The pony was used to Fedora coaxing him and petting him and telling him what a sweet, dear pony he was. He was not used to being shouted at, and he wasn’t at all sure that he liked it. In fact, when he came to think about it, there wasn’t much about the expedition so far that he had liked. No one had told him what a clever pony he was, no one had offered him oats or apples or a bucket of water, and there had been that dreadful caterwauling. As Marigold flung down her roses and rushed toward him, he thought of the rack of sweet-smelling hay in his stable and the handfuls of crunchy apples that Fedora would be sure to bring him, and he made up his mind. With a shake of his mane he was away, the cart bouncing and rattling behind him as he set off up the road at a gallop.
Marigold was left standing in the middle of the track, her injured finger in her mouth. “Stupid animal,” she muttered — and then a thought popped into her mind. She had screamed. In fact, she had screamed very loudly. Surely Marcus ought to be dashing up to rescue her? Marigold frowned. Perhaps she should scream again? She stared up the track, but there was no sign of anyone. “Maybe it’s too early,” she said to herself.
She decided to give up on the roses and make a daisy chain instead, and wandered back to her cushions. Even the daisy chain was harder than she had expected, and after a few minutes she threw it down in disgust. Another ten minutes were spent in arranging herself in various different poses so she looked appealing, or sweet, or hopeful, but in the end she curled up and went to sleep.
Gracie Gillypot rubbed her eyes, then rubbed them again. The darkness was so incredibly dense that it made no difference whether her eyes were open or shut, and she began to wonder if she was real anymore. She pinched herself hard. “Ouch,” she said out loud — then caught her breath. Had she heard a noise? “Hello? Is anybody there? Can you hear me?”
There was no answer.
Gracie sighed — then jumped. She had heard a sneeze — a very small sneeze, but nevertheless a sneeze, and it was enough to make her heart leap with a wild hope. “Marlon? Alf? Is that you?”
There was a second sneeze, before a snuffly voice asked, “Did you say Marlon? Do you mean Mr. Batster?”
“Oh, I do!” Gracie clasped her hands together. “Do you know him? Could you take him a message? Oh, please, that would be so wonderful. I don’t know where I am, or how to get out of here!”
“I don’t know him,” the voice said. “I’ve just heard about him. I don’t get out much.” There was a crescendo of sneezing followed by the sound of fluttering wings. Gracie had the impression that the very small bat — if it was a bat — had sneezed itself off its perch and was having difficulty righting itself. “I’m going to have to go.” The voice was reproachful now. “You’re making me sneeze even more than usual.”
“Oh, please don’t go,” Gracie begged. “Please stay. It’s so terribly dark — and you sound like a very kind and helpful sort of”— she hesitated, then decided to risk it —“bat.”
“Do you think so?” The bat sounded surprised. “Mostly they say I’m a waste of space. Always sneezing and all. It’s not my fault, but they think it is. Never let me go flying with them, they don’t.” There was a small but heartfelt sigh. “‘You stay right here in the tunnel, Flo,’ they tell me. ‘We don’t want you grumbling and groaning and sneezing when we’re out and about. Bats aren’t meant to be noisy. You’re best off at home where you can’t be heard.’ So I’m stuck here, day in and day out, and it’s not fair. I mean, I know we’ve only just met, but you wouldn’t say I was the complaining kind, would you?”
“Erm . . . certainly not.” Gracie hesitated again. Something the bat had said had caught her attention. “Excuse me, but did you say we were in a tunnel?”
“Tunnel? Never!” Flo was indignant, but there was a clear note of alarm behind the outrage. “I never said anything of the sort! If anyone asks you, I never said anything about tunnels at all. No. No tunnels here. Not even one. I mean, that horrible Oolie creature would have me on toast if I started telling you dwarves about tunnels.” Flo subsided into a fit of sniffing and snuffling.
Gracie considered what she’d heard. If she was in a tunnel, surely she should be able to find a way out — but it was obvious that she needed to be careful when asking Flo questions. “That’s a really dreadful cold you’ve got,” she said. “Have you had it long?”
“Oh, dearie, dearie, dearie me. If I’ve been asked that once, I’ve been asked a thousand times. It’s not a cold! Understand? NOT a cold!”
