Free Garden Princess by Kristin Kladstrup Page A

the remains of it. Adela’s empty stomach tightened at the sight of roasts with meat still hanging from the bones, half-eaten loaves of bread, plates of cheese and fruit, trays of cakes and tarts laid out on a long table covered with a white cloth. She seized a loaf of bread, tore off a piece, and stuffed it in her mouth. She bit into an apple, and the taste of its juice made her thirsty. She grabbed a glass pitcher full of water and drank her fill. She was just reaching for what looked like a cherry tart when she heard voices. By now, hiding when she didn’t know what was coming had become instinctive: Adela grabbed the tart and ducked under the table.
    A door in the corner of the room opened. Adela stuffed the tart into her mouth. She could see two pairs of feet (black leather shoes with gold buckles, red leather shoes with silver buckles) walking toward the table. Something clattered above her, and she could hear what sounded like dishes being loaded onto a tray.
    “I get to wash,” said a man’s voice.
    “You go right ahead,” said another man. “Lady Hortensia said
I
was to dry. She told me she thinks drying is far more important than washing.”
    There was a brief silence. Even from under the table, Adela could tell it was a stony one. And then, “I don’t believe you! She never said any such thing!” exclaimed the first man. By now, Adela had figured out that he was the one with the black shoes.
    “She did!” said the man with the red shoes. “She said if I dried the dishes and polished the silver, I could sit beside her at supper tonight.”
    “That’s not fair!”
    “She said I could hold her hand!” The man with the red shoes sounded smug.
    “But
I
want to polish the silver!
I
want to hold her hand!”
    “Sorry!” The man with red shoes didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “But it does seem as if it’s
me
she loves.”
    There was a choked sound. Adela made a face. It sounded like the man with the black shoes was crying! And now the man with the red shoes was sniggering! They’re being as ridiculous as Garth, she thought.
    As ridiculous as Garth . . .
Adela recalled the portrait dusters, staring up at Hortensia as they cleaned the same spot over and over. She recalled the young man asleep in the drawing room, moaning
Oh, my love!
And now these two idiots . . .
    Was it possible that Hortensia’s servants were under the same spell as Garth?
    The last bit of tart slid down her throat. She felt less hungry now. In fact, she felt rather sick to her stomach.
    They
are
under a spell, thought Adela. They are, and this is real, and I’m not imagining any of it. Hortensia
is
a witch!
    What,
she wondered, do I do now?

Not long after the roof was off his nest, Krazo received a summons from Hortensia. “Come! I’m in the garden!” she called, using magic to reach his mind. Krazo found the intrusion unpleasant, like having an itch in his brain. The only way to get rid of the itch was to submit.
    In the garden
meant under the rose tree, and it was there that Krazo headed. But as he flew over the garden, he saw something that made him turn in a wide circle: the gardener from yesterday’s party was pushing a wheelbarrow down one of the paths. Where had that come from? Krazo wondered, even as he saw a familiar shape poking out of the wheelbarrow. Shovel, he thought.
    He would have dropped down for a closer look if Hortensia hadn’t sent another needle-like zap of magic through his brain. He straightened his course, heading for the rose tree. He spiraled down to the ground beside Hortensia’s couch and landed (not by accident) on the very spot where her treasure lay buried.
    “You certainly took your time,” said Hortensia.
    Krazo looked up. “Good morning, my lady. You look lovely today.” He had no idea whether she looked lovely or not, but he knew from long experience that it was best to flatter his mistress. He saw that she was wearing a triple strand of pearls this morning. They were whiter