The Bag of Bones Read online

  “Stop!” Gracie came running out of the crowd. “Stop! There is an heir — there is! And I know where!” She rushed to the birthday cake and wrenched away the top layer, revealing the hollow interior.

  For a long, long moment, nothing happened, and then Loobly’s pale face emerged. Slowly, as the watching audience held its breath, she stood up and, with Gracie’s help, climbed out to stand by Queen Bluebell’s throne. When she saw the sea of staring faces, she went pink, and brushed at her grubby apron. “Loobly dirty,” she said apologetically.

  “No,” Gracie said, and she turned to the astonished Queen Bluebell. “Don’t you see? Loobly dirty. Seventeen years ago this girl was left on the orphanage steps in a basket with nothing but a shoe — but she’d been taught her name. Loobly Dirty. Bluebell the Thirtieth. Here is the shoe, Your Majesty.” Gracie pulled the shoe from her pocket and laid it on the table. “And this is your granddaughter, Bluebell.”

  “Not so fast, young lady,” Truda’s lips were drawn back in an ugly snarl. “Not so fast! I’ve not come this far to be stopped by the likes of you and your fairy stories.” She held the bag of bones high above her head and waved it at the doors and windows of the Royal State Room. Purple stars flew in all directions, and Truda chanted, “Open the doors! Open the windows! Let the rats run in! Open the doors!”

  The royal visitors, transfixed by fear and incredulity, gasped and whispered and clutched at one another as four more witches rose up, seemingly from nowhere. They moved to the doors, and they moved to the windows, and they opened them wide.

  Loobly screamed, “Aunty Levangeline! Aunty Levangeline! Look! My ratty — he no picklified no more. Look!” She brought out a rat from her pocket and held him up . . . and the incoming sea of rats stopped.

  They stopped, and they stared, and they shook their heads in disbelief. “Brother Burwash!” they whispered. “Brother Burwash!”

  The rat opened his eyes, shook his head, and slipped out of Loobly’s arms to the back of the throne. Then he spoke. “Listen here, guys. This won’t do. Won’t do at all. The young lady’s done a lot for me, and I don’t want you spoiling her day. Seems as if she’s something special, so I’d like you to just run away and —”

  “No! No! NO! NO!” Truda raged, and she took her bag of bones and tore it open. Flurries of purple powder swirled into the air, spiraled into eddies, twisted into strange shapes of grinning imps and dancing demons and roaring dragons, while the kings and queens and princes and princesses cowered down, whimpering and moaning . . . and then it was gone. Nothing was left but a cloud of the palest blue butter­flies, which flittered this way and that before settling on Loobly’s arms and shoulders and dress, so that she had every appearance of being dressed in shimmering blue satin. Truda Hangnail, clutching at the throne, gave a feeble moan and began to shrink. Down and down and down she went, smaller and smaller and smaller . . . until she was the size of a rat. Then a mouse. Then a beetle. Then . . . she was gone.

  “Wow!” breathed Gracie. “WOW!”

  Brother Burwash, his dignity a little impaired by the butterfly sitting on his head, marched briskly toward the goggling rats. “Come along, guys,” he said briskly. “Don’t want to be intrusive, do we? Think the young lady’ll be OK now.” He turned and made Loobly a deep bow. “Any time I can be of service, miss, just call me. Brother Burwash, leader of the rats. And I’ll make sure you’re never bothered by us again, miss. We’ll be out of sight. Rat’s honor!” And with a cheery whistle, he marched his army away.

  There was a long silence, broken at last by Queen Bluebell. “Goodness gracious me.” Her voice shook, and she pulled a large handkerchief out of a capacious pocket and wiped her eyes. “Goodness me.” She picked up the shoe and put it down again. “It’s the mate to the shoe that Vincent came with. Bella’s shoe. Bluebell, my dear, I’m so very glad to meet you. Welcome home.”

  Loobly looked at her grandmother in wonder. “You truly be my grandma?”

  “I truly am,” Queen Bluebell said, tears running down her cheeks. “I very truly am. Might . . . might you feel able to give your grandma a hug?”

  As Loobly was swept into Queen Bluebell’s arms, there was a loud and happy sigh from the watching crowd, followed by massive applause.

