‘Well, you’re never here, Tiffany. You’re supposed to be our witch, be here for us. But you’re off to the Ramtops almost every other day.’ He straightened up, a metaphorical broomstick up his spine. He needed to sound official, not wheedle. ‘I am your baron,’ he said, ‘and I ask that you look to your responsibilities, do your duty.’
‘Do my duty?’ Tiffany echoed weakly. What did he think she had been doing over the past few weeks, bandaging legs and treating sores, birthing babies and taking pain away from those nearing the end of their days, and visiting the old folk and keeping an eye on the babies, and . . . yes, cutting toenails! What had Roland been doing? Hosting dinner parties? Admiring Letitia’s attempts at watercolours? It would be far better if he could have offered Letitia’s help. For Roland knew, just as Tiffany did, that Letitia had the natural abilities of a witch. She could be useful on the Chalk.
And then she thought, that was mean. For she knew that Letitia visited every new baby. Talked to the women.
But she was angry with Roland.
‘I shall think on what you say,’ she said with an exaggerated politeness that made him blush even more.
With the imaginary broomstick still rigidly attached to his back, Roland strode over to his horse, remounted and rode off.
Well, I did try, he told himself. But he couldn’t help but feel that he had made a bit of a mess of it.
There had been pandemonium when the Queen and her followers got back through the stone circle.
The glittering Fairyland palace was gone and the council was taking place in a clearing in the depths of what might have been a magical wood if the Queen had bothered to put in the requisite details such as butterflies, daisies and toadstools. Even now, trees were frantically scribbling in branches and twigs as she passed, and parts of the ground seemed to be having a little race to create blades of grass on either side of her.
She was furious. A goblin – a piece of filth – had dared to attack one of her lords. And he had fallen in front of that goblin, a goblin so fleet of mucky foot as he had run from her anger. But although it had been Peaseblossom who had fallen – and secretly the Queen was pleased that it had been him and not another of her lords – she knew that her elves blamed her for the shame. The failure. For she had led the raiding party, taken the goblin with them.
Despite her orders, Peaseblossom was still with them. He’d been pale and staggering at first, but his glamour was almost back to its normal strength now the terrible iron had been cleansed from his body. Behind him were ranked her guards and she could feel defiance flowing from them.
She glared at Peaseblossom with disdain, and said to one of the guards, ‘Take that weakling away. Get him out of my sight!’
But the guard did not move. Instead, he smiled insolently, and fingered the crossbow in his hands, casually nocking a feathered arrow and daring to point it in her direction.
‘My lady,’ Peaseblossom said with thinly veiled scorn, ‘we are getting lost. Our hold on the human world is weak. Even the goblins are laughing at us now. Why do we only learn from one of them that the humans have been encircling their world with iron? Why haven’t you done anything to stop this? Why haven’t we been out on the hunts? Why have you not allowed us to be true elves? It’s not like the old times.’
His glamour was nearly powerful enough again to match hers, but his will was even stronger. How did I not fully see this? the Queen thought, though her face showed nothing of what she was feeling. Is he daring to challenge me? I am the Queen. The King may be in another world, lolling in his barrow, luxuriating in his pleasures, but I am still his queen. There is always a queen to rule. Never a lord. She pulled herself up to her full height and glared at her treacherous lord, willing her glamour to its full power.
But there was a chorus of agreement with Peaseblossom from several elves. It was indeed a rare day when an elf agreed with another elf – disagreement was a far more normal state of being – but the mass of warriors seemed to be drawing closer together right now, their cold eyes examining their queen. Pitiless. Dangerous. Nasty.
The Queen looked at each one before turning back to Peaseblossom. ‘You little squib,’ she hissed. ‘I could put out your eyes in a moment.’
‘Oh yes, madam,’ Peaseblossom continued as the pressure built. ‘And who lets the Feegles run amok? Now that the old crone is gone, the witches are weak. As is the gateway between our worlds. But you, despite all this, you seem still afraid of the Aching girl. She nearly killed you before by all accounts.’
‘She did not,’ said the Queen.
But the other elves were looking at her now, looking at her like a cat looks at its prey . . . And he spoke true. Tiffany Aching had defeated her. The Queen felt her glamour flickering, fading.
‘You are weak, madam,’ said Peaseblossom.