First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

Published in this ebook edition in 2020

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text copyright © Francesca Gibbons 2020

Cover illustration © Chris Riddell 2020

Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Francesca Gibbons and Chris Riddell assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008355036

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008355067

Version: 2020-09-11

For Mini and Bonnie, who will always be little to me

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

A Cast of Characters

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part 2

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Part 3

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Part 4

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Part 5

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Epilogue

Thank you to …

About the Publisher

The monster stood alone on the side of the mountain. He held out his hands.

‘Fly with courage and speed and the will of the stars. If you just do one thing, help return what is ours.’

He parted his claws so there was enough space for the moth to escape. It crawled over the back of his hand and circled his wrist. It had a silver-grey, fluffy body.

‘Fly with courage and speed and the will of the stars. If you just do one thing, help return what is ours.’

The moth opened and closed its wings to show it was thinking. Then it travelled up the monster’s arm. ‘I’d forgotten how strange you creatures are,’ said the monster, scratching his bald head. ‘All the other moths just flew away.’

The moth’s tiny legs tickled the monster’s collarbone. He closed his eyes and repeated the words for a third time.

‘Fly with courage and speed and the will of the stars. If you just do one thing, help return what is ours.’

The monster opened his eyes. The moth was crawling across his face, past his teeth, which stuck out like tusks, over his squished-in nose and on to the top of his head.

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘You’ve reached the end of Zuby. There’s no more of me.’

There was a faint flutter and he looked up. The moth was flying away, but it wasn’t travelling across the forests, like the moths he’d released before. It was heading up the face of the mountain.

Zuby soon lost track of its shape in the darkness, even with his sensitive eyes.

‘Where are you going?’ he called. ‘You won’t find it among the stars!’

PART 1

‘Now, you slithering monster of the deep, prepare to die!’

The knight charged. The giant sea slug bared its teeth and growled, moving to protect the treasure. But the knight was quick. Her sword plunged into the soft, slimy flesh of the monster.

‘This is the bit where you die,’ said the knight.

‘I don’t want to die,’ said the sea slug.

‘But you have to. You’re the baddy.’

‘Why do I always play the baddy?’

‘Marie! You said you would.’

‘How about – this time – the knight dies and gets dragged away by the sea slug to—’

‘No. That’s not the story. That’s not how I wrote it. The knight kills the monster and reclaims the treasure and they all live happily ever after.’

‘All except the sea slug …’

‘It’s just a bit part.’

The sea slug began to peel off her costume.

‘What are you doing?’ said the knight. ‘We haven’t finished yet.’

‘I have.’

‘But what about the dress rehearsal?’

The monster opened the treasure chest and ran her feelers over the gems. ‘Well, if I’m just a bit part, then you’ll be fine without me.’

‘Hands off – that’s my rock collection,’ said the knight. She dropped her sword and reached for the treasure chest. The lid moved more easily than she’d expected and it came down hard, squashing a few of the sea slug’s tentacles. The monster yowled.

This time they really fought. Underneath her outfit, the sea slug was a little girl with pinkish skin and wild red hair. Her name was Marie.

Marie stuffed the stolen rocks into her pockets. ‘You said I could keep one stone!’ she yelled.

The knight had short brown hair that she’d cut herself and smudges of freckles that ran across her pale cheeks like warpaint. Her armour was constructed from tinfoil and cereal boxes, and her name was Imogen. She was older than Marie, so she knew better – about pretty much everything.

‘I said you could keep one stone if you acted in my play,’ said Imogen, ‘and you haven’t.’ She grabbed Marie and emptied the stones from her pockets.

‘Mum!’ cried Marie. ‘Imogen’s picking on me again!’

‘No, I’m not!’ yelled Imogen, releasing Marie’s arm.

Marie ran into the house with one hand in her pocket. Imogen wondered if she still had a stone. She’d extract it later.

Imogen picked up her rock collection as rain began to fall. If only she could act every character in the play herself, then she wouldn’t need Marie. It was hard work making her sister a star.

She followed Marie inside and dumped her cargo by the back door. Mum was standing in the hallway, wearing a long red dress that Imogen hadn’t seen before. Marie was hiding behind her, with just one eye and a few curls visible.

Imogen knew how this would go. She was about to get told off. Imogen hated being told off. After all, she hadn’t meant to squish Marie’s fingers in the treasure chest.

Imogen eyeballed her mum. ‘Why are you so dressed up?’ she said.

‘Never mind that,’ snapped Mum. ‘You are in trouble. I’m not putting up with this behaviour any more – the fighting with your sister, the mess you’ve made in the garden—’

‘It’s a sea-slug cave!’

‘Imogen! You’re too old for this nonsense! And you’re certainly too old to be making Marie cry.’

‘She started it.’

‘Well, I’m finishing it,’ said Mum. ‘Grandma’s looking after you for the rest of the day and she’ll take you to the tea rooms if you’re good. Are you going to be good?’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Imogen.

‘It doesn’t matter where I’m going. I’ve left you home-made pizza for tonight. You’ll have a great time. Now promise me you’ll be nice to your sister.’

Marie’s face had turned blotchy from fake crying. She looked like a half-ripened raspberry. Imogen did not want to be nice to her sister.

‘Come on, Imogen,’ said Mum in a softer voice. ‘I’m counting on you.’

The doorbell rang and Mum turned in a circle. ‘He’s early!’ she cried.

‘Who’s early?’ asked Marie.

‘You’ll see,’ said Mum.

Mum opened the door and a man strode into the house. He was wearing a smart shirt and shiny black shoes. Imogen noticed the shoes because they squeaked with every step, as if he was walking on mice.

‘Cathy! You look gorgeous,’ said the man in his man voice. He gave Imogen’s mum a kiss on the cheek, then he turned to the girls. ‘And these must be the two little princesses I’ve heard so much about.’

‘I’m not a princess,’ said Imogen, looking down at her armour. ‘I’m a knight and she’s a giant sea slug. Who are you?’

‘Imogen!’ gasped Mum.

‘It’s all right,’ said the man. He looked down at Imogen and moved his lips into a smile. ‘My name’s Mark. I’m friends with your mother.’

‘She never had any friends called Mark before,’ said Imogen.

The man rocked forward in his squeaky shoes. ‘Is that so? Well, things change quickly in the grown-up world.’

Imogen opened her mouth, but Mum cut across her: ‘Girls, help me shut all the windows before Grandma arrives. It’s turned nasty out there.’

Mum reached up to the little window facing the garden, but she must have seen something because she jumped back in horror.

‘What is it?’ said Imogen, running to Mum’s side.

‘Something moved! Something moved behind the curtain!’

Mark was there in an instant. ‘Let me see,’ he commanded, and he whipped back the curtain.

A moth crawled down the fabric towards Mark’s hand. From one angle, its wings were grey; from another they were silver. Imogen wanted a closer look.

‘Don’t worry, Cathy,’ said Mark, ‘I’ve got this.’ He moved as if to squash the moth and Imogen didn’t have time to think. She darted in front of him and cupped her hands round the insect. Mark tried to nudge her aside, but she stamped down hard – right on the toe of his squeaky shoe.

Mark swore. Marie squealed. Mum was already telling her off, but Imogen ran away from them all. She opened the back door with her elbow and dashed out into the rain. She could hardly feel the moth inside her hands – it was so light. Only the gentle brush of its wings against her fingers gave it away.

Mum was shouting, but Imogen sprinted to the bottom of the garden and knelt by a low bush. She didn’t care that she’d lost some of her armour on the way. Here, beneath all the greenery, the moth would be safe.

Imogen parted her hands and the moth crawled on to a leaf. Its silver-grey wings blended into the shadows. ‘I shall call you the shadow moth,’ said Imogen, wiping rain off her forehead.

The moth opened and closed its wings three times as if to say thank you.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Imogen.

When the moth’s wings were open, it was about the same size as the palm of her hand. When the wings were closed, they folded across its body so that it was hardly wider than a fingernail. Its back was covered in velvety fur.

‘I didn’t think moths came out in the day,’ said Imogen.

The moth moved its antennae to the left and the right. They were shaped like feathers.

‘I suppose you must be different from the others.’

Imogen looked at the house. Her mum was standing at the back door with her hands on her hips. Imogen narrowed her eyes. No one could make her say sorry.

She walked back to the house as slowly as she could.

‘Apologise to Mark,’ said Mum. ‘You can’t go around stamping on people’s feet.’

‘You can’t go around murdering things either,’ said Imogen. ‘Why don’t you tell Mark that?’

Five minutes later, Grandma arrived and Mum left. Imogen changed out of her tinfoil armour and put her rock collection under her bed.

‘Your mother tells me you’ve been badly behaved,’ said Grandma. ‘But we’re going to the tea rooms anyway. It’s not fair to punish Marie for your behaviour and I can’t leave a seven-year-old home alone.’

‘I’m eleven,’ said Imogen. ‘I can look after myself.’

‘Seven. Eleven. It’s all the same,’ said Grandma. ‘Just get in the car.’

Marie started humming as soon as they pulled out of the drive. It was one of her worst habits: humming tunes that she’d just made up. ‘Will you stop that?’ said Imogen.

Marie continued to hum, but very quietly.

‘Stop it!’ yelled Imogen.

‘That’s enough,’ snapped Grandma, ‘or neither of you will have any cake.’

That shut them up. Grandma didn’t mess about and it was best not to distract her when she was driving. Last time they’d argued, Grandma had run over a squirrel. She’d made the girls get out and say the funeral rites.

‘Where has Mum gone?’ said Imogen, locating Grandma’s eyes in the car mirror. Grandma kept her eyes fixed on the road.

‘Your mother has gone to the theatre.’

‘Why?’

‘She likes the theatre.’

‘Does she like Mark too?’

For a brief moment, Grandma’s eyes met Imogen’s. ‘Of course she likes Mark. They’re good friends.’

