somewhat uncertainly. The audience broke into applause.
The remaining illusion faded, revealing the zombies and people standing throughout the graveyard. Irene’s gaze swept across the crowd. “Mother!” she exclaimed indignantly. “This is your mischief!”
“Refreshments are served in the Castle Roogna ballroom,” Queen Iris said, controlling a catlike smirk. “Come, dears—mustn’t keep the King waiting.”
Dor came out of his trance. “You made King Trent fetch refreshments?”
“Of course not, Dor,” Queen Iris said. “I supervised that chore myself yesterday. My husband refused to participate in this little charade, the spoilsport. But I know he’ll want to congratulate you.”
“He should congratulate
me,
” Irene said. “
I
landed Dor, after all these years.”
“In the whole castle, one honest person,” Dor muttered. But he did not seem unhappy. “I knew the King would not betray me.”
“Well, you’re married now,” Queen Iris said. “At last. Now come on in before the food spoils.”
The zombies stirred. They liked the notion of spoiled food.
Soon all the living people were across the moat, where sleepy moat monsters made only token growls of protest, and inside Castle Roogna, where food and drink had been set out Imbri found herself near the beverage table. Since she did not drink human-style drinks, and did not much care for human-style treats, she was satisfied to watch.
Ichabod, still beside her, felt otherwise. “I love to eat,” he confided. “It is my inane ambition eventually to become obese.” He took a buttercup filled with a sparkling brown liquid. “This looks suitably calorific.” He tilted it to his mouth.
As the liquid passed his lips, Ichabod made a funny little jump. Brown fluid splashed over his face. “I say!” he sputtered. “Why did you do that, mare?”
“Do what?” Imbri projected.
“Kick me!”
“I did not kick you!” she protested.
“I distinctly felt a boot in my posterior!” Then he cocked his head, looking at her feet. “But you don’t wear boots!”
“If I kicked you, you would have a map of the moon on your rump,” Imbri sent.
Ichabod rubbed the affected portion. “True. It must have been an hallucination.” He tipped the remaining liquid to his mouth.
Again he jumped. “Someone
did
kick me!” he exclaimed. “But there was no one to do it”
Imbri got a notion. “Let me sniff your drink,” she sent.
Ichabod held down the cup for her. Imbri sniffed—and felt a slight shove at her tail. “I thought so. This is the rare beverage Boot Rear, distilled from the sap of the shoe-fly tree. It’s the drink that gives you a real kick.”
“Boot Rear,” Ichabod repeated thoughtfully. “I see.” He picked up another cup. “Perhaps this differs. It seems effervescent, but colorless.” He put it cautiously to his lips, paused, and when no suggestion of a kick manifested, gulped it quickly down.
Shining bars formed about him, enclosing him so tightly that he yelped with discomfort. “Let me out!” be cried.
Imbri quickly put a hoof on a nether bar and used her nose to shove the higher bars apart. In a moment Ichabod was able to squeeze out, his suit torn, abrasions on his body.
“I suppose that was the result of the drink, too?” he asked irritably.
Imbri sniffed the empty cup. “Yes. That’s Injure Jail, a concoction of incarcerated water,” she reported.
“I should have guessed.” But the man hadn’t given up. He took a third drink, sipped it with extreme caution, paused, took a deeper sip, waited, and finally swallowed the rest. “This is excellent.”
Then he fidgeted. He reached inside his jacket and drew out a card. “Where did this come from?” He found another up his sleeve, and a third dropped out of his pant leg.
Imbri sniffed the cup. “No wonder. This is Card Hider,” she reported.
“This begins to grow tiresome,” Ichabod said. “Imbri, would you do me the immense favor of locating me
The remaining illusion faded, revealing the zombies and people standing throughout the graveyard. Irene’s gaze swept across the crowd. “Mother!” she exclaimed indignantly. “This is your mischief!”
“Refreshments are served in the Castle Roogna ballroom,” Queen Iris said, controlling a catlike smirk. “Come, dears—mustn’t keep the King waiting.”
Dor came out of his trance. “You made King Trent fetch refreshments?”
“Of course not, Dor,” Queen Iris said. “I supervised that chore myself yesterday. My husband refused to participate in this little charade, the spoilsport. But I know he’ll want to congratulate you.”
“He should congratulate
me,
” Irene said. “
I
landed Dor, after all these years.”
“In the whole castle, one honest person,” Dor muttered. But he did not seem unhappy. “I knew the King would not betray me.”
“Well, you’re married now,” Queen Iris said. “At last. Now come on in before the food spoils.”
The zombies stirred. They liked the notion of spoiled food.
Soon all the living people were across the moat, where sleepy moat monsters made only token growls of protest, and inside Castle Roogna, where food and drink had been set out Imbri found herself near the beverage table. Since she did not drink human-style drinks, and did not much care for human-style treats, she was satisfied to watch.
Ichabod, still beside her, felt otherwise. “I love to eat,” he confided. “It is my inane ambition eventually to become obese.” He took a buttercup filled with a sparkling brown liquid. “This looks suitably calorific.” He tilted it to his mouth.
As the liquid passed his lips, Ichabod made a funny little jump. Brown fluid splashed over his face. “I say!” he sputtered. “Why did you do that, mare?”
“Do what?” Imbri projected.
“Kick me!”
“I did not kick you!” she protested.
“I distinctly felt a boot in my posterior!” Then he cocked his head, looking at her feet. “But you don’t wear boots!”
“If I kicked you, you would have a map of the moon on your rump,” Imbri sent.
Ichabod rubbed the affected portion. “True. It must have been an hallucination.” He tipped the remaining liquid to his mouth.
Again he jumped. “Someone
did
kick me!” he exclaimed. “But there was no one to do it”
Imbri got a notion. “Let me sniff your drink,” she sent.
Ichabod held down the cup for her. Imbri sniffed—and felt a slight shove at her tail. “I thought so. This is the rare beverage Boot Rear, distilled from the sap of the shoe-fly tree. It’s the drink that gives you a real kick.”
“Boot Rear,” Ichabod repeated thoughtfully. “I see.” He picked up another cup. “Perhaps this differs. It seems effervescent, but colorless.” He put it cautiously to his lips, paused, and when no suggestion of a kick manifested, gulped it quickly down.
Shining bars formed about him, enclosing him so tightly that he yelped with discomfort. “Let me out!” be cried.
Imbri quickly put a hoof on a nether bar and used her nose to shove the higher bars apart. In a moment Ichabod was able to squeeze out, his suit torn, abrasions on his body.
“I suppose that was the result of the drink, too?” he asked irritably.
Imbri sniffed the empty cup. “Yes. That’s Injure Jail, a concoction of incarcerated water,” she reported.
“I should have guessed.” But the man hadn’t given up. He took a third drink, sipped it with extreme caution, paused, took a deeper sip, waited, and finally swallowed the rest. “This is excellent.”
Then he fidgeted. He reached inside his jacket and drew out a card. “Where did this come from?” He found another up his sleeve, and a third dropped out of his pant leg.
Imbri sniffed the cup. “No wonder. This is Card Hider,” she reported.
“This begins to grow tiresome,” Ichabod said. “Imbri, would you do me the immense favor of locating me
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