She looks at me and smiles again. “No, my dear, I am well. I’ve been waiting for you, it seems. I knew I was waiting for someone. I’m glad it was you.” She raises a shaking hand to her neck and unties a ribbon, which was hidden beneath her collar, and lifts whatever it is free. A heavy brass key, just a simple affair, really, dangles from the ribbon. She holds it out to me and I reflexively take it, and she folds her shaking hands delicately over mine.
“May this key unlock your heart’s desire,” she says, her voice faint.
I stare down at our clasped hands. The key is warm in my palm. Too warm. The room sways a bit; it’s as though I’m on a boat on a rough sea. Behind me I hear something—a voice, I think, but it sounds very distant. Honey. It’s Honeyrose, saying something.Sayingno. No. Why would she say no?Drop it, she says. What am I meant to drop?Don’t touch her. Don’t touch whom? Oh, the old woman. She is drooping over our clasped hands now. Perhaps she’s fallen asleep. It is still only very early, isn’t it? Yesterday was very busy. I feel quite tired myself, really.
Something inside me lurches unpleasantly, and the room begins to spin. I try to reach out, to touch the old woman, to make sure she’s well, given that we seem to be in the midst of some sort of earthquake. Had Honey said anything about earthquakes in Little Pepperidge? Funny; I thought they afflicted only the south coast. We’re north, I think. North. Sheep. Barley. Gullies. No earthquakes.
I rock on my knees, the key still in one hand, heavy and solid. An anchor while the room sways around me. The books will start to fall from the shelves soon, surely. There are so many books here; we could be buried. The old woman could be seriously injured if a bookcase were to collapse on her. But no, she’s an orc. Beulah Bonecrusher. You can drop a mountain on an orc, they say, and only succeed in annoying them.
No, Beulah was someone else.
I put my free hand to my forehead to feel for a temperature. Perhaps I’ve taken ill. The tea. It was so bitter. Perhaps it had gone off. I must tell Honey. The toadstone didn’t work. I must tell Honey.
I’m so tired. The room—it’s still swaying. I feel sick.
The room goes dark.
Chapter 4
“Wake up,” someone says. The voice is sharp, authoritative, exasperated. It’s not my mother or my sister, the people who are usually annoyed with me.Honey, I think. Only Honeyrose can sound that irritated with me.
I open my eyes. It takes me a moment to figure out what I’m looking at. A ceiling, I believe. And faces. I don’t recognize most of them. I close my eyes.
“No you don’t, Your Highness,” the voice says again.
“Honey,” I say, but my voice is hardly more than a whisper.
“Can you sit up?” The voice is kindly, and not Honey’s. Honey often sounds so annoyed with me. I don’t blame her.
I probably can sit up. I don’t want to. I push myself upright, feel hands on my shoulders, helping me. I open my eyes again. Honey’s face swims into view. She’s kneeling in front of me. It seems there are others nearby, too, faces that are only vaguely familiar. The Lord Mayor. Someone else from yesterday. Someone else.
“Honey,” I say again, though my voice is little more than a croak. “I think the old woman must have poisoned me.”
“Worse than that,” Honey says, her voice grim.
What’s worse than being poisoned? Well, maybe being poisonedsuccessfully. I’m still alive, it would seem. Though I feel awful.
“Worse,” I say, trying to force enough into my voice that the word sounds like a question.
“You’ve been cursed.” Honey’s voice is dark, final.
“Oh, damn,” I say. I am not meant to swear; I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve sworn in my adult life. But these are trying times. “Damn,” I say again. Why haven’t I sworn more? It feels nice. “Damn.”
Curses are one of the worst things that can happen to a royal. Obviously there areworsethings, but curses are right up there: They’re difficult to avoid and very challenging to reverse, and can upset…well, everything. They’re the main reason I travel everywhere with Honeyrose, and I’m not allowed to handle money. Curses are old magic.Reallyold. Nearly the oldest, it’s said. Certain items are conducive to curses, some incredibly so. Small items with both practical and symbolic value. Coins, for example. Rings. Keys…keys. I groan. Thekey. The old woman handed me akey. And I justtook it.
Of course, the words she’d spoken…they didn’t sound much like a curse. I’ve been hexed before—little things, like an endlessly runny nose (my sister’s best friend, annoyed that I pestered them to be included in their games when I was younger), green fingernails (this one, we think, was the product of a dare between two high-spirited witches), and pimples on my back (my sister’s friend again). But none of them sounded like…what the old woman had said to me. And none of them felt like…likethis. Because this is acurse.
“The key,” I whisper.
“Obviously,” Honeyrose says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling my knees up to my chin. At least I still seem to have knees and a chin. I haven’t been turned into a slug or something.
There’s a long silence.
“Do we know what…what the curse is?” I finally say.
“Not precisely,” Honeyrose says. “But whatever it is, it seems you can’t leave.”