‘Friends,’ said Imogen, turning the word over in her mouth as if it was a new one. ‘Are you sure he’s not another boyfriend?’

They stopped at traffic lights and Imogen pushed her face up against the car window, letting out a long breath in the shape of an O. Something caught her eye through the foggy glass and she wiped away the condensation to make a gap she could see through.

There, flying towards the car, was the shadow moth. It was struggling through the rain. What an incredible insect, thought Imogen. It looked like a messenger from ancient times, determined to deliver its message even at the cost of its life.

The traffic lights changed and the car jerked into motion. Imogen turned to look through the back window, but the moth was nowhere to be seen. The poor thing’s probably been squished by the rain, she thought. When you’re that small, every droplet is a meteor.

The tea rooms were part of a grand estate. Or rather they were part of what used to be a grand estate. These days the Haberdash Mansion was all shut up, apart from one room where Mrs Haberdash lived with her dogs.

Mrs Haberdash ran the tea rooms from a mobility scooter behind a counter. She would sit there in a faded lace dress, with antique earrings gleaming against her copper-brown skin and grey corkscrew hair piled up on her head.

Imogen and Marie sat in the corner of the tea rooms. They ate cake and drew in their sketchpads. Imogen was working on a portrait of Mrs Haberdash’s dogs.

Grandma was talking at Mrs Haberdash. ‘Winifred was a fool to trust a male hairdresser,’ she said, leaning across the counter. ‘I told her it was a ridiculous idea. You might as well ask your dogs to serve high tea.’

Mrs H nodded, making her earrings rattle.

Imogen tried to imagine the old lady’s dogs balancing cups and saucers on their heads. Perhaps next time she’d draw that, but she’d had enough of sketching for today. She tried to get Grandma’s attention, but Grandma was in full swing.

‘I’ve finished,’ said Marie, holding up her drawing. Imogen narrowed her eyes. It was nearly identical to her own dog portrait.

‘Grandma! Marie’s copying me!’ cried Imogen.

Grandma pretended not to hear. She carried on talking to Mrs Haberdash: ‘I told my GP that I’d already spoken to Bernie and Bernie said that if I took six paracetamol the problem would be gone in no time.’

Imogen directed a death stare at her sister and stomped out of the tea rooms. She marched across the car park, but Grandma’s car was locked. Fine. She’d sulk outside instead. She’d sulk for the whole summer holidays if she had to. At least it had stopped raining. She looked around for a place to sit.

There was a gate in the corner of the car park that Imogen hadn’t noticed before. Friendly letters hung above it, saying Welcome to the Haberdash Gardens. Less friendly letters were painted across the gate: NO TRESPASSING!

Imogen wasn’t sure what ‘trespassing’ meant, but it sounded like fun. She glanced at the tea rooms. No one was watching. When she turned back to the gate, her moth was sitting on it. Or, at least, she thought it was her moth. She bent down to get a closer look and the moth stared right back.

‘It is you,’ said Imogen, smiling. ‘I thought the rain got you.’ The moth flew off the gate and into the Haberdash Gardens.

Imogen tried the gate’s lock. It had rusted and came off in her hand. Well, she thought, Mrs Haberdash really should have had that fixed. She dropped the lock and stepped into the gardens. ‘Wait for me!’ she called.

The gate swung shut behind her.

The Haberdash Gardens were at war. Trees battled under the weight of creepers and ivy strangled the roses. The weeds had almost succeeded in reclaiming what was rightfully theirs.

Imogen had to walk quickly to keep up with the moth. She wanted it to stop on something so she could get another close look. A twig snapped. Imogen turned on her heel, but there was no one behind her.

The moth flew on and Imogen followed. Tendrils threw themselves, kamikaze-style, across her path. She turned right and there was a river. Fat frogs lurked among the bulrushes.

In her haste, Imogen tottered too close to the water. A frog belched, hopping aside just before her heel plunged into the spongy earth. Cold water seeped in through her shoe, but there was no time to stop. The moth was getting away.

Imogen hurried along the riverbank, and the moth flew across the water. ‘I can’t follow you there,’ she said, looking around for a bridge. But in this place where everything was falling apart, things also fell into place. A dead tree lay across the river.

Imogen climbed up the roots and spread her arms out wide, placing her left foot on the trunk, then her right foot. Woodlice ran for cover as she disturbed their rotten paradise. She made her way across the dead tree slowly, hardly daring to breathe in case it affected her balance.

The last part of the tree was slippery so Imogen lowered herself on to her belly. She wriggled forward, rubbing dirt into her top. When the trunk was above earth instead of water, Imogen rolled off and landed on her feet. She smiled, pleased with herself, and continued on her way.

The plants on this side of the river had won the war against the gardeners. They had no interest in looking how people wanted them to look. Oversized shrubs had thorny throats. Wayward flowers bobbed their heads as Imogen swept by and the further she went into the Haberdash Gardens, the more she got the feeling that she wasn’t welcome.

She heard a noise from somewhere behind, like the patter of feet. She turned. There was no one there.

Imogen did think about going back to the tea rooms, but she was sure that the moth was trying to show her something and she wanted to see what it was. A large drop of water landed on her forehead and she glanced up at the sky. Another drop splashed on her cheek and then the rain poured down. The moth flew faster. Imogen ran to keep up. Again, there was a sound behind her, but she couldn’t turn back. She wouldn’t turn back. She sprinted as fast as she could. Mud splattered up her legs.

The shadow moth led Imogen to an enormous tree. The highest branches seemed to touch the clouds and, under the jabbering of the rain, Imogen was sure she could hear roots drawing up water from the depths of the earth.

She stepped under the tree’s canopy and put her hand on the rough trunk. The moth landed next to her fingers and moved its antennae in circles. In this light, it looked more grey than silver, camouflaged against the bark.

Imogen couldn’t wait to tell Marie what she’d found: the biggest tree in the world. Marie would be amazed (and perhaps a little bit jealous).

The moth crawled away from Imogen’s hand and she followed its progress. Soon it wasn’t walking on gnarled bark, but smooth wood. Imogen ran her finger over this new texture. She knew what it was. She stepped back a few paces. Yes, it was as she’d thought.

There was a door in the tree.

The door was smaller than most. A grown-up would have to stoop to fit through, but for Imogen it was just the right height.

She wondered what was on the other side. Perhaps the tree was a hiding place for treasure; the kind of treasure Mrs H might forget she’d got hidden.

The moth crawled down the door and stopped at the keyhole. Imogen knelt next to it, grinding more soil into her jeans, and peeped through. All she could see on the other side was darkness. She pulled back.

‘Is this what you wanted to show me?’ she asked.

The moth folded back its wings and wriggled through the keyhole.

‘I think that’s a yes,’ said Imogen. She stood up, pulled open the door and stepped through.

At first, it was very dark. Then, as Imogen’s eyes adjusted, towering shapes swam out of the gloom. A few seconds later, she realised that they were trees. She was standing alone in a forest just before sunset. Branches shredded the low-lit sky into ribbons.

Imogen’s head filled with questions. How could a forest fit inside a tree? Why wasn’t it raining here? How come it was so dark and quiet? It was as though the forest had been smothered by a giant duvet.

Imogen looked back at the door and realised that she hadn’t imagined the noises behind her. She really had been followed. There, just stepping over the threshold, was her sister.

The light from the gardens shone round Marie. Her hair had turned dark in the rain, her clothes were covered in mud and her eyes were wide. She pushed the door closed behind her. The hinges must have been well oiled because it moved easily, clicking as it shut. The sisters’ eyes met.

‘Marie!’ cried Imogen. ‘What are you doing here?’

For a split second, Marie looked afraid – caught off guard – but she quickly regained self-control.

‘What am I doing here?’ she said. ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

‘So it was you following me,’ said Imogen, folding her arms.

‘You’re not allowed in the Haberdash Gardens.’

‘Neither are you,’ said Imogen. ‘Can’t you let me do anything on my own?’

‘I’m going to tell Grandma. You’re doing trespassing.’

Imogen scowled. It was her moth, her garden and her secret door. Marie hadn’t even been invited; she’d hijacked Imogen’s adventure and now she was threatening to destroy it. Imogen wanted to throw something at her sister. She wanted to pull her ponytail. No, she wanted to make her disappear.

‘Go on, then. Go and cry to Grandma.’

‘Fine! I will!’ Marie turned and grabbed the door handle. Then she glanced over her shoulder.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ demanded Imogen.

‘It won’t open,’ said Marie.

‘Move out of the way.’

Imogen tried the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. ‘Oh, well done!’ she shouted.

‘I didn’t know it locked itself!’ squealed Marie.

‘You stupid baby. If you’re not sure what something does, leave it alone!’

‘You shouldn’t have opened it in the first place,’ said Marie.

‘You should have stayed at home where you can’t spoil everything!’

Imogen felt panic rising in her chest. She kicked the door and hammered with her fists, but it wouldn’t open.

The shadow moth she’d followed was nowhere to be seen.

Marie looked like she might cry and Imogen knew it was up to her to get them out of this mess. She also knew that they couldn’t stay put. It was much colder here than it had been in the Haberdash Gardens and she was already shivering in her damp clothes.

‘We need to get moving,’ she said, turning on her heel like a general.

‘Do you think we’ll be back in time for tea?’ asked Marie, with a wobble in her voice.

Imogen thought that was unlikely. It didn’t feel like they were in the gardens any more. It was as if they were in a different place altogether, but she couldn’t stand it when Marie cried so she murmured something reassuring about how Grandma would be out looking for them.

Above, the first stars began to stir. They winked at each other and looked down at the girls walking through the forest, tiny among the trees. A person who knew how to read the stars might have said they were smiling.

Imogen didn’t tell Marie, but she was secretly relieved that she wasn’t alone in this strange place. It was hard to see and she kept tripping over roots and snagging her jeans on brambles. She strained her eyes, hoping to catch the flutter of wings in the darkness, but her moth had gone.

