For Caterina and Charlotte, whose magic makes dreams come true. And for Wendy, who stayed in the ring.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Map of Village Drowning

Prologue: A Word About Villains

1. THE GARGOYLE

2. THE WILLOW’S WARES

3. THE O’CHANTERS OF MUD PUDDLE LANE

4. SCUTTLEBUTT AND SECRET ROOMS

5. BLACK MOON RISING

6. THE WIRRY SCARE

7. THE DEAD FISH INN

8. CURIOUS BEASTS

9. WATCH WHAT YOU EAT

10. THE MAN IN MISER’S END

11. THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

12. LONGCHANCE

13. UNMASKED

14. LEATHERLEAF

15. TROUBLE AFOOT

16. THE SPOKE

17. LAST ROOM AT THE DEAD FISH

18. GRIM GREEN

19. THE KEEP

20. A BLACKBIRD CALLS

21. COLD, DARK PLACES

22. A LADY’S LAST RESORT

23. HOUSE RULE NUMBER FIVE

24. A SHADY SITUATION

25. LUCK UGLIES

26. THE GLOAMING BEAST

27. THE LUCK BAG

Epilogue: What Tomorrow Brings Us

Tam’s Pocket Glossary of Drowning Mouth Speak

Copyright

About the Publisher

A WORD ABOUT VILLAINS …

Mum said the fiends usually came after midnight. They’d flutter down silently from rooftops and slither unseen from the sewers under a Black Moon. Luck Uglies, she’d call them, then quickly look over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t listening. Father said the Luck Uglies weren’t monsters. Outlaws, criminals, villains, certainly, but they were men, just like us.

I still remember the night the Earl’s army marched through the village, forcing them north into the toothy shadows of the forest. Soldiers were sent to follow, but none ever returned. With time, the Luck Uglies faded into ghosts, then whispers. And finally, after many years, it was as if they had never existed at all.

Anonymous Villager

RYE AND HER two friends had never intended to steal the banned book from The Angry Poet – they’d just hoped to read it. In truth, it was nothing more than curiosity that had brought them to the strange little bookshop wedged between a grog shop and the coffin maker. But the shop’s owner overreacted so strongly that they fled without thinking, the illicit tome still clutched under Rye’s arm.

The accidental thieves tore back out on to Market Street, bouncing off villagers who shared the winding, cobblestone road with horse-drawn carts and pigs foraging in the sewers for scraps. The street was narrow and congested at the noon hour, its alleys clogged with foot traffic blocking their escape. The poet himself, hefty and determined, ploughed through everything in his path. With a quick nod as their unspoken signal, the children changed course. Their escape turned vertical as they scattered in different directions, each searching for footholds in the jagged bricks and mortar of the Market Street shops.

Rye had never been comfortable on the rooftops. They had scaled them once or twice before, but only as an avenue of last resort. She scrambled up the steeply pitched timbers, darting between the twisted chimneys, scowling gargoyles and leaking gutters of Village Drowning. Black smoke billowed up from the shops and markets, fogging her cloak with the smell of cured meat and birch bark. She didn’t pause to look back at her pursuer – she’d been chased enough times to know better than that. Clearing the ridge of a gable, her momentum plunged her down the other side, legs churning uncontrollably to keep up. She stopped hard at the edge of the thatch and shingle roof, peering down past the toes of her oversized boots to the unforgiving cobblestones far below.

In front of her was freedom. Quinn Quartermast had already made it across a narrow alleyway on to the neighbouring roof. He was all arms and legs, built perfectly for jumping.

Somewhere not far behind Rye was a poet with bad intentions, one who had proved to be a remarkably agile climber for someone of such large proportions.

“I don’t think I can do it, Quinn,” Rye said.

“Of course you can,” Quinn yelled and waved her on.

“No, really. I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

Rye looked out at the village around her. Drowning was more of a sprawling town than a village, one built on a foundation of secrets, rules and lies, but mostly just mud. It straddled the edge of the brackish River Drowning, close enough to the sea for residents to smell the tide in the mornings and watch the brash gulls waddle into the butcher shop and fly off with a tail or a hoof. North of the river and the town’s walls were creeping bogs blanketed in salt mist, and beyond that was the vast, endless pine forest rumoured to harbour wolves, bandits and clouds of ugly luck. Villagers referred to it only as Beyond the Shale. Nobody respectable believed it to be full of enchanted beasts any more, but old rumours died hard, and there was still a general notion that the great forest teemed with both malice and riches for those brave or foolhardy enough to go looking.

Footsteps pounded the roof behind Rye. They belonged not to the angry poet, but to a small, cloaked and hooded figure that stormed right past her, arms pumping. It leaped into the air and landed with a thud and a barrel roll on the opposite roof next to Quinn. The figure popped to its feet and pulled off its hood to reveal a crazy nest of hair so blonde it was almost white. Her big blue eyes shone like marbles.

“He’s right behind me,” Folly Flood said between gasps.

“Just run and jump,” Quinn said to Rye. “It’s really not far.”

“You’ve jumped that distance a hundred times on the ground,” Folly added.

“Yes, but this is different,” Rye explained, looking down again. “Something will happen. It always does.”

“You can make it. Come on,” Quinn said.

“I’ve been told that I’m a little bit clumsy.”

“Nonsense,” Quinn said, without conviction.

“Absurd,” Folly scoffed unconvincingly. “Now jump.”

“He’s a poet,” Rye said. “How bad could it be?”

“He’s angry,” said Quinn.

“And big as a humpback,” Folly added.

As if waiting for just such an introduction, the poet in question pulled his ample belly on to the far side of the roof. He was indeed angry – for a variety of reasons, Rye supposed. For one, nobody paid much attention to poets any more. Most villagers wanted to hear words sung over harps or stomped out by actors in tights and feathered caps. Plus, as far as Rye could tell, books weren’t exactly flying off the shelves in Drowning, its residents more partial to fishing, fighting and fortune hunting. In fact, the Earl who oversaw the affairs of Drowning had not only banned women and girls from reading, but went so far as to outlaw certain books altogether. None was more illicit than the book Rye now pressed close to her body, Tam’s Tome of Drowning Mouth Fibs, Volume II – an obscure history textbook that had been widely ignored until the Earl described it as a vile collection of scandalous accusations, dangerous untruths and outright lies. Even an eleven-year-old could work out that meant there must be some serious truth to it.

The Earl’s soldiers had collected and destroyed every copy they could find. Rye had heard rumblings that the poet kept a copy of Tam’s Tome in a secret back room. On certain nights he would hold private readings for rebellious nobles with inquisitive minds. Rye and her friends had no silver shims to buy their way in, so they had held their own secret reading in the shop’s broom cupboard. Unfortunately, the poet had picked an inopportune time to sweep the floor.

The poet seemed none too pleased that they’d now made off with Tam’s Tome, accidentally or not.

“Come on, Rye,” Quinn and Folly yelled together. “Now!”

Rye took a deep breath. “Here goes.”

She took five steps back to prepare for her run. She adjusted her leggings. She puffed her cheeks, clapped her hands together and then made a critical mistake.

She glanced over her shoulder.

The poet had cleared the ridge behind her. The roof shook with his heavy footfall as he steamed towards her, and Rye narrowly escaped his lurching grasp as his momentum carried him right past her. Rye froze wide-eyed as the enormous man hurtled to the edge of the roof, flailed to regain his balance, teetered on his toes and somehow managed to avoid plunging off the side. He glared accusingly at Rye.

Rye turned and darted over the next gable to the village’s tallest bell tower. Its rusted whale weathervane loomed over her as she crouched among the stone gargoyles and grotesques under the tower’s shadowed eaves.

Quinn’s and Folly’s urgent calls were muffled by the throbbing pulse in her ears. The gargoyles stared with gaping mouths as they waited for her next move. A rook perched on the shoulder of one gargoyle, grooming its inky-black feathers with a sharp grey beak. This was no place to hide for long.

Rye could hear the wheeze of the poet’s gasps as he made his way towards her. She knew she had to move. She wiped her damp hands on her leggings, but her muscles refused to budge.

The solitary rook cocked its head at her and made a clicking sound with its beak. Rye twisted her face into a scowl and shook a fist, hoping to threaten it into silence. Drowning was overrun with the ugly black birds. The locals had taken to calling them roof rodents.

That was when she noticed that the bird’s perch was not like the other gargoyles. If this gargoyle had wings, they fell over its shoulders like the folds of a cloak. Its angular black eyes and long pointed nose jutted forth from its cheeks, its face more leathery than stone. Like a mask.

Rye did not come from a home with many rules, but the ones she lived by were absolute and unbreakable. The first House Rule flashed through her mind.

House Rule Number One: Don’t stop, talk or questions ask, beware of men wearing masks.

Rye swallowed hard. An agitated warble vibrated in the rook’s throat. Then, inexplicably, the gargoyle raised a gloved finger to its masked, lipless mouth, as if to tell the bird, “Shh.”

Now that got Rye moving.

She burst from the eaves, the poet himself jolting in surprise as she rushed towards him. Throwing Tam’s Tome at his feet, she sped past and called to her friends.

“Folly! Quinn! I’m coming! Get ready to catch me!”

Rye heard Folly’s shriek and the throaty caw of the rook. She timed her jump as she ran and, with great focus and concentration … snagged her boot and fell off the side of the roof.

RYE WAS AN expert when it came to falling. Landings, not so much. They could be bone crunching if you slipped backwards on to frozen ground. Or piercing if you tumbled headfirst into a thicket of thorns. They were seldom soft. Falling from such a height, Rye assumed this landing would be her last. Much to her surprise, it was just wet.

Rye swallowed hard to make sure her heart wasn’t actually in her throat, and promptly coughed up a mouthful of run-off that tasted worse than bog water. Dragging herself to the edge of the shallows, she hiked her dripping dress past her leggings and up round her chest. The first clothes line had left an angry red welt straight across her belly. She quickly looked above her. For the moment, neither poet nor gargoyle had followed.

“Riley, put your dress down, please,” a woman’s voice scolded. “The whole village can see your business.”

Luckily for Rye, her fall from the rooftop was slowed by several clothes lines full of laundry before she landed in the foul-smelling canal that drained swill from the village to the river. Not so luckily, that’s where Mrs O’Chanter had found her. Rye dropped her dress back into place and tried to flash a smile as the thin green stew flowed around her feet. Mrs O’Chanter frowned and extended a hand.

Mrs O’Chanter suspected that Rye must have swallowed a horseshoe as a baby – she would have been a cripple ten times over if not for her otherworldly luck. She took the opportunity to mention this to Rye once again on their walk back to her shop, The Willow’s Wares. Rye glanced warily at the rooftops as they went.

After Rye had changed her clothes and was good and dry, and just when she began to think she was out of hot water, Mrs O’Chanter sent her down to catch the basement wirry that haunted the crawl space under the shop. Rye didn’t believe in wirries, and neither did Mrs O’Chanter from what she could tell. Still, she seemed to assign Rye this task once or twice a week, often after Rye had cartwheeled into a shelf of glassware or asked one too many questions about the jug of cranberry wine kept under the counter. Apparently, stealing from local merchants and plummeting from rooftops amounted to a similar offence.

