Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [15]
A wave of relief swept over Lucy—it was going to be all right.
An hour later, sitting in the room above the gatehouse with her parents (while the bridge boy looked after the bridge and the stew looked after itself), Lucy had revised this opinion: It was possibly going to be all right, if she was very careful and didn’t upset her mother too much.
Mrs. Gringe was in full flood, recounting for the umpteenth time the long list of Lucy’s transgressions. “Running off with that awful Heap boy, not a care about me or your father, gone these last two years with never a word . . .”
“I did write to you,” Lucy protested. “But you never replied.”
“You think I got time to write letters?” asked Mrs. Gringe, insulted.
“But Mum—”
“I got a gatehouse to run. Stew to cook. On me own.” Mrs. Gringe looked pointedly at both Lucy and Gringe who, to his discomfort, now seemed to be included in Lucy’s wrong-doings. He stepped in hastily.
“Come, come, dear. Lucy’s all grown up now. She got better things to do than live with her old mum and dad—”
“Old?” said his wife indignantly.
“Well, I didn’t mean—”
“No wonder I look old. All that worry. Ever since she was fourteen she’s bin running after that Heap boy. Sneaking out with him, even trying to marry him, for goodness’ sake, and getting us into terrible trouble with them Custodians. And after all that we take her back out of the goodness of our hearts and what does she do? She runs off again! And never a word. Not a word . . .” Mrs. Gringe got out a stew-stained handkerchief and began noisily blowing her nose into it.
Lucy hadn’t expected it to be this bad. She glanced at her father.
Say sorry, he mouthed.
“Um . . . Mum,” Lucy ventured.
“What?” came her muffled voice.
“I . . . I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Gringe looked up. “Are you?” She seemed surprised.
“Yes. I am.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Gringe blew her nose loudly.
“Look, Mum, Dad. The thing is, me and Simon, we want to get married.”
“I’d ’ave thought you’d already done that,” her mother sniffed accusingly.
Lucy shook her head. “No. After I ran away to find Simon—and I did find him”—(Lucy refrained from adding “so there,” as she would have done not so long ago)—“well, after I found him I realized that I wanted us to be married properly. I want a white wedding—”
“White wedding? Huh!” said Mrs. Gringe.
“Yes, Mum, that’s what I want. And I want you and Dad to be there. And Simon’s Mum and Dad too. And I want you to be happy about it.”
“Happy!” Mrs. Gringe exclaimed bitterly.
“Mum . . . please, listen. I’ve come back to ask if you and Dad will come to our wedding.”
Her mother sat for a while digesting this as Lucy and Gringe looked on anxiously. “You really are inviting us to your wedding?” she asked.
“Yes, Mum.” Lucy pulled a crumpled card edged with white ribbon from her pocket and handed it to Mrs. Gringe, who squinted at it suspiciously. Suddenly she leaped to her feet and flung her arms around Lucy. “My baby,” she cried. “You’re getting married.” She looked at Gringe. “I’ll need a new hat,” she said.
There was a sudden sound of thudding boots on the steps leading to the room and the bridge boy burst in. “Whatddyou charge an ’orse?” he demanded.
Gringe looked annoyed. “You know what to charge. I left you the list. Horse and rider: one silver penny. Now go an’ get the money before they stop hangin’ around waitin’ for an idiot like you to ask stupid questions.”
“But what if it’s just an ’orse?” the bridge boy persisted.
“What, a runaway horse?”
The bridge boy nodded.
“Charge the horse whatever it’s got in its wallet,” said Gringe, raising his eyes to heaven. “Or you can hang on to the ’orse and charge the owner when ’e catches up with it. What do you