The Bag of Bones Page 10

  Marlon staggered to his feet amid the rubbish. A white feather, half buried, caught his eye, and he picked it up and inspected it. “Whoa,” he said in surprise, and he tucked it under his wing before dusting himself off. Surprised to find that his tiredness had vanished, he chuckled. “What a way to travel! Excellento. Best be off. Check the orphanage, then on to the palace!” And he was gone.

  Gracie awoke with a start and for a moment couldn’t remember where she was. There was a faint light attempting to brighten the windows, and she decided it must be early in the morning. She stretched and flapped her arms in an effort to warm herself up, but she felt chilled to the bone. A tear trickled down her nose, and she wiped it away crossly with her pajama sleeve.

  “It would be easier to be brave if I had something to eat,” she said out loud. “I’m starving. It feels like days since Gubble and I had those berries.”

  A thought struck her, and she went to look in the hiding place under the sink that Letty had shown her. Perhaps Loobly had a secret store of cookies? But there was only the old shoe and a broken wicker basket. Gracie pulled out the shoe, and looked at it again.

  “That’s our Loobly’s,” said a shrill voice. “Don’t you go taking what isn’t yours!”

  Gracie jumped and looked around. At first she could see nothing in the shadowy light, but a moment later an elderly rat appeared on the draining board beside her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Gracie said. “I wasn’t going to take it away. I was looking for something to eat.”

  The rat sat up and inspected her. “You’re not a Screamer, I see. Hmph. That’s a surprise.” He pulled at a whisker. “Our Loobly wasn’t neither, but then she was used to us. Knew her from a baby, we did. Erm — didn’t find nothing to eat, then?”

  Gracie shook her head. “No. Are you hungry too?”

  “Hungry?” The rat rubbed his stomach, and it gurgled gently. “Hear that? Thinks my throat’s been cut.” He came a little closer. “It’s the wife, though. She’s the one I’m worried about. She doesn’t get around as fast as she used to, so we don’t go skittering through the kitchens anymore. Loobly used to bring us bits and pieces after her dinner, see, and we got used to it. Lazy, I suppose.”

  “She sounds very kind,” Gracie said. “Do you know what happened to her?”

  “She was awayed by the witchy women, our Loobly was.” The second voice was so high-pitched that Gracie had to strain to hear the words. A small, stout lady rat came shyly out from a hole behind the sink. “She be gone, and we be sadly without, ain’t we, Sproutie?”

  “There there, Doily.” Sprout put his arm around his wife, and Gracie smiled at the two of them.

  Doily came a little closer to Gracie. “You do smile like my Loobly. She did smile like summery days when she be happy, and she be happy with me and Sproutie.”

  “Was my Doily taught Loobly to talk,” Sprout said proudly. “Couldn’t say nothing at all when she arrived, so little she was. Just her name and how she was dirty.”

  “Letty told me about that.” Gracie rubbed her nose. “And that she was in a basket with her shoe.”

  Sprout nodded. “Pretty little thing. All dressed up, too. Frills everywhere, weren’t there, Doily?”

  Doily sighed. “Lovely frilleries.” She gave Gracie a hopeful look. “You be finding our Loobly?”

  “I’ve got to get out of here first,” Gracie said. “And I’m not —”

  Tap!

  Something tapped at the window, and the rats and Gracie swung around. A small black shape flapped cheerfully outside the dirty glass — and Gracie gasped, laughed, and ran toward it.

  “Batsie!” Doily sounded nervous.

  “It’s my friend!” Gracie was already climbing up to see if she could unlatch the window, but the catch was welded up with rust and age. “Oh, well,” she said, and picked up a scrubbing brush.

  The glass broke with a sharp tinkling sound, and Alf flew in, tumbling into loop after loop in his excitement. “Oh, Miss Gracie!” he squeaked. “Are you OK?”

  Gracie beamed at him. “It’s so lovely to see you. Oh — might I introduce some new friends? Mr. . . . er . . . Sprout and Mrs. Doily?”

  The two rats and the bat eyed one another for a moment before Sprout nodded. “Hello,” he said with a certain caution.

  Alf flew a series of tight spirals over Gracie’s head. “Guess who’s outside waiting for you?”

  “Gubble!” Gracie clapped her hands.

  “AND Prince Marcus!” Alf spiraled once too often, misjudged his landing, and ended his flight in a sink full of half-washed socks. “Ooooof!” Gracie rushed to help him, but before she reached the sink, Alf emerged, sneezing. “So now we can have a happy ending, ’cause the prince has come to rescue you!”

