by Holly Grant
“You hag!” Quentin swore. “Ollie! Umbrate and bite!”
“Ah, ah, ah!” The closest crone pulled a bottle from her tangled hair and crushed it. A stream of silvery potion drizzled from her bony fist. “Looking glass upon the ground, lock them in a prison round!” The wish-goop zinged across the dell and snaked into a ring around the Shadowboys.
Quentin stopped short at the glinting border. “It’s some kind of liquid mirror!”
“We’re trapped!” Ollie howled.
Throughout this horrible hullabaloo, Borg gripped Anastasia harder and harder, squooshing the last wafts of oxygen from her hapless lungs. His beak scissored open, revealing rows of jagged teeth.
“Your monster is going to kill her!” Ollie cried. “Please, just let Anastasia go!”
“Not without our brew!” the hags sang.
“Just do it, Anastasia!” Quentin yelled. “Just give the stuff back to them!”
But Anastasia couldn’t move. She dangled in Borg’s cruel clench, her vision blurring. Her fingers loosened from the vial of Comacure and the glass slipped from her sweaty hand. If she could have said anything, she would have keened,
“No!”
or “It was all for naught!”
But Anastasia couldn’t make a peep. She couldn’t breathe. The bottle plummeted to the ground, the shatter of its sides like a tiny death knoll. The hags moaned, “All gone! All gone!”
“If you can really hear her heart, listen!” Quentin implored. “It’s going to stop!”
Bump. Bump…bump. It was true: Anastasia’s ticker was no longer thumping a fearful tattoo.
The bespectacled hag clasped her hands. “Oh, mercy me! Borg, put that stinky little child down right this instant! We don’t really want to kill anybody!”
“Borg!”
“Bad Borg! Bad!”
The hags shrilled as Borg lifted Anastasia higher, champing his deadly bill. Her head spun with the flickering faraway magical stars, faster and faster until, at last, everything went black.
Gentle Reader, have you ever fainted? For some people, fainting feels like all the blood is draining from your brain down to your toes. Your head goes light as a helium balloon and your legs get heavy as sacks of wet flour, and then you’re in never-never land. Other people have time to gasp and the foresight to swoon onto, for example, a cushy beanbag chair. And other people don’t even know it’s coming. Out they zonk without a whimper.
In Anastasia’s case, she drifted to a quiet place where she was remembering. A memory from her early childhood flooded her brain, squeezing out all the pain and fear and confusion. She remembered, with crystalline clarity, the first time she ever tasted cotton candy.
The warm, sweet smell.
The softness. Cloud softness dissolving on her tongue.
Then a prickle of sugar explosions, like each taste bud was a tiny firecracker.
And, finally, the melted sugar seeping down her throat.
Her father’s voice: “Yummy, isn’t it? Let’s give Muffy a nibble, too.”
She sighed and smiled.
“Anastasia! Anastasia! There…I think she’s coming to. Oh, thank goodness.”
The sugary taste faded and her eardrums clanged. Anastasia forced her eyelids open. Anxious faces floated above and around her: Gus and Ollie and Quentin and also the three hags, their mouths pulled into fretful frowns…and Penny and Baldwin and Wiggy. Wiggy cradled Saskia in her arms.
Crumbs.
“When did you get here?” Anastasia mumbled.
“I returned from my meeting and found the door to the Cavern of Dreams ajar, and quite an affray from within,” Wiggy said.
“And we got back from abovecaves at about the same time,” Penny said, squeezing Anastasia’s hand. “Oh, my dear child! We were so worried!”
“Peep!” Pippistrella nuzzled Anastasia’s cheek.
“Borg…,” she rasped. “Where’s Borg?”
“Sound asleep,” Baldwin said. “Snoozing over by the Canopy—or what’s left of it.”
The ringing in her ears dwindled to a painful buzz. Anastasia sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Snoozing?”
“Like a bear in the dark depths of winter,” Baldwin said. “Practically hibernating.”
“ ’Twas very odd,” said the bespectacled hag. “We all thought Borgie was going to crunch you to bits, but all of a sudden he just dropped you and conked out.”
“I’m afraid he fell on your bed,” said the tall hag. “Smashed it to smithereens.”
“Fortunately, he didn’t smash Saskia,” Ollie said.
“Listen to him snore!” giggled the hag with bottles in her hair.
They all went silent for a minute, hearkening the funny tootling coming from the Canopy.
