by Brigid Lowry
A CHAPTER
WITH VOMIT
IN IT
MIRABELLA WOKE SLOWLY, wriggling her toes, luxurious in her private world. Her silk sheets were embroidered with the royal crest, and soft, canopied, satin curtains draped the elaborately carved four-poster bed. Mirabella rang her silver bell loudly, but no one came. it was odd, because today was the day that her chambermaid returned to service. The princess was secretly glad that she’d have some company besides oak and the blasted, blithering peacocks. Perhaps this time the girl would manage to hold a civil tongue, and together they could choose a suitable outfit for the ball. There was only a week to go now, each night edging her nearer the cattle market. The king and queen’s instructions were clear: on the night of the ball, their daughter must choose a husband from the array of princes and noblemen who would be gathered there. Once a husband had been chosen, a wedding would shortly follow. Marriage was a terrifying thought. The constraints and constrictions of royal life were but a gilded prison, and her world already seemed lonely, boring, and restricted. Wedded life would be even more so.
Impatiently, the princess rang the bell once more, but still no one came. She deliberated for a while. There was nothing for it but to get up and face the day. At least the king was coming home, and the princess was keen to see what gift he had for her. His return had been delayed because a horse towing the royal carriage had dropped dead. Although another horse was put in its place, it took fright and reared, and the carriage ended up on its side lying in the mud. The queen was a mess of worry and complaint, as usual. She fussed mightily when the king was gone, yet fussed mightily upon his return. She’s never happy, that woman, Mirabella reflected, then her thoughts turned to Arlo. He’s been odd, of late. He seems to be hovering. If it wasn’t such a preposterous notion, I would think he admired me. However, he must know that a princess could never marry a servant.
In the apothecary’s infirmary, two girls lay side by side in narrow iron beds. Elda’s face was still red and swollen, but the worst was over. Miss Oleander had administered drops of a bitter tincture, wrapped Elda’s throat in cool cloths, and rubbed her limbs thoroughly throughout the long night, so the blood could flow freely, draining the poison from the dangerous area of the head and throat. Elda lay with her eyes closed and the linen bedcover pulled over her head, so as not to have to see or hear Glory’s violent retching into the pail beside her. Rolf waited, anxious and patient, outside the door, but Miss Oleander would not let him in until Glory was able to sit up and drink a tisane of camomile and peppermint.
The Reader
› What has happened? I know Elda was stung by a bee, but why is Glory sick?
THE WRITER
When she’s finished worrying about her social life, her hair, heart attacks, brain tumours and climate change, the writer resumes worrying about what will happen next in her fairy story. She wants to make her characters more eccentric, their world more juicy. She considers the merits of putting a severed finger in her story, a half-crazed woman in an attic, a mentally unstable rabbit . . .
CHAPTER 74
MIRABELLA WAS MOST dismayed by the news about glory. arlo, who adored gossip, waltzed in before too long, bearing a breakfast tray, and recounted what had happened.
‘Imagine! she mistook things, and made a soup using daffodil bulbs instead of onions, and managed to poison herself.’
‘it’s a wonder she didn’t poison the entire household.’
‘Indeed,’ said arlo. ‘she was alone in the kitchen, for elda was stung by a bee and Mrs Blossom had rushed her to the apothecary. after making the soup, instead of sampling a spoonful, glory ate a huge bowl of it. apparently it tasted delicious, due to all the cream and nutmeg.’
‘This palace seems jinxed with misfortune. My maid dies, Father’s horse dies, then my next maid takes ill, and now I must choose my outfit for the ball myself.’
‘I could help, if you like?’ Arlo offered.
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate,’ snapped Mirabella. Once Arlo had left, slightly sulkily, the princess returned to her distasteful task. It took forever to get the stupid gowns out of their boxes and silk wrappings, and none of them was the least bit suitable. In the peach satin she resembled a piglet. The orange taffeta cast her complexion as sallow as a mud puddle. The blue sprigged silk was ridiculous; the dress of a child. There was a horrid, dark stain on the ivory lace gown, and she no longer fitted the silvery-grey moire, which was a pity for it had always been her favourite. The queen was absolutely no help.