Every so often, Imogen heard the whisper of her worry creatures. Lost in the forest, they hissed. Lost in the forest and so far from home.

Imogen walked faster.

‘Hey, I can’t keep up,’ moaned Marie.

Imogen looked over her shoulder. The worry creatures were scurrying from tree to tree, but they fed off her fears, not her sister’s, and Marie couldn’t see them.

‘Come on,’ said Imogen. ‘I want to get out of this wood.’

As the girls walked, the trees grew further apart, and something caught Imogen’s attention. Something that wasn’t a worry creature. ‘Hey, Marie, can you see that?’

‘It’s one of those bugs with a light in its bum,’ said Marie.

‘A glow-worm? No. It’s bigger than that. And further away.’

‘Maybe it’s Grandma! Out with a torch!’

Imogen steered Marie towards the light. It was too low to be a star – it was too still to be Grandma – and yet it lured her on. There was something reassuring about the soft glow. Imogen wanted to be there, among other people. That was what light meant: life, warmth, a flicker of hope, a toasted teacake and a short drive home.

The girls came to the edge of the forest and Imogen’s heart sank. They were standing in a valley surrounded by huge looming shapes that looked like mountains. Imogen couldn’t see what was at the bottom of the valley, but the light she’d been following was there. She guessed it was two miles away. Maybe three. All of Imogen’s teacake-shaped dreams vanished. This place was vast and foreign and full of shadows. There would be no easy way home.

This was the part where a grown-up was supposed to turn on the lights, fold away the forest and send the girls off to bed. But there were no grown-ups and the forest was real. Imogen wanted to cry.

‘That doesn’t look like the tea rooms,’ said Marie.

Imogen bit her lip. Blubbing wouldn’t help.

‘What are we going to do?’ said Marie. ‘I’m cold. I want to go home.’

Imogen’s pent-up tears turned to rage. ‘I don’t know the way,’ she snapped. ‘Someone slammed the door, remember?’

‘It was a mistake!’ shouted Marie. Her words echoed round the valley and she jumped behind her sister, spooked by the ghosts of her own voice. ‘Anyway, I didn’t slam it. I gave it a gentle push.’

‘Oh good, well, that’s fine, then,’ said Imogen.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Imogen took a deep breath. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Look at that light. There must be people there who can help us get home.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Marie.

‘I’m sure of it,’ said Imogen.

Together they walked towards the light at the bottom of the valley.

Marie held Imogen’s hand. Imogen didn’t stop her.

PART 2

The two sisters walked through meadows and hopped across brooks.

The moon was a sliver, but it seemed to be larger than usual and, with no branches overhead, there was just enough light for Imogen to see where she was putting her feet. In some places, the grass was cropped close to the ground; in others, it grew long and wild. Field mushrooms gathered in circles, as though assembled for a night-time dance.

‘Do you think Mum’s having a good time with Mark?’ asked Marie.

‘I hope not. I didn’t like him,’ said Imogen, making an extra effort to trample the grass. ‘I don’t know why she bothers with boyfriends. She’s got us, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes … but he might be nice.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Imogen. ‘He was wearing stupid shoes. He was saying stupid things. I bet it’ll go wrong, just like it did with the other boyfriends.’

‘Grandma says you can tell a lot about someone from their shoes.’

‘Grandma’s right,’ said Imogen, ‘and Mark’s shoes were stupid.’

‘I wish Grandma was here right now,’ said Marie.

Imogen led the way through the meadows until they stood at the foot of an enormous wall. Behind the wall she could see the shadowy outlines of tall buildings. ‘Wow!’ whispered Marie. The wall was three times higher than a house and each stone was as large as a car.

‘There must have been some big battles in the olden days,’ said Imogen, ‘to need a wall like that.’

‘How do we get past it?’ asked Marie. ‘The light’s on the other side.’

‘I think there’s a gate. It’s hard to make out, but look over—’ Imogen was interrupted by a bell. The sound was deafening. More bells joined the din. She clapped her hands over her ears.

Marie was hopping up and down and yelling, but Imogen couldn’t hear what she was saying. Marie pointed at the gate. It had started to lower.

Imogen ran and Marie followed. The bells continued to toll. The stars flickered with excitement and even the crescent moon was unable to tear his gaze from the two silhouettes dashing towards the gap between the ground and the lowering gate.

As the bells struck their final note, Imogen threw herself on to all fours and crawled through. ‘That was close!’ she gasped, getting to her feet, but when she turned round Marie wasn’t there. Her hoodie was caught on the spikes that ran along the bottom of the gate. She was centimetres away from being skewered.

‘Help!’ she shrieked, trying to claw her way forward. ‘Imogen, I’m stuck!’

Imogen ripped Marie’s hoodie free and grabbed her by the wrists, dragging her through on her belly. The gate hit the ground. Imogen collapsed. They’d made it.

‘I – I almost got squished to death,’ said Marie, breathing hard. ‘Imagine what Mum would have said if I’d got squished to death.’

‘Bet I’d have been the one in trouble,’ muttered Imogen.

‘Maybe,’ said Marie in a small voice. ‘But … um … thanks for saving me.’

When Imogen had recovered, she helped Marie to her feet and looked around. On this side of the wall, there was a city with painted houses and tiled roofs and pointy towers. Some of the buildings were decorated so delicately that they reminded Imogen of the birthday cakes Mum made – all frosted flowers and piped icing.

The girls walked through the city streets towards the light. There were no people. Instead, the place had been given over to the dead – or what was left of them. Thigh bones dangled from windows like crooked wind chimes. Strings of vertebrae decorated doors. Strangely shaped skulls poked out between stones.

Imogen felt vaguely sick. She wasn’t sure what was more alarming: the not-quite-human dead things or the thought of what might have killed them.

‘Whose skulls do you think they are?’ asked Marie.

‘How do you expect me to know?’ said Imogen, who didn’t want to have this conversation.

‘They’re very small. Do you think they belonged to children?’

‘No.’

‘And look what a lot of teeth they have …’

‘Come on, Marie. We have to keep walking.’

Imogen took a deep breath and relocated the light. It looked like it was coming from the heart of the city. That was the way to go.

Every building the girls walked by was shut up. There was no light seeping between the shutters. No smoke from the chimneys. Instead of welcoming words, they were greeted by skeleton smiles.

The only things that seemed to be alive were the moths that were flying in every direction. They were small and shimmering. They were large with speckled wings. They were blue like midnight or pink like the dawn. Imogen kept looking for her moth – the one that had shown her the door – but it was nowhere to be seen. These were just normal insects. They weren’t going to show her the way home.

Imogen and Marie crossed a bridge that was guarded by thirty black statues. Imogen counted them as she went. Counting things usually made her feel better, but this time it didn’t work.

The statues were all stern-looking men. Someone hadn’t agreed with the sculptor about how many limbs they ought to have. Arms had been amputated. Legs were sliced off at the knee. A few heads were missing and the stonework was covered in scratches.

The deeper the girls walked into the city, the taller the houses grew, rising from hunched cottages to proud, five-storey mansions. A grand house had skulls embedded in its walls. Marie paused to examine one. ‘Hey, Imogen, come and see this.’

Imogen didn’t like the look of the skull. Not only did it have a lot of teeth, but they were pointed, almost triangular. ‘We’ve fallen into a nightmare,’ she muttered. ‘I think we should keep moving.’

‘Just one second,’ said Marie, and she moved closer to the skull so that the eye sockets stared down at her upturned face. She stretched out her hand, reaching into the gaping jaw. Her fingertip hovered above a fang, nearly touching the point. Then she jumped, startled by a terrible scream. Imogen jumped too.

‘What was that?’ cried Marie, whipping back her hand.

‘I don’t think we want to find out,’ said Imogen. ‘Time to go!’

The girls rushed through the streets. Fear gave them energy. That scream had sounded wild and furious and it had come from somewhere near the city walls.

Imogen tried to focus on the light, to navigate towards it, but with every wrong turn her heart beat faster. Suddenly even the buildings seemed hostile, with their slanting window-eyes.

Another screech. Louder, closer.

Imogen banged on the door of a house. Moths flew out from between the shutters, but no one came to help.

Imogen kicked the door and cursed the shadow moth. She cursed her rotten luck too. She promised God, the moon, whoever was listening, that she wouldn’t run away again. She’d eat liver and broccoli. She’d share her stuff with Marie. Just let them be back home, tucked up in their beds.

More screams. ‘They’re coming this way!’ cried Marie.

‘Follow me,’ said Imogen.

She swung round the corner, half expecting a dead end, but instead the girls found themselves in a large square. There was a dark castle at the far side, crowned with towers and turrets. Light shone from the top of a tall tower. ‘That’s it,’ said Imogen. ‘That’s where the people must live.’

Imogen and Marie sprinted across the square and pounded on the castle door.

‘Let us in! Let us in!’

There was no response so they hammered harder. The shrieks were closing in – the monsters would be in the square any second – but the castle door remained locked.

There was nowhere to go.

‘Oi! You two – over here!’ A boy’s face poked out from a little door that was cut into the larger entrance.

Imogen and Marie didn’t hesitate. They ran over, the boy opened the door wider and the girls fell inside. He pulled the door closed, shutting out the starlight and monsters. Keys jangled in the dark.

‘They won’t get through that,’ he said, and a candle illuminated his face. He had far-apart eyes, dark olive skin and a mop of curly brown hair that couldn’t quite hide his sticky-out ears.

He pressed an ear to the door and the girls did the same. Claws scratched on cobbles. The boy put his finger to his lips. The shrieking creatures, whatever they were, were very close. Imogen held her breath. The door rattled. The children jumped back and Marie let out a whimper.

Outside, the monsters were screaming to be let in. ‘They won’t get past the door,’ whispered the boy. ‘They never do.’

Sure enough, after a few minutes, the noise receded. The children stood still for one minute more, not daring to move until the shrieks had faded away.