Rye left her dress in a neat pile and opened the trapdoor to the dark crawl space below the floorboards. She wore her sleeveless undershirt and tight black leggings so she wouldn’t further scrape, bruise or otherwise scar her well-worn shins. She tied her hair in a short ponytail and stuffed it under a cap to avoid accidentally lighting it on fire with her lantern. That was something you didn’t want to happen more than once. She insisted on wearing the damp leather boots that had belonged to her father when he was her age – in case she stepped on anything sharp or hungry. They were far too big and probably contributed to some of the scars on her knees, but she filled the toes with fresh straw each day and wore them everywhere she went. Sitting on the edge of the trapdoor, she dangled her boots into the darkness as bait, an iron fireplace poker at the ready. In the unlikely event that an awful beasty really was running around down there, she fully intended to impale the little fiend.

Rye spent most of her afternoons helping out Mrs O’Chanter at The Willow’s Wares – the finest jewellery shop in all of Drowning. Of course, The Willow’s Wares was the only jewellery shop in Drowning, and more of a curiosity shop than anything else. It was not the type of place you would find the noble class shopping for golden heirlooms or silver wedding goblets. In fact, the only nobles who turned up in Drowning were usually hiding, and were quite often followed by whoever was trying to lock them in a dungeon or lop off their heads. Instead, Drowning attracted wanderers, rapscallions, rogues and other adventurous souls who were long on courage and short on sense. The Willow’s Wares offered the charms and talismans these mysterious travellers needed – or thought they did, anyway.

It had been an hour, and Rye had caught four spiders, a blind rat and something that looked like a worm with teeth, but no wirries. Rye’s boredom was interrupted when she heard footsteps overhead. She put her wirry-hunting tools aside and set off to investigate. The Willow’s Wares’ customers always had tales of misadventure or, at the very least, some good gossip to share.

The hawk-nosed man in the shop had watery eyes and stringy hair and did not look particularly adventurous. He looked like someone who spent most of his days locked in a room full of books. In fact, he had brought one with him. He hovered over the black leather journal he’d laid out on a workbench, a quill in hand. The two soldiers who accompanied him milled around, thumbing the hilts of their sheathed sabres and looking suspiciously at the curiosities lining the shop’s shelves.

“And what is your name, boy?” the man asked, in a voice that creaked like an old iron chest.

“I’m a girl, thank you very much,” Rye said. She was still in her tights. Her arms, legs and face were covered in basement grime.

“Oh. Indeed you are,” he said, eyeballing her disapprovingly.

“R-y-e,” Rye spelled. “Rhymes with lie.”

Mrs O’Chanter frowned and gave her a harsh look.

“Sorry,” Rye said. “Rhymes with ‘die’.”

That didn’t improve Mrs O’Chanter’s mood. She scowled at Rye as the man carefully made markings in his book.

He raised a thick eyebrow and looked up. His eyebrows resembled the grey dust balls that accumulated under Rye’s bed.

“The girl can spell,” he noted. “Interesting.”

“Of course I can spell,” Rye said.

“I see,” he said and made some more markings.

“What she means,” Mrs O’Chanter interjected, “is that she knows how to spell her name. You know how children are these days, Constable Boil. Always curious. You need to indulge them sometimes otherwise they won’t leave you a minute’s peace.”

“In my house,” the Constable said, “I find a good thrashing on the tail does the trick.”

Mrs O’Chanter did not seem at all pleased with the conversation. She stared out at the soldiers from the pile of black hair on top of her head, held fast with a simple blue ribbon and two wooden pins that had come from the shop. One soldier fingered a display of charms made from beeswax and alligator hide. He wasn’t gentle. Rye knew that Mrs O’Chanter hated it when people touched with no intention to buy and she could be downright scary about it – but she said nothing this time.

“Mrs O’Chanter,” the Constable continued, then paused to look her over. “Is it still Mrs or do you finally go by Miss now?”

“It’s ‘Mrs’, thank you very much.”

“How patient of you. Well then, there was quite a disturbance at The Angry Poet today.”

“Was he reading those off colour limericks again?”

“No, Mrs O’Chanter. There was a robbery. Children no less.”

“My goodness,” Mrs O’Chanter said, without alarm.

“Indeed,” Constable Boil said. “They took a bag of gold grommets and two flasks of rare wine.”

Rye’s ears burned. She knew that was a lie. She picked her fingernails as she listened.

“Gold grommets?” Mrs O’Chanter said. “Who would have thought the poet was doing so well? I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone actually go into that shop.”

Mrs O’Chanter placed a hand on Rye’s shoulder. Rye stopped picking her nails.

“Yes, well, nevertheless,” the Constable said, eyeing Rye, “Earl Longchance takes the upbringing of the village’s youth very seriously. Wayward children must be moulded early. Tamed. The Earl’s sweat farm has been known to do wonders for the strong-willed child.”

Mrs O’Chanter just stared at the Constable without blinking.

“This child,” the Constable continued. “Where has it been today?”

Rye began picking her fingernails again behind her back.

“She has been with me since first light this morning. Working here in the shop.”

Rye held her breath.

“All day you say?”

“Indeed.”

“I see,” Constable Boil said, tapping his bony chin. “Well, do keep your eyes open, Mrs O’Chanter. Roving bands of child thugs are a pox on us all. I shall certainly keep my eyes out for you.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

“No bother. It will be my pleasure,” he added with a leer.

The Constable turned to leave. Rye started to sigh in relief, but she caught her breath when the Constable stopped and pivoted on his heel.

“Oh, yes,” he added, “since I’m here – it occurs to me that although Assessment does not officially commence until next week, I might as well have a look around now – to save a trip. You don’t object, Mrs O’Chanter.”

It couldn’t possibly have been mistaken for a question.

“No, of course not,” Mrs O’Chanter said.

“Splendid.”

The Constable strolled around, hands behind his back as if shopping. He paused in the doorway and faced the street.

“As you know, it’s illegal to feed pigs on Market Street. That’s a fine of ten bronze bits.”

“That’s a bird feeder,” Rye whispered to Mrs O’Chanter.

Mrs O’Chanter nudged her to stay quiet.

Constable Boil leaned outside and cast his watery eyes up over the door. Of all the weathered grey shops that lined Market Street, each adorned with drab and unremarkable signs, The Willow’s Wares was the only one that flew a colourful flag. Colours had once been used as signals by certain unscrupulous characters, and the Earl now frowned on their overuse by anyone other than his tailors. That day, The Willow’s Wares’ flag was a rich forest-green, adorned with the white silhouette of a dragonfly.

“That flag is too bright,” the Constable said, pointing to the green flag over The Willow’s Wares’ door. “Fifty bits.”

Fifty bits! Rye’s ears burned again.

Constable Boil shambled back inside. He approached Mrs O’Chanter and studied her closely, squinting under his dustball eyebrows.

“No woman may wear any article of blue without the express permission of the Honourable Earl Longchance.”

Rye looked at the ribbon in Mrs O’Chanter’s hair.

“Two shims,” the Constable said, his tone severe. Then he smiled, revealing a mouth of nubby yellow teeth. “And you shall remove it.”

“He’s making that up,” Rye whispered to Mrs O’Chanter too loudly.

“Riley,” Mrs O’Chanter scolded under her breath.

Rye fumed. “This is—”

“Riley,” Mrs O’Chanter interrupted, “why don’t you go and clean up in the back until I finish.”

“But—”

“Riley, now.”

Rye heard the finality in Mrs O’Chanter’s voice, so she turned and marched towards the storeroom. She gave Boil and the soldiers a glare as she passed through the curtain in the doorway. As soon as she had made it through, she quickly turned and peeled back a corner.

Normally, Mrs O’Chanter only sent Rye to the back when she was about to do something she thought Rye shouldn’t see. Maybe she would loudly chastise the Constable and soldiers, letting everyone on Market Street know what they were up to. Rye hoped she would chase them out of the shop. Even though it was against the Laws of Longchance, Rye knew that Mrs O’Chanter kept a sharp boot knife strapped to her thigh under her dress. She called it Fair Warning. Rye had watched her chase away a gang of thieves once – one of them had almost lost a thumb. That was a lot of fun.

Instead, she heard Mrs O’Chanter say, “Of course, Constable Boil.”

Rye frowned as Mrs O’Chanter untied the blue ribbon and handed it to the Constable. She removed the pins too and her dark hair fell past her shoulders as Boil pressed the ribbon into his pocket. Mrs O’Chanter unlocked a small chest and emptied a pouch of bronze bits into his hand.

Rye pulled away from the curtain and slumped down in a corner. She crossed her arms and her ears went scarlet with anger.

Even after all these years, it seemed her mother could still surprise her.

THE O’CHANTERS’ cottage was the largest on Mud Puddle Lane, which is not to say that it was big or fancy, just that it had three rooms instead of two, and an attic Rye wasn’t allowed in any more, ever since the time she fell through the ceiling and nearly crushed her sister. It also had a secret workshop Rye wasn’t supposed to know about, but did.

Mud Puddle Lane was on the northernmost side of town, which made for a long walk to Market Street and The Willow’s Wares. It had a view of the salt bogs and, from the roof where Rye kept her pigeon coop, you could see the edge of Beyond the Shale, where towering, centuries-old pine trees swayed in the winds. Mud Puddle Lane was the one village street outside the town’s protective walls. An accident had destroyed its section of wall many years before and, for one reason or another, it was never rebuilt. Rye’s mother wasn’t a fan of walls anyway.

Many people wouldn’t appreciate a view of the bogs, and most would prefer to live as far away from the forest’s edge as possible. Mud Puddle Lane was known to be the first stop for any hungry beast that might crawl, slither or lurch from the trees. Bog Noblins were the most vile and malicious of the lot. Their jagged teeth and claws dripped with a disease, making their bites poisonous. Three heads taller than a full-grown man, with bulging, runny eyes and lice infested, red-orange hair in all the wrong places, they could bury themselves deep in the bogs and mudflats during the coldest days of winter and go months without eating. Unfortunately for Drowning, with spring came the hungry season.

Rye was too young to remember the last time a Bog Noblin ran loose in the village, but she’d heard the tales. It had begun with the disappearance of a few reclusive woodsmen and stray travellers – easily written off as a hungry bear or pack of wolves on the prowl. The livestock on remote farms went next, followed by the farmers themselves. Then the village children began to disappear. In some parts of town – all of them. None were ever seen again.

Luckily, that was all long ago. Nevertheless, once, after some implausible stories from her best friend, Folly Flood, Rye couldn’t help but ask, “Mama, what about Beyond the Shale? Shouldn’t we worry about monsters?”

To which Abby O’Chanter had replied, “Riley, have you ever seen a monster come out of the forest?”

“Well, no.”