Flo was now sounding angry, and Gracie bit her lip. The last thing she wanted was for the bat to fly away and leave her on her own. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “Erm . . . might I ask if it’s hay fever? If it is, the Ancient Crones have a wonderful potion that always cures it. One of Queen Kesta’s daughters sneezed and sneezed and sneezed all summer long, and Auntie Edna cured her with just one spoonful. If . . . if you were to show me the way out, I could ask Auntie Edna to help you. You wouldn’t need to be scared of her; I know people call her the Ancient One, and she’s in charge of the web of power, but she’s ever so kind. I promise it would work, and the crones are very fond of bats. . . .”
Gracie’s voice died away. The silence was echoing all around her, and she was certain Flo had gone. She stretched out her arms and could feel nothing. Nothing but the terrible unrelenting blackness.
“Flo?” she called. “Flo? Oh, please don’t leave me on my own!” Two large tears rolled down her cheeks, and the lump in her throat doubled in size. She fished in her pocket for a hankie and blew her nose hard before wiping her eyes and taking several deep breaths. “Come along, Gracie,” she told herself. “It could be worse.” She tried hard to think of what exactly could be worse than being stuck in a pitch-black tunnel with no idea where it led, or how to get out of it . . . and as she was thinking, she heard footsteps.
Weary, heavy, shuffling footsteps that were coming nearer. And nearer.
Gracie’s stomach flipped, then froze. “Keep calm,” she told herself. “Remember you’re a Trueheart.” She did her best, but however hard she tried, it was impossible not to wonder, “But what if whatever it is doesn’t actually know about Truehearts? And what if it doesn’t care? And what if it’s hungry and has teeth?” She swallowed and took another deep breath. “Hello. Who’s there?”
“’Tis Oolie, my little sweetmeat,” said an ancient and quavering voice. “’Tis Oolie, and you’ve woken me up from my long, long sleep. Never did think as anything would come falling in here ever again, but there you is — and fine and delicious you do be smelling.”
Cold shivers were running up and down Gracie’s spine, but she forced herself to answer. “I’m so sorry if I woke you. I really am. I didn’t mean to be here at all; I just sort of fell through a tree — and I’d be so very grateful if you could tell me the way out.”
“But there’s no getting out, my precious pudding.” Oolie sounded so close that Gracie jumped. “Little dwarfies that fall into Oolie’s trap don’t ever get out again.” There was a dry, dusty chuckle, and a long, bony finger poked Gracie in the ribs.
“But I’m not a dwarf,” Gracie said as boldly as she could. “I’m a girl.”
The rasping chuckle came again. “That’s what they all used to say. ‘I’m not a dwarfie — I’m a badger! I’m a little piggie! I’m a human being!’ And did Oolie ever believe them? Oh, no, no, no. Oolie can smell dwarfies, cuz dwarfies is good little creatures, and you stinks of goodness. Much too good to be a greedy girlie, you is. Sniff-sniff-sniff, Oolie goes, and she can always tell.”
Gracie twisted away from the probing finger. Don’t show her you’re scared, she told herself. Stay calm. Think of . . . think of Auntie Edna. Out loud she said, “But I AM a girl. I really truly am!”
There was a scratching noise, then the sound of something falling, and a muffled exclamation. This was followed by scuffling and much heavy and labored breathing before the scratching was repeated — and a light flared up. The contrast was so
sudden and so bright that Gracie had to shut her eyes.
When she opened them, she saw that she was indeed in a tunnel, with walls of mud and closely intertwined tree roots. She had just enough time to discover that the light sprang from a tinderbox held by a hideously wrinkled old creature before it died again, and she was back in the all-enveloping darkness.
“Did . . . did you see?” she asked. “Could you see that I’m a girl? I promise you I am.”
For a moment there was no answer, only the sound of puffing and wheezing. Then came more scratching, and the light flared up again. This time Oolie managed to light the small stump of a candle that was stuck onto one of the roots. The flame flickered, wavered, and then settled, and Gracie and Oolie stared at each other.
“So you is a human girl,” Oolie said at last. She came very close to Gracie and sniffed at her. “But you smells good like dwarfies.” She picked at her flat nose with a black and broken nail, then sniffed again. “And there’s something else my nose is telling me. Something tingly.” She licked her lips, sniffed once more, and began to pant. “Is you . . . could you be . . . is you . . . a Trueheart?”