“It sounds rather like a flute,” Quentin mused. “Or—no; I stand corrected. A piccolo.”
“It’s his nose,” explained the tall hag. “Long, you know.”
“I do know.” Anastasia shuddered. “Long and sharp and full of teeth.”
“That isn’t really how Borg looks,” Spectacles said. “We just wished for him to be a frightful creature, to scare you into giving us back our wish-goop. But really, he’s just the biggest sweetums!”
“Cute as a button!” Baldwin agreed.
“Cute?” Anastasia staggered to her feet and pushed past the hags to stare at the creature napping atop the smashed Canopy. “Wait. This is Borg?”
“Indeed it is!”
Anastasia had never beheld an anteater up close before, but she had the idea that Borg resembled one of these fine animals crossed with a Labradoodle. He had curly fur, flopsy ears, and big, fluffy feet. And as the hags had mentioned, an extra-long fuzzy trunk.
She couldn’t help herself. She said, “Awwww.”
The Dreadfuls crowded around Borg and started patting and petting him.
“See? A little angel!” one of the hags declared.
“He wasn’t such an angel a couple of minutes ago,” Penny protested. “He nearly devoured my niece.”
“We never meant for Borgie to get quite so feisty,” said Bottle Hair. “But, you see, it’s been ages since he’s had a chance to get out and romp! He just got too excited.”
“We’ve been cramped at the bottom of that well for centuries,” added the tall hag. “Poor Borgie needed to stretch his legs.”
“Anyway,” concluded Tall One, “don’t think for one moment that Borgie would actually have eaten the princess. His diet is very specialized, you see, and children are not on the menu.”
“You don’t give him souffléd eyeballs and fricasseed brains?” Ollie asked.
“Certainly not!” Spectacles said. “How revolting!”
“What I don’t quite understand,” mused Bottle Hair, “is why Borg fell asleep right in the middle of the hubbub.”
“Maybe he’s narcoleptic,” Baldwin suggested.
“What does that mean?” Gus asked.
“A narcoleptic falls asleep at odd moments,” Penny said. “They can’t control it.”
Baldwin nodded. “My old friend Bernard was a narcoleptic. He fell asleep two minutes into his routine at the Dinkledorf Ice Skating Championship. Tragic! Woke up to find himself spread-eagled on the pond after everyone else had left.” His green eyes grew twinkly with tears. “And you don’t even want to hear about his last skydiving attempt.”
“That’s all very interesting,” said Tall One, “but Borg is not narcoleptic.”
A golden glimmer amidst the pine needles caught Anastasia’s eye and she felt at her collar. “Oh. I think I know what happened.” She stooped. Mrs. Wata’s locket was butterflied open, facedown on the ground. Anastasia carefully clicked it shut. “Borg saw a gorgon picture.”
“Where did that come from?” Penny cried.
“Um…we borrowed it from my mom,” Gus said. The Beastly Dreadfuls shifted uneasily.
“Does this explain the sleeping guard bat outside my cavern?” Wiggy asked.
Anastasia nod
ded, her cheeks burning.
“Clever!” Baldwin said.
“And potentially dangerous, were the wrong person to get ahold of it,” Wiggy said. “I’ll take that.” She held out her hand.
Worried glances tiddlywinked between the Dreadfuls. “Will Mrs. Wata get into trouble?” Anastasia asked. “She didn’t even know that I had it.”
“Nonetheless, gorgon portraits are illegal,” Wiggy said, pocketing the locket.
“The necklace saved Anastasia’s life,” Penny pointed out.
“Like we said, Borgie wouldn’t really have eaten her,” insisted Tall One.
“But he nearly crushed her rib cage!” Penny exclaimed. “For goodness’ sake, just look what he did to that bed!”
“Sorry about that,” said Spectacles.
Anastasia gazed mournfully at the smashed Canopy, the singed moon, and the golden bits of the Comacure bottle twinkling like broken stars on the pillow. The quest to find Nicodemus and Fred had screeched to a sudden, disastrous halt, and Saskia would writhe in a coma until Calixto’s bedbugs munched the last of her thoughts.
“We didn’t mean for things to get so rough,” repeated Spectacles, “but you did trespass in our home and you did steal our wish-goop.”
“I know.” Anastasia sighed. “It’s because my cousin is in some sort of coma. A magical witch-coma. We were going to”—her voice wobbled—“save her.”
