by ‘Your Farringale?’ I squeaked. ‘The eaten-by-ortherex one?’
Her lips twitched. ‘The very one.’
Right. I needed a moment.
See, visiting Farringale was an eye-opening experience. We went there looking for a cure to a disease that was decimating the surviving Troll Enclaves at the time. We found another disease, or more rightly an infestation of all-devouring parasites known as the ortherex. They had, in effect, eaten the population of Farringale alive.
The buildings were still there; the city still stood. But it was an empty shell — one swarmed over by trillions of the repulsive things.
I reminded myself that we were not being asked to revive Farringale ourselves, only to find the means to do so.
‘So,’ I said, having exchanged a look with Jay. ‘You are hoping that someone on the Fifth Britain knows how to get rid of these ortherex beasties.’
‘That is our hope,’ said Naldran. ‘Our good Alban has already consented to undertake the search. Will you oblige us by joining him?’
‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but surely you have people enough for such a task. Why employ us?’
‘Because,’ said the king, and paused. ‘Because you seem to have a way with these things.’
I could sort of see his point. It was actually Jay who ended up finding the Fifth first, because he had somehow secured the affections of a perambulatory haunted house. And off she had taken him. I’d found him later, by a separate route. We’d learned a lot about the Britains, and subsequently made it home again — avoiding the memory-wiping enchantment that most of our colleagues (and enemies, among Ancestria Magicka) had been subjected to.
We did have a way of landing on our feet.
What’s more, Melmidoc Redclover might even consent to talk to us, and he was the man — sorry, the spriggan — who seemed to know everything.
I looked at Jay again, who stared back, clearly trying to convey something with his eyes.
I had no idea what it was.
‘May we have a moment to confer?’ I said.
Queen Ysurra inclined her head, exquisitely gracious. ‘Please.’
It seemed rude to just walk out, so Jay and I withdrew to a corner.
‘What do you think?’ I asked him.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes? Just yes? No ifs, buts, doubts or worries?’
‘I have some of all of the above, but so what?’
I blinked at him. ‘Are you really Jay?’
‘Every inch of me.’
I stared.
‘Okay, okay. I know we are probably not supposed to go anywhere near the Fifth again. I know that the Ministry would be unhappy with us if they found out. I know there are risks, and rules. But I want to go back. I always wanted to go back.’
‘Me too.’
‘Okay then.’
So that was that. We returned to Their Majesties, and the irritatingly smirking Baron (yes, fine, Alban, I know our answer was entirely predictable), and gave them to understand that we would be eighty shades of delighted to accept their proposal.
Queen Ysurra actually smiled, a real one. ‘How wonderful. If it is agreeable to you, you shall leave in the morning.’
Jay held up a hand. ‘Moment. How are we to get there?’
‘Is your previous means of travel unavailable?’
‘I am not sure. Millie isn’t strong, and she needed a couple of days to recover after the last time.’
‘It is our hope that she can be persuaded to convey the three of you back to the Fifth. If this does not prove to be the case, then an alternative shall be found for you.’
‘Right.’
‘Alban has been given a purse of gold for any and all expenses you will naturally incur on this journey,’ said the queen. ‘I shall further add that we shall be happy to shield you from any… unhappy consequences.’
‘As we have already done, on your behalf,’ put in the king, referring of course to their having hauled the Ministry’s dogs off our backs only a day or two before.
Nice. A reminder that we were already somewhat in their debt — as if we weren’t eager enough to go as it was. ‘Thanks,’ I said, unable to resist the temptation to be a trifle tart.
The Baron tried to smother a laugh, and choked.
‘In the meantime,’ said the queen, shooting an indecipherable look at her co-monarch, ‘the freedom of the Court is yours. In an hour’s time we shall appear in state, as is our custom, and the Court will dine. You are welcome to attend.’
The Baron gave me a discreet thumbs-up: say yes.
‘We’d love to,’ I said, needing no prompting whatsoever. An evening of splendour and feasting, at the High Court of the Trolls? They would have the best cooks in the world. A girl would be mad to refuse.
‘Then we adjourn,’ said the queen, and rose, creaking slightly, from her throne-like chair. ‘It is unlikely we will have leisure to confer any further this evening, but any questions that arise may be put to my secretary. He has been instructed to hold himself at your disposal.’
‘Thank you,’ we said, and set about the business of suitably polite withdrawal.
But the king stopped us. ‘One more thing. Perhaps it need not be said, but this is an assignment of the utmost secrecy. We would beg you to keep the matter entirely to yourselves.’
I couldn’t even tell Val? How unfair! But one could only promise, which we duly did. He is, after all, the king.
