The Robe of Skulls (10 page)

“And what do you think you’re doing, laddie?” the soldier asked.

Marcus was too breathless to answer at once. He glanced around and saw to his complete astonishment that the celebration party was continuing exactly as before. Crowds of Dreghornians were happily strolling among the tents and stalls, helping themselves from tables groaning under the weight of assorted pies and puddings. Various kings and queens were sitting in the shade of the Royal Pavilion’s golden canopy, sipping cooling drinks from silver cups. There was no sign of the frog girl.

“I asked you a question, laddie,” the soldier said. “What do you think you’re doing? Scruffy little urchin —”

Marcus shut his eyes, yelled, and head-butted the soldier in the stomach as hard as he could. The soldier grunted and collapsed. Marcus seized his opportunity, tore past him, and ran in between the tents until he found his way to the rose garden. Ignoring the shouts behind him, he rushed into the rose arbor . . . and found a small green frog sitting mournfully on a damp patch on the stone floor.

“Ribbit,” it said. “Ribbit!”

By the time Gracie had circled the house for the fourth time, she was getting cross. She was tired, she was hungry, and most of all she was parched with thirst. She stamped her foot sharply, and the path twitched back. “Path!” Gracie said. “Take me to the front door
this minute
! Or . . . or I’ll tell the Ancient Crones about you!”

Gracie had no idea if her threat would have any effect, but the path immediately straightened itself and headed toward a small crooked side door covered in ivy.

“
Good
path,” Gracie said kindly, and tried not to notice when the path attempted to trip her up at the very last moment. She knocked, and the door opened with a friendly squeak. Cautiously, Gracie stepped inside and looked around. She was standing in a long narrow corridor with at least two dozen doors at the far end. Some were tall and some were tiny, and various messages were tacked or pinned on each.

Gracie hurried to look at the nearest door and was alarmed to read,
DO NOT ENTER UNLESS ABLE TO SWIM.
The next offered,
WATER WINGS: THREE ACORNS AN HOUR.
The acorns had been half crossed out, and a scratchy pen had added,
PEPPERCORNS PREFERRED, BUT NOT ESSENTIAL.

Gracie moved farther down the corridor and read,
HEDGEHOGS ONLY
, followed by
WEB BUSINESS AND INQUIRIES
. “Does that mean inquiries about webs?” She wondered aloud. “Or general inquiries? Oh, dear. I do wish there was someone to ask . . .”

At once a quill pen dripping with violet ink whizzed over her shoulder and attacked the notice fiercely.
WEB BUSINESS AND WEB INQUIRIES ONLY!
it wrote, and Gracie sighed. The pen spun around and added a tiny
PS:
IF YOU WANT TEA, TRY DOOR SEVENTEEN
. As soon as it had finished, it vanished.

Gracie cheered up at once. She called, “Thank you!” down the empty corridor and began counting doors. “Hmm,” she said. “Which end should I begin at?”

The pen reappeared, scratched
FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!
on top of
HEDGEHOGS ONLY
, dropped a large violet blob of ink on Gracie’s arm, and disappeared again.

Gracie found the seventeenth door and knocked. A crackly voice called, “Come in!” and she turned the handle, her heart pitter-pattering in her chest.

Whatever Gracie had expected, it wasn’t what she saw. The room was enormous, with a low, heavily beamed ceiling. It was very warm but very dark; a roaring fire was the only source of light, and as the flames danced and flickered, long dark shadows leaped up and down the walls. Two huge looms dominated the room, and beside each sat an old, old woman; one was tall and skinny with a wig of wild red curls, and the other short and squat with coal-black hair. The tall one was weaving something so fine as to be almost invisible; spidery silver threads hung in the air, and only the steady
clack! clack!
of the shuttles passing to and fro convinced Gracie that there was anything there at all. On the other loom was a spectacular length of the blackest velvet. In the center, between the looms, was a massive armchair that at first glance looked as if it were covered in fur, but as Gracie’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw a third, even older woman almost entirely covered in cats. She appeared to be asleep, for the one eye in the center of her forehead was firmly closed, and every so often a long echoing snore floated across the room.

The two weavers froze as they saw Gracie.

The silence seemed endless.

Even the snoring stopped.

There was an ominous rumbling, and a silver thread snapped with a sharp
ping!

“The loom, sister, the loom!” shrieked the red-haired crone, and as the
clack! clack!
began once more, she waved a skinny arm in the air and let out a long banshee wail. “Ayoooooo . . . Here she comes . . . the one for whom we wait!”

“Ayoooooo . . . Gracie Gillypot . . . the one for whom we wait!” droned the other.

“Waiting for you to release us from our labors!” chanted the first. “You will take your place at the loom, so once more we may go back into the world . . .”

“You will take your place at the loom . . .” echoed the other.

Gracie stared at the two old women, trying to fight a tide of rising panic. What did they mean,
take your place at the loom?
“Excuse me,” she faltered, “but I think there must be some mistake . . .”

“No, no, no, no!” the red-haired woman intoned. “We are the Ancient Crones, and our task is to spin the web of power . . .”

“The web of power . . .” echoed the other.

“And we may not leave this place until another comes willingly through the door . . .”

“Willingly through the door . . .”

