“Of course she won’t,” retorted the mother.
But down in the crowd of ghosts, the ghost of Queen Datchet III did hear. It is a fact that those who have been a little paranoid in Life develop a wonderful ability in ghosthood to hear their name mentioned many miles away. But Jenna heard nothing—neither the mother in the attic nor the sound she longed to hear—the ther-umm . . . ther-umm . . . ther-umm of the Dragon Boat’s slow but steady heartbeat, pulsing through the stone and the soles of her feet as it always had—until the last few days. Jenna willed herself to feel that unmistakable thump. She thought of the Dragon Boat lying beneath the path, immured in her lapis lazuli Dragon House. She remembered the last time she had seen the Dragon Boat. In her mind’s eye she could still see the great green dragon head resting on the marble walkway that ran along both sides of the barrel-vaulted Dragon House, and the thick dragon tail coiled like a massive green rope, laid on the marble ledge that ran along the back wall. Jenna remembered how perfect the boat had looked—so beautifully repaired by Jannit Maarten—and yet how limp and lifeless the dragon had been.
And then Jenna thought about how Aunt Zelda had still not let her have the Transubstantiate Triple bowls so that she could use the Revive she had gotten from Broda Pye so long ago. A wave of exasperation washed over her, but Jenna pushed the bad feelings aside, took a deep breath and emptied her mind of everything—everything except what she could feel through the soles of her feet. She stood stone-still, silent, immersed, but once again, she could feel nothing at all.
In the attic room the three watchers fell silent. The grandmother knew what the Princess was waiting for. She had not lived above the Dragon House without thinking about the beautiful Dragon that lay beneath and, especially on long, cold winter nights, wondering if the creature was still alive. And that was exactly what Jenna was wondering now.
The ice numbed Jenna’s feet but still she waited for a small ther-umm of hope. A sudden gust of bitter wind blew a flurry of snow off the battlements; it sprinkled her bluish toes with icy white frosting and Jenna realized that her feet had gone numb. There was no hope of feeling anything now. The wind—or something—brought tears to her eyes. Slowly she kneeled down, pulled on her furry socks and her brown leather boots. She stood up, irresolute for a moment and then, watched by the family far above, and the ghosts of fifty-four Queens, Princesses and Princesses-in-Waiting, she began to retrace her snowy footsteps.
The small boy watched Jenna go. “She looks sad, Gramma,” he whispered.
The grandmother watched Jenna walking slowly back along the path, her red cloak a splash of color against the monochrome whites and grays of the snow-covered walls and the dark Moat and wintry trees beyond.
“Yes, she does,” the grandmother agreed. “It is not good for the Princess to be so sad.”
7
FALSE TRAILS
Marcia watched Terry Tarsal wrap up her new shoes in his special By Appointment to the ExtraOrdinary Wizard gold tissue paper.
“Thank you, Terry,” she said. “You’ve done a lovely job.”
Terry glowed with pride. It wasn’t often Marcia handed out praise. “It’s been a real pleasure, Madam Marcia; it’s always nice to do something special. I think the glitter really adds something to them. And I just adore the little bit of blue fur peeking out at the top. Inspired.” Terry sighed as he put the neatly wrapped shoes into a smart gold box. “These have been a lifesaver. I’ve had twenty-nine pairs of brown galoshes to waterproof for the Ramblings Roof Gardening Society. Highly depressing.”
“I can imagine,” said Marcia. “Nothing worse than galoshes.”
“Especially brown ones,” said Terry, tying his best bow around the box with the dark blue ribbon he kept for special customers. He handed the package to Marcia, who took it excitedly. “That will be half a crown, please.”
“Goodness!” Marcia looked shocked but she handed over the exact money. It was worth it.
Terry quickly put the money in the cash register before Marcia had the chance to change her mind. “Going somewhere nice this evening?”
Marcia was. Milo Banda had asked her to accompany him to a new show at the Little Theater in the Ramblings, but she wasn’t about to let Terry know. “That’s for me to know and you to wonder, Mr. Tarsal,” she replied. Feeling flustered at the thought of the evening, Marcia hurried off. The door threw itself open and she rushed out.
Splash!
Terry Tarsal went pale. He knew exactly what had happened. It was the wretched kids next door. They’d done it again. They had moved the puddle cover. Terry rushed outside to find his worst nightmare. His most prestigious customer was up to her neck in icy, muddy water right outside his shop. She didn’t look too pleased about it.