‘Right,’ said the boy, putting down his candle. ‘First things first.’

Imogen wiped her hand on her jeans in preparation for a handshake.

‘Face the wall and put your hands on your head.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me,’ said the boy. ‘Turn round and put your hands up.’

Reluctantly, Imogen did as she was told. The boy searched inside the top of her socks. Then he turned her pockets inside out.

‘What are you doing?’ said Imogen.

‘Checking for weapons,’ said the boy.

‘Why don’t you just ask?’

‘Peasants can’t be trusted. Besides, if you’d come to kill me, you’d never hand over your knives willingly.’

Imogen had never been called a peasant before. She looked down at her mud-streaked clothing. Perhaps he had a point, but still it was hardly polite.

‘You’re all clear,’ said the boy. ‘Stand aside.’ Next he searched Marie. He lifted up her ponytail with great suspicion, and gave it a shake as if expecting a dagger to fall out.

Imogen watched him. She guessed he was about her age, perhaps a little older. He was dressed very strangely, in an embroidered jacket that looked like it was made out of fancy curtains. He wore rings on almost every finger.

‘We’re not peasants,’ she said, but the boy wasn’t listening. He was going through Marie’s pockets and he’d found something. He held it between his thumb and index finger, inspecting it in the candlelight.

Imogen saw the shiny surface and she knew what it was. ‘That’s my stone,’ she said. Marie must have had it in her pocket since their fight.

Marie lowered her hands and turned round, guilt written all over her face.

The boy continued to study the fool’s gold so Imogen said it again. ‘That’s mine. That’s from my rock collection.’

‘What’s a peasant doing with a precious stone?’

Imogen could feel that familiar quickening of her pulse, but she spoke each word slowly. ‘Give. It. Back. I am not a peasant.’

Marie looked from her big sister to the boy and back to her big sister. ‘Sorry, Imogen … I was going to give the treasure back eventually, I promise. I just wanted to borrow it …’

Imogen advanced on the boy. ‘Give me my gold, you thief.’

‘Who are you to call me a thief?’ he sneered. ‘This is my kingdom and so is everything in it – including you, your friend and your so-called treasure.’

That was the last straw. Imogen pounced. She knocked the fool’s gold out of the boy’s hand and pushed him to the floor. Marie caught the stone. Imogen and the boy were a tumbling mess of arms and legs. His elbow clipped her chin, making her jaw bang shut. She retaliated with a knee to his stomach.

‘Ow! You filthy urchin! Get off me!’

‘Marie,’ cried Imogen, ‘grab his arms!’

Marie shoved the stone back into her pocket and went for the boy’s wrists. She caught one. Imogen trapped the other hand with her foot, making the boy cry out. The rest of him thrashed wildly. ‘Help me!’ he shouted. ‘Somebody help! They’re trying to kill me!’

Imogen kicked the shoe from her other foot, whipped off her sock and stuffed it into his mouth. She pulled the scrunchie from Marie’s hair and wrapped it round the boy’s wrists, handing control to Marie. That freed up Imogen to grab his ankles. The boy stopped wriggling.

‘Hah! So you know when you’re beaten, then?’ crowed Imogen.

‘He looks kind of angry,’ said Marie. ‘His face is going red.’

‘Well, that’s tough, isn’t it? He shouldn’t take other people’s things.’

‘Is someone squeezing your head?’ cooed Marie to the boy, enjoying her position of power a little too much.

Imogen paused. ‘Wait. What do you mean his face is going red?’ She couldn’t see him properly from her position at his feet.

‘He looks like a beetroot …’ said Marie.

‘The sock!’ cried Imogen.

‘Ooh, look how his eyes are bulging! He’s really very cross.’

‘Marie, the sock! Take the sock out his mouth!’

Marie obeyed. The boy inhaled and Imogen let go of his ankles. The sisters were silent for a moment while the boy rolled on to all fours, spluttering and gasping.

‘Why, I ought – I ought to set the Royal Guards on you!’ He struggled to his feet. ‘I ought to have you both beheaded! I ought to have you chopped up and fed to my fish. I—’

‘That’s enough,’ interrupted Imogen in as kind a voice as she could manage. ‘We didn’t mean to choke you.’ She pulled the scrunchie off his wrists and handed it back to Marie.

‘You must forgive my sister,’ said Imogen.

‘Hey! It wasn’t just me that tied him up!’

Imogen shot Marie a meaningful look. ‘She was dropped on her head as a baby.’

The boy looked at Marie with his far-apart eyes. ‘Is that what turned her hair orange?’

‘It’s not orange,’ said Marie. ‘It’s red.’

‘Looks orange to me,’ said the boy.

Imogen stepped between them. ‘Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.’

The boy let out a long sigh. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I don’t normally do that to guests. To be honest, I don’t normally have guests at all.’

‘What a surprise,’ muttered Imogen.

The boy didn’t seem to hear. ‘When my uncle has people to visit, the Royal Guards confiscate their weapons.’

‘Oh right,’ said Imogen, thinking that was probably the correct response.

‘So, when Petr’s not about, I have to take precautions.’

‘I see,’ said Imogen, who didn’t see at all.

‘How about we just start this whole thing again?’ said the boy.

‘A rematch?’ cried Marie.

‘No! Let’s say you just came through the door. Pretend you did. Yes, that’s it. And I’ve just locked it and you say, Hello, Your Majesty, what a pleasure to meet you.’

Imogen wasn’t sure about the script. She didn’t think the boy should cast himself as royalty. However, she was in a tricky situation. She needed his help.

‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ she said, giving a wobbly curtsey. Marie did the same.

‘What a pleasure it is to meet you,’ said Marie.

The boy bowed low. ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Castle Yaroslav.’

‘I am the prince of this castle,’ said the boy, ‘and you are my most honoured guests.’ He straightened his jacket, checking that the stiff collar was still pointing up.

Throughout this performance, he kept a very serious face. Either he’s a good actor, thought Imogen, or he’s completely off his rocker.

‘Now!’ The boy picked up the candle. ‘Tell me … what were you doing out there? I thought the peasants rounded up their children at dusk. Not runaways, are you?’

‘To start with, we’re not peasants,’ said Imogen, puffing herself up to her full height. ‘As I said.’

‘What are you, then? Pickpockets?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Assassins?’ He took a step back.

‘We’re lost!’ said Imogen. ‘We’re not supposed to be here at all.’

‘Where are you supposed to be? Are you from the forests?’

‘I suppose you could say that …’

The boy moved the candle closer to Imogen. ‘You don’t look like you’re from the forests,’ he said, inspecting her T-shirt and jeans. ‘You’re not wearing enough green to be a lesni. In fact, what are you wearing? Are those nightclothes?’

Imogen clenched her fists and then released them, reminding herself that she needed all the help she could get.

‘You’ll have to stay here for the night,’ said the boy. ‘You’d be eaten alive out there.’ He seemed to take great delight in saying that last sentence. He glanced at the girls to see if his words had had any effect. Marie looked horrified.

‘That would be lovely,’ said Imogen. ‘Thank you.’

‘Excellent. Follow me.’ The boy walked away, taking the small circle of candlelight with him.

‘Do you think we should go with him?’ whispered Marie.

‘I don’t see what choice we’ve got,’ said Imogen.

‘It’s just that Mum always says not to go with strangers. Do you think he’s a stranger?’

‘He’s strange all right, but I’m pretty sure Mum wouldn’t want us eaten by monsters either.’

‘No,’ said Marie. ‘Although she never talked about it pacifically.’

‘It’s specifically. Anyway, if someone loves you, they don’t have to say don’t get eaten by monsters. It’s obvious.’

Imogen thought of Mum getting back from the theatre to find that the home-made pizzas were untouched. Mum always left them something special to eat if she was going to be late, and pizza was one of Imogen’s favourites.

Then she thought of Grandma, with her walking stick, searching the gardens. It made Imogen feel sad so she brushed the thought aside. ‘Come on,’ she said to Marie. ‘His Royal Highness is getting away.’

The girls followed the boy through tapestry-lined corridors and across rooms that were as big as the sports hall at school.

He stopped at the foot of a spiral staircase. ‘This is the entrance to my quarters,’ he said. ‘No commoners have ever set foot beyond this point. Apart from the servants, that is. You’ll be the first.’

Bonkers, thought Imogen as she nodded along.

The further up the stairs they climbed, the narrower the staircase became. ‘Keep up!’ shouted the boy, who had disappeared ahead.

The steps took them to a circular room. ‘I’ve never seen so many candles,’ said Imogen. ‘Is all this stuff yours?’

‘Yes,’ said the boy.

‘Where did you get this from?’ Marie’s enormous eye peered through a magnifying glass.

‘It was my father’s.’

‘And this?’ Marie lay down on a fur rug.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘What about this?’ asked Imogen, and she blew dust from from the sleeping face of an old clock.

‘Don’t touch that,’ snapped the boy. ‘It’s the only one of its kind.’

Imogen leaned in. She wanted a better look at the thing she mustn’t touch.

The clock was made of wood. In front of its face, there were five motionless hands and an array of jewelled stars. Imogen couldn’t work out what was holding the stars in place. They seemed to hover, but she couldn’t see any wires. A silver moon peeped out from behind the biggest hand, as if too shy to reveal itself fully.

‘What’s inside that hatch?’ asked Imogen, stepping back and pointing to a tiny door at the top of the clock. It was about the right size for a hamster.

‘I don’t remember,’ said the boy. ‘It stopped working years ago.’

‘Why?’ said Marie.

The boy fiddled with the rings on his fingers. ‘I think you’ve asked enough questions for one night.’

Marie cast a longing glance at the room’s four-poster bed, with its plumptious pillows and downy quilt. She looked at Imogen, who nodded. The next second, Marie was kicking off her shoes and wriggling under the sheets.

Imogen turned to the boy. ‘Just one more question …’

‘Yes?’