  Doily scampered forward and held up her paws imploringly. “Girlie — nicely girlie — prince be rescuing our Loobly too?”

  Alf shook himself. “Loobly Higgins?”

  “You know she?” Doily looked at the little bat in surprise.

  “We rescued her.” Alf tried to look modest. “Me and Uncle Marlon. We saved her from . . .” He suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to mention Truda Hangnail. “We saved her from the orphanage man, and now she’s safe in Wadingburn Palace kitchen!”

  “Wow!” Gracie gave Alf a thumbs-up. “That’s amazing! You’re a star, Alf!”

  Alf blinked and blushed under his fur. Sprout and Doily fell into each other’s arms. “She’s safe,” Sprout rejoiced. “Will she be coming home soon?”

  There was a rattle of small stones against the window, and Alf zoomed into a spin, grateful for the interruption. “That’ll be the prince! We’ve got to get you out of here, Miss Gracie.”

  Gracie heaved a sigh of relief. “Thanks. D’you know what? If only I could get out into the drying yard, you might be able to help me find a way to get over the wall.”

  “I know!” Alf shot toward her, his little eyes sparkling. “I heard it in a story! Sheets! You tie them together and make a rope and —”

  Gracie shook her head. “But there aren’t any sheets. There’s only socks.”

  There was a pause. Even the indefatigable Alf could see that knotting heaps of damp woolen socks together might be impractical, but then Gracie jumped to her feet, her eyes shining. “I’m so stupid!” she exclaimed. “The clothesline! It’s strong enough to hold loads and loads and loads of washing — I’m sure it’ll hold me!”

  “So all we’ve got to do is open that door!” Alf waved a cheerful wing at the heavy wooden door, firmly locked with a massive iron lock — and then looked again. “Oh,” he said sadly. “Oh, dear.”

  Sprout coughed. “Ahem. The key’s on that top shelf. Saw him hide it there myself.”

  It took Alf only a moment to push the key off the top of the dresser.

  Gracie caught it and hurried to the door. “Freedom!” she said, but the large iron key was stiff and resisted all her efforts. Alf’s encouraging squeaks did not make it any easier; Gracie grew hotter and crosser by the minute as she tried to turn it in the lock. “It . . . just . . . won’t . . . work!” she puffed, leaning against the wall while she rubbed her aching wrist.

  There was a scrabbling noise, and a whiskery nose appeared beneath the door. The nose was followed by a head and finally a body. The rat shook itself, stroked its whiskers into place, and gave Gracie a shortsighted smile. “Loobly, my dear,” he said, “whatever are you doing? Have you forgotten? The key turns the other way.”

  “What?” Gracie came out from the shadows, and Brother Brokenbiscuit let out an agitated squeak. She tried the key once more, and the door opened. Alf cheered loudly, while Sprout and Doily came hurrying to reassure the elderly rat, who was clutching at his heart.

  “She be goodly girlie,” Doily told him. “Not our Loobly, but good.”

  Brother Brokenbiscuit began to breathe more easily. “Oh, Doily — a terrible, terrible thing is happening at the palace!”

  Gracie, on the point of hu
rrying into the moonlit drying yard, stopped to listen. Alf, remembering his uncle’s warning, looped a loop right under her nose. “No time, no time,” he twittered. “Got to get you out of here and back home!”

  “But what’s going on at the palace?” Gracie asked.

  Brokenbiscuit began to quiver. “Queen Bluebell’s in trouble —”

  “La-di-da, la-di-da!” sang the desperate Alf.

  Doily peered anxiously at Brokenbiscuit. “Trouble for Loobly? Loobly be goodly queen.”

  Gracie, puzzled, bent down to hear Doily better. “Loobly? A queen?”

  Doily shook her head. “Not our Loobly be queen.” She frowned as she tried to make herself clear. “Be other Loobly.”

  “She means Queen Bluebell the Twenty-eighth is a good queen,” Sprout interpreted.

  “Oh. I see.” Gracie pulled at the end of her braid as she remembered the ominous purple stain on the web of power. “And she’s in trouble? What kind of trouble?”

  “We’ve got to GO!” Alf twirled in the air like a teetotum. “Marcus is waiting! He’s been there ages! You can’t keep a prince waiting! He’s waiting for you —”

  To Alf’s profound relief, Gracie jumped to her feet. “I’d better go. Good-bye, Mrs. Doily. . . . Good-bye, Mr. Sprout. Please don’t worry — if there’s anything wrong at the palace, Marcus is sure to know about it.”