“To weave the web forever and hereafter . . .”

“Ever and hereafter . . .”

Gracie swallowed hard. She was hearing a horrid little voice in her head. Marlon’s voice. “Never been too certain of the state of the old heart. Dodgy deals are my business. . . .”

Had Marlon brought her here to turn her into what was, in fact, a slave? Weaving the web forever and hereafter didn’t sound much like a nine-to-five job. And what else had he said? Oh, yes. “Change of employment. New line.
Different boss
 . . .” Gracie pulled at her pigtails. He had also said that she should trust him . . . but trust him to do what, exactly?

Gracie sighed and, being a practical sort of girl, decided to deal with her most immediate problem. “I don’t suppose I could have a drink, could I?” she asked. “The purple pen told me I could have a cup of tea if I came into room seventeen, and this
is
room seventeen, isn’t it? I’m quite happy to make it myself, if you show me where the kettle is. Perhaps you’d all like a cup too?”

The effect of Gracie’s suggestion was electrifying. The oldest crone sat bolt upright, opened a brilliant blue eye, and shooed the cats away. “Scat!” she said sharply. “Scat!” She turned to Gracie. “Pull the curtains, child, and let’s have a proper look at you. There’s a cord beside you. And you, Elsie”— she waved an arm at the red-haired woman —“go out and put the kettle on. And bring some cake. The child’s probably hungry as well as thirsty!”

Gracie found the cord and pulled. Black velvet curtains flew back from tall windows all around the room, and sunlight poured in. Blinking hard, she moved forward as the oldest crone beckoned her to her side.

“Come along, come along! I won’t hurt you. I’m sorry if you were frightened, but we have to keep up appearances. Couldn’t be certain Marlon was right about you, you see — sometimes that bat makes terrible errors of judgment. And who would take us seriously if they knew what we were really like? I’m Edna, by the way. You can call me Auntie. The redhead’s Elsie — she wears a wig. Bald as an egg underneath. The other one’s Val. She doesn’t say much. Been here thirty years, and she’s pining for the outside world. Silly, if you ask me, but there you are. She’s served her term and more besides. Of course, everyone outside knows us as the Youngest, the Oldest, and the Ancient One.
Much
more impressive than Val, Elsie, and Edna, don’t you think?”

Gracie could only nod.

“So, Marlon brought you here,” Edna went on. “Do you know why?”

Gracie shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

Edna’s bright blue eye studied Gracie appraisingly. “Hmm. He’s up to something. We asked him to find a replacement for Val, but you’re much too young. And besides, you’re a Trueheart. Working on the web wouldn’t teach you anything. You’ve had a hard life, have you?”

Gracie nodded again. “I was living with my stepfather and my stepsister,” she said. “They weren’t — they weren’t always very nice to me.”

“Marlon told us as much,” Edna said. “He says your stepsister’s a werewoman.”

“Foyce?” Gracie’s eyes opened wide. “She’s a
what
?”

“Didn’t you know? Her mother was a werewolf. Good at running, is she?”

“Yes,” Gracie said.

“Unusually good sense of smell? Excellent hearing?”

Gracie paused. When she came to think about it, it was true. “Yes,” she said.

“There you are, then,” Edna said. “Ah, here’s Elsie. About time, too. Have your tea and cake, child. Afterward you can have a hot bath. Val’s due for a rest, so she’ll show you to your room. We’ll chat again later.”

Gracie took her mug of tea most gratefully. “Thank you
so
much,” she said. “Erm. Could I ask you something, er . . . Auntie Edna?”

“Of course,” Edna said, “if you’re quick. I’m about to go back to sleep.”

“Is it true?” Gracie asked. “Do you really have to keep the looms working all the time?”

“The loom that spins the web must never stop. We use the other for orders. Clothes and so on.” Edna looked pleased with herself. “We charge a fortune. Keeps us in cake and other necessities.”

“What happens if it does stop?” Gracie wanted to know.

Edna frowned. “We don’t exactly know,” she said slowly. “We daren’t risk finding out. There’s Magic outside, and it’s been there much longer than I’ve been here. You must have noticed the Unwilling Bushes, and the Bogs of Unimaginable Depths, and the Mires of Sinking Sand . . .”

“I certainly found the bushes,” Gracie said with feeling, “but I didn’t see any mires or bogs.”

“Goodness! You
are
a Trueheart!” Edna said. “Well done! But those things are there to protect the web, so the web
must
be powerful — so we need to keep weaving. If you ask me, I think the web acts as a filter. It helps to keep good and evil in balance. And it’s been throwing a dark shadow just the last few days, so there must be something wicked stirring out there that we need to keep an eye on.”

Gracie didn’t understand. “I think I’ll ask you to explain again after my bath,” she said, and yawned. “I’m so sorry — but we were walking a very long way. . . .”

“You poor dear,” Edna said. “Of course you need a rest. Elsie’s back, so Val will show you around. See you later on. . . .”

And as Edna settled herself under her cats, Gracie, yawning fit to burst, followed Val out of door seventeen, along the corridor, and into
HEDGEHOGS ONLY
. There she found a ramshackle four-poster bed, a tin bath full of steaming hot water, and a heap of fluffy white towels.