‘Why are you helping us?’

‘I told you,’ he said. ‘You’d be eaten alive if you stayed outside.’

‘But where are all the other people?’

‘They’re here. In their houses. Around the castle. I’m just the only one who keeps candles burning.’

Imogen walked to a window and looked out at the city shrouded in darkness. They had made it to the light that she’d seen from the forest. ‘We must be in the castle’s tallest tower,’ she said, half to herself.

‘Not quite,’ said the boy. ‘This is the second tallest tower.’

Imogen removed her shoes and slipped into bed next to Marie. ‘We should blow out the candles,’ she said, yawning.

‘Why would I do that?’ asked the boy.

‘It’s a fire hazard.’ She was parroting her mum. Mum was always banging on about fire hazards.

‘A fire what?’

But Imogen didn’t reply. She was already fast asleep.

As Imogen slept, monsters flitted in and out of the darkness below. Like grotesque shadow puppets, their forms danced across shuttered windows. They reclaimed the streets, calling to each other across the empty squares.

In the big houses near the cathedral, if you were to peep out at just the right moment, you’d see a silhouette squatting on top of the bell tower. It might look like a child. Or perhaps a very old man. But, if you dared to look closer, you’d see that its shoulders were too muscular, its arms were too long and its teeth were too sharp.

The monsters travelled from roof to roof. They tiptoed along gutters. They hid in eaves. They hung down from bedroom windows by their claws.

All night, the city belonged to them.

There was sunlight behind Imogen’s eyelids. Bells tolled. That was odd. There were no churches near her house. A cockerel crowed. Definitely odd.

And she couldn’t hear the familiar noises of home: her mum’s radio, the cat demanding breakfast. Where was the smell of fried eggs? She opened one eye. Where was her orange juice? She opened the other. Where was any of it?

And then Imogen remembered. Propped up on her elbows, she looked around, detangling her dreams from last night’s reality. The forest was real. The city full of bones was real. The boy who rescued them was real. In fact, he was awake and observing her from a chair by the fire.

Hmm, thought Imogen. What was the appropriate thing to say? Perhaps Good morning or How did you sleep? Those were the things Mum normally said to guests. But Imogen was the guest so she cut straight to the chase: ‘You have to take us back to the tea rooms. We’re not supposed to be here.’

The boy slouched in his chair. ‘Aren’t you supposed to say something like, Thanks for saving my life?’

Imogen hopped out of bed. ‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘I can see that, but what’s the time?’ She pulled on her shoes and went to wake Marie.

‘What does it matter?’ said the boy. ‘There’s no rush.’

‘Of course there is. Our mum will be worried. Or angry. Or both.’

The boy’s feet didn’t quite touch the floor and he swung his legs as he spoke.

‘Don’t you remember?’ he said. ‘My clock’s broken. I don’t know the time. There are bells at dawn and bells at dusk. Everything in between is day. Why rush back to see a bunch of angry grown-ups anyway?’

‘I don’t want to go to school,’ murmured Marie, still half asleep.

The boy slid down from his chair and added, a little petulantly, ‘I thought you’d at least stay for an evening meal.’

‘What planet are you living on?’ said Imogen. ‘We’ve been gone all night. Mum must have got home ages ago and I bet Grandma’s called the police. They’ll be out there in the gardens, searching for us with dogs.’

‘Oh, come now. Peasants go missing all the time. Nobody goes looking for them. Especially not dogs.’

‘This is the last time I’m going to tell you: we – are – not – peasants.’

Marie was awake now and peering round the room with bleary eyes.

‘Come on, Marie,’ said Imogen. ‘We’re leaving.’

The boy ran to the door. ‘No, you’re not!’ he cried, blocking the exit. ‘I won’t allow it!’

Marie rubbed sleep from her eyes. ‘Imogen, I want to go home.’

‘I command you to stay!’ cried the boy.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Imogen, helping Marie out of bed. ‘We’re going. Put your shoes on.’

‘Is this how you repay your rescuer? Is this the way to treat a prince?’

‘I don’t care who you are,’ said Imogen. ‘Move!’

‘Shan’t.’ The boy glowered at the sisters.

Imogen considered her options. There was a pair of axes hanging above the fireplace. They looked heavy. There was a crossbow by the door. She had no idea how to work that. And then she saw a sword mounted on the wall by the bed.

She climbed on to the headboard.

‘What are you doing?’ said the boy.

Imogen held on to the four-poster bed with one hand and reached for the sword with the other.

‘Leave that alone!’ cried the boy. Imogen grabbed the sword’s hilt. She tugged at it until it swung free. The boy let out a little squeak. The sword was heavier than Imogen had expected and it fell to the floor with a thud. Marie ran over, suddenly wide awake and eager to help. She picked up the sword with two hands.

‘Now,’ said Imogen, jumping down from the bed, ‘stand aside.’

The boy’s face fell. ‘Shan’t,’ he said, sounding a little less certain than before.

The sisters advanced. Marie was slashing at the air in a way that made Imogen nervous. ‘All right, Marie, rein it in,’ she hissed.

‘I’m not doing it on purpose,’ said her sister. ‘It’s really heavy.’

The boy’s eyes followed the blade. ‘You can’t go!’ he said, standing his ground. ‘Not until after dinner! It isn’t fair!’ At the last moment, he lost his nerve and dived to the right, leaving the door exposed.

Marie dropped the sword. Imogen opened the door and hurtled down the spiral staircase. ‘Come on!’ she called to her sister. ‘Follow me!’ But she didn’t get very far. She collided with a figure who was coming up the stairs. She stumbled back into the boy’s room, tripping and landing on top of Marie.

‘What’s this?’ said the figure. ‘A pair of peasants come to steal from His Royal Highness?’

‘We didn’t steal nothing!’ said Marie passionately.

‘Anything,’ corrected her sister.

‘Is that so?’ said the figure, stepping into the light.

An ancient man in a black robe stood wheezing in the doorway. His face was shrivelled and deathly white. He looked like a creature that had lived under a rock for too long. When he’d caught his breath, he pointed at Imogen and Marie.

‘We’ll let the king decide what to do with you two,’ he said.

‘Oh, Yeedarsh, it’s you!’ said the boy.

‘At your service,’ said the old man, giving a shaky bow. ‘I caught these thieves escaping down the staircase. I’ll get them taken to the dungeons, Your Majesty. Don’t you worry. We’ll find out how they broke in.’

Marie hid behind Imogen and Imogen turned to the boy. ‘We’re not thieves,’ she said. ‘Go on – tell him.’

The boy folded his arms and looked out of the window so Imogen couldn’t see his face.

‘Oh, we’ve got plenty like you down in the Hladomorna Pits,’ said Yeedarsh, and his mouth curled into a nasty smile. ‘Plenty who say they didn’t do it. But they always come clean in the end.’ He wet his lips, eyes darting between the boy and the two girls. ‘Don’t they, Your Highness?’

‘Um … yes. They do.’

‘I’ll get the Royal Guards,’ said Yeedarsh. ‘They’ll be no more trouble for you. Or perhaps we could just throw them out the window? Save ourselves the bother?’

The boy glanced around as if unsure what to say.

‘That’s what we used to do when we were short of room in the Pits,’ continued the servant. ‘Your grandfather never regretted tossing his enemies out of the window. Apart from that one who landed in a pile of manure. Hopped off with nothing but a sprained ankle—’

‘Yeedarsh, you’re getting carried away,’ said the boy.

‘Well, what do you want to do with them?’

There was a long pause.

‘What time’s tea?’ asked Imogen.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ snapped Yeedarsh, scrunching up his face so it looked like an old tissue.

‘We were going to stay for tea,’ she said quietly. The boy didn’t turn round. Imogen held her breath.

‘Pah! Thieving peasants for dinner?’ croaked Yeedarsh. ‘Our prince would rather dine alone than with the likes of you. Isn’t that right, Your Highness?’

‘Dine … alone?’ said the boy.

‘Yes. As you always do, Your Majesty.’

‘Why would I do that when I have guests?’ He nodded at Imogen and Marie.

‘Guests? You mean to say you invited these … people into the castle?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why? Does the king know? He ought to know.’

‘Just leave it with me, Yeedarsh,’ said the boy.

Yeedarsh was visibly perplexed. He kept making as if to leave and then coming back, opening his mouth and then closing it again.

‘We’ll be wanting breakfast for three,’ said the boy. ‘Tell the kitchens.’

‘Er … very good,’ said the old servant. ‘But, if any of the silver cutlery goes missing, your uncle will have their heads. I’ll be counting the spoons …’

After breakfast, Imogen and Marie were given clear instructions on how to spend the hours before dinner. The boy said they were to play around the castle, but they mustn’t venture outside. They should return to the room at the top of the second tallest tower when the bells sounded at dusk.

The castle was so big and sprawling that the girls had no problem avoiding grown-ups. There hardly seemed to be anyone around. Instead of people, the castle was populated by strange and beautiful objects. Some rooms housed a few decorative items; others were so full that you could hardly open the door.

In one room, there was a large group of ferocious-looking warriors. At first, Imogen was terrified, but she soon realised that they were just suits of armour.

Marie tried on a helmet. ‘We’d better not be asked to eat anything with its face left on,’ she said. The helmet covered her eyes and nose, but her mouth continued to talk: ‘If he serves fish, I’m out of here.’

Another room was entirely dedicated to paperweights. There were paperweights of blown glass and paperweights of metal. There was even a wooden one carved into the shape of a bear. The room had a large window that overlooked the square that the girls had run across the night before.

‘There are the city walls,’ said Marie, ‘and the meadows we walked through to get here.’ Imogen joined her at the window.

Beyond the meadows there were forests and mountains. They seemed to enclose the valley, leaving no way out. The forests were dark and deep and the mountaintops were as sharp as arrowheads. Some of the trees were already turning gold, which was strange because at home it had been the start of the summer holidays.

