“When the wine drinks itself,” he said, “when the skull speaks, when the clock strikes the right time‌—‌only then will you find the tunnel that leads to the Red Bull’s lair.” He tucked his paws under his chest and added, “There’s a trick to it, of course.”

“I’ll bet,” Molly said grimly. “There is a horrible, crumbly old skull stuck up high on a pillar in the great hall, but it hasn’t had anything to say for some time. The clock that stands nearby is mad, and strikes when it pleases‌—‌midnight every hour, seventeen o’clock at four, or perhaps not a sound for a week. And the wine‌—‌oh, cat, wouldn’t it be simpler just to show me the tunnel? You know where it is, don’t you?”

“Of course I know,” answered the cat, with a glinting, curling yawn. “Of course it would be simpler for me to show you. Save a lot of time and trouble.”

His voice was becoming a sleepy drawl, and Molly realized that, like King Haggard himself, he was losing interest. Quickly she asked him, “Tell me one thing, then. What became of the unicorns? Where are they?”

The cat yawned again. “Near and far, far and near,” he murmured. “They are within sight of your lady’s eyes, but almost out of reach of her memory. They are coming closer, and they are going away.” He closed his eyes.

Molly’s breath came like rope, fretting against her harsh throat. “Damn you, why won’t you help me?” she cried. “Why must you always speak in riddles?”

One eye opened slowly, green and gold as sunlight in the woods. The cat said, “I am what I am. I would tell you what you want to know if I could, for you have been kind to me. But I am a cat, and no cat anywhere ever gave anyone a straight answer.”

His last few words drowsed away into a deep, regular purr, and he was asleep with the one eye partly open. Molly held him on her lap and stroked him, and he purred in his sleep, but he did not speak again.

Chapter 11

Prince Lír came home three days after he set out to slay the maiden-fancying ogre, with the Great Axe of Duke Alban slung behind him and the ogre’s head bumping at his saddlebow. He offered neither prize to the Lady Amalthea, nor did he rush to find her with the monster’s blood still brown on his hands. He had made up his mind, as he explained to Molly Grue in the scullery that evening, nevermore to trouble the Lady Amalthea with his attentions, but to live quietly in the thought of her, serving her ardently until his lonely death, but seeking neither her company, her admiration, nor her love. “I will be as anonymous as the air she breathes,” he said, “as invisible as the force that holds her on the earth.” Thinking about it for a little, he added, “I may write a poem for her now and then, and slip it under her door, or just leave it somewhere for her to chance upon. But I won’t ever sign the poem.”