Quicksilver clenched her fists beneath the table, but before she could do anything rash, Fox pressed his tiny, warm mouse nose against her neck again.
“You know,” she said, calmer now, “you’re right. That is a better name. And I’ll have fifty sugars, please.”
The Rompus laughed, the gust of hot air blasting Quicksilver’s hair back from her face. “Fifty sugars! Pig Face is a brave little thing.” The Rompus filled a pink porcelain cup with a mountain of misshapen sugar lumps. “Stole these from lunch number four hundred and one. Sugar merchant. You’d think he’d taste sweet, wouldn’t you, but he was more of a . . . what do you call it? A savory flavor. Rather tangy.”
Slightly sickened, Quicksilver glanced up at the painting where lunch number four hundred and one smiled through a broken jaw.
“Who would have thought?” she asked faintly. “So, tell me . . . Mister . . . Rompus. Why have you brought me here?”
“For breakfast!”
Quicksilver felt sick. “You mean—”
“It’ll be a good one today,” the Rompus said, clacking his teeth as if already chewing away. “Nice and fresh.”
Quicksilver followed the Rompus’s ravenous gaze to a nest of shadows against the wall. There she saw, to her horror, Olli and his coven, and their monsters, and Anastazia and Sly Boots, trapped in a gently spinning net made of glowing white rope. The net hung over an enormous roaring fire. An elaborate system of lines and pulleys held the net in place, and as Quicksilver watched, the pulleys began to turn—lowering the net, inch by slow inch, closer to the fire.
.20.
ON THE TOASTY SIDE OF THINGS
Quicksilver watched the net creep toward the fire, a scream of horror lodged in her throat.
Breakfast. They were going to be breakfast.
She felt like she was stuck in thick, syrupy mud. She couldn’t move; she could hardly think.
Are they . . . ? Quicksilver thought frantically to Fox.
Not yet, he answered. I can feel their monsters. They’re a bit on the toasty side of things, but they’re still alive. It appears to be a rather slow-cooking fire.
Quicksilver peered closer at the clump of spinning witches and saw Sly Boots come into view, his face frozen in an expression of terror that perfectly matched the whimper piping from his lips.
Anastazia, squished beside him, glared at Quicksilver. The look on her face clearly said, “Do something. Now.” Then they spun out of view, and Quicksilver saw Olli, Lukaas, Freja, Bernt, and their monsters, all trapped and immobile. Thirteen witches and thirteen monsters.
Why can’t they move? Quicksilver wondered. They look frozen.
Fox was quiet. Quicksilver felt him stretch her magic out into the room like a tendril, seeking and tasting.
The net’s been spelled by a witch, Fox concluded, the instant before Quicksilver did. He must have stolen it from . . . well, from one of his meals, I suppose.
Quicksilver’s stomach turned. Can we undo it?
The magic’s keeping them bound up tight, said Fox. But we should be able to help from the outside, if we can distract this brute for long enough, that is.
Quicksilver thought fast, her mind racing through horrible scenario after horrible scenario. She searched the room for something—anything—she could use as a weapon against the Rompus, who was happily arranging cookies on a plate.
Then she saw it—a gleam of something shiny at the mouth of a tunnel in the far wall.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
The Rompus turned to look. His mottled reptilian face brightened.
“That’s me collection,” he said. Then he jumped to his feet and began hopping around in excitement, knocking over the entire tea setting and causing the whole cave to shake. “Do you want a tour, Pig Face?”
The net holding the coven lurched closer to the fire. Hidden in Quicksilver’s collar, Fox let out a squeak of alarm.
“Yes, yes, but you have to calm down,” she said anxiously. “You don’t want our breakfast to cook too fast, do you? Slow roasted, that’s the proper way.”
The Rompus clapped a hand over his mouth. “You’re so right, you are,” he said, his voice muffled.
Quicksilver gestured toward the tunnel with a tense smile. “Well then? You promised me a tour.”
“Of course, yes! Let’s go!”
“Quietly.”
“Yes,” whispered the Rompus, tiptoeing across the vast portrait gallery toward the tunnel. “Like mices. Which I thought we could have for dessert. Mices crunch nicely.”