‘Imogen, how are we going to find the door among all those trees?’

‘It’s not going to be easy,’ conceded Imogen. ‘We could go now, try to retrace our steps.’

‘What … not stay for tea?’

‘That boy isn’t going to stop us. He wouldn’t even know we’d gone until it was too late. He said he has his own affairs to attend to.’

‘But we promised we’d stay for tea,’ said Marie.

‘I don’t remember promising anything.’

Marie pressed her lips together in the way that she did when she was thinking. ‘What if the monsters are still out there?’ she asked.

Imogen looked down at the square where some kind of market was taking place. It didn’t seem as if there were any monsters, but she could still remember that terrible screeching and the fear of being chased. A shiver ran down her spine.

‘Perhaps it is worth staying for tea,’ she said. ‘Perhaps, if we play the boy’s little game, he’ll help us get home. He might even know how to make the door in the tree open.’

‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ said Marie, brightening. ‘With a bit of help from someone who lives here, we’ll be back with Mum in no time.’

Imogen nodded. There was a thought buried so deep in her mind that she was barely aware of it, but it was there all the same: the castle was interesting, and so was the city, especially now there were no monsters. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if Mum had to wait for them to come home. Maybe it was only fair.

After all, if Mum could go off with her ‘friends’, leaving Imogen behind, then Imogen could do just the same.

Prince Miroslav – whom Imogen thought of as the boy – never told his guests exactly how he spent that day.

He didn’t tell them that he’d been frantically making arrangements for the evening: instructing cooks, sending servants on errands. He wanted it to appear normal. He wanted the girls to think he had guests for dinner every week.

He certainly never told them how his belly squirmed as he approached his uncle’s study. Two guards stood to attention on either side of the entrance. ‘Is King Drakomor in?’ Miroslav asked.

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

He struggled with the heavy door, prising it open just wide enough to squeeze through.

The king had shut the sun out of the room, but it wasn’t to protect delicate parchment. There were very few books in this study. Instead, the shelves held golden trinkets, rare ornaments and precious stones.

The study was becoming increasingly crowded. Prince Miroslav had to suck in his tummy so he could fit past an enormous painted vase. That was a new one.

The king magpie, collector of it all, sat at his desk in the centre of the room.

One jewel, mounted on a marble base, stood taller than Miroslav. As he walked behind it, his figure turned orange.

‘Miroslav, is that you?’

Miroslav froze like an insect in amber. ‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘Don’t skulk. I can’t bear skulkers. Especially not among my collection.’

Miroslav peeped out from behind the jewel. ‘Sorry, Uncle,’ he said.

‘You didn’t touch that vase, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Good. It’s five hundred years old, from the Nerozbitny Dynasty. The only one of its kind.’

Miroslav didn’t know how to respond to that information.

King Drakomor was busy at his desk, cleaning a necklace with a tiny brush. He was wearing a single glass lens, so that, when he turned to Miroslav, it was with a blinking, oversized eye.

He didn’t look like his nephew. His nose was smaller, straighter. He was fair-skinned with grey, close-set eyes, and he wore his hair parted to the side, as was the fashion. Miroslav sometimes wondered if his uncle would love him more if they looked alike.

‘Why are you here?’ said the king, putting down the necklace. Miroslav’s heart beat fast in his chest. What if the old servant, Yeedarsh, had got here first? What if he’d told Miroslav’s uncle to send the girls to the dungeons?

‘Out with it,’ said the king, and he drummed his fingers on the table so his rings tapped against each other.

‘You know how I don’t have a tutor at the moment,’ said Miroslav.

‘How could I forget? Yeedarsh never shuts up about it.’

‘Well, I was wondering if, in the meantime, perhaps I might have some other children to play with?’

The king raised an eyebrow, sending the glass lens tumbling to the desk. ‘What other children?’ he said.

‘Oh, just a few friends.’

‘You don’t have any friends.’ The king didn’t say this unkindly, but in a matter-of-fact way. Still, Miroslav flinched.

‘They’re just a couple of peasants I met when I was visiting the market,’ he said. ‘No one important.’

‘Peasants? I don’t want them stealing my collection,’ said the king. ‘And I don’t want you picking up their dirty habits.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And I certainly don’t want you getting in my way. I’m expecting some guests of my own. I can’t have a load of children running around.’

‘You won’t see us, I promise. You won’t even know we’re here.’

‘Hm.’ The king stroked his moustache.

‘Please, Uncle,’ said Miroslav.

King Drakomor put the glass lens back in his eye and continued to polish the necklace. He didn’t look up as he spoke: ‘All right, boy. You can keep them. But, if I so much as smell a child over the next few days, your little friends will be thrown out after dark, to be killed by the skret. Do we understand each other?’

Before Miroslav could answer, the king jumped up. ‘Damn it!’ he shouted, climbing on to the desk. ‘It’s one of those moths – the ones that eat cloth.’ The king swatted the air above his head. ‘If that thing has got at my silk, there’ll be hell to pay!’

A pale purple moth fluttered above him, just out of reach. ‘Quick, boy, go and fetch a servant!’ cried the king. ‘Tell them to bring a net!’ The moth flapped away, circled the giant orange stone and settled on the five-hundred-year-old vase. Miroslav followed it.

‘Kill that moth!’ shouted the king. Miroslav could hear his uncle scrambling down from the table.

He approached the vase cautiously. The moth was beautiful, with wings like faded peacock feathers. His uncle was advancing at speed. ‘Move out of the way!’ cried the king.

Miroslav pounced. He caught the insect in his cupped hands and hopped aside. His uncle came careering towards him, tripped over a stuffed lynx and – for a moment – was suspended in mid-air, before he flew towards the vase.

There was a terrible crash followed by a howl. The guards dashed in and Miroslav dashed out. He ran to the nearest window and released his prisoner. The moth fluttered away, leaving spots of silvery dust on his palms.

The evening began like clockwork. The sun slipped down and, as if connected to it by invisible pulleys, the crescent moon swung into position. It was the kind of dusk where even a passing moth sounds mechanical – with the soft whirring of wind-up wings.

The stars turned on, the city lights turned out and, at the top of the second tallest tower, the stage was set. A long table had been erected. It was piled high with tempting delicacies: candied orange peel, airy pastries filled with lemon curd and pistachio truffles. The boy had lit the candles again and the room was ablaze with light.

Servants, balancing a dish in either hand, careered past each other, with all the pace and poise of prima ballerinas. There were too many of them for the space, but somehow they managed their movements without touching each other. Conducting the performance, standing on a chair so his gestures could be seen, was the boy.

Imogen entered the room and looked about in amazement. Marie stared too, her eyes like saucers. The boy clapped his hands and the dance came to an abrupt end. ‘Please,’ he said, hopping down from his chair. ‘Have a seat.’ Chairs were pulled back. Napkins were placed on laps.

The only diners seemed to be Imogen, Marie and the boy. He’d changed his outfit for the occasion, and was now sporting a blue tunic covered in gold stars. His boots had pointy toes and flared out at the top, where they almost touched his knees.

‘Sparkling wine, madam?’ asked a servant with a curled moustache.

‘Er, no thank you,’ said Imogen, wrinkling her nose.

‘Perhaps some Parlavar?’ The servant brandished a bottle of pink liquid. Imogen shook her head.

‘Red Ramposhka?’

‘I’m eleven,’ said Imogen. ‘I normally drink lemonade.’

The servant straightened up. ‘Hmm, limon-eeeed. I’m afraid we don’t have that vintage.’

There was a lot of cutlery. Five knives, six forks and three spoons. Imogen caught sight of her warped face in a dessertspoon. What on earth, she wondered, was she supposed to do with all this?

A chain of servants passed dishes up and down the spiral staircase – taking away the empty plates and bringing up more food. During one course, a violinist played and Marie clapped along, even though it wasn’t the right kind of music for that.

At the end of the third course, Imogen turned to the boy. ‘Isn’t it strange?’ she said. ‘We’re all here, eating together, but we haven’t even been properly introduced.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Your name would be a good start.’

The boy cleared his throat. ‘I’m Prince Miroslav Yaromeer Drahomeer Krishnov, Lord of the City of Yaroslav, Overseer of the Mountain Realms and Guardian of the Kolsaney Forests.’

‘And what do people call you?’ said Imogen.

‘Your Highness.’

‘No, I mean what do your friends call you?’

The boy looked uncomfortable. ‘Your Royal Highness?’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Imogen.

‘You can call me Prince Miroslav, son of Vadik the Valiant … or Miro. That’s the name my mother used.’

‘Miro,’ said Marie. ‘That’s a nice name.’

They tucked into the fourth course: honey-roast pig and steaming, buttered veg. Imogen attacked it with a soup spoon. Marie tried the fish knife.

‘Don’t you want to know our names?’ asked Imogen. Then, not bothering to wait for an answer, she said, ‘I’m Imogen Clarke and she’s Marie Clarke. We’re sisters.’

‘Sisters. I se—’

Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by a terrible scream. The girls dashed to the nearest window. ‘It’s the monsters again!’ said Marie. ‘It sounded like it came from over there.’ She pointed to the city outskirts.

Miro helped himself to mint tea and waited for his guests to return to their seats.

Imogen peered at him. ‘You don’t seem very concerned.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s normal.’

‘What are they?’ asked Marie.

‘The skret,’ said the boy.

‘Skretch?’

‘Well, you certainly can’t be from the forests if you’ve never heard of skret.’

‘We’re not really from the forests,’ said Marie. ‘Please … tell us about the monsters.’

‘The skret are nocturnal mountain creatures,’ said Miro. ‘They’re not much bigger than you or me, but they have bald heads like old men and they can see in the dark. Their teeth are sharp and their hands are clawed. Sometimes they walk like humans and sometimes they crawl like spiders. They come down from the mountains at dusk, running through the city and killing anything they find. If you don’t have skret where you’re from, you’re lucky.’ He took a sip of his tea. He was clearly enjoying having an audience.