“There you go,” Abby had said. Then, she’d added with a wink, “Besides, if one did, wouldn’t you rather be the first to see it coming?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Rye had said. And that had been the end of those worries.

Still, that night at supper, Rye wasn’t feeling particularly thrilled about where they lived, or anything else for that matter. She sat with her mother and her little sister Lottie at the big table by the fireplace, picking at the fleshy white meat in the cracked shells on her plate. Her place setting was remarkably tidy. Typically, when Rye was hungry, the table and floor looked like a pantry raided by squirrels.

“Sea bugs again?” Rye said. “I wish we could have something else.”

Sea bugs washed ashore in piles each morning. They were brown and grey until you threw them into a boiling pot, then they screamed, turned red and fought with each other to escape. Rye felt no gratitude towards the deranged person who had first strolled along the sand and eaten one.

“Cackle fruit!” exclaimed Lottie, banging her spoon on the table. Rye wondered if Lottie would outgrow the banging – and the yelling and fussing – when she turned three. That was coming soon, but not soon enough.

“Eggs are for morning,” Abby said. “Besides, something’s been troubling the hens. They haven’t laid all week.”

“Uh-oh,” said Lottie, bending her head over the big claw on her plate. As she pecked at it, her nest of red hair bounced and coarse strands flew out in all directions like a barn fire. Her hair was nothing like Rye’s, which was brown and chopped short above her shoulders, or their mother’s, which fell long, thick and black down her back.

“As for you,” Abby said, pointing a spoon at Rye, “be thankful we have sea bugs and bread. You know we can’t afford to eat beef or chicken every night.”

“Well, we could …” Rye mumbled.

“And what do you mean by that?”

Rye bit her lip. “Nothing.”

Abby always seemed to know when something was weighing on Rye’s mind. Rather than cuff her, or warn her not to talk back, Abby usually tried to help. It wasn’t easy being Rye. Abby seemed to know that.

“What is it, Riley? You’ve been upset all day.”

“It’s just … the Constable. He lied to us today. You knew he was making up laws and you didn’t say anything.”

Her mother nodded.

“Why not?” Rye said. “You let him treat us like we’re stupid.”

“Me no stupid, me Lottie,” Lottie said. She made an angry face and pounded her fist on the table.

“Of course, Lottie,” Abby said and patted her red tuft.

Abby looked back at Rye. “The Laws of Longchance, Riley. You know that we – women, girls – we’re not supposed to know those things. We’re not supposed to know how to read or write.”

Unless you were a Daughter of Longchance, Rye thought, in which case none of those laws applied. Her mother had told her that there were other places where girls and women could do anything they wanted. Abby had grown up in one of those places. When Rye asked why they couldn’t move there, Abby told her it was complicated. When she asked again, Abby said there were worse things than not being allowed to read or write. The third time, Abby sent her down to catch the basement wirry under The Willow’s Wares.

“Those are stupid laws,” Rye grumbled now, her ears turning pink.

“They are stupid, old-fashioned, terrible laws that need to be changed,” Abby agreed. “And, as you know, I refuse to follow them—”

“L-O-T …” Lottie began, spelling her name. Abby pointed to her as if to say, see.

“But,” Abby said, “that does not mean we should flaunt it. No good can come of letting the Constable or anyone else like him know what we do and do not know.”

“But they took our coins.”

“It’s for Assessment, Riley. The fines are pooled for the good of the village,” Abby said, without conviction.

It seemed to Rye that the ‘good of the village’ seldom spilled over on to Mud Puddle Lane. They couldn’t even get street lamps after dark like every other part of town.

“It’s just a few silver shims, Riley. It could be much worse. Remember why the Constable came to the shop in the first place.”

Rye crossed her arms. Her mother had a point.

“Now, enough of this talk in front of your sister,” Abby said.

“Fine. But if I eat another bite of this sea bug I’m going to grow claws.”

Rye frowned at the ugly, beady-eyed head staring at her from her plate.

“So be it,” Abby said. “Give it to Shady.”

Nightshade Fur Bottom O’Chanter was the thick ball of black fur curled up by the fireplace. Everyone called him Shady for short. He slept so close to the fire that Rye worried an ember would jump from the flame and set his bushy tail alight. Rolled up like that, you might easily mistake him for a bear cub, but Shady was in fact a cat, the largest and furriest anyone had ever seen. His fur was such a thick, luxurious black that he shone like velvet, and he was as warm as a wool blanket when he curled up on the girls’ laps on a winter night. Shady didn’t know his own strength, and sometimes, when he got too excited, had a tendency to play a little rough. All the O’Chanters had the scars to prove it.

“Shady go outside?” Lottie asked.

Shady opened a big yellow eye at the sound of that, peeking out from his fur as if he understood what the littlest O’Chanter had said.

“No, no, Lottie,” Abby said, wagging a finger. “House Rule Number Two. Shady must never go outside.”

“Why? Cats go play,” Lottie said.

Which was true. Most cats roamed the streets and alleys of the village, skulking through the night, hunting all sorts of vermin.

“Too dangerous,” Abby said. “No, no.”

“No, no, no,” Lottie said, wagging a finger at Shady who, foiled again, stretched and slunk off into the shadows.

“That’s right, girls. Now, what’s the rule? Say it with me,” Abby said. And they did.

House Rule Number Two: He may run and he may hide, but Shady must never go outside.

“Good,” Abby said. “Shady, get your whiskers out of there.” She pushed his fluffy face away from her glass.

They all raised their drinks for the nightly toast.

“Welcome what tomorrow brings us,” Abby said.

Abby drank cranberry wine out of her favourite goblet. Rye and Lottie drank from smaller matching ones, leaving big goat milk moustaches over their lips.

Getting Lottie O’Chanter to bed each night was no easy task. It took a lot of screaming and temper tantrums, and that was just from their mother. Finally, Lottie pulled on her nightdress and clambered into the bed she shared with Rye in their small room at the back of the house. She would never agree to sleep if she knew Rye was staying up, so Rye had to change into her own nightdress, climb into bed, and pretend she was going to sleep too.

Abby leaned over and kissed each of her girls goodnight.

“Mona, Mona,” Lottie said, thrusting forward the worn doll she slept with every night. Mona Monster was a little pink hobgoblin with red polka dots. Abby had stitched it herself and stuffed it with straw straight after Lottie was born. Mona and Lottie had been inseparable ever since.

Abby kissed Mona on her toothy pink lips. “Bedtime, Lottie.”

Lottie made Rye kiss Mona too.

“Now get some sleep,” Abby said. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

Lottie chomped her teeth and clutched the thin leather choker round her neck. A silver dragonfly charm and some runestones were strung on the black leather strand.

Lottie touched her finger to an identical choker round her mother’s neck. Abby smiled.

“Yes, I have one too,” Abby said.

Rye also wore a matching choker. They were usually well hidden under the clothes the O’Chanter girls wore during the day. Even Shady had a similar collar. The chokers were the subject of yet another House Rule.

House Rule Number Four: Worn under sun and under moon, never remove the O’Chanters’ rune.

“Cherish it with your heart,” Abby had told Rye many times. “It carries the luck of the O’Chanters and our ancestors. It will keep you safe when times are darkest.”

“Time for sleep,” Abby whispered now, gently folding Lottie’s arms round Mona Monster.

Abby leaned over and whispered in Riley’s ear, “I need to tend to some things outside. You listen for Lottie.”

“OK, Mama,” Rye said, and Abby blew out the beeswax candles. The room glowed from the light of the fireplace.

It took quite a bit of tossing and turning, a little foot in Rye’s belly and a round bottom in her face before Lottie finally fell asleep. Rye slipped from under the covers and went into the main room of their cottage, where she sat by the hearth on the sweet-smelling herbs and grasses that her mother spread over the floorboards to keep the insects away.

Shady settled in her lap and Rye rubbed his big ears, covered with tufts of fur inside and out. These quiet times – sitting alone when Lottie was sleeping and Abby was off catching up with one task or another – were the hardest for her. Abby had been taking care of the girls by herself for as long as Rye could remember. Rye had no memories of her father. Abby said he was a soldier for the Earl. Ten years ago he had marched off with the army into Beyond the Shale. For a few months there’d been messages and letters, and then, one day, they stopped. Abby never said more about it, but Rye was old enough to know what that meant.

Lottie was a different story. Nobody seemed to know who her father was. Nobody except their mother that is – and she wasn’t telling.

The girls and the shop were a lot for anyone to handle alone, and Rye worried about her mother. Abby had been spending a lot of time out of the house at night. Maybe the night air helped clear her head. Rye knew Abby didn’t like her venturing outdoors after dark, but Rye thought her mother might appreciate the company. She kissed Shady and placed him on the floor.

“You smell like wine,” she said, wiping his whiskers. “Stay here.”

She put on her cloak and pulled the hood over her head. She creaked the door open and peeked outside. In a neighbourhood of drab, grey houses, their shiny purple door always stood out. It was etched with a carving of a dragonfly that changed colour as the sun hit it at different times of the day. The dragonfly was black now, the street dark except for light from the thinnest sliver of moon.

“Stay here, Shady,” she said again and pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare wake up Lottie.”

Rye carefully closed the door and slipped behind her house. Their goat and hens were asleep in their pens. In the distance, the bogs came to life as vapour rose off the water like ghosts. Her mother wasn’t back there either.

Rye was about to climb the ladder to her pigeon coop to see if she had any messages. Rye and Folly had taught the pigeons to fly back and forth between their houses and sometimes they wrote messages and tied them to the birds’ feet. But something stopped her in her tracks. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Someone was already on the roof.

She stepped off the bottom rung of the ladder and pressed herself against the side of the house. She looked up again. The figure was in a cloak like hers. It was her mother. She was staring at the forest Beyond the Shale. She was perfectly still. It was like she was watching … waiting for something.

Abby didn’t seem to see her. Rye held her breath as she tiptoed back towards the house, slow and easy. Then there was a loud, terrible sound. Rye jumped and looked for a place to hide. The sound was far away but not far enough. It was a cross between the shriek of a wild animal and the wail of a baby. She looked up. Her mother had heard it too. Abby leaned forward ever so slightly, looking through the mist, but remained in place.

The sound again. It felt like a thousand insects running up Rye’s spine. She scrambled inside as fast as she could and slammed the door behind her.

RYE AND QUINN sat on the split-rail fence in front of the O’Chanters’ house and watched the commotion on Mud Puddle Lane.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Rye asked, carefully wrapping her arms and legs round the rail.

“Not since they spotted that school of sharks in the river a few years back.”

The village had woken up that morning to find the streets filled with wild turkeys. Hundreds of them, at least six flocks, had come out of the bogs during the night. Mud Puddle Lane buzzed with villagers. Armed with nets and axes, some using only their bare hands, they chased the lumbering, feathered creatures up and down the roads and alleys. Nobody on Mud Puddle Lane was about to let a free meal run away.

The neighbourhood rooks perched on a cottage roof and watched in disapproval, almost as if they were embarrassed by the whole unseemly affair.

