A Bridge Too Few Read online

  The trollop Penelope took to her work with a more sedate and orderly manner. She greeted each bowling ball as it arrived.

  “Oh, good day, Mrs Pink Eight-Pounder. ‘ow are you today? ‘Aving a good game, are you? An’ ‘ow is young Orange Six-Pounder? Lovely!”

  At the furthest end, the troll mechanic Grak-Ak was taking a different approach to his job. Motes of green light danced around him as he corralled and bullied fairy sprites into helping him, assigning each to a separate pin. Where he had found fairy sprites in suburban Sheffield was uncertain but Epiphany wasn’t about to ask.

  “They seem happy,” she noted.

  “As I say,” said Mr Clegg. “Best workforce I’ve ever had. Now, how are you fixed for this weekend? I know a lovely pub over in Castleton and the landlord is a personal friend of mine.”

  “Another time,” she said. “My mind is somewhat focussed on matters in hand. The funeral.”

  “Aye, of course,” he said and gave her a little formal bow like a German aristocrat. “Another time, lass.”

  Professor Smutcombe was outside, leaning casually against the door of his Hillman Imp. He had always been a suit-wearing man, ranging from tweedy formality to raffish cravat-sporting delinquent, but in a dark funereal suit he look like a looming spectre, a modern-day grim reaper.

  “And?” he said.

  She nodded. “All is well.”

  “And the hopelessly besotted Mr Clegg?”

  “Well,” she said, unwilling to begrudge him more than that.

  He snorted as Epiphany got into the passenger seat.

  “That French restaurant he was raving about…”

  “Not interested, Westerby.”

  “A good friend on the council tells me it is going to fail its next hygiene inspection.”

  “You’re being petty.”

  He grumbled but was otherwise silent. Smutcombe started the engine. Epiphany raised herself and slapped the seat beneath her a few times to dislodge any pixies that might try to poke or prod her fundament on the journey to the funeral.

  The funeral went as well as could be expected. It was a funeral after all.

  Farewells were said, eulogies were read and tears were shed. Epiphany was not one of life’s weepers (although she appreciated the cathartic value of a good old sob) but she let a tear or two fall at the sight of Elsa Frinton’s pathetically light coffin. Professor Smutcombe complained about the quality of the pork pies and the quantity of wine at the wake but he only did that to fill the long silences.

  He was kind enough to drop Epiphany at home and did not pester when she did not invite him in. Epiphany’s end terrace was still a frightful mess. Floorboards were torn up, the plumbing had been eviscerated, furniture had been overturned or worse. The city’s trolls had spent less than a day in her home and left it almost uninhabitable. Although the sweeping up and repairs had begun, they were by no means finished.

  The garden too was far from its beautiful self. The troll family’s tumbledown shack had been removed and placed to one side but the damage to the garden was still fully evident. The borders had been trampled, the lawn turned over here and there and the trellis by the back fence had been knocked over so it now formed a wonky parallelogram instead of a symmetrical rectangle.

  Epiphany made herself a cup of tea and sat on the bench by the back door, waiting for evening twilight.

  “The sharpened blade knows it will need sharpening again,” said Pak Choi, leaning against the rose trellis and worsening its wonkiness.

  “Yes, enough of that nonsense,” said Epiphany. “We need to talk.”

  The scruffy fairy, clothed in the rags of others, danced across the lawn. “You have work to do,” he said.

  “One of us does,” she agreed.

  He prodded a plum on the tree and at that light touch it fell to the floor.

  “Harvest your plums, woman, for you have a task to complete.”

  “Do I?” said Epiphany innocently.

  “You do. You made a pact with the fairy godmother. Carabosse has seven siblings, seven brothers and sisters in chains. You must free them.”

  “And these siblings?” mused Epiphany. “Are they good fairies?”

  “The best,” grinned Pak Choi. “None stronger, none fiercer.”

  “Are they kind?”

  “To those who deserve kindness.”

  “And who are they to judge?”

  “They are the Fair Folk,” said Pak Choi.

  Epiphany could well picture them. Fairies — beautiful and terrible and powerful — and in chains for good reason.

  “Having second thoughts?” said Pak Choi. He licked his teeth and tittered.

  Epiphany shook her head. “When the harvest is done, I will deal with them,” she said.

  Pak Choi was infuriated by her calm manner. “Deal with them?” he snarled. He grabbed the plum tree by the trunk and shook it. Plums rained down onto the lawn until only a couple of the most tenacious plums clung to the branch. “You will not deal with them! The deal is done! Your harvest is nearly finished and you will free them!”

  “Um, no,” said Epiphany, standing. “The agreement was that until my harvest is in, you will be my ‘most delightful and obedient fairy servant’. That is what Carabosse said.”

  “You cannot leave them withering on the bough!” he hissed and raised his hand, tempted to rip the final fruit down.

  “Those?” she said. “I don’t care for the plums one jot, Pak Choi. I told Carabosse I had things I had planted and produce to harvest and I have as long as is needed to gather the next crop from my garden.”

  Pak Choi whirled around, taking in the whole garden. He sprang from one border to the next from flower beds to ornamental hedges, looking for the anything that might be considered ‘produce’. Only when he had exhausted himself, did she step forward and show him the small hole she had created in the lawn moments before entering Faerie. With wide, malevolent eyes, he peered at the circle of dirt.

  “You planted something,” he whispered.

  She flicked her fingers against the limp leaf of pak choi that stuck out of his pocket. “Your friend’s calling card.”

  “Oaknut?” he said.

  Epiphany smiled. She wasn’t generally given to cruel smiles but it had been a long and emotional day.

  “I’m not sure how long it takes an oak tree to grow big enough to produce acorns,” she said. “But that is the harvest I will wait for.”

  “But…” Pak Choi staggered back. He raised his foot to stamp on the ground and destroy the sleeping acorn below the surface but he held back, possibly fearing he would violate the terms of the contract. “But…”

  “Now,” said Epiphany, “I believe the words were delightful and obedient fairy servant.”

  Pak Choi stood perfectly still and fizzed with fury.

  “A delightful and obedient fairy servant would, I should think, pull himself together and stop being such a drama queen,” she told him.

  The fairy choked down his rage, forced a servile smile to his face and gave her an awkward bow of compliance.

  “You will find me a kind and generous mistress,” said Epiphany.

  “How gracious of you,” Pak Choi muttered with difficulty, as though the words were being dragged out of his throat.

  “Having said that, you have got quite a job ahead of you. Floorboards to replace, rooms to repaint, fixtures and fittings to mend. Oh, and how are you with plumbing?”

  Pak Choi opened his mouth to make a denial and then — almost as though his voice box had taken on a life of its own — said, “I will endeavour to learn, mistress.”

  “Jolly good,” she said and sat on the bench once more. “Best be about it then.”

  Pak Choi went indoors to begin the enormous task of restoring the house to its former self. Epiphany leaned back, looked across the garden and watched the sun set.

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  The next few pages will tell you about some of our other books.

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