‘Call in the dressmaker, if you must, Mirabella, and be fitted for a new gown,’ she said. ‘It will be a dash, but there may be time. Or look in my own chamber, in case there’s anything suitable . . . You should have sorted it out earlier, and I’m most vexed about it, but right now I must lie down. I have the most dreadful headache. I’m bilious, and my eyes can’t stand the light. Arlo has gone to Miss Oleander for some willow bark and poppy-head tea, and I shall rest in my chamber until your dear father arrives.’
When her mother had left, Mirabella sat alone in the gloom. How had she become this pathetic creature: the unhappiest princess in the whole wide world? She didn’t wish to be so sad and sour. She didn’t want to end up like her aunt, Agatha the Mad. As a young woman, Agatha was very beautiful, but when her son, Prince Oscar, died, she became ugly with grief. She ordered all mirrors to be turned to the wall and all her curtains to be drawn. Agatha insisted she possessed magic powers, though no one believed her. She spent her time alone in the dark, a pitiful crone in gowns of ragged silk and velvet, occasionally summoning an ageing count or earl to join her for tea in her musty room. As her mind became more tattered, she terrified the servants with mad mumblings about curses. She became stranger and stranger in her ways, such as having her dead dogs stuffed and adorned with jewels, to use as cushions.
‘Please save me from such a pitiful fate. How can I find a happy life, locked in, as I am, to the tired ways of royalty?’ Mirabella spoke out loud, then grimaced at the irony. ‘Already I’m talking to myself, which is a bad sign.’
THE WRITER
The writer wonders if anyone will ever read this thing, and who they will be. If only creativity weren’t so random. Sometimes it flows like a river, sometimes it tumbles like a fountain, then for no apparent reason it dries up to the odd drip from a broken tap. Broken tap days are hard. She wanders around a park, eats a very rich Florentine she’s been saving for such an occasion, draws a picture in seven shades of blue. Then she begins to write.
The Reader
› My father came home with his hair cut really short and a tattoo of a tiger on his shoulder. Seriously. He got the tatt in Hong Kong, on his way home. He then behaved even more out of character by ordering different dishes at dinner. Prawn Kashmiri and potato aloo, and paratha. Change is good, he explained. He said he was thinking of getting a sports car. Mum told him to get a grip.
‘A motor bike?’
‘No way. If you have to buy anything, make it a new wheelbarrow, and do some gardening. Cheapest cure for a midlife crisis.’
‘Good plan,’ Dad said. He knows when he’s beaten. I don’t know how he puts up with her, frankly. God, my skin is terrible. I look in the mirror and despair. My spots are multiplying. Soon I’ll have to go out wearing a paper bag over my head, with holes cut for my eyes. I’m glad there are solitary things I can do, like reading. I just had an alarming thought: what if the writer died in the middle of writing a really gripping story, and you could never find out what happened next?
A FLOWERY
CHAPTER
MISS OLEANDER TOOK the wildflowers Rolf offered and arranged them in a blue glass bottle.
‘Ah, yarrow. A splendid medicinal plant.
The yellow is pretty with these blue cornflowers, another plant with healing properties. you must realise, young Man, that glory and elda are still both very weak. you may visit for a short while, but you mustn’t over-excite them.’ The apothecary smiled at
rolf, who was feeling particularly skinny and anxious, and not in the least bit capable of over-exciting anyone or anything. she went back to grinding something smelly with her marble mortar and pestle. Now that rolf had been allowed into the infirmary and was perched uneasily on a stool between the two cots, he was flooded with shyness. He wanted to tell glory how glad he was she didn’t die, and how winsome she looked in her white nightgown with her wild crimson hair all tumbling down, but instead a question came blurting out.
‘What’s yarrow used for, Miss Oleander?’
‘Every part of it has a medicinal use: stems, leaves, roots and flower heads. It cures cramps and fevers, boils and bleeding, ulcers and toothaches, and purifies the blood.’
