Free The Flight of Dragons by Vivian French Page B

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.”