The Ondine Collection

by Ebony McKenna

  “There you are,” Old Col said to Ondine, “Call me when Margibelle comes on.”

  “Shush!” Somebody shushed.

  Anathea walked in and everyone sprang away from each other and pretended they weren’t doing anything wrong, even though they looked incredibly guilty.

  “When are Margibelle on?” Anathea asked the room. “The suspense is killing me.”

  “Another quarter hour, My Lordship,” one of the debutantes said.

  “I’m so tense!” Anathea said, then put a broad grin to her strained face. The Duchess looked tense all right, but it surely had more to do with her ex-husband accepting bribes to woo, and her nephew planning a coup, than anything happening in the world of music.

  The debutantes exited but left the television on. Their partners, no doubt, were huddled over a radio or television in the men’s room.

  “I had no idea the room could be cleared so quickly,” Anathea said as she moved towards the basin and played cold running water over her wrists.

  “Have you burned yourself?”

  “No dear, stemming the nausea. I’d make a cold compress, but that could trickle water onto the dress and a stained dress can’t be returned.”

  Ondine’s nerves hitched and she checked the door to make sure nobody else was coming in, then she took up position at the basin next to Anathea. “Valentin doesn’t suspect anything, does he?”

  “No. He’s being charming tonight. Just as he was when we first met.” Anathea righted herself and tucked a stray hair behind a pin. “On with the show, eh?”

  In the ballroom, the duchess was a picture of a serene, regal woman, smiling and enjoying the company of the elegant man seated next to her. She looked so comfortable and at ease, the polar opposite to the nauseated wreck Ondine had witnessed in the restrooms.

  From the side of the room, a couple of men in tuxedos guided in a television set on a trolley and plugged it in. People looked confused and glanced from it to their partners and then to the duchess.

  The dance set finished with a swirl of strings from the orchestra. Anathea rose and walked to the podium. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it has been my delight and honour to receive you this evening. It’s a special night for everyone here, but it is also a very special night for Brugel. I too am guilty of stealing away to keep track of events concerning PopEuroTube.”

  Nervous laughter washed through the crowd.

  “Rather than keep you exiled from our marvellous performers, let formalities be suspended for a short while so we may enjoy Brugel’s moment.”

  A huge cheer rang through the ballroom as people crowd-rushed the television set. It was on, it was in colour and someone had turned the sound up so high it distorted.

  Wait a minute. They were supposed to be speeding things up so they could get out of here early, not delaying proceedings. Did this mean Anathea had lost her nerve about confronting Vincent?

  Nevertheless, she squished in to watch the performers from Craviç sing their boppy melody. The Craviçians were dressed in long frilly peasant-skirts and overblown blousy tops. Absolutely ripe for a sudden costume change mid-song. A cheer erupted as the Craviç singers hit the chorus, spun around and revealed their sparkly under-costumes of mini skirts and tube tops. It didn’t take long for Craviç’s song to be over. [333] The next group, from the Kingdom of Radzvilla, were interminable with their wheezing piano accordions and spiky hats that looked like giant red pine cones.

  “Radzvilla’s a real place?” Hamish asked.

  “I’ll check an atlas,” Ondine said.

  Oh joy, at last it was time for Slaegal’s entry to come on. Normally Ondine zoned out when the neighbouring country appeared, but this was different.

  “I’m sorry we cannae be there for real,” Hamish said, rubbing circles on her back.

  “Ah well.” Ondine tried to forget the blow-out argument she’d had with her sisters. “At least I’m with you.”

  He kissed the top of her ear and gave her a squishy hug as the lights dimmed. Margibelle took their places. The auditorium at PopEuroTube was silent. Watching on television, the ballroom for the abnormal formal was silent too. Ondine felt her ribs cramp as she forgot how to breathe.

  Be amazing. Just. Be. Amazing.

  “Shhhh!” Someone said. As if they needed reminding. It might be their neighbour on screen, but everyone knew Margibelle were home-grown Brugelers.

  The note. Oh the glorious note Margi hit to launch into the song. It was sublime. It was soaring. It was heartbreaking. It hit true and strong and set everything in motion.