  As Gracie hurried out into the drying yard the three rats stood on the doorstep, Brother Brokenbiscuit talking earnestly and waving his arms. He was still talking as Gracie undid the clothesline and Alf carried one end of it over the wall to the waiting Marcus and Gubble.

  It was only as Gracie was climbing out of sight that Brokenbiscuit finished his story and Doily was finally able to speak. “Sproutie! Our Loobly be at queenly palace now,” she said. “And I be so sadly without. . . . Shall us go too?”

  Sprout pulled at his whiskers. “It’s a long way.”

  A tear rolled down Doily’s face. “But we is lonely.” She gave Sprout a sideways look. “Loobly did leave her shoe. Will be missing he, like we be missing she.”

  Sprout straightened his shoulders. “We’ll take Loobly her shoe,” he said. “Brother Brokenbiscuit, will you help us? Loobly’ll make sure no harm comes to us.”

  Brokenbiscuit began to tremble, but he nodded.

  “Us be adventuring,” Doily announced happily, and the three rats scampered back into the washhouse.

  The shards of glass on the top of the wall did not improve the state of Gracie’s pajamas. Halfway down the washing line, she suddenly wondered if she was dressed the right way to meet a prince — particularly a prince she quite liked. Or, if she was honest, liked quite a lot. She was saved from any further thought by the line’s snapping, and she fell the last couple of yards. She landed on top of Gubble, who grunted happily as he helped her to her feet.

  Marcus smiled. “Hear you were kidnapped,” he said cheerfully. “Nothing like that ever happens to me. You do have the very best adventures, Gracie Gillypot.”

  Gracie smiled back. “If you say so. Erm . . . thanks for rescuing me.”

  “And now, back to the Less Enchanted Forest!” Alf squeaked. “Time to go home!”

  “Just a minute, Alf.” Gracie turned to Marcus. “The rats —” She saw Marcus’s startled look and went on, “Erm . . . Someone in the orphanage just told me Queen Bluebell’s in trouble and that something terrible’s happening at the palace. Have you heard anything?”

  “ ’Scuse me!” Alf was flittering in circles, trying to catch Gracie and Marcus’s attention. “ ’Scuse me — we ought to get going.”

  Marcus was thinking about what Gracie was saying. “Haven’t heard a thing. All fine as far as I know. One Declaration Ball to take place tonight, complete with long, boring speeches; long, boring announcements; and twirly-whirly dances. Oh, did I tell you you’re invited? If you want to come, that is.”

  “Really?” Gracie’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve never been to a ball. It might be fun . . . and if there is any trouble, we could warn everyone.”

  “That’s true.” Marcus grinned.

  “You ought to go home, Miss Gracie, you really ought.” Alf was twittering faster and faster. An inspiration struck him. “I mean, you can’t go to the ball in pajamas, can you?”

  This was so undeniably true that Gracie stopped smiling. “You’re right,” she said. “I ought to go home —”

  But Marcus intervened. “No! Let’s go to Wadingburn! We can’t miss out on an adventure. We’ll have to go to Gorebreath first — I’ve got to get changed — but that’ll be fine, because you can borrow a dress or something, and we’ll go to the ball together! I can’t wait. . . . Let’s get going!”

  Alf gave a despairing squeak. “You can’t! Uncle Marlon said! You’ve got to go home! He said —”

  “Change of plan, kiddo.”

  “Uncle Marlon!” Alf gasped and collapsed in a small untidy heap on the edge of the road.

  Gracie rushed to pick him up, and he lay in the palm of her hand with his eyes shut. “Is he all right?” Gracie asked anxiously. “Should I get him some water?”

  Marlon flew around Marcus and Gracie and settled on Glee’s saddle. “Kid’ll be fine. Overacting.”

  Alf opened a reproachful eye. “I’m worn out! I tried and tried to make them go home! But you just said —”

  “Change of plan.” Marlon sounded unusually excited, and both Gracie and Marcus looked at him in surprise. “We’re off to the palace instead.”

  Gracie noticed Marlon’s expression. “Have you heard something? Is it about Queen Bluebell?”

  “Unk.” Gubble raised a fist.

  Marlon nodded. “Big trouble.” He paused for dramatic effect. “There’s a witch, and she’s got her peepers fixed on Wadingburn Palace.”

