The Flight of Dragons (10 page)

P
rincess Fedora, much fortified by an evening with her mother, Queen Kesta of Dreghorn — and even more fortified by having had the forethought to pack herself a large picnic breakfast before leaving the comforts of her old home — was ready to hold her interviews. Her mother had promised a return visit in a day or two, and Fedora was determined to have everything in order by the time she arrived. She had put out her best gold pen and a pad of crisp white paper, sharpened several pencils, tied her hair back with an efficient and business-like clip, insisted on Tertius hauling a very heavy desk into the palace dining room, settled herself behind it, decided it was too big and made him exchange it for a smaller desk from her own rooms, loosened her hair again, and finally settled herself in position.
The Handbook of Palace Management
was prominently displayed beside her.

Tertius, still panting from his exertions, had gone for a walk. Fedora’s picnic breakfast had been for one person only, and he was brooding heavily on her selfishness as he strode about the grounds. King Horace had been seen some while earlier making a beeline for Mrs. Basket’s cottage, and Tertius longed to join him, but his loyalty to Fedora held him back. “Although it would jolly well serve her right if I had breakfast there,” he muttered. “And if I don’t get any lunch, I’m jolly well going to ask Mrs. Basket to come back to the palace. I’m going to take a stand; I really am. Father will back me up, and Feddy will just have to put up with it. So there.” And he marched on, feeling unusually forceful and determined.

His young wife, equally determined to sort out the domestic affairs of the palace, rang the little bell on her desk. After rather too long a time for her liking, a somewhat flustered Saturday Mousewater appeared.

“You’ll have to come quicker than that, Saturday,” Fedora told her. “And where’s your clean apron?”

Saturday bobbed a curtsy. “If you please, ma’am, I was a-making the beds before lighting the fires and washing the floors and tidying up in the kitchen when you did call.”

“Oh.” The princess gave a gracious nod. “I see. Erm . . . yes. Very well. Could you ask the first applicants to come in, please? Ask them to form an orderly line, and remind them not to make too much noise while they’re waiting.”

Saturday’s mouth opened and closed. “Applicants, miss — beg pardon — ma’am?”

Fedora began to tap on the desk with her gold pen. “The people who have come for the jobs, Saturday. The new maidservants. The cooks.”

Saturday pushed her mobcap back on her head so she could scratch her ear. “If you please, ma’am, there ain’t anyone.”

“What? Are you sure? Isn’t there
anybody
waiting out there?”

Fedora suddenly sounded very much younger, and Saturday, to her surprise, found herself feeling sorry for the princess. “There’s nobody at all, miss. Was you expecting them all to be at the back door, like? Or might some have come to the front?”

“I suppose they might.” Fedora put her pen down. “Maybe it’s too early in the morning. What time do people usually come to interviews?”

Saturday bobbed another curtsy. “I’m sure as I can’t really say, miss. But I’ll go and have another look just in case I missed someone, like.” She hurried away, leaving the young homemaker to have a quick check in her
Handbook
. Sadly, there was no entry entitled “What to do if nobody answers your advertisement.”

I’m absolutely
not
going to ask Mrs. Basket to come back,
Fedora told herself.
I suppose I don’t mind if the footmen do . . . but not that horrid old woman.

Saturday, meanwhile, was at the back door. In the distance she could just make out two skinny figures; they appeared to be slapping at each other rather than coming toward the palace, and she shut the door again. A quick peek out of the front door gave a better result. An enormous figure dressed all in white was — what
was
it doing? Saturday screwed up her eyes to try and make it out. The figure wasn’t walking. It seemed to be . . .
billowing
was the only word Saturday could think of. Billowing up the drive. It was carrying a substantial carpetbag under one arm, and tucked under the other was the advertisement that Bobby had been sent to pin up in the marketplace. Sitting on one huge shoulder was a crow: balding, broken-feathered, and peering about with a greedy stare. Saturday, spellbound, waited on the doorstep.

As the figure came closer, it became clear that it was a woman, a woman easily as wide as she was tall. Not only was she dressed in white, but her face was white — white with the pallid look and texture of well-kneaded dough. Her long, thin hair was also white, and when she turned her head and looked at Saturday from under white lashes, even her eyes appeared to have no color.

“I’ve come to cook.” The woman’s oddly monotonous voice sounded as if she had stolen it from someone else and was not yet used to it. “Where is the kitchen?”

Saturday swallowed hard. Every bit of her wanted to run away and hide in a cupboard until this woman and her hideous bird had gone, but she forced herself to say, “If you please, ma’am, Princess Fedora is in the dining room. She be interviewing there, like. If you tells me your name, I’ll let her know you’re here.”

“Tell her she’ll find Mercy Grinder in the kitchen,” the woman said. “I am answering her advertisement for a cook.” The parchment was waved in front of Saturday’s nose. “Now, show me the way.”

Saturday looked around to see if Bobby was anywhere in sight, but there was no sign of him.

