Read Online Marianne, the Matchbox, and the Malachite Mouse by Sheri S. Tepper - Free Book Online

from her. It was evident to her at last and all at once that the Grisls who came into Thrumm House did indeed go – go as the pathetic wild grisling had gone before the gardener’s boy – to a prearranged and ugly defeat, despurred, and with their fangs undoubtedly suppressed with thube salve. Defenseless. Offenseless. Unable to do battle.
    But why? Why? Why had this been done in the past? Was it being planned again? Why had an employee from the Palace been sent to … to observe.
    ‘Nitwit,’ said the voice from inside her somewhere. ‘Are you not a Grisl of Royal Blood? And do not Heiresses Presumptive have to emerge victorious from open combat with at least one heiress of Royal Blood?’ The voice had more than a hint of annoyance in it, as of an elder chastising a child guilty of an ignorance almost insolent in its totality.
    Nonetheless, the voice was right. It all came back to her now. Those forbidden books in the root cellar. The system of Royal Challenge. And everyone knew, even Buttercup – for it was talked about constantly, by everyone – that the Old Queen was coming very close to the end of her reign, the end of her very long life.
    So, Buttercup hissed to herself, feeling a coldness on one foot, raising it to find it wet with something … wet with venom dripping from the slender, hollow fang growing on her Van Hoost chin. So, they intended her to be a victim, did they. They intended to cut off her spurs. They thought the thube salve had suppressed the venom sacks in her chin. They thought she would be helpless. Incapable. They intended her to challenge the Heiress Presumptive, and they intended for the heiress to kill her.
    She could imagine how they planned to do it. They would transport her to the Palace, fit her out with a pair of flexible false spurs, drug her into some kind of hypnotized trance, and then let the heiress make away with her.
    Buttercup shut the various drawers she had opened, unknotted the rope from the balcony, and went back to her bed. No matter when they planned, they would do nothing until the Old Queen died or was very close to death. She was sure of it. When the time came for the Heiress Presumptive to confront a challenger, they would want the challenger to look as normal as possible. This could only be achieved if they let the challenger alone until the last possible moment.
    Well then, they had taught her deportment and imperturbability. Now was certainly the time to use it.
    Some months passed. Occasionally, Buttercup would take the matchbox from the small drawer and look at it, wondering why it was important. Several times she tried to open it, but found it proof against her curiosity. Occasionally she would query that intrusive inner voice to learn whether some other intelligence knew something that would help her. The voice was stubbornly silent.
    And then, in the middle of the night, in springtime, as the year was wakening from chill, everyone in Thrumm House was roused by the tolling of the village bell. From a distance, across a fold of hills, another bell gave answer, and from other valleys far and near, more bells rang out. There could be only one reason for such a clamor. The Old Queen was dead.
    Buttercup had barely time to get out of bed and hide herself behind the door. Fribberle entered with the sound of the final knell, Mr Thrumm close behind him. Fribberle carried a saw in one hand and a hypodermic syringe in the other. Buttercup did not bother to ask him what it contained. That he carried a saw was evidence enough of his evil intent.
    She had been practicing the leap and jab she had seen the Grisls using when she watched through the knothole. Fribberle, who was the larger of the two males, caught the first dose, impeccably delivered at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Her fang slid into and out of his flesh like a skewer into and out of a succulent roast. Thrumm saw it, but he did not react swiftly enough to save himself. Though she missed the exact