‘Was it skret that were chasing us last night?’ asked Imogen.

Miro nodded.

‘And they would have eaten us if they’d caught us?’

‘No, no,’ said the boy.

‘That’s a relief!’ said Imogen, remembering how afraid she’d been. ‘They’d kill you all right – make a nice mess of your body.’

‘Oh.’

‘But I was joking when I said they ate people.’

Hilarious, thought Imogen.

‘Can’t you stop them from getting into the city?’ asked Marie.

‘My uncle tries. He’s the king, you see. He has the guards shut the city gates at nightfall. And he told everyone to put skret bones out, to show the monsters what happens if they keep coming here … but none of it seems to work. That’s why we ring the bells: to warn everyone that the skret are on their way. Of course, none of this happened when my parents were about. The skret weren’t a problem back then …’

Imogen didn’t speak. She was thinking about the little skulls, with the triangular teeth, that decorated the houses.

‘But we’re safe up here,’ said the prince, signalling to the servants to clear away the plates.

‘Shouldn’t we have the lights out? Like other people do?’ asked Marie, looking around at the candles.

‘Oh no. The skret can’t get into the castle, let alone all the way up my tower. They aren’t smart or big enough. Their brains are only a third the size of a human brain.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Marie, ‘even little things can be quite fierce.’

‘Besides,’ said the boy, ‘I’ve got weapons. I’d have no problem fighting off a few monsters.’

Imogen blinked at him. She thought that highly unlikely.

‘Where are your parents?’ she asked. ‘You said things were different when they were about.’

‘Oh. Yes. They’re with the stars now … I don’t think we need to …’ Miro ran his fingers through his thick curly hair.

There was a pause.

‘Would you like some tea?’ He filled up their cups. ‘I tried to organise a dancing bear for tonight – one of the small ones – but apparently they can’t catch them any more. There’s a dancing bear shortage.’ He snorted with laughter. Imogen didn’t get the joke.

‘So how did you come to be running from skret through my city?’ he asked. ‘If you’re not peasants, and you’re not from the forests, where are you from?’

‘Ah,’ said Imogen. ‘Well, that’s kind of complicated.’

As they drank mint tea, Imogen told the prince about her journey through the Haberdash Gardens. She didn’t mention the shadow moth. She didn’t feel like sharing all of her story with Miro and her sister. Not just yet.

Marie kept interrupting, but she got things mixed up so Imogen had to tell her to be quiet. When Imogen got to the part about the door in the tree, Marie piped up again. She made it sound as though she had helped find it. Imogen lost no time putting things straight: ‘Marie just followed me. She’s always copying my ideas.’

‘Am not.’

‘Are too.’

‘I want to hear the rest of the story,’ said Miro, so Imogen kept going.

She finished at the moment when she and Marie entered the city. The prince asked, ‘What about the bit where I rescued you? You haven’t told that part.’

‘Well, you know what happened then. I don’t need to tell you,’ said Imogen.

‘I should like to hear it all the same.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not telling you a story about yourself.’

‘I am the prince and I want to hear it.’

Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Fine. Marie, you can tell this bit.’

Marie finished the story, telling it with too many frilly words and too favourable a portrayal of the prince.

‘Anyway,’ cut in Imogen, ‘the point is we need to get home.’

Two pairs of eyes turned to Miro. ‘I have to admit,’ he said, ‘I’ve never heard of this garden kingdom or the queen who rules it.’

‘She’s not a queen,’ said Imogen. ‘She’s just Mrs Haberdash.’

‘I’ve certainly never heard of anyone putting a door in a tree. The people where you come from must be very odd.’

‘Are you going to help us get home?’ said Imogen. ‘Because, if you’re not, we might as well leave now.’ She pushed back her chair to show she meant business.

‘Right after we’ve finished pudding,’ added Marie.

Miro started fiddling with his rings. Tonight he had several stacked on his index fingers and a big one on each thumb. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour,’ he muttered. ‘I rescued you from the skret and I let you stay for dinner, even though you’re peasants.’

‘Stop turning your rings,’ said Imogen. ‘It’s driving me mad. We’re not peasants and I’m sure we can find the door on our own if we have to. I just thought, what with you being a prince and all, you’d be able to do something. I thought you’d at least have a servant who could make the door open. It’s not as if we’re asking you to slay a dragon.’

That hit the mark. The prince’s face flushed. ‘My ancestors killed this kingdom’s last dragon.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Imogen.

Silence.

‘Okay,’ said the boy. ‘I’ll help you. In fact, I’ll make a pact.’ He rummaged through an old chest and pulled out a dagger. Marie gave a squeak.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Miro. ‘I only need one drop.’

‘One drop of what?’ said Marie.

‘Your blood, of course.’

‘My blood?’

‘Not just yours – everyone has to give a bit. That’s how we seal the pact.’

‘Can’t we just shake hands?’ said Imogen.

‘Or cross our hearts?’ said Marie.

‘I’ll go first,’ said Miro.

The three children stood together underneath the old clock with the sleeping face. Miro held up his left thumb for the girls to see, like a magician about to do a trick. In his right hand, the blade glinted. He touched the soft pad of his thumb with the tip. ‘I promise to do everything within my powers to help these two peasa—’

‘—Imogen and Marie.’

‘—To help Imogen and Marie get home.’ He looked at them, seeking approval. Imogen nodded.

The blade was sharp. A little pressure and it pierced his skin, bringing up a ruby-red drop of blood. He turned to hide his face, but it was too late; Imogen had seen him wince. He held out the dagger. ‘Now you.’

‘What am I supposed to be promising?’ she asked.

‘To be my loyal subjects,’ said Miro.

Imogen didn’t take the dagger. ‘Loyal subjects? What does that even mean?’

‘You know … you go where I go. Have dinner with me and things.’

‘What things?’ she demanded.

‘Go fishing. Play in the gardens. Whatever I fancy,’ said the prince.

Imogen snorted. ‘You mean be your friends? You want us to promise to be your friends?’

‘Call it what you will.’

‘You must be joking,’ she said, but the prince’s expression was deadly serious. He offered her the dagger again.

‘Just until we go home?’ she said. ‘You know we’re not staying long?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the prince. ‘Just until you go home.’

Imogen took the dagger. ‘This is absurd.’ She placed the blade on her thumb. ‘Okay, I promise to hang around with Miro, to be his loyal … friend. Just until we go home.’

‘Great, now do the—’

‘I know, I know.’ Imogen pricked her skin and passed the dagger to Marie.

‘I won’t do it,’ said Marie.

‘You will too,’ said Imogen.

‘Why? Why should I have to?’

‘Because, Marie, if you don’t do it, you haven’t earned your ticket home.’

‘It doesn’t need two of us, does it?’ said Marie and she turned to Miro with a pleading expression.

‘One of you is probably enough,’ said the prince.

‘Oh, stop being such a baby,’ said Imogen and she grabbed Marie’s wrist. ‘Repeat after me: I promise …’

‘Imogen!’ cried Marie.

‘Don’t wriggle. I’m only drawing a bit of blood, not cutting off your hand.’

‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Come on,’ said Miro. ‘I think two of us is enough.’

‘Oh, fine. Be a baby.’ Imogen released Marie’s wrist.

Imogen and Miro pressed their thumbs together. ‘That’s it,’ said Miro. ‘The pact is sealed.’

As they stepped apart, the clock behind them sprang into motion. The hands spun, cogs whizzed and mechanical stars flew about. It was going too fast: chiming for midnight, then midday, skipping through days in seconds.

Suddenly it all stopped, or rather it started behaving like a normal clock. The hands ticked along as if they had never been doing anything different.

This time, as the clock reached midnight, the little hatch opened and a carving of two girls trundled out. The smaller one had long wavy hair in a ponytail. The taller one had short straight hair.

The miniature girls curtseyed, turned a full circle and went back into the clock. The hatch closed behind them.

Imogen lay in the big bed at the top of the second tallest tower. Her thumb had stopped bleeding and, with her belly full of food, she fell asleep in no time. But, as so often happens when you’re not sleeping in your own bed, Imogen slept fitfully, and her dreams were strange and frightening.

She was back at home. She could hear her mum in the bathroom, making crying sounds. Imogen opened the door and Mum was sitting in the bath, fully dressed. She hadn’t run the water yet. She was just staring at the taps, as if stuck on the question of whether to turn them on.

This was what Mum had done in real life when Ross, an old boyfriend, dumped her, but that was years ago. Imogen knelt by the bath and peeped over the side. Mum’s make-up was smeared down her cheeks.

‘Is it Mark?’ said Imogen. ‘Did you have a fight?’

Mum looked confused.

‘You know, your friend that you went to the theatre with?’

The bathroom started filling with water. It lapped against Imogen’s legs, but she didn’t move.

‘I know Mark,’ said Mum, ‘but who are you?’

‘It’s me … it’s Imogen.’ The water in the bathroom crept up to her waist.

‘How did you get into the house?’

‘Come on, Mum. We’ve only been gone one night—’

‘Where’s Mark?’ said Mum in a shrill voice.

Imogen stood up as the water flowed into the bath, making Mum’s clothes balloon. ‘You have to get up,’ said Imogen, holding out her hand. ‘The room’s going under.’

But Mum just closed her eyes as the water sloshed across her face. She was gripping on to the bath with both hands.

The water lifted Imogen off the floor and she began to panic. She swam back to Mum and shook her by the shoulder. Mum opened her eyes and smiled. ‘It’s okay,’ she mouthed.

‘No, it’s not!’ cried Imogen in a voice full of bubbles.

She came up for air. The water had nearly reached the ceiling. Why wouldn’t Mum listen? How could she have forgotten them already?

Then she heard a strange sound … bells. There were bells in the bathroom.

Imogen opened her eyes, coming to the surface for a second time. She was lying in a four-poster bed. Her mum was nowhere to be seen. The bells of Yaroslav were ringing for dawn and it was raining.