“Oh dear,” said Tall One.
“Can you brew up more Comacure?” Gus asked.
“We could,” said Bottle Hair, “but I’m afraid that won’t help your sleeping princess. We brew first-rate goop, but our wishes aren’t powerful enough to break a witch’s spell.”
“Why was your cousin tangling with a witch, anyway?” demanded Tall One. “There aren’t any witches in the Cavelands.”
“The Moonsilk Canopy is a magical bed, and Saskia tried to nap in it,” Wiggy said. “She didn’t realize that Calixto Swift had enchanted it.”
“Calixto Swift?” cried Spectacles. “Very powerful!”
“Most dangerous!” said Tall One.
“A bunch of creepy nightmare bedbugs hopped into Saskia’s ears,” Ollie said. “And then she started moaning and shaking.”
“How inconvenient,” clucked Bottle Hair.
“It’s more than inconvenient!” Quentin said. “Saskia’s stuck in a nightmare until she dies!”
“She’s just a little girl,” Penny agonized.
“What are you crying for?” screeched Tall One. “Our Borgie is a dreamdoodle, for bat’s sake. Didn’t you know that?”
“A dreamdoodle?” Anastasia asked. “I thought he was just an anteater—anteaterdoodle.”
“No, no, no!” Tall One said. “Borg is a dreamdoodle. A dreameater, some might call him.”
“Dreameaters!” Ollie exclaimed. “Pliny the Eldest Elder talks about those in his book! See, guys? I told you those creatures were real!”
“Of course Borgie is real,” said Bottle Hair. “And he can take care of your princess’s ear infestation.”
“Really?” Anastasia said.
“Very handy to have a dreamdoodle around when you’re in our line of work,” said Spectacles. “He’ll catch those dream bugs with his wonderful snozzle.”
“But I thought you said you couldn’t break a witch’s spell,” Gus said.
“We won’t,” said Bottle Hair. “Those nightmare bugs will still be nightmare bugs after Borgie gobbles them. We won’t change that at all. But they won’t be munching the princess’s dreams anymore, will they?”
“They might not have much left to munch,” Quentin despaired. “What if Borg doesn’t wake up in time?”
“That gorgon portrait is more powerful than Dr. Bluster’s Patented Sleep Preparation of Most Sleepful Sleep,” Ollie agreed. “Borg might nap for hours!”
“But we still have a drop of Comacure!” Gus announced, examining the smithereens upon the pillow. One sunny bead of potion glimmered in the crook of a glass shard. “Would this be enough?”
“As we told you, we brew first-rate goop!” Tall One replied indignantly. “That Comacure is potent! There were hundreds of doses in that vial. If there’s even an itty-bitty bit left, it should do the trick. You just have to dribble it in Borg’s eye.”
With utmost caution, Anastasia picked up the bottle fragment and carried it to Borg. Penny gently nudged the dreamdoodle’s fuzzy eyelid, revealing a damp white curve, and Anastasia tilted the piece of glass. The sunshiny droplet fell. Sploosh!
Borg stretched his nose and blinked.
“Borgie-pie!” cried Spectacles. “Did you have a nice nappikins?”
Borg yawned. Then he jumped to his feet and pranced over to Anastasia, his tail wagging hello.
“He’s happy to see you!” said Ollie.
“Borgie,” crooned Tall One, “we have some delicious dream bugs for you to munch! Where’s the dream? Where’s the dream? Get the dream, Borgie!”
Borgie capered in a circle, pressing his snoot to the pine-needled ground and making excited kazoo-like noises.
“He’s got the scent!” Baldwin said.
Borgie followed his nose to Saskia. Sniff! Sniff! He snuffed her hair and then applied his wonderful whiffer to her ear. Sniiiiiiiiifffff!
“Hear that? He’s getting the nightmare bugs out!” said Bottle Hair.
After a minute of delighted snuffling, Borg gave Saskia’s cheek a long-tongued lick and then bounded back to his mistresses.
“Good boy! Good Borgie!”
“Now those naughty nightmare bugs are in his tummy,” said Tall One.
“And when he poops them out,” said Spectacles, “we’ll have some magical scat for our brew!”
“That’s disgusting!” Ollie said.
“Not at all, Ollie!” Penny declared. “Why, you can learn marvelous things from—”
“Penny.” Baldwin shook his head. “Now is not the time.”
“Saskia’s waking up!” said Quentin.