Gracie opened her mouth to say yes — but a tiny flicker of movement caught her eye. A small bat was hanging by one claw immediately behind Oolie, vigorously shaking its head. Gracie changed her answer into a fit of coughing and then said, with all the conviction she could manage, “I think your nose might have made a mistake, Mrs. Oolie.”
The creature gave her a suspicious look. “Is you saying you isn’t a Trueheart? Suppose I could be wrong. But tingles in the nose isn’t dwarfies, even the goodest of dwarfies . . . and it isn’t gnomies nor trolls neither.”
“Gnomes?” Gracie pounced on the chance to turn the subject away from Truehearts. “I didn’t know there were gnomes in the Five Kingdoms.”
“But we isn’t in the Kingdoms, is we, Miss Ignorant?” Oolie sneered. “We’s under the forests, and there’s all sorts down here in our tunnels and caverns. Take me, for instance. Half troll, half goblin, I is — strength of a troll with goblin brains — so don’t you go thinking you can trick me. And what’s more, it’s Old Troll I be, hard as glass and strong as iron.” She looked Gracie up and down, scratching thoughtfully at her balding head. “Looks to me like you’s another mixamabody. Odd, you is, and no mistaking it. Now, if you was a Trueheart, that’d be worth a fortune to old Oolie . . . but if I takes you down Oolie’s secret highways and byways to the King of All Trolls and you isn’t a Trueheart after all, then what’ll I get? Nothing. And Oolie’s had too much nothing for years and years and years. . . .”
Gracie made no reply, although her mind was racing. It seemed that there was some kind of danger in being a Trueheart; did that mean she would be wise not to mention the Ancient Crones? There was no doubt that Oolie was evil; every time she came close, Gracie’s skin felt cold and clammy. And what about Flo, the bat? She had retreated into the darkness beyond the candlelight, but it was just possible to pick out her shape against the tree roots. Was she trying to help? “She knew Marlon’s name,” Gracie told herself. “I’ve got to keep hoping for the best. . . . there’s nothing else I can do.”
Oolie gave Gracie one last stare, then nodded, as if she had come to a decision. “I knows who’ll know. The Old Trolls can always smell out a Trueheart; been warring with them for years, they have. And Mullius Gowk’s the oldest Old Troll of all. You come with me, Miss Oddity, and we’ll find out what you really is, and if old Oolie’s found her fortune.” And she seized Gracie’s wrist with one hand, picked up the candle with the other, and began dragging Gracie along the tunnel.
Gracie was astonished at the old creature’s strength; her wrist felt as if it were encircled by an iron band, and she realized that it would be hopeless to try to twist out of Oolie’s grasp even if she had any idea of where to run. But where was she being taken? And who was she going to meet?
“I’ll blow out the candle,” breathed a tiny voice in her ear. “She’ll have to light it again, and she’ll need two hands. When she lets go of you, turn and run back the way you’ve come. Quiet as you can.”
Before Gracie could answer, there was a muffled sneeze and a flutter of wings, and the candle was extinguished. Oolie muttered angrily, then gave Gracie’s arm a sharp and painful tug. Gracie lost her balance and fell heavily, and Oolie growled a furious growl.
“Ouch!” Gracie’s knees were in agony, and her hand was bruised and sore. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” Her wails were so genuine that Oolie stopped trying to haul her along and tried instead to heave her back on her feet, but without success. Gracie’s legs had turned to jelly, and she was quite unable to stand.
“Stay still!” Oolie ordered. “Don’t move, or I’ll bite you!” And she let go of Gracie’s wrist.
For a moment Gracie was too stunned to move, but then there was a flurry of wings and sneezing and a furious yell, and it was evident that Flo was harrying Oolie as she tried to light the candle. Gracie gritted her teeth and tried to get up. There was something hard under her hip; with a start she realized it was the tinderbox, and she slipped it into her pocket before forcing herself to stand. Then, with one hand on the side of the tunnel and the other stretched out in front of her, she began to half run, half limp as fast as she could, back the way she had come. Behind her she heard cursing and swearing, and finally the sound she was dreading most — the sound of shuffling footsteps.
“Hurry, Trueheart — hurry!” Flo was squeaking at her loudest, urging her on, and Gracie did her best to increase her speed. She was puffing too hard to hear the footsteps come to a sudden stop, as if their owner had heard something of immense interest. Nor did she notice when they began again — this time going in the opposite direction.