  Someone turned the volume down to stop the distortion, so they could enjoy it for the magical music it was. Nobody in the ballroom spoke. Nobody even moved. Ladies held their taffeta gowns in their fists to stop them rustling. The musical bridge built the song and took it soaring into the chorus. The chorus had the PopEuroTube auditorium on their feet, waving flags and singing along.

  Tears sprang from Ondine. She didn’t dare sniff as the noise would disrupt the transcendent music. Music her sisters had made. There was no fear on Margi’s face. She was one with the music, and the music united everyone in this little patch of Eastern Europe. The last note came on sure and strong. The crowd went crazy. Margi came out of her musical-dream-state to acknowledge the crowd. Now her voice broke, now her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Thank you, I love you!” She cried out.

  The ballroom, filled with everyone in their finest and on their very best behaviour erupted with howls of joy and sheer relief for Margibelle’s amazing performance. Ondine grabbed Hamish in a bear hug and knocked him sideways with a mash-pash. They kissed and laughed with relief and kissed some more.

  The commentator on the television said, “And they’ve done it, the firecrackers representing Slaegal have brought the house down with that wonderful ballad.”

  “Just when I was losing the will to live, we get a reminder of what PopEuroTube is all about,” his partner in the commentary box said.

  “Yes. Poaching acts from other countries.” They both chuckled at how clever they were.

  “Now here comes something we’ve all been waiting for. If you ever need a theme for stealing a tank and liberating a city, this is it.”

  “It’s the band from Brugel, with a song that will get people marching in the streets. It’s Battlefront with Anthem.”

  On screen, people of all nations waved flags, whistled and cheered. As the first chord blared out, noise dropped to a hush. In the dance hall, they were silent as well, swaying in time with the stirring music. Grudgingly, Ondine had to respect Battlefront. It was an amazing song. It made you want to cheer, carouse, smile and weep. The chorus boomed through the speakers. Everyone around Ondine and Hamish joined in. Any other year, Ondine would have sung along, but she couldn’t stop the knives of jealousy stabbing her heart. Her sisters should have been singing for Brugel instead of Slaegal.

  Somebody turned the volume up even louder. The drumbeats came in so strong and heavy Ondine could felt it all the way from her feet.

  Boom-boom, boom-boom-boom. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

  Wait a minute. The thumping wasn’t from the television. It was the floor rattling. The walls too. Looking up, the chandelier shuddered and shook, the lights flickered. The doors burst open. A group of cadets marched in. Armed cadets. With serious looking weapons.

  Everyone screamed.

  Hamish grabbed Ondine and made a run for the rear door, just as more cadets burst through this entrance too. Standing before all was Birgit Howser, dressed in a traditional Brugelish travelling witch cloak, the shoulders trimmed with epaulettes. Her eyes lit upon Ondine and she gave a slow shake of her head. “Run along now, silly girl.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Ondine shot back, her heart rate doubling, her breathing coming hard and scared. Because despite the brave words, she was terrified of what Mrs Howser might do. What the cadets might do. “Why can’t you leave us alone?”

  “Oh bless, she’s still talkin
g,” Mrs Howser said. The witch turned to a cadet and said, “Shut her up for me.”

  The cadet, a lad who looked younger than Ondine, nodded, then thrust his hand out.

  Ondine tried to scream, but nothing came out. Hamish said a horrible swear word.

  Mrs Howser smiled. “Well done.” Then her gaze roved the crowd until it rested on Duchess Anathea with a bone-freezing smile of victory.

  “Protect the Duchess,” Old Col said to anyone who would listen.

  All heads turned to Anathea, standing completely still beside Valentin. “Something must be done,” she squeaked out.

  “Of course,” Valentin said. He took Anathea’s hand and kissed it. Then he spun her around so fast he pinned her arm behind her back.

  Ondine screamed, “Let her go!” Except nothing came out.

  “Nobody move!” Valentin said, pinning Anathea’s arm even tighter and making her yelp.

  Mrs Howser scoffed, “That’s my line!”

  Valentin nudged Anathea towards the cadets and Mrs Howser.

  “Good,” Mrs Howser said. “If everyone behaves, nobody will get hurt.”