The princess’s eyelashes fluttered and parted. Her glassy gaze swiveled around the cave, taking in the hags and Borgie and finally settling on Anastasia. “You,” she croaked. “I thought I smelled rotten eggs.”
“Saskia! You’re all right!” Penny said.
“And just as rude as ever!” Baldwin added.
“She’s probably in shock.” Wiggy rocked Saskia. “How do you feel, my dear?”
“I’m so cold.” Saskia trembled and pressed her forehead to Wiggy’s lace collar. “Oh, I had such awful dreams….”
“She needs rest,” Wiggy said. “Rest and perhaps a nice hot bath, Saskia? Tea? Baldwin, will you take her to Ludowiga? You’ll have to explain what happened. She’ll be most distraught.”
“All’s well that ends well,” Baldwin philosophized. He pulled Saskia from the queen’s embrace and swung her over his shoulder. “Upsy-daisy!”
“Careful, you galoot!” Saskia moaned. “I got this dress in Paris!”
“And, Penelope,” Wiggy continued, “please show Anastasia’s friends to the ballroom. I shall have a word with the Wish Hags, and then, I think, with Anastasia. Anastasia, you’ll wait for me in my chamber.”
28
The Birthday Cake Wish Bill
BACK IN WIGGY’S chamber, Penny smoothed Anastasia’s ragged braids. “Don’t worry, dear. Everything will work out.”
“We’ll see you later.” Gus bopped her shoulder with his fist as everyone filed from the queen’s room.
“Well, Peeps,” Anastasia whispered, “I’m in bog water for sure.”
Pippistrella chirruped and clung to her collar.
“What happened in there?” Aisatsana demanded. “You look like you wrestled a bear, and so do I!”
“I’ll tell you later.” Anastasia turned from the mirror-girl and limped over to Wiggy’s chain-mail-curtained bed. “What do you think Grandwiggy’s going to do?” she whispered to Pippistrella. “Do you think she’ll exile me, like Saskia said?”
�
�Squeak!”
“I can’t understand you.” Tears trickled down Anastasia’s cheeks. “I only speak one word of Echolalia, and I can’t metamorphose. I’m a terrible Morfo and a worse princess.” She leaned her forehead against the metal filigree. “And now I’ll never find the Silver Hammer. I’ll never find Nicodemus and my dad. The Canopy is ruined.”
“Anastasia.”
She whirled. Wiggy was standing by the Glimmerglass, watching her. “You’ve had quite an exciting birthday, haven’t you?”
Anastasia swallowed and stared at her feet.
“What you did today was extremely dangerous.”
“I’m sorry.” Anastasia wiped her face on her sleeve. Pippistrella’s pulse thumped against her neck, and she wondered whether, as her loyal bat-in-waiting, her furry friend would also be banished abovecaves.
“Dangerous and brave,” Wiggy continued. “You risked your life to save Saskia. I’m very, very proud of you.”
“Proud?” Anastasia’s head snapped up. “Then you’re not mad?”
“Well,” Wiggy pondered, “I’m displeased that you sneaked into my private cavern. And it particularly troubles me that you rendered a Royal Guard Bat unconscious to do so. The Royal Guard must be on the alert at all times, you understand. We need to watch for…certain enemies.”
“Witches?”
Wiggy’s strange eyes gleamed. “Imagine the disaster if witches returned. The Royal Guard is here to sound the alarm if that should ever occur. You saw what the Wish Hags can do; witch magic is even more powerful.”
Anastasia gulped. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.” Wiggy’s solemn lips slid into something like a smile. “I think we’ll have to order a suit of chain mail for you. You’re becoming rather the adventuress, my dear. You remind me of myself when I was young—when I was a warrior queen charging into the Perpetual War.”
“Really?”
“In some ways.”
Anastasia paused. “Grandwiggy…will Gus’s mom get into trouble? Honestly, she didn’t know we took her locket. And to her it’s just jewelry—she wasn’t doing anything bad with it.”
Wiggy thought. “I won’t penalize her, but I can’t return the portrait. After the royal jeweler has prized Mrs. Wata’s picture from the locket, we’ll return the necklace.” Perhaps perceiving Anastasia’s torment, the queen went on, “I’ll ask the court painter to fashion a miniature of Gus to replace the gorgon likeness. Does that seem fair? I’m sure Mrs. Wata would be happy to have a cameo with her son’s portrait.”