Quicksilver let out a weak laugh. “I was just going to say.”
Where is he taking us? Fox dug his tiny paws into her neck as the Rompus led them into the dark, winding tunnel.
No idea. But maybe we can find something back here to distract him—oh, my.
The tunnel opened into a series of rooms connected like a honeycomb, each one stuffed to the brim with what looked like every object in existence: polished tables and ornate chairs had been set and arranged as if for a feast fit for hundreds. Gems the size of Quicksilver’s head sparkled atop high glass pedestals. Shelves that disappeared into the darkness overhead were crammed full of books bound in shimmering fabric, porcelain turtle figurines, jars of gold coins, dolls with immaculately brushed curls, feathered caps, jewel-encrusted goblets.
“Well?” The Rompus grinned toothily down at Quicksilver. “What do you think of me treasures?”
I think, thought Quicksilver, that if we had five minutes to ourselves in this place, we could steal enough loot to buy a kingdom.
She clutched her hands to her heart. “Oh, it’s marvelous! Truly exceptional!”
The Rompus puffed up his chest, his nostrils spewing smoke. “Stole it all meself, every last piece.”
And where’s the challenge of thieving, Fox sniffed, when you can just terrify your marks into giving you whatever you want?
“Did you really steal it all?” asked Quicksilver, ignoring Fox. “How clever of you!”
“These are me teakettles,” said the Rompus proudly, trotting along on his massive paws. “I’ve got two hundred and nineteen so far.”
He paused at an oak table, every inch of it covered in gleaming teakettles, and leaned over to inspect one of them that was painted with fluffy yellow ducks. He opened his great jaws to puff out hot air, then buffed away a spot with the end of his tail, leaving the kettle flawless once more.
TEAKETTLES read a piece of paper nailed to the table, the handwriting large and crooked. TABLE ONE.
“Is that one your favorite?” asked Quicksilver, looking around for something she could grab—a sword, or a club. Even a kitchen knife.
“Of course!” said the Rompus, smiling fondly at the kettle. “Nothing fluffier in this world than tiny wee ducks.”
“What about tiny wee sheep? They’re rather poofy all over, don’t you agree?”
The Rompus frowned. “Now there’s a thought.”
Do you feel that? asked Fox, suddenly alert.
Feel what? But then Quicksilver felt it too: something, somewhere in these rooms, was big. Powerful.
It pressed against her spine like the feeling of someone watching from the shadows.
I’ll go have a look, said Fox.
Quicksilver felt him scamper down her sleeve and away. The feeling of missing him lodged in her heart like a blade.
Hurry, Fox.
I won’t leave you, he promised.
“On we go,” rumbled the Rompus, ducking into the next room. “To your left, you’ll see me collection of birdcages—”
The Rompus led Quicksilver through the birdcages, then the dressmakers’ mannequins, then the dozens of baskets stuffed with distressed-looking puppets.
On the far wall hung a huge rack of swords, some longer than Quicksilver was tall—some just the right size for a girl like her.
Fox? she thought. I see swords. Where are you?
He didn’t answer.
Fox? Fox!
/> I’m here, he said at last, his voice quivering with excitement. Master. He’s got monster skeletons. I suppose he’s collected them over the years. They’re making a racket—they sound like a whole mess of people talking over one another—but I can pick out individual voices if I concentrate hard enough. Weasels and chipmunks, otters and even a wolverine or two. And one of them is . . . master, I could swear that one of them is a snowy hare. It’s quiet, it’s trying to hide, but I’m fairly sure I’m right. Can you feel it?
Quicksilver concentrated on Fox, thinking along the magical connection that bound them together, and felt a sharp chill creep up her arms. A snowy hare—could it be? The page from Anastazia’s journal flashed before her eyes.
You mean, she said, it’s one of the . . . ?
One of the First Monsters, yes, maybe. We have to at least look and see. And if it is . . .