  “It’s a real happy-ever-after,” said a small voice in Gracie’s ear.

  “Alf!” she said, startled. “Where have you been?”

  “Unc says I’m his true successor,” the little bat announced proudly. “Look who I’ve brought here.” He waved a small wing. The double doors behind the throne burst open once more, and the dumbfounded guests were treated to the sight of a squat green troll hauling a sullen Buckleup Brandersby behind him.

  “Bad man,” Gubble announced.

  “It’s a troll!” Prince Vincent shrieked. “Call the guard!”

  “Absolutely not.” Marcus stepped forward as Gracie ran to Gubble’s side. “This is the man in charge of the orphanage where Loobly was brought up. This is the man who kept her in a washhouse. . . .”

  There was no need for Marcus to explain any more. As Loobly screamed and hid behind Queen Bluebell, the queen held up her hand. “Take the horrible man away,” she ordered. “He will be dealt with later.” She sank back onto her throne, holding Loobly tightly as Buckleup Brandersby was pried from Gubble’s unwilling grasp. “My poor child. My poor child.”

  But Loobly was smiling. “Look!” she said. “Look! Is orphans!”

  And it was true. Spilling through the doors were the orphans, led by Letty. “Hi, Loo,” she said, and grinned. “We came to see you! The troll said there was a party. Said we should come.”

  Queen Bluebell rose to her feet. “If you are friends of my granddaughter, you are all most welcome,” she said. “And you will continue to be welcome. My granddaughter will have a great deal to learn, and it would, I am sure, be a comfort to her to have you here with her.”

  “ ’Scuse me,” said the smallest orphan, “but does that mean we can eat that cake?”

  “The cake and much, much more,” Queen Bluebell told him, and with a loud yelp of joy the smallest orphan hurled himself into the middle of the icing.

  Loobly tugged at her grandmother’s sleeve. “Is to truly stay here?” she asked.

  “Truly is, my dear,” Queen Bluebell told her.

  Loobly’s smile filled the room. “Is good,” she said happily.

  Queen Bluebell’s guests were mopping their brows and readjusting their crowns as they were marshaled away from the State Room and into the banqueting hall. The orphans were systematically destroying the birthday cake, and it was felt they were best left to get on with it. Plates of healthier and more substantial food were being organized, but for the time being, cake was what they wanted. Gubble was supervising them, aided by Alf and the witches of Wadingburn, with the exception of Mrs. Cringe, who had tiptoed away unseen. Evangeline Droop, who was suffering from a shockingly bad headache, had decided she would leave trying to make sense of all that had happened until another day.

  “But perhaps we could assist with the education of these dear children,” Ms. Scurrilous suggested.

  “Work experience!” Mrs. Prag agreed.

  “The preparation of creams and soothing herbs,” said Mrs. Vibble. “So very useful.”

  “We’ll think about it,” Evangeline said.

  The kings and queens were also trying to make sense of what had happened.

  “Must have been some kind of play,” said one loud voice.

  “Of course!” said another, with evident relief. “Of course it was!”

  “Splendid stuff, Bluebell old girl!” King Frank marched across and shook the queen’s hand. “Never seen anything like it in my life! Good show! Best ever!”

  “And such a sweet way to introduce your granddaughter,” Queen Mildred said with a sigh. She smiled at Loobly, who was holding Queen Bluebell’s hand. “You must come and visit us very soon.”

  “We’ll be delighted,” Queen Bluebell told he
r. “And I’d be most grateful if you could put me in touch with that excellent tutor you had for your boys. Professor Scallio, was it?”

  “Of course,” Queen Mildred said with a certain doubt in her voice. “Erm . . . you do know his sister is one of the Ancient Crones?”

  “And none the worse for that,” Queen Bluebell boomed. “Which reminds me. Where’s Gracie Gillypot? Good girl, Gracie. Very good girl. In fact”— she leaned toward Queen Mildred and lowered her voice to a low rumble —“she was the one I’d chosen as my successor. I like her style, and your boy likes her too, doesn’t he? Still, things have turned out differently. And she’d probably have hated it. Do help yourself to the chocolate muffins. Delicious, so Vincent tells me.”