“Do you think anyone will catch one?” Quinn asked.

“I’d think someone will. Sooner or later,” Rye said. She flipped herself upside down, now dangling by her arms and legs from the fence like an exotic pet she’d once seen by the docks. The sailor who owned it called it a sloth.

“Shall we try?”

“My mother said not to bother. She left for The Willow’s Wares early this morning. Brought Lottie with her. She seemed a little distracted.”

Rye wondered how many nights her mother had spent sitting up on their roof. Had the terrible wail from the bogs rattled her the same way it had Rye? Rye found it easy enough to push the sound out of her head this morning, with the light of day and the routine of her regular chores, but her mother’s nervous energy and the commotion in the streets had her thinking about the eerie noise again.

“Did you hear anything strange outside last night?” Rye asked.

“With my father’s snoring?” Quinn said. “I can’t even hear the roosters crow. Why, did you?”

“I thought I heard something screaming. Or crying. Hard to say.”

“It wasn’t Lottie?”

“Not this time.”

One of Rye’s neighbours leaped for a turkey and fell chestfirst in the mud. The big, clumsy bird flapped its wings and landed on the man’s roof. Rye and Quinn laughed. Rye’s laughter broke her grip, her flailing legs found Quinn’s ribs, and they both crashed to the ground.

“Are you OK?” Quinn said, rubbing his side.

Rye rolled over and struggled to catch her breath. “Fine,” she wheezed.

They both looked at each other, then back to the turkey chasers, and began laughing again.

Rye’s laughter trailed off as she considered what might have inspired the turkeys to leave the bogs and take their chances with the villagers’ carving forks.

“They’re hopeless,” Quinn said. “Let’s go and read – I brought a surprise.”

Paintings of mermaids, adventurers and monsters covered a wall by the O’Chanters’ fireplace. As proud as Abby was of her daughters’ talent, she hung the girls’ paintings for another purpose. The artwork covered a hidden door that slid open if you pushed it in the right way. The door led to a few shallow steps and Abby O’Chanter’s secret workshop. At least Rye assumed it was secret, because her mother never mentioned it to her and she had never, ever, seen her mother go in. Then again, Abby had never told Rye to stay out of the workshop, so technically Rye wasn’t breaking any House Rules. Regardless, Rye certainly wouldn’t be telling Lottie about it any time soon; her sister ruined all the best hiding places.

Rye and Quinn sat at the heavy wooden table that nearly filled the small, sunken room, careful not to disturb the tools, beads and half-finished jewellery. Shady was curled up in a big black ball underneath it. If it hadn’t been for him, Rye would never have known about the workshop in the first place. One day she had seen Shady sniffing the floor and pawing at Lottie’s sketch of Mona Monster in a princess dress. Then, right in front of her eyes, he disappeared into the wall as if it had swallowed him up. It was amazing what kinds of surprises your own house could hold.

Rye and Quinn huddled round a lantern and a thick book – Tam’s Tome of Drowning Mouth Fibs, Volume II. Quinn said that the angry poet had collected Tam’s Tome after Rye had dropped it, but he’d been forced to stash it in a chimney before climbing down to answer the Constable’s questions. Quinn had taken it upon himself to save Tam’s Tome from nesting birds and chimney fires. Rye was impressed. That was like something she or Folly might try.

“What do you think the poet will do when he finds out it’s missing?” Quinn asked.

“No idea,” Rye said. “He didn’t get a good look at us, so he can’t just come knocking on our doors. It wouldn’t be safe to report it missing, so I doubt he’ll risk telling anyone.”

“Probably not,” Quinn said, chewing his lip.

“We should keep it safe,” Rye said. And read as much of it as we can, she thought.

“I guess so …” Quinn said.

“Good,” Rye said, before he could change his mind. “We’ll keep it at your house,” she added quickly.

Quinn and his father lived just three cottages down from the O’Chanters. Their walls were already bursting with Quinn’s books and his father’s cluttered assortment of weapons that could crush your bones or separate you from your limbs. Angus Quartermast was a blacksmith with hammer-forged arms and a brow that seemed permanently furrowed, but he always had kind words for Rye and her mother. Quinn had lost his own mother to the Shivers years before and neither Quinn nor his father had turned out to be much of a housekeeper. At the Quartermasts’ house, there was always a fine line between hidden and lost.

Quinn, unlike his father, was still so skinny that he had to use a rope belt to hold up his trousers. He had a tendency to forget things, like his lunch, or the shopping list, or sometimes his way home. But Quinn was also kind, and he was one of Rye’s best friends in the whole world. Three times a week, he brought over a book and helped her with her reading.

Now, with time to examine Tam’s Tome more carefully, they noticed that many of its pages were burned, torn or missing completely, and its binding was covered in soot. Its contents, however, were like no book they had ever seen. Page after page was hand-scrawled in letters of varying sizes. Throughout the book, the text was packed so tightly that the thin slivers of parchment not covered by ink seemed to form phantom images all their own. Rye tried to make them out, but it was like spotting faces in storm clouds – lose your focus for just a moment and they were gone.

“We should see if there’s anything about cries from the bogs,” Rye said, and by ‘we’ she meant Quinn. She was still learning to wrestle with ordinary-sized letters.

Quinn sighed as he squinted to read the actual words. “This is going to take some time.”

Fortunately, the maze of prose was occasionally broken up by the most detailed and lifelike drawings Rye had ever seen, and Rye and Quinn spent their time studying the illustrations. There were portraits of people she didn’t recognise and maps of places she had never been. Creatures, both whimsical and menacing, seemed to leap off the page.

One image, however, plunged them both into silence. It was vaguely human, its orange hair hanging in long, knotted ropes from a skull that looked to have been broken and carelessly reassembled. Sickly skin clung to its ribs and hung in loose folds from its face. Cold eyes conveyed anger and sadness, and there was something both ancient and childlike in its expression. Dwarfed in its bony fingers was a child’s tattered rag doll; around its neck was a string of small, shrivelled feet. A Bog Noblin!

Rye shuddered and turned the page quickly, pressing her hand against the opposite side, as if the awful image might claw its way out. Quinn didn’t object.

They had been leafing through Tam’s Tome for much of the morning when Shady’s ears perked up and he lifted his furry mane. Someone was coming. Rye and Quinn cast wary looks at Shady, then each other. Quinn hunched forward and tried to shield Tam’s Tome under his arms.

The secret door opened. Rosy cheeks and big blue eyes beamed in the lantern light.

“Folly,” Rye said with relief, “where have you been? There are some amazing things in this book.”

“It’s been a crazy day,” Folly said, pulling up a chair. “Did you know turkeys have taken over your street?”

“They came out of the bogs last night,” Quinn said.

“It’s really busy at the inn,” Folly said. “I had to help my mum get ready for tonight’s Black Moon Party – got to hang Wirry Scares on the street.”

Folly’s family owned the Dead Fish Inn, the most notorious tavern in the Shambles. It was rumoured that, with enough grommets, you could buy anything at the Dead Fish. The Floods lived on the third floor over the guest rooms – Folly being the youngest of nine children, the rest of them boys. Her brothers were said to be the toughest in the village, which was good, because patrons of the Dead Fish were infamous for fighting, carousing and causing all sorts of commotion. Rye envied Folly. The Dead Fish was far more exciting than Mud Puddle Lane, and all the wild turkeys in the world couldn’t change that.

Folly slapped her hands on the table. “You’ll never guess what I heard over breakfast.”

As usual, she didn’t wait for them to guess.

“Two men came into the Inn this morning. They weren’t villagers. They looked dirty and tired, and they had weapons. Lots of them. They said they hadn’t slept in days.”

Rye and Quinn’s ears perked up.

“I heard them telling my father that they’d just come in from Beyond the Shale. While they were there they saw …” Folly paused, the words stuck in her throat.

“They saw what?” Rye asked.

“What was it?” said Quinn.

“A Bog Noblin,” Folly gasped, with a heaping of alarm and a smidge of excitement.

“You’re just winding us up,” Rye said. “They’re extinct.”

“It’s true.”

“In the forest?” Quinn asked.

“No,” Folly said. “Out there.”

She tilted her head in the direction they all knew the bogs to be. Rye and Quinn looked at each other in disbelief.

“Stop it, Folly,” Rye said. “That’s bogwash. You’re just trying to get us in a twist.”

But Rye knew Folly wasn’t teasing them. She heard the concern in Folly’s voice.

Quinn now wore his worry on his face. He flipped the pages of Tam’s Tome and pointed to the open page. The Bog Noblin with the necklace of feet stared back.

Quinn frowned like he’d swallowed a damp mouse.

“Ugh. He’s a knotty-looking one, isn’t he?” Folly said.

The drawing made Rye’s stomach hurt. She closed the book.“It’s just tavern talk, Folly,” she said matter-of-factly. “There’s no such thing as Bog Noblins any more.”

The three friends were quiet. Quinn squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

“You’ll still come to the party tonight, won’t you?” Folly asked Rye finally.

Rye had always wanted to go to a Black Moon Party. She’d heard that villagers roamed the streets in garish clothes, carousing until sunrise. Of course, these days the Laws of Longchance brought curfews, fines and floggings, which put a damper on celebrations of the first new moon each month. And there was also that pesky O’Chanters’ House Rule Number Three.

House Rule Number Three: Lock your door with the Black Moon’s rise. Don’t come out until morning shines.

“Maybe,” Rye said. “I’ll have to wait for my mother to leave the house.”

Her mother had arranged some sort of Black Moon sale at The Willow’s Wares for special customers that night. She’d told Rye she’d need her to watch Lottie and Shady after they had gone to bed, but that she would be home as quickly as she could. If her mother was breaking the House Rule, so could Rye.

“You have to,” Folly implored. “This is no ordinary Black Moon Party. I heard—”

Rye and Quinn prepared for another tall tale.

“—that there’s going to be a secret meeting about …” She looked over her shoulder as if someone might be listening. “The Luck Uglies,” she mouthed.

‘Luck Uglies’ was a name whispered around the docks and darkest taverns, places where men played fast and loose with the laws and their lips. Calling someone a ‘cockle knocker’ or a ‘shad’ might get a child’s tongue tamed with a horse brush. But ‘Luck Uglies’ uttered in the wrong company could earn you a week in the stocks. Of course, like all children, Rye had heard Luck Ugly stories – usually round a fire after dark, or at a graveyard’s edge as the salt mist crept over the tombs – but never from her mother. Folly’s older brothers told one about a Luck Ugly who sharpened his teeth into fangs with a grindstone and fed on village vagrants after dark. Quinn’s father once told him that he’d better eat his cabbage or the Luck Uglies would come to take his dog while he slept.

It was the Luck Uglies who, ten years before, finished off the last of the Bog Noblins shortly before disappearing themselves. Neither group had been particularly missed.

“Luck Uglies?” Rye repeated quietly.

Folly nodded with great enthusiasm. “Maybe it has something to do with the Bog Noblin.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “When is the meeting to discuss witches and sea monsters?” he asked with an uneasy chuckle.