Then it could disappear at any moment, like Anastazia told us. Quicksilver fought not to grin. Think of the coin we could get for it—
We wouldn’t even need any of this other rubbish, Fox agreed. Then he paused. Or we could use it to fight the Wolf King.
Yes, of course. But Quicksilver promptly dismissed the thought. All she could imagine was how good it would feel to have that skeleton in her possession—a rare find, and she would steal it right out from under this fool creature’s nose.
We’ll be rich, Fox, she thought dreamily, but we’ll have to move fast—
“Pig Face! You’re not listening!” The Rompus suddenly appeared in front of her, spewing smoke into her face. He held a smiling puppet in his claws. The Rompus’s teeth gleamed, each fang the size of Quicksilver’s foot.
Quicksilver yelped and jumped back, and in her fear she imagined the most comforting thing she could—Fox as a dog.
There was a crash from somewhere beyond them, in one of the Rompus’s many rooms.
Oh, dear, said Fox. So much for that vase.
The Rompus whirled, dropping the puppet and knocking four chairs to the ground.
“What was that?” he squeaked, his voice startlingly high. “Pig Face? What was it? Did you see?” He hid his face and peeked out from between his gleaming claws. “Go look, won’t you?”
Inspiration shot through Quicksilver. Fox. He’s afraid. He’s a complete baby!
Pardon me?
Hurry, distract him. Act like a monster while I find the skeleton.
Fox’s outrage raised the hair on Quicksilver’s neck. I am a monster, thanks very much.
No, I mean like a real monster.
As opposed to the fake monster that I currently am?
I mean like a ghost, or a demon, or something really scary!
“Rompus,” whispered Quicksilver, placing a hand on his spiked tail, “is your cave by chance haunted?”
“HAUNTED?” wailed the Rompus.
“That sounded like a ghost to me.” Quicksilver put a hand to her ear. “Listen.” Fox. Now!
And how am I to know what a ghost, or a demon, or whatever is supposed to sound like?
Improvise!
Fox groaned in disgust. Fine. Then, after a pause, Quicksilver heard a flat, utterly indignant voice call from somewhere in the distance:
“Oooooo. Look at me. I’m a ghost.”
Fox. Really? You can’t be serious—
“I heard it, I did!” The Rompus ducked behind Quicksilver, and his tail coiled tightly around her. “What is it, Pig Face, can you see it?”
“Let go of me at once,” she said, “or I’ll leave you to fend it off on your own.”
The Rompus squeaked in dismay and released her.
Again, Fox!
This is ridiculous—
Now!
A pause, and then two giant crashes sounded from the back of the room, followed by a bloodcurdling scream.
The Rompus screamed too, and dropped to the floor. “What was that?”
I’m impressed, Fox, thought Quicksilver.
Fox grumbled something under his breath and then darted to another part of the room before letting out an otherworldly howl. Quicksilver closed her eyes and focused on following Fox with her mind. The bond that connected their hearts led her rushing through the caves right along with him—knocking over vases and dinner plates, crashing through an assortment of ladles hanging from the ceiling. She felt his irritation every time he howled or screamed; he dove into a barrel and knocked it over, and the metallic scent of spilled coins filled her nose.
Quicksilver grabbed a teakettle shaped like a fat speckled owl. “Rompus, this ghost sounds like quite a nasty one. We’ll have to fight.”
He peered up at her, his scaly lips trembling. “Fight?”
“Grab a weapon. You go that way, I’ll go this way. We won’t let that ghost ruin your collection!”
The Rompus grabbed a dressmaker’s mannequin wearing a floaty pink dress and gazed at Quicksilver with watery eyes. “You’d help me fight?”
She forced a smile. “What are friends for? Now run!”
Fox, still invisible, ran across a row of pianos shoved against a wall. The discordant notes plinked out an eerie song, and the Rompus tore off after the noise.
“This way, Pig Face!” he bellowed.
Quicksilver ran in the other direction. Fox, can you tell where the bones are?
A little busy at the moment, Fox panted. This fellow’s faster than he looks.
Just stay invisible and you’ll be fine.
But even as Quicksilver said that, she felt the Rompus’s paw swipe right by Fox, barely missing him and smashing into one of the pianos instead.