  Gracie Gillypot was not in the banqueting room. Neither was she in the ballroom, where Prince Arioso, an expression of heavenly bliss on his face, was dancing cheek to cheek with Nina-Rose. From time to time the white peacock feather in her hair tickled his nose and made him sneeze, and then Nina-Rose would give him an adoring look and hand him her minute lace handkerchief.

  Nor was she in the kitchen, where Prince Vincent was grumpily eating sausage rolls. “A sister,” he muttered. “What’ll I do with a sister? She looks as if a puff of wind’d blow her away, and I suppose I’ll be expected to explain what’s what. Teach her how to behave. Show her the ropes and stuff . . . Hmm.” He reached for another sausage roll and sat up straighter. “I suppose I could start with royal etiquette and stuff like that. And it does mean there’ll be someone my age around when Grandmother gets in one of her bossy moods. . . . Hmm . . .” He got off the draining board and smoothed his hair. “Maybe it won’t be so bad after all. I’ll go and see how she’s getting on.”

  As Vincent left the kitchen, there was a rustling from under the dresser. “He’s gone,” Bodalisk announced. “Coast’s clear. Come on, you guys. You deserve a feast.” He crept out, followed by Doily, Sprout, and Brother Brokenbiscuit. “Here.” He pushed a golden crust of pastry toward Doily, but she shook her head.

  “Will us see our Loobly soon?” she asked plaintively.

  “Our Loobly’s going to be a queen,” Sprout said gently. “She won’t have time for the likes of us, Doily.”

  Doily sniffed. “But I do so be missing her.”

  Bodalisk gave her a sympathetic look. “Know how you feel, doll. Lost my one true love, I have. Gorgeous, with wonderful whiskers — and now she’s five foot eleven, and she’ll never look at me again. Still . . . life has to go on.”

  “Shh! There’s a Large One coming!” Brokenbiscuit scuttled back under the dresser, but Doily stayed where she was, her whiskers trembling with excitement.

  “Is my Loobly!” she whispered, and a moment later Loobly, towing Queen Bluebell behind her like a small skiff towing a battle cruiser, came into the kitchen.

  “Here I was working,” she explained — and then she saw the rats.

  The next few minutes left Queen Bluebell bewildered as Loobly cooed and kissed and hugged and cooed again. At the end of it, the Queen asked, somewhat faintly, “Do you have many friends who are rats, my dear?”

  “Only mostly,” Loobly rocked Doily in her arms. “Ratties are good and kind to Loobly. More kindly than Large Ones. . . . But you be nicely Large One, Grandma.”

  “Harrumph.” The queen shook her head. “Poor child. Poor child. You’d better bring them back with you. Our guests will be wondering where we be. I mean, are. And I still haven’t found Gracie Gillypot and that prince of hers. Owe her a lot, from all that I’ve heard this evening.”

  But Gracie Gillypot was sitting on the front doorstep of Wadingburn Palace, her blue velvet skirts spread out around her.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to dance?” Marcus asked. “I really don’t mind if you’d like to.”

  Gracie grinned. “I don’t think I’d exactly fit in with all those princesses. They . . . they’re . . .”

  “Silly.” Marcus nodded. “You’re absolutely right.” He leaned back to look up at the stars, and something in his pocket rustled. “Hey! I’d almost forgotten. I brought my map with me. I was going to ask you. There’s a strange little place called Flailing, and it’s near where you live. Near the House of the Ancient Crones. Prof. Scallio told me once you can sometimes see dwarfs there, if you’re very, very quiet. Would you like to have a look?”

  “WOW!” Gracie’s eyes shone. “Sounds good to me!”

  The prince stood up and stretched. “I’m an idiot. If I’d brought Glee with me, we could have gone now.”

  Gracie sighed. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could go now? We could go home, have a cup of tea, and tell the crones what’s happened. They must be worrying. And then tomorrow maybe we could look for the dwarves.”

  “You can go right away, kiddo.” Marlon swooped over their heads, followed by Alf. “Nothing to stop you.”

  “What? How?” Gracie and Marcus stared at him.

  Marlon pointed. “The path . . . see? You did good, see? House of the Ancient Crones — it’s a Trueheart House. Like the path.”

