Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

King’s story would grow to fill the Nine Worlds, and still it would never quite come to an end. But around her, the bees continued their song, urging her to listen.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she said. “I know you would not break your word. Please, tell me the rest of the story. Did the young man marry the Queen? Did he ever get to be King?”

The Hallowe’en King smiled. “Oh, yes. He did. The Honeycomb Queen fell in love with him, and gave him, as her token, a tiny crystal vial containing the last of the nectar of dreams, brought by the bees from the shore of Dream; precious beyond understanding. And he gave her his heart, his soul, for Love is also a river that runs through Nine Worlds of enchantment.”

The King paused for a moment. To the Barefoot Princess, it almost seemed as if a tear gleamed in his living eye.

“And yes, he did become King,” he went on. “But he became King of the Land of Death; ruling alone, and in bitterness. And the son in whom he had placed his hope grew up to be just like him—cold, treacherous, and arrogant. And he never saw his Queen again, except as the stars look down at the earth; from a great height, and with frozen hearts.”

“Oh,” said the Barefoot Princess. “Is that the end of the story?”

The Hallowe’en King smiled. “Not quite,” he said. “There was a girl, a lovely girl, like summertime and honeycomb. She was the last of the Silken Folk, although her eyes had never known the nectar of the flower of dreams. But she had dreams enough of her own, and courage enough to fill Nine Worlds.”

And at these words, the Hallowe’en King reached inside his silken shirt and brought out a crystal vial.

“This should have gone to my son,” he said, handing it to the Barefoot Princess. “Now I want you to have it instead. A drop in the eyes will show you the Nine Worlds as they really are. A single droplet on the tongue, and you will know what the honeybees know; the darkest mysteries of Dream. Take it, drink, and know what I know—”

And at those words, the Hallowe’en King offered the nectar to the Princess, who opened her mouth to receive it, forgetting, in her eagerness, the rule of never eating or drinking in Hel—

The Engine Driver saw the danger in time. She reached out her hand to take the vial before the Barefoot Princess could drink. But as she did, her fingers touched the skeletal hand of the Hallowe’en King—

The Barefoot Princess gave a cry of dismay. But it was too late—the damage was done. Death’s touch is irreversible. The Engine Driver was bound to stay forever in the Kingdom of Hel—unless she could somehow outrun Death and catch a seat on the Night Train.

For a moment, the Barefoot Princess was frozen with uncertainty. And then, almost without thinking, she reached out and snatched the amber eye of the Hallowe’en King from where it lay on the table.

The King was taken unawares. He saw the ruse—a moment too late—but the Barefoot Princess had already fled, taking the Engine Driver by the hand, and together, they ran as fast as they could, out of the bone-white citadel and onto the dusty plains of Hel.

The King called after them in rage, but without his all-seeing amber eye, he could not tell where they had gone. Hel is dark, and clouded with the sand and dust and smoke of the dead. But through the eye of the Hallowe’en King, the Barefoot Princess could see her way, and together, she and the Engine Driver ran for the railway station, where the Night Train was waiting to take them.

But as they reached the station, they found the Night Train abandoned. No driver sat at the controls; there were no passengers aboard. The Driver’s cap lay on the platform, already gathering dust. Next to it, the hour-glass gave up its last few luminous grains of sand.

The Barefoot Princess and the Engine Driver looked at each other, bewildered.

“What’s happened?” said the Princess. “Where is the Driver? The passengers?”

Then the Princess understood. The Hallowe’en King had made two promises to her—promises he had sworn to keep. One was to send her back to the station in time to catch the Night Train. The other was to release the Driver and his passengers from their perpetual journey. And now she realized why the King had not pursued them further. With no Driver, the Night Train could never leave the station.

Their way out of Hel was cut off for good.

86

T

HE

W

ATCHMAN

The Clockwork Princess and the watchmaker’s boy had travelled far across the Worlds. They had repaid their debt to the Lacewing King—banished by the Spider Queen to an unknown, unreachable place—and yet, they never gave up hope of finding him again one day.

The watchmaker’s boy became a man. He took on the trade of his master. A skilled watchmaker can earn his trade almost anywhere, and the craftsman and his strange bride became known throughout the land. But nowhere on their travels did they hear any more news of the Lacewing King. It was as if he had been erased completely from the face of that World—erased, and then forgotten. But they did not forget him, or the Barefoot Princess, who had followed him so bravely through the funnel web of the Spider Queen.

One day, in a city of many clocks, they met a fellow-traveller. A woman—not beautiful, no longer young, but vivid, bright, and fearless—who travelled with a mechanical horse and a clockwork tiger with amber eyes. She noticed the Clockwork Princess at once, and was struck, both by her marvellous craftsmanship, and by the ingenious way in which her face and her broken arm had been repaired in mother-of-pearl.

“How did this come to happen?” she said.

The Watchmaker told her the story of how the Lacewing King had saved