Is it really you?” Marcus, swinging from the ham-size fist of a soldier, tried to speak, but his collar was too tight. “Unf,” he said. “Put my son down,” his father ordered. The soldier loosened his grip. “Excuse me, Your Majesty,” he said apologetically, “but I found him crawling in through a hedge. And then he was yelling his head off about witches and suchlike, and I couldn’t see that he was up to much good —” The king waved a weary hand. “Please accept my thanks. Marcus, have you heard the terrible news?” Marcus nodded and sank to one knee. “I know, Father.” He fished down the front of his shirt. “Here he is.” And he held out a hot and bothered frog. King Frank stared at him. “Are you mad? This is no time to play stupid games. There’s been a kidnapping, my boy — a kidnapping. Arry, Tertius and Fedora, Nina-Rose, Albion of Cockenzie Rood, and little Vincent of Wadingburn — they’ve all been taken!”