  “Really Birgit,” Old Col marched towards her witchy foe. “You could have at least waited until we’d finished the ball and been presented. And to think we used to be friends!”

  Mrs Howser rolled her eyes. “Of course. It’s always about you.”

  “You have to take your spell off Hamish as well” Old Col acted as if she and Mrs Howser were alone, having a friendly old spat, instead of being surrounded by armed cadets.

  “As if I’d ever do that!” Mrs Howser said. “Now get out of my way, I have so much to do, and so little time!”

  “You know the spell!” Old Col was shouting now.

  Everyone was looking at Col as if she were a few nuts short of a trail mix. The twig snapped for Ondine. “Oh! That spell!” She would have said it out loud, if she’d had a voice. Instead, she said it in her head. But, at least she knew what to do now. She grabbed Hamish, placed her palms on either side of his face and drew him down for a kiss. The spell, which Old Col had been referring, was the one that made other people’s wishes come true whenever she and Hamish became amorous. The magically contagious spell that had caused so much mayhem in Brugel in the first place.

  Many times in the past, Ondine had kissed Hamish good and proper. Tonight, she kissed him with the hope of a happy future for the two of them, and for Brugel. Which had her quietly thinking how clever and selfless she was. For his part, Hamish kissed her back with all the passion she’d come to love. What a kiss. Behind her closed eyes, searing bright lights flashed around the room.

  Something slumped to the floor. It sounded like a sack of potatoes. Ondine broke away from the kiss to see Great-Auntie Col on the ground in a crumpled heap.

  “No!” Ondine silently cried.

  “This is too good,” Mrs Howser said, leaning over Old Col, lifting her arm and letting it flop back onto the ground with a soft thud.

  Fear jarred Ondine’s joints. Old Col didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Her once proud expression fell sideways under the weight of gravity. Her closed lips didn’t move, her nostrils didn’t flare.

  In her mind Ondine cried out, “What have you done?!” Wailing grief poured through her. “No, no no no! Col! Aunty Col! Wake up . . . the dance isn’t over yet.”

  “Trying to use my magic against me. Honestly!” Mrs Howser shrugged. “Once a witch is past wiccapause, you’re better off dead anyway.”

  Furious, Ondine sprang at the witch. The cadets leapt to defend their leader. Things got messy quickly. Behind her, Hamish shouted. Something solid and heavy bashed Ondine’s shoulder, the pain sharp and hot. Something else equally heavy smacked the back of her knees, sending her to the ground in a screaming heap. Pain immobilised her. Looking up, she saw Hamish leaping at Mrs Howser’s throat. Mid-air, he transformed into a ferret, his claws and teeth bared for maximum damage.

  A cadet swiped him with a rifle butt, sending him flailing.

  Ondine scrambled to her feet despite the searing pain in her shoulder. With a desperate lunge, she slid along the parquet floor, catching him millimetres from impact. Momentum kept her sliding. Ferret in hand, she could not stop the wall coming closer. She hit it. Hard. If the world had turned black it would have been a relief. Instead she felt every twisted tendon, every bruised bone and every bleeding muscle. Concussion wouldn’t take her out, all she could do was curl into the pain, close her eyes and groan pathetically.

  Mrs Howser shouted, “Everybody out!”

  At which point, Ondine prised one eye open to see the cadets marching Duchess Anathea, Valentin and the rest of the guests into the street.

  “Her too,” Mrs Howser pointed to the prone form of Old Col on the ground. “Bring her, she could still be useful.”

  A cadet who looked like nothing more than string and gristle in a uniform, crouched down to Old Col and lifted her into his arms.

  Was it the flickering lighting? The stress? The pain? Ondine wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she saw Old Col wink at her.

  ​

  ​

  Chapter Thirteen

  ​

  The view from the hotel suite filled Vincent with a palpable sense of something ominously good waiting for him. Everything was coming together. On the television behind him in the hotel suite, and on the enormous screen down in Savo Plaza, the PopEuroTube presenters talked in rhyming couplets.

  The man said, “That is the end of the music and art.”

  The woman said, “Now it is time to play your part.”