“I’m coming,” Rye said, making up her mind. Talk of Bog Noblins and Luck Uglies, real or imagined, was too good to miss.

“What about you, Quinn?” Folly asked.

“I don’t think my father would like that.”

“Parents aren’t supposed to like what we do,” Folly said. “That’s their job.”

Quinn bit his lip and thought hard, but shook his head.

“Are you sure?” Rye asked him. “We could go over together.”

She hoped for the company. She’d never been to the Shambles after dark, but she’d heard … things. The Shambles was the one part of town where the Laws of Longchance weren’t enforced – the one place where the Earl’s soldiers dared not tread. Nobody really lived there except the transient shadow brokers who were laying low, biding time or hatching plans, and people like the Floods who profited from them.

“I don’t think so,” Quinn said.

“What’s wrong, Quinn?” Folly said. “Are you afraid the Luck Uglies might get you?”

“No,” Quinn said quickly. “There’s no such thing as Luck Uglies any more, right, Rye?”

“Right,” Rye mumbled, not sounding particularly convincing.

“Of course there isn’t,” Folly said. “Just like there are no more Bog Noblins.” She squinted and eyed Rye and Quinn carefully. “You’re positive you haven’t seen anything out in those bogs?”

“Nothing,” Quinn said, his eyes wide. “Have you, Rye?”

Rye shook her head. She hadn’t seen anything. But she was sure she had heard something last night. A sound like nothing she had ever heard before.

THAT NIGHT, LOTTIE went down without a fuss. Rye couldn’t have been more surprised. Lottie snuggled up with Mona Monster and began snoring fitfully under the covers as soon as Abby blew out the candles. Rye didn’t even need to lie down with her. Abby stoked the fire in the girls’ fireplace and they both slipped quietly from the room.

Shady, on the other hand, was not in a restful mood. He paced the house like a caged bugbear, pawing at the floor and yowling. He climbed up their legs with his long claws. Finally, Abby locked him in her own bedroom.

When Abby returned from her room, she was dressed in her heavy cloak, ready to leave.

“I don’t know what’s got into him,” she said.

Rye watched her mother throw a thick pack over her shoulder. Abby had washed her face and tied her hair in a neat ponytail. Rye held back a smile – Abby had used another blue hair ribbon. Rye thought her mother was quite beautiful despite her old age – she was almost thirty-one. The way folk around the village looked at Abby, they must have thought so too.

“Whose shoes are these?” Abby asked.

“Quinn’s,” Rye said.

“How does someone forget his shoes?”

Abby didn’t wait for an answer. Rye could see in her mother’s body the same anxious energy that was setting Shady on edge tonight.

“Now, Riley, I need you to listen for Lottie, understand? If she wakes up, you take good care of her.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Abby was preparing a lantern. “It’s very important that you stay inside. This is not a night for children to be traipsing about, not even in the yard. Don’t go and fuss with those pigeons. What’s House Rule Number Three?”

“Lock your door with the Black Moon’s rise,” Rye sang, rolling her eyes. “Don’t come out until morning shines.”

Abby smiled and knelt down.

“I do realise I’m telling you to stay inside while I pack a bag,” she said. “But this is an important meeting with some very special customers. They only make it around this way once or twice a year. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

Rye furrowed her brow. “Just … be careful.”

Abby smiled and touched Rye’s cheek. “I’ll be fine, my darling. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“You’re not worried about …” Rye’s voice trailed off.

“About what?”

Rye picked her fingernails. “Folly said someone saw a Bog Noblin in the bogs. Could it be true?”

“I adore Folly as much as you do, but you must admit she’s never heard a story she couldn’t embellish.”

Her mother’s answer was no answer at all.

“But,” Rye said, “is it possible? I thought there were no Bog Noblins left.”

“You were still crawling the last time a Bog Noblin threatened this village. Don’t fret over them now.”

Rye wanted to ask about the terrible noise she’d heard but, given what she had planned for the evening, she thought it better not to mention that she’d been in the yard just the night before – well intentioned or not.

Abby was almost ready now. Rye had run out of fingernails to pick. Something else remained on her mind.

“Mama,” Rye said. “What about the Luck Uglies? Are you worried about them?”

Abby flinched, as if Rye had pricked her with a pin. She seemed to catch herself and resumed lacing her boots.

“Riley, dear, why would I be worried about them?”

“Well, the Black Moon. Isn’t that when they come out?”

“Where did you hear such a thing?”

Rye shrugged. “I don’t know … around. I think I read it somewhere.”

She hadn’t got to that bit in Tam’s Tome yet, but everyone knew the Luck Uglies once prowled the village on Black Moons, the darkest nights of every month. They wore frightening masks to conceal their real identities, stalking the streets in small packs or flying from the rooftops like bats.

“Darling, you don’t need to worry about any Luck Uglies any more,” Abby said, standing up. “They’re gone. Forever. Earl Longchance made sure of that.” Her voice was flat.

Still, Rye was worried. She vividly remembered her fleeting glimpse of the masked gargoyle on the rooftops. She harboured no illusion that it was a statue come to life, nor a mere figment of her imagination. Could it have been a Luck Ugly?

Abby picked up her lantern and pulled the cloak of her hood over her head.

“Riley,” she said, “follow the House Rules and I assure you that no Bog Noblin or Luck Ugly will ever trouble this family.”

The way she said it, Rye couldn’t help but believe her.

Abby opened the front door and carefully covered her lantern with a sheath to dim the light. A chilly wind rushed in from outside. In her cloak and hood, Rye’s mother was almost unrecognisable. The pinched rise in her shoulders seemed to soften. Her eyes flickered with excitement under her hood. In Abby’s room, Shady scratched at the door furiously.

“You may want to leave Shady in there. I don’t know what’s got into him.”

She blew Rye a kiss with her hand. Rye pretended to catch it.

“Be good, my love,” Abby said, and disappeared into the night.

“I don’t know about this,” Quinn said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rye said. “Lottie’s fast asleep. She never wakes up once she’s gone down.”

Rye was determined to meet Folly at the Dead Fish Inn, but didn’t want to leave Lottie alone. It had taken a lot of convincing, but Quinn had agreed to come over and stay at the O’Chanters’ house until Rye returned. Rye and Quinn had signalled to each other with their lanterns when Abby had gone and Angus was asleep, and then Quinn ran down the street.

“Aren’t you afraid to go out?” Quinn said.

“You made it, didn’t you?” Rye said.

“I’m only three houses away. You’re going to the other side of the village.”

“I’ll be fine,” Rye said, trying to convince herself. She pulled her cloak round her shoulders and her hood over her head. “Thanks for your help, Quinn.”

“You owe me. And hurry back. How am I going to explain this if your mother gets home before you?”

Rye grabbed her lantern. “I won’t be late. Remember, don’t let Shady out.”

Rye herself had never been out on the Black Moon. It was forbidden for women and children under the Laws of Longchance. Normally it was a half-hour walk to Folly’s house. Rye intended to go as fast as she could to minimise her time on the streets.

Mud Puddle Lane was dark under the best of circumstances, never mind with no moon in the sky. Rye kept her lantern lit at first, although she planned to cover it as soon as possible. She could hear voices and laughter behind the doors, but the dirt street was empty. She could smell tangy-sweet hickory fires from the chimneys; someone was cooking a celebratory treat.

When she reached the end of her road, she stepped carefully over the crumbled section of the village’s wall, now overgrown with weeds and moss. Rye and Quinn played on the wall every day, so she was able to navigate it well, even in the dark.

After Mud Puddle Lane, she crossed into Nether Neck and Old Salt Cross, where the open spaces between houses closed and the cobblestone streets narrowed. In Old Salt Cross the second and third floors of buildings jutted over the streets like tree limbs in a dense forest. Street lamps, though sparse, lit the corners and she was able to dim her lantern. Rye stayed in the shadows, darting from one alley to the next. Other people roamed the village, although most moved silently and alone. Rye avoided everyone. If someone approached, she stepped into a doorway until he passed. There were short cuts to Folly’s, but she intended to stay away from Market Street at all costs. Running into her mother would be scarier than getting snatched by a Bog Noblin.

Rye picked up her pace as she grew more comfortable with the darkness. Skipping from cobblestone to cobblestone, she imagined herself leaping across the rooftops. She gave herself a shiver, wondering whether there was a masked gargoyle up there watching her right now.

She leaped over puddles and flew from an alley on to Dread Captain’s Way when the tall figure stopped her in her tracks. Rye fell backwards on to her bottom and her lantern hit the ground with a rattle. Its flame flickered and died.

The figure loomed over her in its dark robes, orange eyes glowing like fire.

RYE PROTECTED HER face with her hands and peered through her fingers. Spidery wrists stretched from billowing black sleeves, long claws poised to pluck out her eyeballs. Its sharp-toothed mouth scowled down at her from its pumpkin head. Its face was carved like that of a feral cat, with whiskers and angular eyes whose glow came from the candle inside.

Rye lowered her hands. The claws were nothing more than branches, the menacing figure just a Wirry Scare mounted on a tall wooden frame. Apparently wirries weren’t the only things these stickmen frightened. It meant she wasn’t far from the Dead Fish Inn. Maybe Folly helped put up this one herself.

Rye straightened her clothes and scolded herself for being so easily spooked. Before she could rise, she heard the shuffling of boots, the clinking of metal on stone, and a voice yelling, “Did you hear that? It came from over there.”

The source of the voice hurried towards her. Rye looked for somewhere to hide. She lurched forward and rolled under an abandoned farmer’s wagon filled with rotting hay. It wasn’t a moment too soon, as three figures emerged from the alley she’d used.

Rye pressed herself flat on the cold, damp cobblestones. Villagers were not the tidiest folk. She was surrounded by rotting vegetables, other rubbish and an old shoe. She pinched her nose and peered through the spokes of the wagon’s one large wheel.

A man in a brown cloak led the way, scurrying out of the alley like a crab. He was bent and bow-legged, but moved much faster than one would expect given his rickety looks. Behind him lumbered two heavily armoured soldiers, one carrying an enormous axe over his shoulder. They wore the black and blue crest of the House of Longchance on their shields – an iron fist and a coiled, eel-like serpent displaying a gaping maw of teeth. Their armour sounded like Lottie when she got loose amongst Abby O’Chanter’s pots and pans. Rye had never seen, or heard, soldiers armoured so heavily in the village.

The man in front peered through the shadows.

“Bring the light,” he called. “Where are you, rat?”

From the alley, a much smaller person appeared carrying a large lantern. The link rat’s light rattled as he ran. Rye had never met a link rat before, but she’d heard about them from Folly. Link rats were children – usually orphans – paid to guide travellers through Drowning’s streets after dark. It sounded like terribly dangerous work for a child, but if one got lost, hurt or stolen, well, there was always a replacement. Orphans weren’t hard to come by in Drowning. Rye knew Quinn had suffered from nightmares about becoming a link rat ever since he’d lost his mother. It was why he clung so tightly to his father’s side.

