The Birthday Ball by Lois Lowry Page B

their pinafores. "Plenty of words to rhyme with cat, I'd say. Brat and fat and drat, for a few." He continued on his way, muttering.
    From the bell tower, suddenly, the sound of the carillon began. Usually it played only the number of the hours, but now it rang a melody to signal the start of the event. The villagers, bathed and dressed in their best, had all been waiting at the gate to the castle grounds for the signal. Now they pushed the gate open and flooded through, the children skipping happily, the older village folk, many of them wearing unaccustomed shoes, trying to walk with dignity and purpose.
    From their three encampments on the grounds, the visiting suitors emerged from their tents.
    Duke Desmond wore a one-piece form-fitting green outfit, stretched across his pudgy belly and outlining his legs down to the ankles. On his feet he wore pointed green suede shoes with slippery soles that would help him to glide on the dance floor; he had practiced the waltz again and again, back in his own domain, and had created his own version of the dance, using dips and twirls that made his thick cord of hair fly back and forth.
    Now, as he walked in a stately fashion toward the castle, surrounded by his courtiers, he did a little hop here and there, holding his arms out, pretending the princess was already encircled in them. He murmured sweet nothings under his breath in preparation, and blew some spit-laden air kisses (not easy to do, around his protruding teeth), relishing the thought that very soon his saliva would be decorating her lovely pink neck.
    The splashers scurried ahead of him, rushing to flutter their hands in the castle birdbaths, and behind him came the bearer of the butterfly, carrying the elaborate bamboo cage that housed his gift to the king.
    At the same time, from another direction, completely surrounded by mirror bearers walking sideways in the prescribed manner, Prince Percival began strolling toward the castle entrance. He was dressed entirely in black, and had enhanced his eyelashes with jet black mascara and added a little metallic gray shadow above, on the lids.
    He was practicing his own dance steps, pointing his toes and wiggling his slim hips in a kind of tango. He turned from left to right, admiring himself in the mirrors as he did, stopping occasionally to check his makeup (for in addition to the mascara and eye shadow, he had applied some blush) or to adjust his mustache. Frequently he ordered another whisking of his shoulders by the valet, who trotted immediately behind him, carrying the dandruff brushes.

    He carried his gift in his own back pocket, adjusting it now and then when the mirrors revealed that it was causing an unsightly bulge.
    Behind his group, though unseen, a large swarm of bees was following in a slow-moving, purposeful cloud. The ringing of the carillon, which continued playing birthday music, masked the deep buzzing hum.
    Finally, the conjoint counts, wearing a red plaid suit that they had finally agreed grudgingly upon, lurched forward from their encampment. They moved in circles because of their disagreements, one turning left while the other turned right, which invariably slowed them down and required a full circle before they could get aimed toward the castle once again.
    Cuthbert had combed and trimmed his beard, but Colin had poked him in the ribs while he was doing so, causing the scissors to slip, so the beard now had an oddly scalloped shape. Colin himself had shaved, but Cuthbert had nastily jostled the arm that held the razor several times. So Colin's cheeks and chin were peppered with small dots of blood-smeared toilet paper, which he intended to remove as soon as they reached the castle entrance.
    The villagers arrived first and were welcomed and ushered inside, then led up the grand staircase to the banquet hall. Their eyes were wide at the magnificence of the marble floors, the fine tapestries on the walls, and most of all, when the banquet hall doors were