‘What about cornflowers?’ asked Glory, who was also feeling shy.
‘The petals are brewed into an astringent tonic that soothes infections and swelling of the eyes. And now I have things to attend to.’ The apothecary returned to her work at a bench on the other side of the room. To fill the clumsy silence that followed, Rolf stumbled onto the topic of the various types of bees and wasps, but Elda didn’t warm to this discussion. To his relief, Glory came to the rescue.
‘Rolf, when you spoke of this castle having secrets, what did you mean?’
‘Well, there’s definitely something mysterious about Prince Oscar and the way he died. No one will speak of it. Not even Mrs Blossom or Arlo, who usually have plenty to say about everything. All I know is that his mother, Agatha, went barking mad after his death.’
‘Rolf’s right,’ added Elda. ‘Cherry hinted of something strange about Prince Oscar’s death, but she wouldn’t tell me the details, no matter how hard I begged.’
‘Why do you ask?’ Rolf enquired.
‘I’ve found something odd, and it’s troubling me.’
Elda and Rolf were fascinated to hear about Glory’s discovery of the book with the empty secret compartment.
‘I’ll show it to you, when I am well,’ she told her friends. ‘Oh look, Arabella is snuffling outside the door. May she come in?’
Miss Oleander shook her head. ‘Animals are not allowed inside my rooms.’
‘Please,’ begged Glory.
‘Well, perhaps you might play with her outside for a short while. Then Rolf must return the dog to the queen’s quarters.’ She handed Glory a robe. Elda drifted back to sleep, and Rolf and Glory spent a most agreeable time playing with the frisky pup.
The next day, Miss Oleander allowed the two girls to leave the infirmary, having given them sensible instructions: ‘Avail yourselves of rest and sunshine, and take these tinctures. Three drops in water, twice a day. And you must each come to see me, before you return to work. I will make sure you are fully recovered.’
She handed each girl a vial with their name written on it in tiny, elegant script. Glory and Elda went back to their room but could think of nothing to do in it except sleep, so they visited the kitchen, which was a big mistake. Mrs Blossom had a faint smell of brandy about her, and her mood was troubled.
‘All my girls is gone. How in Lands End am I supposed to manage? Rolf is mooching around like a dementdiddly rabbit, and my cooking’s going wrong at every turn. I curdled the custard today and then I burnt it, what I have never done in my entire life.
Shame and woe, shame and woe . . .’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs B, I’ll be back tomorrow,’ offered Elda.
‘Would you like us to help you now?’ Glory asked.
‘I suppose you could lend Rolf a hand. He’s in the kitchen garden, picking blackberries. I need as many as you can find, for my pies.’
Rolf hadn’t picked many blackberries, yet. He’d been watching a dragonfly that had landed nearby. Rolf loved the last golden days of summer, except that, because of the pies, Mrs Blossom tended to be cranky. Pastry was too fiddly for Mrs B, though she would never admit it. The kitchen was always difficult on pie days, but today was worse than usual because of all that had happened lately — and also the brandy. Rolf was glad he’d been sent to the garden. The fruit was ripe and plentiful, so it would be an easy task once he got started. When the dragonfly departed, Rolf began thinking about Glory. He’d never met a girl like Glory before, with her wild red hair and her innocent manner. Rolf had always been fascinated by the mysteries of the insect world, but it was new to him to be fascinated by a lovely girl. He was woken from his reverie by the arrival of Elda and Glory, and the three friends soon filled the elm-wood trug with juicy berries.
‘Let’s go to the library, before we take these to the kitchen,’ Elda suggested. ‘I want to see that secret box.’
Glory looked doubtful. Rolf grinned. ‘Mrs B won’t notice if we’re gone a few more minutes.’
They sneaked along the corridors, narrowly avoiding the head footman who was carrying a huge floral arrangement to the entrance hall.
The library was empty. Glory went straight to the top shelf and picked up the book with the secret compartment. It was still too light.
‘Here!’ She held it open to her friends.
‘You said there were nothing in it.’ Elda sounded quite put out.