Princess Fedora of Dreghorn, soon to be married with bells and doves and hearts and every other romantic decoration that could be obtained from Madam Millicent’s Royal Emporium, was furious. Once her singing lesson was over and the music teacher had unblushingly assured her that she had the voice of an angel, a lark, and a fluting thrush, she had decided to have just one more peek at her wedding dress . . . a truly delicious sky-blue dress with little pink rosebuds. But on opening her wardrobe she had found it gone — and nobody could tell her who had taken it. Further investigation revealed that her sister Marigold was also missing; putting the two facts together led Fedora to the obvious conclusion.
“Mother!” she shrieked as she burst in through the door of Queen Kesta’s private sitting room. “It’s just too, too awful of Marigold! She’s miles and miles and miles fatter than me and she’ll absolutely ruin my beautiful dress and I HATE her!”
The queen, who was having her morning cup of coffee with the dowager duchess and their mutual friend Queen Bluebell of Wadingburn, looked up in surprise. “Whatever do you mean, my sweet child?”
Fedora stamped her foot in a distinctly unprincessy way. “It’s that horrible Marigold. She’s stolen my wedding dress, and she’ll ruin it — I just know she will, because she’s fat, fat, FAT!”
Queen Kesta’s large blue eyes opened wide. “Dearest one,” she remonstrated, “that isn’t at all a polite way of expressing yourself. I’m sure if Marigold has borrowed your dress — which I rather doubt — it’s only so she can . . .” The queen’s imagination failed to supply a reason, and she looked at her friends for support.
“So she can choose ribbons to match,” Queen Bluebell suggested.
Queen Kesta beamed. “Exactly so!”
Fedora folded her arms and glowered. “She wouldn’t do that. She’s wanted it ever since I got it. She thinks it’ll make Marcus think she’s pretty, as if a silly, fat pig like her could ever —”
“HUSH, dear!” Queen Kesta held up her hands in horror. “That’s quite enough! Look — you’ve made your dear great-aunt choke over her coffee with your horrid remarks about your poor little sister.”
Queen Bluebell banged Hortense on the back with such enthusiasm that the duchess all but fell over. Re
covering her balance, she stopped choking and blew her nose. It had occurred to her that it was just possible that Marigold had taken her advice about going on an adventure, and she was wondering how much she should say. She was both impressed and appalled that Marigold had the temerity to steal her sister’s wedding dress; this was something Hortense had not anticipated. It certainly showed great determination if Marigold had decided to dress the part before setting out to find her prince. Or was she jumping to entirely the wrong conclusions? It was perfectly possible that Marigold was merely skulking in one of the hundreds of palace bedrooms, twirling around and around in front of a gilded mirror and admiring herself enormously. Hortense blew her nose for the second time and decided to await developments.
Queen Kesta was trying hard to think of a way to improve Fedora’s temper. “Why don’t we go for a little walk in the gardens, dear one?” she suggested. “Or you could show us that sweet pretty pony of yours. I don’t think you’ve seen him yet, have you, Bluebell? Or you, Auntie?”
The duchess smiled. “No. No, I’ve not seen the pony. That would be delightful.” If what she was beginning to suspect was indeed the case, it would be extremely interesting to have a look in the royal stables.
Queen Kesta, pleased to see Fedora beginning to look more cheerful, heaved herself to her feet and bustled her guests out of her sitting room and down the splendid marble staircase. Fedora hung back to fill her pockets with sugar lumps, then followed her mother and her companions as they crossed the black-and-white checkered marble hall to go out into the drive leading to the royal stables. Once outside, Fedora hurried ahead while Queen Kesta took the opportunity to tell Hortense and Bluebell how well Fedora drove her pony cart, and how she hoped that when Fedora was married she would drive over to visit at least three times a week.
“Good idea,” Queen Bluebell said heartily. “Nice to keep in touch. Hope my granddaughter, Loobly, does the same when she gets hitched. Don’t care so much about Vincent. Silly boy. Does nothing but sit around. Needs a quest. Don’t suppose you know of anything, do you, Hortense? Seem to remember you were a bit of an adventurer in your time.”
The Heart of Glass Page 4