After that we were permitted to exit. We gathered in a knot in the hall, Jay and I buzzing with excitement, the Baron all cool composure as usual.
‘I,’ I said in sudden, horrified realisation, ‘have nothing to wear to a state banquet.’
‘I have… something?’ said Jay. ‘I think?’
‘You think?’ echoed the Baron. ‘If you are not sure, then it most certainly will not do. I shall have to come to your joint rescue.’
I beamed at him. Jay might have scowled. ‘The best dress ever?’ I said, breathless with hope.
‘The best, Ves.’
‘I might love you a bit.’
His lovely green eyes twinkled down at me. ‘Let’s hope so.’
And so it was that we were introduced to one of the odder quirks of the Court of Mandridore.
One hour later: what was I wearing? It was not the swishy, silky designer dress of my dreams. Let’s get that out in the open right away.
Instead of an airy dress of fairy-light gossamer, covered in stars and smelling of roses, I was wearing about half my own bodyweight in fabric. Pale gold silk tissue, to be exact. I had a gown with a long bodice and low waist; enormous, glossy sleeves; a skirt so voluminous, I could’ve made a pair of sails from the fabric; and delicate lace all around the wide, rather low-cut neckline. My hair was arranged in a thousand ringlets and I had pearls at my throat. I looked like Suzanna Huygens in the Netscher portrait, only rather golder.
Jay had a spectacular cobalt-blue waistcoat covered with embroidery; an even more spectacular coat of pale velvet; knee-breeches and stockings, heeled shoes, and a frothy cravat. Mercifully he had been spared the wig.
See, the loss of Farringale seems to have sunk deeply into the consciousness of the trolls, at least at the new (relatively speaking) Royal Court. And in honour of what was lost, it is customary for everyone to dress like it’s still about 1657. I didn’t dare ask if they did this all the time.
Accustomed as we are to the freedoms of modern dress, it’s no easy matter to step into the fashions of centuries ago. I felt like a ship in full sail, and approximately as unwieldy. But my desire to punch the Baron somewhere painful soon faded, for once I had got used to the sheer volume of my attire (and the weight of it — oof), I began to enjoy it. There is an unabashed frivolity about long-ago Court dress that’s rather lacking from modern life. Just look at eighteenth-century hair, if you want an example. In what other era could you have hair three feet high, draped in lace and pearls and crowned with an entire (albeit miniature) sailing ship?
By the time Baron Alban joined us in the hall of the king and queen’s mansion, I’d begun to feel quite the princess. He, of course, looked positively princely in crimson velvet, and he’d gone all in on the ribbons.
‘You both look perfect,’ he informed us.
Jay favoured him with a measured, deeply unimpressed look.
I favoured him with a curtsey. A skirt like that just begs to be gracefully swished as one sinks elegantly into courtly obeisance. (Was I enjoying this a bit too much?)
Alban grinned at me. ‘You’re a natural. Come on, or we’ll be late.’
Outside the mansion, there was no sign of Alban’s car. Instead, a pair of coaches had drawn up. They had been plucked straight from a fairy tale, I’d swear it: pale, pretty contraptions, ornately decorated, with sparkling windows and blue velvet inside. Naturally, there were no horses. These were the magickal kind of conveyance.
‘No pumpkin coach?’ I said to the Baron as he led us to the second of the two. He did not open the door for us himself, as there was a liveried footman to do that. Actually, there were four.
‘I tried, but there was a run on them at the last minute and I had to make do with these.’
I shook my head sadly as I got into the coach (utterly gracelessly. I’m not used to being four feet wide from the hip down, and about twice my usual body weight). ‘Everyone expects the pumpkin coach treatment these days.’
‘I blame Disney. Watch your skirt.’ I duly whisked my silken skirts aside as a po-faced footman carefully closed the door on me. Jay joined me on the squishy velvet seat, not nearly so encumbered by his finery as I was by mine. I reflected, not for the first time, on the utter unfairness of historical fashions.
The Baron sat opposite us. ‘Now we wait for Their Majesties,’ he said, glancing out of the window.
‘We’re to arrive with them?’
‘No. We’re to arrive a respectful distance behind them.’
This was better, but not by much. Nor did it make much sense. How were we important enough for such a sign of high favour? They couldn’t be that anxious to please us. If we failed at our appointed task, they had a whole Court full of people who’d fall all over themselves to perform any task Their Majesties might set. Surely some of them had the tools to succeed.
I set this puzzle aside for a little later, for once Their Gracious Majesties had been loaded into their own conveyance and trundled off, our coach began to roll, and I devoted my thoughts to mental preparation for the event that lay ahead.
Uppermost among my reflections: Don’t trip on your skirts when you go in, Ves. Just don’t.