  “The voting will open in just a minute.”

  “Phone us now to see who will win it!”

  Shudder.

  “We go now?” Babak said, slapping a meaty hand onto Vincent’s shoulder.

  Ruslana remained on the couch, nibbling pistachios. Crick, tink they went, as she cracked each green nut, then tossed the hard shells into a stainless steel bin by her feet. Melody sat by the window, sending glimmering waves of green and silver sparkles wafting into the crowd gathered in the plaza.

  The PopEuroTube co-hosts recapped the performances from the night.

  “It’s been such a night, we don’t want to stop.”

  “Here are the songs again, right from the top!”

  “Rhyming ham and cheese. We’ll be lucky not to get a riot,” Babak said.

  Melody turned to Vincent. “They’re ready now.” She looked sweaty and grey, like she’d been locked in a sauna and force-fed green bananas.

  “All right, everyone,” Vincent clapped his hands, revving himself up. “Let’s meet the people.”

  Babak took his daughter’s manicured hand, wiped the pistachio salt from it, then guide-yanked her out of the chair until she was on her feet. “The people are ready for their new Duchess.”

  “She needs her wig,” Melody said no louder than a breath.

  “Good catch,” Vincent said.

  Unsteady as she may be, Melody picked up the exquisite helmet of hair from where it rested on a polystyrene head on the sideboard.

  “Coming.” Ruslana stood before the mirror to make the hair sit the right way.

  If they timed this correctly, when Battlefront’s song recap came on with Anthem, Vincent would step out in front of the big screen and take the microphone. Not that he liked to brag in clichés, but he’d have the mob eating out of the palm of his hand.

  WAKING UP IN THE ABANDONED ballroom, Ondine fought through multiple layers of soreness to get on her feet. Everyone was gone, which angered Ondine all the more as it denied her a long-awaited showdown with Howser. Damn that witch! Her voice came out as a croak, but at least it was back. “Hamish, where are you?”

  “In here, lass,” he said from a darkened cloakroom.

  Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and she made out his human shape as he rifled through a pile of clothing.

  “We’ll need warmth if we’re tae venture out.” He returned to her with an o
vercoat and slipped it over her shoulders.

  “Whose is this?” She asked as she creaked her bruised arms into the sleeves.

  He shrugged. “Somebody else’s. They left in a hurry.”

  Heavy rumbling shook the floor again. Grabbing her hand, Hamish dragged her to the doorway. “I never knew ye got earthquakes in Brugel.”

  “We don’t,” Ondine’s whole body shook. The windows rattled and paint flaked off the walls. It hurt to talk, but the more she did the easier her voice came back. “Let’s see what it is.”

  It didn’t take long. Shrinking themselves into the darkened doorway, they watched a tank roll through the cobblestone street. Its caterpillar tracks rattled and shuddered past, the main gun pointed ominously forward.

  The question, ‘where is it going?’ formed, but the moment she’d thought it, Ondine knew. “The plaza,” she said, running out onto the street as soon as the tank was gone.

  Realisation smacked Ondine upside the head. “Jupiter’s moons! Half of Brugel is in the plaza tonight! This was Vincent’s plan all along. Everyone is penned in! It’s a trap!”

  “Aye, ye worked it out faster than me.”

  “This way, I know a shortcut.”

  The pair jogged at a heavy-breathing pace towards Savo Plaza, taking alleyways too narrow for a tank to pass through. The cool air of the spring evening, and the mission to save her country invigorated Ondine. But they could only keep going so far before they had to stop. They turned to find a wall of people blocking the road. People waving banners with blue hands printed on them.

  “Wait a minute,” Hamish pulled her into the shadows of a doorway. “There’s a bloke with a megaphone instructing them.”

  These were no PopEuroTube revellers, they were an organised gang. A gang supporting Lord Vincent and heading straight for the plaza. Skirting around the blue hand mob, Ondine and Hamish took a side alleyway heaving with people. “Excuse me, sorry, please let me through? Can I just . . .” Ondine said on a repeating pattern as she budged and nudged her way closer to the big screen to see what was going on. The further they pushed, the thicker the crowd, until it became impossible to breathe for the crush of people.