When this particular link rat caught up with the other men, Rye saw that he was not much taller than her. His clothes hung in tatters off his narrow shoulders and his straight black hair fell past his ears. Rye also got a better look at the first man’s face squinting in the light. She recognised the dustball eyebrows. It was Constable Boil.

“Over here,” the Constable said, waving to the link rat. “What’s that?”

The link rat moved forward, casting the lantern light on the Wirry Scare. Boil’s feet scuffled forward and the clank of armoured boots stopped less than a metre from Rye’s nose. From under the wagon, Rye could only see their legs.

“Another one,” Boil growled. “Superstitious simpletons. Chop it down.”

Rye watched one of the soldiers brace himself and listened to the chop of the axe. She flinched as the Wirry Scare creaked and splintered.

“You,” Boil said to the other soldier, “keep your eyes peeled. I heard noises over here.”

Rye held her breath and watched the soldier’s feet circle round the wagon. The link rat seemed to have noticed something on the ground. Constable Boil’s feet shuffled round the wagon in the opposite direction. She was surrounded on all sides. When she turned back, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.

The link rat was just a boy, probably not much older than Rye. His eyes stared into hers without blinking, irises reflecting strange colours in the dim lantern light. Then he looked towards Rye’s own lantern, which lay on its side where she had dropped it, in plain view on the street not far from where the Constable and soldiers were now searching. He turned back towards her again. Rye shook her head, placed her palms together and pleaded with him silently. Her efforts seemed lost on him. It was like he wasn’t looking at her, but through her.

Finally, the boy lifted his index finger as if he was going to point her out to the Constable. Instead, he raised it to his lips – for quiet. With his foot, he gently slid Rye’s lantern under the wagon, hiding it out of sight.

“Boy!” yelled the Constable. “Don’t just stand there, bring the light round.”

The link rat glanced in Rye’s direction one last time and then moved on, following the Constable’s instructions.

There was another chop, then a loud crack, and the Wirry Scare collapsed into a heap on the street. Its pumpkin head rolled off its frame and landed centimetres from Rye’s face. It exploded with a splat as a soldier’s steel boot crushed it with a mighty stomp. Blech, Rye thought. It was going to take forever to wash pumpkin guts out of her hair.

“Let’s go,” Boil barked. “There are plenty more of those dreadful stickmen to be found.”

Rye listened as Boil and the soldiers continued down the street. Only when they sounded far enough away did she crawl out from under the wagon. She watched the link rat’s lantern light disappear as the patrol turned a corner. She wondered why the boy had put himself at risk to help her. What a terrible way to spend the night, trudging around in the cold being bullied by the Constable and those two knot-headed soldiers.

Rye considered turning round and going back home to Mud Puddle Lane. But she was closer to Folly’s house than her own. She wasn’t going to waste any more time sneaking around in the shadows. Rye grabbed her lantern, looked both ways, and ran right down the middle of Dread Captain’s Way as fast as her legs would take her.

Mutineer’s Alley wasn’t an alley at all, but a set of steep stone steps that led down from Dread Captain’s Way in the village proper to the dirt streets, shops and taverns of the Shambles. Ordinarily, it was hard to find unless you were looking for it. But on the night of the Black Moon, two Wirry Scares beckoned from either side of the archway and open torches lit the entrance. Paper lanterns trimmed into grotesque faces lined each step, creating a sinister glowing path down to the banks of the River Drowning.

Rye took a deep breath and started to go down. There was no turning back now.

The main street in the Shambles was a mud walkway called Little Water Street that ran parallel with the river’s bank. It was much busier than the streets Rye had travelled in the village itself. People milled about alone or in groups, both men and women, and no one seemed surprised to see a young girl walking alone after dark. Rye remembered some advice her mother had given her once: Walk strong, act like you belong, and no one will be the wiser.

Rye pulled her cloak and hood tightly round her and moved with purpose. Catching the eyes of a passer-by, she nodded curtly and kept walking.

Those on the streets of the Shambles wore colourful cloaks in hues Rye almost never saw in the rest of the village – bold reds, rich greens and vibrant purples. People kept to themselves, which is not to say they were quiet. She heard a woman laugh as she and her companion stumbled arm in arm into a dark alley. A gimpy man dragged a wooden leg behind him with a step-tap-step-tap.

The shopkeepers were busy even at this late hour, their windows flung open to entice customers in. An artist with a needle tattooed the enormous back of a shirtless man, who grimaced and sipped his ale with every pinch. A shyster played a shell game for bronze bits, making a small blue stone disappear and reappear under halved coconut shells through sleight of hand.

The commotion grew as Rye reached the end of the street. Wandering into the dense crowd, she looked up. In the shadow of the village’s most impressive structure – the great arched bridge that spanned the River Drowning – rose a brooding building made of heavy timber and stone. Candles burned in each window and the revellers spilled down the front steps and caroused in the glowing street. Rye had never seen the Dead Fish Inn this busy before. Boisterous conversations floated through the air and over the river, where Rye could see lights bobbing on the water. Boats and rafts filled the docks tonight. Given all the unfamiliar flags, Rye suspected they’d sailed from towns far upriver to join the festivities.

Wind gusted off the water into Rye’s face and set the black flag flapping over the inn’s massive, iron-studded doors, the white fish bone logo swimming against the breeze. Rye always found it curious that an inn would need doors so thick. Two hulking guards stood watch at the front, joined together from the waist down by some dark magic. Their identical faces, under thick mops of white-blond hair, scrutinised all who tried to pass. Rye knew the intimidating guardians to be Folly’s twin brothers, Fitz and Flint, who, since birth, had shared a single pair of legs. They had the final say over who was allowed passage in or out of the Dead Fish. With their keen eyes and quick fists, there was no sneaking past them. Fortunately, Rye knew another way inside.

She slipped unnoticed down a darkened walkway and tiptoed through the alley behind the inn, taking care to be quiet until she tripped over a body on the ground.

“Ouch,” a voice grumbled, and a dirty hand grabbed Rye’s leg.

“Baron Nutfield?” Rye whispered. “Is that you?”

“Yes!” The voice smelled of ale and onions.

“Let go of my leg and go back to sleep,” Rye said.

He did.

Baron Nutfield was the old man who lived in the alley behind the Dead Fish. He actually lived in a guest room, but the Flood boys threw him in the alley whenever he failed to pay his bill. He spent more time outside the Dead Fish than in it. He claimed to be a nobleman in a county far to the south, but he never seemed able to find his way back there.

Rye reached down and picked up a pebble. She looked up at the third floor and counted three windows over from the left. Taking aim, she threw the pebble and it bounced off the glass with a rattle.

Nothing happened.

She picked up another, larger stone and tried again. This time it went clear through the glass.

“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered.

Her mother would scrub her tongue with soap if she heard her use language like that, but Rye was pretty sure Baron Nutfield didn’t mind.

“Hey!” an angry voice called from above. A man’s head jutted out of the broken window, but he couldn’t see her in the dark.

Maybe it was three from the right, Rye thought.

“Here,” Baron Nutfield said. He reached up and handed Rye another stone. “Put a little more arc on it this time.”

Rye tossed the stone at the window three from the right.

A lantern blazed to life. The window creaked open and a rope ladder slowly slid down the wall.

“YOU’RE FILTHY,” FOLLY said.

“It was a long walk.”

“Is that sick in your hair?” Folly asked.

“Pumpkin. Long story,” Rye said. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks,” Folly said, and did a little twirl. “Mum let me wear it for the Black Moon Party.”

It was dark-green velvet with gold trim. Like Rye, Folly didn’t wear dresses very often.

Folly’s room was small, but it was her own. She didn’t have to share one like her brothers did. It was decorated with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes, each filled with a colourful concoction of potential ingredients – frogspawn, belladonna blooms, dollops of earwax. Folly was always trying to make magical potions. They never worked, but Rye gave her credit for trying. Folly’s parents didn’t seem to mind. With eight sons and a whole inn to run, they hardly noticed the chemical fires and pungent fumes wafting from their daughter’s room.

“Are you ready?” Folly asked.

Rye nodded. This was going to make the whole trip worthwhile.

“OK,” Folly said. “Stay close to me and try not to draw attention to yourself. My father will be too busy to notice, and nobody else will care that we’re here.”

“Got it,” Rye said.

Folly opened her door and they stepped into the hall. Sound and heat roared from below. The four-storey inn was open from floor to ceiling, with a central staircase leading from one level to the next. Rye and Folly walked to the edge of the railing and peeked down. Hanging from the beamed ceiling, fixed with an anchor chain, was a chandelier fashioned from the sun-bleached skeleton of some long-extinct sea monster. Its bones were covered with hundreds of beeswax candles that bathed the inn in the glow of soft light.

All the tables were filled and people stood shoulder to shoulder at the bars. Barmaids pushed through the crowds, delivering trays of mugs and goblets that seemed to make everyone happier. A huge black shark roasted on a spit over the stone fireplace. Its jaws, filled with sharp teeth, were wide enough to fit a person inside. Every now and then a barmaid would cut off a piece, slap it on a plate, and deliver it to a hungry patron. With each cut, the juices of the shark steak dripped into the fire, sending flames shooting into the air, and everyone would cheer.

“Come on,” Folly said, and they took the stairs down to the second floor.

The second floor was busier than the third. Guests made their way in and out of their rooms, some disappearing behind latched doors. Over the noise of the crowd, Rye could hear music. There were drums, maybe a lute. Rye was spellbound by the festivities. She crossed her legs and leaned her head against the railing, soaking in the sights and sounds.

The Dead Fish drew an unusual crowd. Unlike most villagers, these people looked like they had been places and done things. Gambling was everywhere – drinkers bet on who could empty their mugs the fastest, or who might fit the most spiders in his mouth. A card game was heating up at a table in the corner. A man with slicked-back hair and a small black monkey on his shoulder seemed to be doing most of the winning. The monkey shuffled the cards and collected the bronze bits after every hand the man won. At one point someone accused the monkey of cheating. Insults were traded. Someone got bitten.

Folly’s father, Fletcher, served behind the main bar, which made him the most popular person at the inn. His hands never stopped working and his gap-toothed smile never left his face. He strung grommets, shims and bits on the leather coin belt round his waist as quickly as the customers dropped them on the bar. On the shelf behind him, the bottom chamber of a tall hourglass slowly filled with black sand. Rye had never seen anything quite like it. On what kind of beach could you find black sand?

If Fletcher Flood was the most popular person at the Dead Fish, it seemed to Rye that the man at the Mermaid’s Nook wasn’t far behind. The Mermaid’s Nook was the best table in the house. It was the closest to the main fireplace and it sat higher than the others in a semi-private corner with a view of the entire inn. Folly told Rye it was her favourite because of the beautiful, life-sized mermaid that was carved into the wooden table top.

