sleep yesterday morning. Lumphead, he had called himself. Lumphead, indeed! A thoroughly nasty bug of a man. Imagine the nerve, asking her to move the castle! Never! She had shouted, outraged at the impudence of the request, though it was the very thing for which she wished. How dare he! Her anger rekindled for an instant as she remembered his effrontery—and how she had reacted instinctively without thinking. Then she smiled, recalling the startled look on Lumphead’s face as she had reached out and touched his nose, and broccoli had sprouted in its place.
It had been worth her little toe.
Bertwold tried hard not to stare at Lumpkin’s nose.
Instead he watched his three sappers wrap burlap around the explosives before carefully packing them on small, two-wheeled carts. Another coiled varying lengths of fuse around his shoulder.
“Ready, sir.”
Bertwold nodded at the fusilier who had addressed him. “Then let’s get on with it.”
“Yes, sir!”
The men lifted the handles to their carts and began jogging along the dirt path towards the castle, the wheels raising small clouds of dust. Ha! Bertwold thought as he watched his men draw closer to the base of the wall. Let them magic their way out of this!
Lady Miranda’s beauty was legendary. At least in her presence.
Studying herself in the mirror, she daubed an exact amount of rouge beneath her eye patch. She frowned, then turned her head so that her face was in profile, her patch blending in with the dramatic shadows and angles of her sculpted features. She had changed into a slinky black velvet number that matched the colour of the patch. Yes , she decided, perhaps I can use it to good effect. The patch certainly added to her air of mystery, making her flawless skin appear even more striking. Picking up a silver-handled brush, she began stroking raven hair that fell to the small of her back. She smiled. Ya still got it, baby , she thought. Then, with just a slight degree of irritation: Lord knows I might need it soon . She sighed. Certainly she’d been careful, very careful, to dole out her magic in small doses over the years, saving it for only the most pressing occasions. Her appearance had, after all, been her saving grace; it was how she’d attracted Poopsie—and his countless predecessors. She’d managed to remain relatively whole while her suitors had whittled themselves down to slivers of flesh to gain her favour. But Poopsie had reached the point where he was becoming more and more reluctant to do so. He, along with his ardour, was thinning out. That’s what had landed them in this cursed mess in the first place.
The mirror chimed, snapping Miranda out of her reverie; its surface shimmered like a windblown lake, distorting her reflection. A moment later, a pasty-faced cherub wearing a headset appeared where her reflection had formerly been. “Ladyship,” it intoned in a thin, reedy voice. “The bugs are restless.” The cherub disappeared and was replaced by a scene outside the castle. Several figures toiled along the road, dragging wooden carts behind them. The view narrowed, drawing in on the men. Visible, some rods behind, and exhorting the men on loudly, was that hideous lumpy fellow whose nose she’d transformed the previous day; and beside him stood another man, a head taller, and broad of shoulder. A breeze flicked his locks of golden hair restlessly in the wind. Miranda ordered her mirror cherub to zoom in.
She sucked in a breath. He was a big fellow. A towering bear of man, arms locked defiantly across a barrel chest, a scowl twisting up his face. And a striking face it was. Eyes grey as sea mist, nose long and straight, cheeks prominent and sculpted like her own. And four, perfect, fully-formed limbs. Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. Why , she wondered with no small amount of bitterness, couldn’t more immortals look like that?
“Milady, the ants draw nigh . . .”
A V creased Miranda’s brow; she shifted her