‘There isn’t.’ Glory looked down, puzzled. ‘That wasn’t there last time.’
‘Are you sure?’ Rolf asked.
‘Of course I’m sure.’ Glory rubbed the torn scrap of soft coral silk between her fingers. There were tiny pearls embroidered on it.
‘Let me see!’ Elda grabbed the fragment. ‘I seen that cloth before.’
‘What? Where?’
‘There was a dress made of it. I saw it, when me and Cherry was sent to help Madame Star, the dressmaker, oh, it were a year ago or more. The hours were long, and I sat all day hemming tiny stitches until my eyes were gritty, my head pulsed with pain, and my wrist ached. It were dreadful.’
‘Forget about dreadful, what about the dress?’
‘Don’t be hurrying me, Rolf. I was just about to tell you. Cherry’s job was to sort through trunks from the attic, to see what could be mended. Most of it were old soldiers’ uniforms, only good for buttons and rags, but one trunk contained shawls and gowns. I remember that dress in particular, because of the unusual colour of the cloth, and them tiny pearls. Cherry was worried she’d have to cut them off, which would have been a painstaking task, but Madame Star sent the dress to the laundry to be hand-washed. She said it were a pretty gown and shouldn’t be wasted.’
‘I wonder where the dress is now.’
‘Mrs Blossom will be wondering the same about us,’ Rolf said.
Glory put the book back, tucked the morsel of fabric into her pocket, and returned to the kitchen with the others.
‘Here’s your blackberries, Mrs Blossom.’
‘Bugger the blackberries.’ The cook had her stockinged feet up on the table. Beside her sat an empty tumbler. ‘I ain’t making no pies. I can’t be bleedin’ bothered.’ With that, her head slumped on the table, and she began to snore.
Glory was gobsmacked.
‘Don’t worry, she does this every now and then,’ explained Elda. ‘She’ll be right again tomorrow.’
‘The royal dinner will still have to be made, though, for the king rides home tonight.’ Rolf thought for a moment. ‘For pudding, blackberries served in silver bowls with clotted cream.’
‘What about the first course?’ Glory couldn’t believe that Mrs Blossom was so incapacitated or that Rolf was so readily able to take charge. What a handy, likeable person he was.
‘There’s a cured ham in the pantry. With new potatoes and salads fresh from the garden, it will have to do.’
‘What about the servants’ meals? The horsemen will be hungry,’ Elda worried.
‘Let’s search the pantry. Bread and cheese, pickled onions, apples and figs, and a pint of ale; there’s sure to be something we can serve. No one will go hungry in the palace tonight.’
The Reader
› It’s good having Dad home. Mum is over-excitable, but he hugs her anyway. They’re happy. He bought m
e a bracelet made of old typewriter keys, and some maple syrup lollies in the shape of little leaves. Great gifts, but it doesn’t make up for the horrors of my school day. Dylan called me Pizza Face. In maths. Loud enough so that everyone could hear. Then I lost my bus pass, so my mood’s not great, despite Daddo being here. When I got home, Mum and Dad had gone to buy a new sofa. In a surge of meaningless comfort eating, I scoffed two chocolate brownies from a Tupperware thingy on the bench, then when Mum got back she went ape because they were for her Stitch and Bitch group — which is nuts, because they’re all on diets half the time anyway. Plus, usually she puts ridiculous signs on food I’m not allowed to eat. I went to my bedroom to escape, but Mum came straight up and knocked on the door. ‘What’s wrong, Darling?’ I could kill her. After I kill Dylan. They can only put me in jail once, right?
THE WRITER
The writer is stuck for ideas so she asks her witty teenage nephew for help.
‘What’s something quirky that the king in my fairytale could do when he leaves the palace? I’m after something a bit Douglas Adams here . . .’
They’re sitting in the King Street café, waiting for their hot drinks to arrive. Her nephew has a bit of a think.
‘Have a soy latte?’ he suggests, and they both crack up. But then the writer becomes excited. His idea sends her off into a whole new direction.