Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(52)

“Do piss off, then.” She snapped the little brass door shut.

I pulled the bell cord again and gently kicked Bottom awake. “Bottom, why are you locked out?”

The ass-man sputtered and looked around, realizing with some disappointment, it seemed, where he was. “They won’t let us in. No goblins, they said.”

The little brass portal opened. “Pocket!” said Peaseblossom, rather tarted up in her own right. “They painted us and shaved our bits. I hope that goes away at dawn. Methinks climbing trees will be rough with my bits shaved.”

“Let us in, love. We’ve brought the dead goblin Cobweb asked me to bring.” I pointed to the dead goblin, who was still wearing the silver armlet.

“No goblins,” said Peaseblossom. “Eaters of squirrels. Do piss off.” And she snapped shut the little brass door.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I said. “Gritch, do you eat squirrels?”

“Squirrels are delicious,” said the goblin, with enthusiasm I’d thought they reserved for silver. The guards on either side of the door nodded in agreement. “Uh, I am told,” Gritch added, rolling his large yellow eyes. The guards shook their heads, evidently having just remembered that they, too, had never tasted squirrel.

“Ring the fucking bell,” I snapped at the guard beside the cord. To Gritch, I said, “How is it that no one nicked that silver armlet from your mate? May he rest in peace. There must have been a thousand goblins horny for silver in that courtyard.”

“To take silver is forbidden,” said Gritch. “Silver must be given.”

“Do you know who gave that armlet to your mate?”

“A human mortal,” said Gritch. “I don’t know which.”

The little brass door opened. This time it was Cobweb. “What?”

“Cobweb, stop messing about and let us in,” I said.

“That the dead one?”

“This one with the crossbow bolt in his heart and tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth? Why, you know, it could be.”

“Sarcasm will make your willy fall off.”

“Open the door, please, we need to be on our way before dawn.”

“What are the magic words?”

“Oh, do piss off, Cobweb.”

“Correct!” She snapped the portal shut and I heard the iron bolt thrown. The heavy doors opened a crack and Cobweb peeked out. “Just you and the dead goblin. Everyone in here is a bit fragile, it seems. Not sure the sight of Bottom might not send them round the bend. Sorry, mate.”

“Do you have anything to eat?” asked Bottom. “Some dried peas or oats would be lovely.”

“I’ll have Moth bring you something,” said Cobweb. “Now, drag him in.”

I dragged the dead goblin in by the arms and Cobweb closed the door behind me. She was painted up like the others, wide blue brows and shadows around her eyes that almost described a mask, her lips painted lavender, lined in black. She wore a simple, hooded robe of black satin that hung to her knees and she was, of course, barefoot. We had not entered a chamber, but simply an antechamber with another set of heavy doors.

As soon as she bolted the door she turned, jumped into my arms, and ferociously snogged me. “Did you see?” she said, pounding my chest with one hand while keeping the other wrapped around my neck. “Did you see me take the piss out of Oberon? You’re right, Pocket, it was bloody glorious. ‘You live in this palace made of midnight while your queen lives up a fucking tree,’ I told him. Felt finer than a frolic, it did.”

The doors opened behind us and I let Cobweb slide to her feet. Peaseblossom and Moth were manning the double doors and had opened them into an expansive boudoir done up in draperies and cushions of black and gold. The floor, at least, was covered in woven wool rugs of red, yellow, and green amid the black, in the patterns of the Persians. Except for my three traveling companions, I saw no fairies at all.

“I know you’re shit at counting, but I expected—”

“Come on then,” Cobweb called to the empty room. “Come on, he won’t hurt you.” She turned to me and whispered, “I think it’s your black and silver kit has them scared. Give them a bit.”

“Why are we here, Cobweb?”

“Finding the Puck’s killer, I reckon,” said Cobweb. “Make your puppet stick talk. They’ll love that.”

Why not? I thought. Since, apparently, I had relinquished authority to a sometime squirrel. I pulled the puppet Jones from down my back. “Nick of time,” said the puppet Jones. “This newt wouldn’t know magic words if they smacked him on the bum.”

Peaseblossom and Moth—actual magical creatures themselves—giggled, clapped their hands, and jumped with joy at my trifling trick.

I had Jones launch into a solemn hymn from my days at the nunnery, “Sister Lilly Oft Yanks Me Willy”: “Oh, she’s pious as a vicar’s nose.”

The draperies, cushions, and covers began to move, nude and nearly-so fairies emerging from beneath and behind.

“All through vespers, she buffs me hose.”

They gathered around, wide eyed—disturbingly wide eyed—as the puppet sang.

“To fancy a nun, just might seem silly.”

There were, it seemed, a hundred of them, both male and female.