only crime had been to make Tertius his cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, was both terrified and mystified. Crouched in the darkness, he wiped his nose with his sleeve. She’s weird, he thought. I’m going to ask Saturday about her. Saturday’s OK, she is. If she wasn’t here, I’d run away, and that’s a fact.
King Horace waddled happily into the kitchen. “Afternoon! Delighted to welcome you to the palace of Niven’s Knowe. I’m the king, by the way. You can call me His Majesty. Or His Maj. We’re all friends around here, dontcha know. How do you do!” And he held out his hand.
Mercy Grinder blinked. “Oh. What? Yes. How do,” she said. Carrion cocked his head to one side. He had never heard either Mercy Grinder or, indeed, Old Malignancy sound surprised. But then again, such wholehearted enthusiasm in the presence of either character was an unknown. Hesitation, wariness, suspicion, sheer unadulterated terror — all of these were to be expected. A genuine smile and a welcoming handshake was a totally new experience.
The king went on beaming. “Excellent food. Really excellent. Don’t know how you do it! Thought Mrs. Basket was good, but you — you’re amazing! Don’t suppose you could whip up some more of that chocolate mousse, could you? Never tasted anything like it!”
“Yes.” Mercy Grinder blinked again.
“Splendid! Splendid! Get it sent upstairs, would you?” King Horace yawned. “Tush! Been tired all day. Bad dreams all last night, dontcha know. Dragons. Dreamed about dragons all night long — all Prince Marcus’s fault, of course.”
The pale eyes swiveled and fixed on the king. “Dragons?”
“Nothing to worry about, m’dear. Ancient history. Used to be a few roaming about the place, but they’re long gone now. Don’t you worry your pretty little head. Right! Must be off. Don’t forget to send that mousse as soon as you can. Excellent! Excellent!” And the king took himself away.
It was fortunate he left when he did, as Carrion was unable to contain his mirth any longer. Shrieking with laughter, he flapped down from his perch behind the soup tureen and landed on the table. “ ‘Pretty little head’!” he gasped. “ ‘Pretty little head’! Strike me dead with a matchstick if that don’t beat all!”
“Shut your beak, birdie, or I’ll shut it for you!” It was Old Malignancy making the threat, and he was angry. Very angry.
His shout made Bobby jump, and he hit his elbow hard on the side of the cupboard. Carrion took no notice of the threat. He went on laughing.
Old Malignancy picked up a heavy meat cleaver and threw it, but the crow hopped neatly out of the way. “Get out of my sight!”
This time Carrion felt it best to obey; he gave one last derisive squawk and flew out the window.
Old Malignancy hissed, then opened the cupboard and pulled Bobby out by his hair. “What did you hear?” Mercy Grinder was back — although there was still more than a hint of menace in her voice. Behind her, unseen, stood Saturday with her finger on her lips.
Bobby rubbed at his painful elbow. “Nothing,” he whimpered. “Can’t hear nothing in there. It’s dark, and I don’t like it. I won’t cut no more bread, I promise.”
He was given a sharp cuff around the ear, but Mercy seemed to believe him. She turned to go back to her cooking and saw Saturday. The cook scowled and made as if she was going to cuff the girl as well, but at the last moment she gave a sharp exclamation and pulled her hand b
ack. “Trueheart!”
Saturday’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “No, ma’am. Saturday Mousewater, I be.”
Mercy Grinder put her hand in the pocket of her apron. “Mousewater? A Mousewater in my kitchen?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Saturday’s knees were knocking, and the icy feeling in her stomach intensified. “If you please, I should be doing the dishes, like. . . .” She pointed at the enormous pile of pans and dishes that filled the sink to overflowing.
Before Mercy could answer, there was the clatter of feet on the stairs, and the twins came marching in. “We’re to do as you say,” they announced. Globula stuck out her tongue at Saturday. “Not as you say. Her!” And she jerked her thumb in the direction of Mercy Grinder.
“ ’S right.” Conducta tweaked Bobby’s nose. “They want the fire lit upstairs, so leave! Now!”
Mercy folded her huge hamlike arms, and her ice-pale eyes gleamed. “You go too,” she told Saturday, and as Saturday scurried after Bobby, she turned to the twins. “Now, my little cankerettes, my sweetlings, my sour little plums, Carrion tells me you have seen through my disguise.”
“It wasn’t very difficult,” Conducta began, but she stopped when she saw the scowl that appeared on her great-grandfather’s face. “I mean . . .”
“Never mind.” Old Malignancy pulled Fedora’s advertisement out of his pocket. “You see this parchment . . . complete with royal seal?”
Globula didn’t wait for him to finish. “There’s stacks of that parchment in the dining room,” she said. “We saw it there when we were being interviewed, didn’t we, Conducta? It was on Lady High-and-Mighty’s desk.” She didn’t explain that she had spent most of the interview trying to locate a box of chocolates or, indeed, anything else that might take her fancy.
The Flight of Dragons Page 9