The man at the Mermaid’s Nook had a short, stubbly beard flecked with grey, and dark hair that was long but not unkempt. His nose, though bent, seemed at home between his cheeks. He had more than a few scars. Several ran through his eyebrows and another across his throat. His eyes flashed with delight, or was it wariness? Rye’s eyes followed the man’s as they scanned the inn, seeming to take inventory of everything in it. His eyes found Rye’s, and she looked away until she felt them move on.

The woman at his table had her back to Rye. Her dress, the colour of fresh cranberries, showed off her soft, white shoulders. Rye watched as every few minutes someone would stop at the Mermaid’s Nook to greet the man and his companion. Visitors would shake his hand, heartily slap his back, or almost timidly touch his shoulder. When he waved or reached across to say hello, Rye could see the green tattoos that began above the leather bracelets criss-crossing his wrists. They snaked their way up his forearms and disappeared beneath his sleeves. His silver rings and the chains round his neck glinted when they caught the light. He seemed apologetic after each visitor left, and he would lean forward and whisper something to the woman at the table.

“Folly, there you are,” said a voice. “Oh. Hello, Rye.”

It was Fifer Flood, the nicest of Folly’s brothers.

“Hi, Fifer,” Rye said.

Fifer was thirteen and, for some reason, Rye always found herself blushing when he was around.

“Folly, be a love and bring these down to Mum, would you?” Fifer asked. He handed her an armful of bar rags. “I need to get back to cleaning room seven. The sword swallower had a terrible mishap. There’ll be no second show this evening, I’m afraid.”

Folly crinkled her nose and took the rags.

“Thanks,” Fifer said. “You two stay out of trouble.”

Rye shadowed Folly’s steps down the last flight of stairs to the main floor of the inn. A young, straw-haired bartender spotted them, but just smiled and waved them over. It was Jonah, a friend of the twins. He was always kind to Rye and Folly and let them sip the honey mead when no one was looking.

“You two up to mischief?” he asked.

Why did everyone always jump to that conclusion?

“No. Well … maybe,” Folly said with a smile. “Don’t tell my dad.”

Jonah pursed his lips and buttoned them with his fingers. “I doubt he’ll notice anyway,” he said. “This is the busiest Black Moon we’ve seen in years. The Bog Noblin chatter has everyone on edge. Folk get thirsty when their nerves are frayed.”

“Are you nervous, Jonah?” Rye asked.

“I’m scared they’ll string me up if we run out of ale. But scared of Bog Noblins? No, not me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you come here to talk about them too? Try over there.” He pointed to where a small crowd had gathered round a tall man in a corner.

“Jonah,” Folly said, a hint of conspiracy in her voice. “Has anyone said anything about … Luck Uglies?” Out of habit, she peeked over her shoulder when she said it.

Jonah snorted and tugged the tuft of beard on his chin. “People are saying all sorts of foolish things. We’ve been down that road before. Asking the Luck Uglies to solve your problems is like letting wasps in the kitchen to get rid of your flies. Once the flies are gone, who do you think the wasps will sting?”

He snapped a bar rag at them playfully. Rye and Folly giggled nervously as they moved on.

“What was that supposed to mean?” Rye asked Folly when they were beyond earshot.

“Beats me, but I’m staying out of the kitchen for a while,” she said, and they both giggled again.

Folly and Rye darted between hips and thighs as they worked their way towards the corner Jonah had indicated. They stopped at the smaller side bar where Faye Flood rinsed dirty goblets at a furious pace in a trough of brownish water.

“Here, Mum,” Folly said.

She dropped the stack of dirty rags on the bar.

Faye flipped back the lone streak of grey in her blonde hair, which hung down in front of her face. She gave a quick smile and a wave and returned to her chores. Her face was round and pretty, but Rye noticed that the years of scrubbing had left her hands thick and weathered.

Eventually, they found their way to the corner where a tall, bearded fellow with some miles under his boots was addressing a small crowd of patrons over his mug.

“The sickly skinned cockle knocker lurched out at us from the muck while we was eating,” he said, raising a hand like a claw.

His audience seemed transfixed by his story.

“Fortunately, I kept my wits about me,” the man continued. “Made eye contact with it – like they says to do.” He paused for dramatic effect. It caused everyone to stop their drinking and hang on his words – not an easy task. At last he thrust his fist forward.

“Then I gave it a stiff punch in the snout!”

The men roared their approval. Several women gasped. Over the din, a voice called out dryly.

“Rubbish.”

“Who said that?” the tall man asked.

“Bogwash,” the voice said again.

Several patrons stepped aside and Rye saw that it was the man with the monkey. He sat in a chair with his legs crossed, glaring over his fingers, which he’d folded into a pyramid on his chin.

“You’s saying I’m a liar, gypsy?”

“If you actually saw a Bog Noblin,” the man with the monkey said, “which I highly doubt, I suspect you wet your knickers and threw your chicken leg at it. If you had tried to punch it in its snout, you wouldn’t be standing here at all.”

The storyteller took a menacing step forward. The man with the monkey stood up. The monkey put up its fists. The men who stepped between them were soon pushing and shoving one another, and before long everyone seemed to forget who had started the trouble in the first place.

Rye and Folly dashed away, disappearing into the forest of legs. Someone stepped on Rye’s foot. Someone else bumped an elbow and accidentally spilled wine on the girls’ heads. They shrieked, then looked at each other and laughed.

“What do we do now?” Rye asked.

“Are you hungry?” Folly asked.

“I could eat.”

They worked through the crowd and positioned themselves near the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Before long, a barmaid hurried out, balancing a heavy tray of food. Folly reached up when the barmaid wasn’t looking and grabbed two grey-black lumps of meat. Folly and Rye skipped back into the crowd before the barmaid could notice the empty plate.

“Try one,” Folly said. “They’re hot.”

Rye took a tiny bite and chewed. She chewed some more. It was salty.

“What do you think?” Folly asked.

“Rubbery,” Rye said, finally swallowing. “What is it?”

“Sea lion,” Folly said.

They didn’t eat sea lion back on Mud Puddle Lane … or anywhere else Rye could think of. She examined the dark meat between her fingers. Suddenly she felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. The pain made her drop the rest on the floor.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“More for me,” Folly said, dangling her share over her lips.

“No, really, Folly.” Rye clutched her side. “I’m going to be sick.”

Folly tossed the sea lion aside and grabbed her hand. “Well, don’t do it here. Come on, let’s get upstairs.”

“Hurry, Folly,” Rye said, turning green.

The girls ran through the crowd, Rye’s insides on fire.

They were almost to the stairs, Folly pulling Rye, when Rye crashed into someone’s leg. She bounced off and stumbled into a barmaid, who dropped an entire tray of empty mugs. There was a crash, then a roar of cheers from the crowd.

Rye was about to stop, but Folly just pulled.

“Keep going,” she said.

When Rye glanced over her shoulder she saw that she’d run into the woman in the cranberry-coloured dress. The one who was sitting at the Mermaid’s Nook. The woman was apologising to the barmaid. She never saw who hit her.

Rye noticed that the woman had soft features and dark-black hair tied into a ponytail with a simple blue ribbon. She held a goblet of wine in her hand and, round her neck was a black choker strung with runestones. It looked just like Rye’s.

“Pigshanks!” she said, slamming to a halt. “It’s my mother!”

Rye and Folly were lying on their bellies in the third-floor hallway, staring through the railing down into the inn below. It was the only position that made Rye’s stomach feel better. The sea lion had already come back to visit her three times, along with her supper from earlier that day. There was nothing left in her belly, but it still felt like she’d swallowed an old boot.

“Are you sure she didn’t see you?” Folly asked. Her voice was sleepy, her eyes half closed.

“Yes,” said Rye. “Believe me, if she had, sea lion would be the least of my worries.”

Abby O’Chanter was back at the Mermaid’s Nook with the tattooed man. They were speaking quietly to one another across the mermaid’s body, but Rye couldn’t tell if Abby was happy or sad. One thing she did know was that she’d never seen her mother wear a dress like that before. She’d never known her to show so much of her shoulders and neck in public.

“Do you have any idea who that man is?” Rye asked.

“No,” Folly said. “It seems that other people do, though.”

“My mother said she had a special sale for customers at The Willow’s Wares,” Rye said. “What’s she doing here?”

“Maybe she’s finished her business,” Folly said, drifting off to sleep. “Or maybe he’s one of the customers.”

The inn began to spin and Rye thought she was going to be sick again, but she realised it was just the massive chandelier bobbing in front of her eyes. A rook hopped among the bones and candles, trying to keep its balance with its creepy little feet. Rye crinkled her nose. The filthy creature must have flown in through a window. A black bird that flies by night was considered bad luck. The worst kind. In its beak was a large, metal fish hook that glinted in the candlelight, its barb still slick as if the bird had plucked it fresh from some mackerel’s mouth.

Rye jumped as the rook spread its wings and dived down from its perch. It swooped unnoticed over the heads of the partygoers before passing over the Mermaid’s Nook, where it lost its grip on the hook. The hook dropped straight on to the table. The bird flapped awkwardly upwards and disappeared into a dark corner of the rafters.

Rye leaned forward. Her mother had pushed herself back from the table, but her companion picked up the hook and seemed to examine it with great interest. Unbelievably, he held it under his nose and sniffed it.

Rye’s concentration was broken by a loud ringing below. Folly’s father had mounted the bar and he now clanged a brass ship’s bell. He kept it up until the crowd grew quiet. He cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Last call,” he bellowed. “Last call.”

There were rumbles and hisses. Fletcher Flood pointed to the large hourglass behind him. The black sand had almost run its course.

“Finish your cups and be gone,” he yelled, “or the doors get locked and you drink ’til dawn!”

There was a roar of approval. Then the crowd raised their glasses and broke into a chant.

“The Black Moon rises, thick with thieves! No one enters, no one leaves!”

“Folly,” Rye asked. “What’s going on?”

Folly was snoring.

“Folly!” Rye jabbed an elbow in her side. “What’s going on here?”

“Huh?” Folly said. “Oh. On the Black Moon the doors get locked at midnight. Everyone is free to go or stay, but once the doors are locked, no one gets in or out.”

“What? It’s midnight already? Why do they lock the doors?” Rye asked.

“I don’t know; tradition?” Folly said. “Most people stay. It can get really crazy in here after the doors are locked.”

Rye looked back towards the Mermaid’s Nook. Abby and the man were now standing. Even from this distance, Rye recognised the lines of worry on her mother’s brow. Abby flung her everyday cloak over her shoulders, extinguishing the striking cranberry dress like mud on a fire. The man had one too, black as the charred shark on the spit, and when he turned, Rye noticed two sheathed swords strapped to his back. They made their way with haste to the front of the inn with a handful of others.

“Wait,” Rye said. “Where’s she going?”

Fitz and Flint stood to the side of the thick doors with both sets of arms crossed. Rye’s mother and her escort pulled their hoods over their heads and disappeared with the small crowd into the night. Rye noticed that the man with the monkey was part of the group. He had slipped in behind them unnoticed. Fitz and Flint used their shoulders to close the heavy doors behind them, and dropped a thick iron bar across to bolt them shut. The latch echoed just as the sand ran out of the hourglass. The crowd broke into louder cheers.