“My song maker!” wailed the Rompus.
Behind you, Fox gasped, and hurry.
Quicksilver felt it now too—a gigantic mess of old monster bones. They crackled in the distance like a warm fire in a cold house.
She dashed through another room, and then another.
To your left—can you feel them? They’re down that hallway.
I think so. Are you all right?
A roar and a crash sounded—followed by an eerie wail from Fox and a shriek of terror from the Rompus.
Oh, just lovely, answered Fox. He’s whacking at everything he can find with that stupid mannequin. As if that could hurt a ghost.
I’ll hurry!
No need. I could do this for years—wait, stop! There they are!
Quicksilver froze at the entrance to the largest room yet. Where? Which way?
Right in front of you. It’s big.
Quicksilver looked up—and up, and up. For the only thing right in front of her was an enormous chest of drawers. It took up the entire wall, as tall as a house, and had as many drawers as there were stars in the sky—all of them tiny and unmarked, with little brass knobs. There was only one label, nailed to the ground in front of the chest:
TO BE SORTED, it read, in the Rompus’s handwriting. EVENTUALLY.
“You have got to be joking,” Quicksilver muttered to the empty room.
She felt Fox darting beneath the Rompus’s paw. The creature’s clawed fist hit a mirror, sending glass flying everywhere. Why? said Fox, panting. Have you encountered some trouble?
It’s a chest of drawers, none of them labeled.
So open them and find the right skeleton, then!
“I’ve almost got him, Pig Face!” roared the Rompus, his booming voice echoing through the caves.
But there have to be a thousand drawers!
Well, just start looking!
Quicksilver flung open every drawer she could reach. All of them were stuffed full—buttons and socks, wooden whistles and tiny silver bells. One drawer held playing cards that had been enchanted to sing winter carols. Quicksilver slammed the drawer shut on them, though their cheery voices didn’t stop singing.
It’s higher up, came Fox’s gasping voice. Concentrate!
I’m trying! Quicksilver closed her eyes, tried to find the skeleton’s pull once more, but her mind was too scattered to focus, and all the bones collected in this ch
est were too loud for her to pick them apart. This is too hard—
Fox wailed a ghostly wail. Does this fellow never get tired?
The crashing noises were getting closer, Fox leading the Rompus on a wild chase through room after room.
“Bad ghost!” roared the Rompus. “You’re making a mess!”
Quicksilver wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt and climbed the drawers, using the tiny knobs to pull herself up. She followed Fox’s directions—To the left! No, the other left! No, wait, it’s much higher than that! Climb higher!—and opened drawer after drawer. A buzzing warmth tingled just past her fingers, always out of reach. Just when she thought she had gotten close to its source, there was a jolt, a whoosh like something flying past her, and then the feeling of something very small but very powerful jumping to another drawer, and then another—on the other side of the chest, in the top row of drawers, in the bottom row.
Fox, I think it’s running away from me!
Anastazia did say the skeletons liked to do that—
She flung open drawer after drawer, chasing the skeleton through the chest—there! A drawer rattled and hissed. There, to the right! Another drawer flew open and slammed shut.
But each drawer she opened revealed yet more of the Rompus’s treasure: Pocket watches and hairbrushes, silver coins and bags of marbles, matchbooks and silk gloves—and bones. Monster bones—brightly colored, whispering to one another, laughing quietly at Quicksilver’s distress. But none of them were the monster. None of them felt quite right.
She felt ready to scream in frustration—until one of the drawers she touched stung her hand.
She yanked her arm back with a cry. Something bit me!
That’s it, that’s it! That’s the one! Fox’s relief and excitement flooded through her.
She pulled open the stinging drawer and peeked inside. . . .
Bones. Tiny, delicate ones, glowing light brown like a sandy beach blazing bright at midday. The power emanating from them made her feel as though she was turning headfirst into a gusting hot wind.
Quicksilver’s heart pounded as she stared at them. All the other noise in the world faded away. She heard a faint voice—no words, just gibberish. Were the bones speaking?
Foxheart Page 11