  And as Marcus and Gracie watched, their eyes growing rounder and rounder, the path came rippling up to tickle their toes.

  “Happly after,” said a familiar voice, and Gubble came stumping around the corner. With a grunt he climbed on board and patted the path invitingly. “You too. Happly after.”

  In the House of the Ancient Crones, the Ancient One watched the faint remains of the stain on the web fade into nothingness. “It’s gone,” she said.

  “Well done, Gracie Gillypot.” Elsie yawned. “Shall I make some tea?”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” said the wisest of the Ancient Crones. “I’ve a feeling in my bones that we’re about to have company. Is there any cake?”

  Find out how Gracie, Marcus, Marlon, and Gubble met in the First Tale from the Five Kingdoms!

  The Robe of Skulls

  The First Tale from

  the Five Kingdoms

  Vivian French

  “Lady Lamorna, an evil sorceress . . . wants a gown ‘beyond all compare.’ . . . Only the Ancient Crones can produce such a garment. . . . Unfortunately, the Crones charge dearly for their work, and Lady Lamorna has neither gold nor silver. So she devises a clever scheme: find all the princes in the land, turn them into frogs, and then ransom [them] to their parents. . . . An adventure where everyone gets his, her, or its due, where goodness is rewarded and evil punished oh-so-wickedly.” — The Horn Book

  What happens when a lonely troll king decides

  he’d like a princess of his very own?

  The Heart of Glass

  The Third Tale from the Five Kingdoms

  Vivian French

  “Silence!” King Thab waved an imperious arm. “Write, Spittle.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty.” The goblin’s pencil squeaked furiously on the slate. “Erm . . . how about, ‘Thab, King of All Trolls, presents his compliments to Master Amplethumb, and is delighted and ekstatik’”— Spittle paused and crossed the last word out —“’Is delighted and happy to agree to his request for assistance in the matter of extracting gold from the valleys of Flailing. Thab, King of All Trolls, is willing to offer . . .’” Spittle paused again and put down his pencil. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but how many trolls will you be sending?”

  Thab turned to the dwarf. “How many? He ask.”

  “One or two would be sufficient, sir,” the dwarf told him, “trolls being that much bigger than us dwarves. And stronger,” he added with a sideways glance at Mullius.

  “That’s right. That was in Master Amplethumb’s letter, Your Majesty.” The goblin picked up the parchment. “Erm . . . here we are. ‘The pressures upon us are immense owing to the forthcoming wedding in the Kingdom of Dreghorn. All our able-bodied dwarves are already actively employed in the extraction of gold, but I fear the order will not be ready in time unless you are able to assist us. One, or at most two, of your strongest trolls would be invaluable.’
”

  The king nodded. “Yes. Write, ‘Agree. One troll. One troll to dig.’”

  Spittle’s pencil began to squeak again.

  He put down his pencil, but the king snatched it up and thrust it back into his hand. “Write more, Spittle. Exchange! Payment! Write, ‘Troll dig for dwarves. Exchange pretty princess.’ Pretty for me — for King Thab!” Exhausted by this effort, the king lay back in his throne and closed his eyes, thus missing the expression of total horror on the dwarf’s face.

  Spittle gave a sly chuckle and went on: “‘In exchange for this act of generosity, King Thab will expect delivery of a princess —’”

  “Pretty!” interrupted the king without opening his eyes.

  “So sorry, Your Majesty. I was about to add that requirement. ‘One PRETTY princess, to keep His Most Royal Majesty company.’”

  Bestius stood first on one foot, then on the other, as Spittle went on writing. How could he promise a princess in return for a troll? “Your Majesty,” he began, “there . . . there might be a bit of a problem.”

  The king of the trolls frowned. “No problem. No. No pretty, no troll.”

  “Ah.” Bestius pulled at his beard. Judging by King Thab’s expression, the matter was best left alone for the moment. He made a decision. Master Amplethumb had asked for a troll; Master Amplethumb could solve any ensuing difficulties. Bowing, he said, “Agreed.”

  When a pair of evil twins threatens the Five Kingdoms with Total Oblivion, Gracie Gillypot and her intrepid friends must save the day.

  The Flight of Dragons

  The Fourth Tale from the Five Kingdoms