  “A witch?” Marcus looked disappointed. “Is that all? You don’t need to worry about the Wadingburn witches. They’re a joke. They —”

  “Nah. Different type. She’s into Deep Magic. We’ve gotta flush her out before she takes over. She’s aiming to be queen.”

  Gracie felt a cold shiver run up and down her spine. “Deep Magic. I was supposed to be looking for it. . . . It was on the web.”

  Marlon shifted from one foot to another. “Gotta talk business, kiddo. The crones say it’s up to you. You and the other Trueheart — the Ancient says you can pull it off if you get together. When the witch makes her takeover bid, you ’n’ Loobly can score. The witch’ll go down.”

  “Just a minute.” Gracie was trying hard to understand what Marlon was saying. “Are you saying you’ve seen the crones? Did you see Auntie Edna? What did she say?”

  “Just told ya,” Marlon said impatiently. “Two Truehearts — side by side. Powerful stuff!”

  Butterflies began to dance in Gracie’s stomach. “You mean . . . you mean Auntie Edna thinks Loobly and I can fight this Deep Magic?”

  “You can do it, kiddo.”

  “I do hope I can,” Gracie said, and she had to try hard to stop her voice from shaking.

  Marcus grinned at her. “Hey,” he said, “it’s an adventure! Come on, Gracie Gillypot! We’ll go to Gorebreath and get ready, and then we’ll go to Queen Bluebell the Twenty-eighth’s Declaration Ball. You can meet up with Loobly, and the witch’ll explode or whatever, and it’ll all end happily ever after.” He banged Gracie on the back enthusiastically. “Good plan or what? And maybe you’ll be declared the new queen!”

  “Urk.” Gubble suddenly grunted. “Gubble plan too. Gubble stay here.”

  “What?” Gracie and Marcus looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

  Gubble folded his arms, and a grim expression spread across his flat green face. “Wait for man.” He pointed toward the orphanage. “If man chase Gracie, Gubble BITE!”

  “Hurrah!” Alf cheered loudly. “You show him, Mr. Gubble!”

  “I don’t think —” Gracie began, but Marlon interrupted.

  “Excellento!”

  Marcus nodded. �
��You know what? That could work — if Gubble’s sure that’s what he wants to do. It’ll be miles quicker if it’s just me and Gracie; after all, we’ve got to get all the way to Gorebreath and back. But it’s not far from here to Wadingburn; Gubble can meet us there.”

  “Urk!” There was no doubt that Gubble was sure.

  Gracie was still not convinced. “But what about the dogs?”

  “Gubble bite. Then dogs do what Gubble says,” Gubble informed her, and there was a look in his little piggy eyes that made Gracie decide not to argue anymore.

  She turned to Marlon instead. “Is there time for us to go to Gorebreath? Shouldn’t we go to Wadingburn Palace straightaway?”

  Marlon considered this idea. “The witch won’t show her cards till tonight. Get there too early, and you could blow it. Need to play it cool, kiddo.”

  “OK,” Gracie said, but she sounded anxious.

  “Don’t worry, kid.” Marlon winked reassuringly. “I’ll see ya there! Oh — almost forgot.” He fished under his wing, produced the white peacock feather, and handed it to Marcus. “See you at Wadingburn. Ciao!” And he was off and away before the startled prince could offer a word of thanks.

  Prince Arioso of Gorebreath was striding to and fro in a state of agitation. He had eaten two breakfasts, one as himself, and the other in the role of Marcus, and it had not gone well. He had forgotten that Marcus always talked with his mouth full and slopped his tea, and both King Frank and Queen Mildred had begun by commenting on his much-improved table manners and ended by being suspicious. He had had to upset the teapot in order to escape detection, and he felt cheated. And now the time was passing, and there was still no sign of his brother — and he had no idea what he should do. The royal coach was leaving for Wadingburn in not much more than an hour, and if Marcus wasn’t safely inside, Arry was certain his mother would have hysterics and his father would probably call out the army.

  He went to look out the window for the fiftieth time — and froze. At the far end of the drive that swept up to the Royal Front Door was . . . Arry screwed up his eyes to see better. “That’s Marcus’s pony,” he thought, “but there’s a girl riding it, and she’s wearing . . . pajamas! And there’s Marcus — whatever is he up to? Oh — he’s going to the stables.” Arry watched Marcus turn off the driveway and waited anxiously to see what would happen next.