Free The Robe of Skulls by Vivian French Page A

swelled up to mingle with the bells. Marcus groaned as he hurtled into the graveyard. “They think it’s part of the celebrations! I
have
to get there and tell them. . . . Glee!
Glee!
Where are you?”
    But there was no sign of the pony. Marcus groaned again and hurled himself at the thick holly hedge that separated the churchyard from the Royal Gardens. It was a solid hedge, grown to repel the boldest of intruders, but Marcus was desperate. Scratched and bleeding, he emerged at last on the other side to be greeted by a large soldier with his hands on his hips.
    “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