Mercy Grinder, with all the assurance of a large ship under full sail, moved herself and her luggage into the hallway with a smoothness that made Saturday wonder if she was on wheels rather than legs. “Show me the way,” Mercy repeated. “Show me —”

“Follow me, ma’am.” Saturday gave up. She was only too well aware that Princess Fedora would be angry, but Mercy Grinder was as impossible to argue with as a mountain. “Follow me.” Saturday set off through a maze of marble corridors, finally arriving at a green- baize door. Opening this, she pointed to the flight of stairs that led down to the butler’s pantry, the storerooms, and the kitchen. “The kitchen’s at the bottom.”

“What do they like to eat?”

Saturday was a nervous girl; she found it all too easy to imagine creaking doors and rustles in the darkness hiding ghouls and ghosties that might spring out on her. Mercy Grinder’s voice was the opposite of scary in that it had the same regular metallic quality as the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, but nevertheless cold shivers ran up and down Saturday’s spine as she tried to find an answer. “Erm . . .” Her thoughts circled wildly. “Erm . . . the princess is very fond of chocolate cake. With chocolate-cream icing.”

“Chocolate cake. I will make chocolate cake with chocolate-cream icing.” And Mercy Grinder descended the stairs without appearing to touch a single step.

For the first time since she had come to the palace, Saturday Mousewater wondered about running away. If she had not had a proud mother who thought she was the luckiest girl in the world to live in a palace, she might have given in to the urge. As it was, she took a deep breath and went to tell Fedora that she, Saturday Mousewater, the most unimportant person in the palace, had inadvertently employed a cook. What was worse, she was a cook who had the most unpleasant and disreputable-looking bird Saturday had ever seen as a pet.

As she approached the dining room, her heart thumping and her knees trembling, Saturday met Bobby coming out. “Did you see them?” he whispered, his eyes wide. “It’s those twins — the ones I saw before! They were knocking on the back door, and I’ve just brought them in, and they look weirder than ever! And they want to come and work here!”

Saturday, relieved to be saved from certain dismissal for another few minutes, looked doubtful. “Surely ’tisn’t possible. The princess is that fussy — she’ll not take anyone if they be weird, like.”

Bobby winked at her, then bent down so his eye was level with the keyhole. “I can see them in there!” he reported. “Princess F. is reading them a list of what they’ve got to do! That’ll be from that book of hers . . . sounds like there’s pages ’n’ pages of it. Oh!” An expression of intense excitement came over his face, and he watched carefully for several seconds before standing up and shaking his head in astonishment. “Blow me down and blow me over!”

“What is it?” Saturday asked. “Tell me! What is it?”

“Prince T. He must have come in through the other door.” Bobby rubbed his eyes. “Shaking his head and looking cross as two sticks, he was, so guess what? She gets all uppity doo-dah and tells them —” Bobby came to an abrupt stop, grabbed Saturday’s hand, and dragged her into hiding behind a substantial marble column. “Shh!” he whispered in her ear. “They’re coming!”

Saturday held her breath as the dining-room door opened and the twins came sailing out. Smirking, they gave each other a thumbs-up.

“Easy-peasy!” Conducta boasted.

Globula held up the princess’s gold pen. “And look what I’ve got!” Conducta fished under her skirt and produced Fedora’s diamond hair clip. “Like taking candy from a kid!”

Bobby and Saturday watched openmouthed as the twins hopped and skipped their way to the back door and slammed it shut behind them.

P
rofessor Scallio was tidying up the library, and Marlon was keeping him company. The professor had benefited from a good night’s sleep and was feeling much more positive; Marlon, on the other hand, was stiff after his long flights and decidedly cranky.

“Marcus and Gracie should be here by teatime, with any luck,” the professor said as he heaved a pile of books off the floor and onto the table he used as a desk. “And hopefully they’ll bring us good news.”

“Or bad.” Marlon yawned. “And that’s supposing old Unc actually knows anything.”

“What?” The professor paused, book in hand. “I thought he knew all there was to know about dragons.”

Marlon stretched his wings and winced. “So he says. Of course, he could be fibbing.”

Professor Scallio put his book down. “Marlon, what do you mean? Have we sent Gracie and Marcus off on a wild-goose chase?”

“Nah.” The bat shrugged, then sniggered. “Don’t you mean wild-dragon chase?”

“This isn’t a joke, Marlon.” The professor pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Oh dear, oh dear. There haven’t been any reports of sightings since yesterday morning; I’d almost convinced myself everything was going to be all right. But now you tell me Great-Uncle Alvin is unreliable! I wonder if I should go see the Ancient One. But I suspect she doesn’t know any more than we do . . . oh dearie, dearie me!”

Marlon realized he had gone too far. “Sorry, Prof. Didn’t mean to upset you. Old war wounds playing up a bit, dontcha know. No worries — no worries at all. Great-Uncle Alvin’ll put them straight. Born above the dragon lofts, he was — he and all his brothers and sisters. Dragons in the blood, you could say.” He coughed. “You’ve missed a book, by the way.”

The professor inspected his informant somewhat doubtfully. Marlon was not above twisting the truth if he felt it was convenient, but on this occasion he sounded genuine. “Well, I hope you’re right. Now, what was that about my missing one?”