“Folly!” Rye cried. “I can’t get locked in.”

“Don’t worry,” Folly said. “You can sleep in my room.”

“No, Folly, listen.” Rye grabbed her by the shoulders. “My mother’s going home. I have to get out!”

RYE DROPPED DOWN from the rope ladder and landed hard in the alley. She had climbed out of Folly’s window so fast she’d forgotten her lantern. There was no time to go back for it now. She was careful not to step on Baron Nutfield, but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe they had let him inside.

Rye tried to ignore the protests of her stomach as she darted through the alley and on to Little Water Street, worried that she might run straight into her mother once again. But something was different. Terribly different. The street was dark and lifeless. Another solitary rook pecked at a string of festive beads now discarded on the docks. It regarded Rye with its dark coal of an eye before flying off, disappearing under the bridge. There were no lights on the River Drowning and no more boats offshore. The river was still, its water black. The shops were all shuttered. She looked up at the Dead Fish Inn. Even the candles in its windows had been darkened.

Rye breathed hard. It had grown colder. She could see her breath. From the corner of her eye, she thought she could see things moving in the shadows of the buildings. Then, when she would look, they’d be gone.

Rye began to run.

Rye wasn’t the fastest runner on Mud Puddle Lane, but she could run for the longest. Whenever she raced Quinn from her house to Miser’s End Cemetery, Quinn would always win. When they raced to the cemetery and back again, Quinn didn’t stand a chance. Rye’s big lungs and strong legs served her well on the night of the Black Moon. She tore through the streets, falling twice over loose stones. She picked herself up and kept going.

By the time she reached the broken wall, her chest pounded and her hood stuck to the sweat on her forehead. Her head was spinning worse than her stomach now, but she was greatly relieved to make it to Mud Puddle Lane without anyone seeing her, grabbing her, or otherwise scaring her out of her wits. She was even more relieved when she opened the door to the O’Chanters’ cottage and found it to be quiet. Rye had managed to make it home before her mother.

Then she realised the problem. Nobody else was there either.

“Quinn?” Rye called.

The door to her mother’s room was open. Rye poked her head inside, but found it empty.

“Quinn!” Rye called again. She opened the door to her own room. The covers were off and Lottie was nowhere to be seen.

Rye picked her fingers as panic set in. She ran to the main room and threw open the front door, about to run to Quinn’s house to see if he’d taken Lottie back with him. A thought made her pause. She quickly walked to the wall by the fireplace and pushed on a painting of Mona Monster’s belly button.

Quinn was in the secret workshop, pinned to a chair by Lottie. Her arms were round his neck, her mop of red hair buried on his shoulder. She snored like a hive of lazy bees. Poor Quinn looked frightful. His hair was as wild as Lottie’s and his face was covered with blue paint.

“You said you’d be right back,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Rye said.

“You said she never wakes up.”

“She doesn’t,” Rye said. “What happened?”

“She said she had to do a wee.”

“Did she?” Rye asked.

“Not a wee,” Quinn said.

“Oh,” Rye said. “Did she use her Pot?”

“No,” Quinn said glumly and pointed to his shoes in the corner.

“Ugh,” said Rye.

“It was awful, Rye. What do you feed this girl?”

“I’ll clean your shoe.”

“She was screeching about a lazy glue wagon,” Quinn said.

“A baby blue dragon,” Rye corrected.

“And magic narbles,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “She refused to sleep until I gave her a magic narble. Where on earth do I find one of them?”

“A magic marble,” Rye said. “They’re just beach pebbles. Lottie gets one every time she uses her Pot. When she fills her goodie jar, my mother says she can have a baby blue dragon.”

Rye had no idea where they might acquire a baby dragon of any colour. But Lottie didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about potty training anyway. She was just as likely to go in her mother’s vegetable garden, or a saucepan, or poor Quinn’s shoe. She had only collected three marbles so far. They still had plenty of time to sort out the details.

“And that one,” Quinn said, pointing to the corner, “has been unbearable all night. I thought he was going to rip down the door.”

Shady paced the floor restlessly. He looked over his furry shoulder as they spoke about him.

“He scratched me,” Quinn said. “Twice.”

He held up his arm. There were four long red welts.

“Sorry, Quinn,” Rye said. “Where else did he get you?”

“I’m sitting on it.”

Shady blinked his yellow eyes and chattered, quite satisfied with himself.

“Quinn,” Rye said. “Why did you bring Lottie in here? She’s going to tell my mother.”

“I didn’t,” Quinn said. “I was chasing her. Trying to get my shoe. She knew where the door was – ran back here and hid. I was shocked myself.”

Just then the flame in the lantern flickered from a draught.

Shady noticed it too. His ears perked up and he darted from the workshop.

“Pigshanks,” Rye said. “The front door.”

The front door was open, but not because Abby was home. In her haste to find Quinn and Lottie, Rye had forgotten to close it. Rye ran back into the main room from the secret workshop just in time to see the fluff of Shady’s black tail disappear out of the door.

“Shady, no!” Rye yelled, with no effect.

Quinn followed her from the workshop, shoeless, with Lottie hanging upside down from his arms, still fast asleep.

“Quinn, stay here. I have to go after him,” Rye said.

“No way,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “You’re not going to leave me here alone with her again.”

“Please, Quinn,” Rye said and didn’t wait for an answer.

Rye ran back into the night. She stood in the middle of Mud Puddle Lane, calling for Shady in a whisper at first, then more loudly. With his black fur, he’d be invisible in the shadows. Rye thought about what she would do if she was a cat let outside for the first time. Cats were cautious, so she would probably take her time and look around. After that, well, she’d probably try to catch a bird. The hens?

Rye rushed round the side of the O’Chanters’ cottage towards the yard. She didn’t see anything at first, but she could hear the hens rustling in their coop. The goat was bleating in its pen. Everything seemed restless on the Black Moon. Then, low in the grass, by the side of her house, she saw a strange, pale-blue glow.

She squinted in the dark. Could it be a wirry? It was very still. She crept closer. As she approached, she saw that the blue glow was attached to two glistening eyes. They were yellow. It was Shady. He was crouched low on his belly staring out at the yard and beyond. Maybe she was right, he was getting ready to explore the henhouse. The blue glow came from the collar round his neck. The runestones had taken on an otherworldly light.

Rye pulled at the collar of her cloak and craned her head to look down at the choker round her own neck. It had the same strange pale glow. She had never noticed that before. It certainly didn’t glow when she was asleep in bed. Had it been doing that all night?

She tiptoed carefully, whispering compliments and sweet words as she approached Shady. She was just about to pick him up when he darted into the yard, faster than she had ever seen him move. All she saw was his blue collar speeding past the henhouse. She ran to follow, but the collar kept going, over the wattle fence of their yard. Rye’s words were no longer complimentary or sweet.

She hurdled the fence and watched the collar now well ahead of her. Shady was heading up the path along Troller’s Hill. Once he got to the top he would have two options. To the right was Miser’s End Cemetery – a forgotten old graveyard that everyone said was haunted. Rye hoped he would go that way. Her heart sank as she saw the blue glow stop at the top of the hill. Shady chose to go left, and headed down towards the bogs.

The bogs were not pleasant under the best of circumstances, and Rye tried to avoid them even during the day. They were damp and full of moss, hip-deep in places. It was easy to get stuck if you weren’t careful. Snakes and blood-sucking insects made it their home, and if the beasts didn’t bite you the plants would. Carnivorous bog plants trapped and ate things with their leafy mouths – frogs, birds. Folly said her brothers found one so big it nearly ate one of their hunting dogs. Rye didn’t quite believe that. Of course, that wasn’t the worst thing Folly said someone saw in the bogs.

Chasing after Shady, Rye didn’t have time to think of any of those things. She knew if she lost sight of the glowing collar he would be gone forever. He still had a healthy lead and pulled further away as she splashed through the dark, knee-deep water. The salt fog was rising, making the light difficult to follow. She was shivering, her clothes soaked from the spray of her footsteps. She pushed herself as hard as she could, but her feet stuck in the layers of moss and muck until she could barely move. The blue light faded away.

Rye stopped and threw her arms to her sides in frustration. Running was pointless. Her stomach churned as if she might be sick again. The night had left her head dizzy and disorientated. She listened. Frogs. The hum of a thousand insects, even this late in the season. Somewhere in the distance she heard a splash.

“Shady!” she called in despair, as loudly as she could.

The bog went silent. The frogs – even the insects – stopped humming. Rye felt a shiver run up her spine. Then it went up the back of her neck. It was a centipede. Yuck. She swatted it off.

Then she saw something. A faint glimmer on the ground in the distance. She couldn’t tell if it was blue, but it was most certainly a light. Rye pushed through the muck as best she could. As she approached she realised the light was coming from a mound of earth, dry ground sitting up out of the wetness of the bog. Carefully, she crept up to the clearing. It was a small, smouldering fire, made with loose twigs and logs and encircled with stones. Over the fire, some sort of animal cooked on a crude spit.

Rye had a horrible thought, but quickly determined that it wasn’t a cat. Maybe a big hairless rat or weasel. It looked even less appetising than the sea lion. Someone must have been hungry, as there were already large bite marks in its haunches.

The fire appeared to be recently abandoned. Rye looked around for any clues as to who might have made it. There wasn’t much of a camp, but in the dim light she could see a small leather pouch no larger than her fist lying next to the fire. It was tied shut with a horsehair rope. She crept forward and carefully picked it up. She untied the cord and peeked inside. The three items there were quite unusual. Rye was inspecting them so closely that she didn’t notice the long, nasty-looking club on the ground beside it. The one with the bent iron nails jutting out in all directions.

There was another splash. Rye peered into the darkness. Five or six metres from the camp, two eyes flickered at water level. Something was bent over, using its hand like a cup and drinking from the bog. One of the eyes, independent from the other, suddenly looked over in Rye’s direction. The second one followed, and they both rose up from the water as it straightened at the waist. Even stooped over, the eyes came to rest at the height of a fully grown man. As it stood, Rye knew immediately that this was no man. She was about to run, but was too late.

The creature covered the ground between them in three strides. It had leathery grey skin and large ears, with a pointed nose turned up at the end like a pig’s. Its chest was covered in thick hair and, although tall, it was bony. Rye could see its ribs between its shallow breaths. Under its distended jaw, a long orange beard was plaited like rope and tied at the end with a child’s shoelace. The top of its head was knotty and elongated like a pine cone, with a tuft of coarse hair that matched its beard and would have reminded Rye of a carrot if she had been in any mood for silly thoughts. The miserable beast had metal fish hooks through each ear and another through its nose and, at the corner of one furrowed eyebrow, a small red puncture seeped and oozed. Round its neck was the most horrible necklace Rye had ever seen. Strung on a brass chain were three pairs of what looked like human feet.

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