Imogen lay still until the last bell tolled. It was just a dream. Of course Mum knew who she was. She was probably looking for them right this minute. She’d never forget her girls. Would she?

Imogen turned over to see Marie asleep next to her. Miro was curled up at the foot of the bed like an overindulged poodle. He opened his eyes as his clock began to chime. A new figure came out of the hatch. It was a hunter. He shot an imaginary arrow from his tiny bow before disappearing back inside the clock.

Miro yawned and said:

‘You cannot trust a hunter,

for you never really know

if it’s just the deer he’s after,

with his arrows and his bow.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Imogen.

‘Just an old rhyme,’ said Miro. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright. ‘Huntsman. Now there’s a thought! We could get Blazen Bilbetz to help find the door in the forests.’

‘Who’s Blar-zen?’

Miro glanced at Imogen with disbelief. ‘You don’t know Blazen Bilbetz? He’s only the best hunter in Yaroslav. I bet he’d be able to find your door in no time, and I bet he’d kick it open. After all, the forests are his hunting grounds. Let’s go and ask him. Wake Marie.’

Imogen glanced at her sister. She looked so peaceful, like a sleeping baby. ‘Let’s go without Marie. She’ll only slow us down.’

‘Won’t she be sorry to be left behind?’

‘Probably, but she’s no good on adventures. We’ll come back for her in a few hours – when it’s all sorted.’

If only it had been that easy. It would be many hours before Imogen and Miro returned.

That same day, in a big house by the river, a young woman called Anneshka Mazanar received a very important invitation. She opened the front door to a pot-bellied man. He was wearing the crimson uniform of the Royal Guards and he’d been drenched by the rain.

He stared at Anneshka with his mouth slightly open, as if he’d slipped into a trance. Anneshka was used to people gawping at her and she didn’t really mind. In fact, she liked it. Her beauty was the talk of Yaroslav. They said that she’d been drawn, not born. They said that her heart-shaped face was perfect, with her violet eyes, pouty mouth and cascade of golden hair.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

The Royal Guard snapped back to life, brushing water from the tip of his nose. ‘Yes, miss, sorry, miss. I’ve got a letter for your father. Will you see that he gets it?’

‘Of course,’ said Anneshka, giving the guard one of her best smiles before snatching the letter and running to her room at the top of the house.

Her fingers trembled as she broke the royal seal. It was as she had hoped – it was an invitation from the king. The letter said that her parents were to visit the castle, along with their ‘charming’ daughter. Anneshka’s heart fluttered.

She looked out of her bedroom window, towards Castle Yaroslav. There was no way her parents were coming with her. No way in hell. It was her that the king wanted to see and her parents had only been invited for the sake of decency.

She read the letter again. The king said that it had been a ‘delight’ to meet her at the royal ball. Anneshka remembered it well. During her first dance with King Drakomor, she’d seen how handsome he was, with grey eyes and an elegant moustache.

During their second dance, she’d seen something else; something that other people missed. She’d seen that he wanted to be rescued. After that, winning his heart had been easy.

Although the ball had been Anneshka’s first encounter with the king, she’d had her mind’s eye on him for years. She’d known that she would be the queen of Yaroslav ever since she was seven. Anneshka’s mother had been plaiting her hair when she first told her the story.

‘The stars have great things in store for you,’ said her mother.

‘How do you know?’ said little Anneshka. Her mother had done her hair too tight and it hurt.

‘Hold still and I’ll tell you. The night that you were born, I was visited by the forest witch – the one they call Ochi. She was cast out of the city long ago and your father didn’t want her in the house, but I knew why she’d come. I told him to let her enter. The witch swaddled you and gave me something for the pain. Then she offered to read the stars.’

‘For me?’ said Anneshka. She wanted to turn round and look at her mother to see if she was telling the truth, but her mother pulled on her plait. Anneshka cried out.

‘I said hold still!’

‘Sorry, Mother … But what did the stars say?’

‘Ochi read your stars and I paid her well. Too well, some might say. When she was done with her stargazing, the witch came back to my bed and whispered in my ear. She said you would be a great queen.’

‘A great queen of where?’ said Anneshka.

‘Of Yaroslav, of course.’

‘But how will it happen? I’m not a princess …’

‘No,’ agreed her mother. ‘Your father’s not even the wealthiest man on this street, but I’ve spoken to him and it’s agreed. You will want for nothing. When fate comes calling, you’ll be ready.’

Anneshka’s mother gave her hair another twist. ‘There. You can move now. Your hair is done.’

It wasn’t until King Drakomor was crowned, and Anneshka came of age, that she saw her route to the throne. It was so obvious, as if that too had been written in the stars. King Drakomor did not have a wife.

Anneshka sat down at her writing desk to pen her reply to the king. She stroked her chin with the tip of the quill.

‘Now,’ she whispered, ‘how does Father normally begin his letters …?’

Imogen and Miro set out to find Blazen Bilbetz. Miro said they’d know the hunter when they saw him. He was built like a bear, the tallest man in Yaroslav, and clothed in the furs of the beasts that he’d killed.

Imogen borrowed a cloak to wear over her clothes and keep out the rain. Water washed off roofs and splashed down cobbled streets, forming little streams at the side of the road. Some people had shoved skret skulls on the ends of their gutters, like home-made gargoyles. Water rushed out through their jaws.

Despite the cloak, Imogen’s fingers were soon numb and her shoes wet through. As the afternoon faded, she began to wonder if Blazen was a figment of the prince’s imagination. She’d lost count of how many inns they’d visited, but there was no sign of the man.

Miro seemed to have an endless supply of stories. Blazen was up against some impossible task, Blazen almost died, Blazen triumphed and was called a hero. It was the same plot. Every single time.

‘It’s going to get dark soon,’ said the prince. ‘This will have to be the last inn for today.’ Imogen peeped through the grubby window of the Hounyarch. Candlelight was just about visible on the other side.

‘Fine by me,’ she said.

Inside the inn it smelled of warm bodies and beer. Imogen ducked under elbows and squeezed between bellies. The top of the bar was level with her eyeballs. To her left, frothy ale sloshed and glasses clinked. To her right, money changed hands between quick-fingered card players. Above, the heads of badly stuffed animals looked on: a fox with one glass eye bigger than the other, a pigeon with a very long neck and a bear with a strangely human expression.

‘Excuse me,’ said Miro, standing on tiptoes. The barmaid didn’t respond. She was shouting at an old man who was face down on the bar.

What an odd place to sleep, thought Imogen.

‘This is useless,’ said Miro. ‘They’re all drunk.’

‘You did say he might be out hunting …’ said Imogen.

‘But it’s getting late. Even the bravest hunter returns from the Kolsaney Forests before dark.’

‘And is he? The bravest hunter, I mean? Are you sure it’s not just stories?’

‘Oh yes. They’ve made statues of him. And he’s in all the songs: Blazen Bilbetz knows no fear, Blazen makes the ladies swoon, Blazen Bilbetz saves the day, Blazen brings the monster’s ruin.’

Miro was interrupted by the barmaid. She was shouting at him. No – at something behind him. Imogen turned to see a gigantic, bearded man climb on to a table. In one hand, he carried a sack with pipes hanging off it. In the other, he brandished a beer. He roared as he mounted his stage. The men round the table cheered. The barmaid screamed, ‘Get down!’

The man took a gulp of his drink and put his lips to the instrument’s mouthpiece. The sack inflated. The sound that followed was like nothing Imogen had ever heard. A low, loud honk. A cow with a megaphone. There was no sensible way to describe it.

Every head turned and, after that first blast, the man was off: fingers running up and down the pipes, elbow squeezing the sack, filling the room with a wild melody and uneven rhythm. He alternated between singing, blowing into the instrument and drinking. Sometimes he got the three mixed up and beer got into the mouthpiece. But his audience didn’t mind – they loved it and they loved him. They were stamping their feet and singing along.

Imogen turned to Miro. He was grinning. ‘What are you so happy about?’ she demanded.

‘That,’ he shouted over the noise, ‘is our man!’

‘Him?’

Miro nodded.

‘With the bagpipes?’ asked Imogen.

‘Zpevnakrava,’ corrected Miro.

‘Huh?’

The city bells tolled, hardly audible over the music. ‘Did you hear that?’ said Imogen. ‘We need to leave!’

But Miro wasn’t listening. He was working his way closer to Blazen.

Imogen looked at the door. There were a lot of bodies between her and the exit. Even worse, instead of leaving, people were battening down the hatches. Shutters closed. Fire out. Door bolted.

One song swung into the next. The piper’s cheeks puffed in and out, turning his face a ferocious shade of red. Why wasn’t Miro doing something to get the man’s attention?

The bells stopped tolling. The skret were in Yaroslav.

Imogen groaned. She was stuck in the Hounyarch for the night.

Someone splashed beer on the back of Imogen’s neck. Cold foam ran down her spine and suddenly she’d had enough. Enough trawling round the city in the rain. Enough waiting while grown-ups did stupid grown-up things. She wasn’t here for the music. She wasn’t here to have a good time. She was here because Miro had promised that Blazen Bilbetz would help her get home.

She walked up to Miro and gave him a jab in the ribs. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be asking that man to help us?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Miro. ‘After the next song.’

But, as one song ended and another began, Miro just clapped along.

Imogen decided to take matters into her own hands. She reached up to the table and prodded the giant man’s leg. He didn’t react. She grabbed his calf and gave it a shake. He looked down and flicked his foot, as though he’d stepped in something nasty, sending her tripping backwards.

Things were going to have to step up a notch. There was a knife on the side of the bar. It didn’t look razor-sharp, but it would probably do the job. Imogen forced her way through the crowd, grabbed the knife and went back to the hunter.

She climbed on to the table, reached up to the instrument’s sack and pierced the skin. It deflated at speed, making a terrible wheezing sound. Beer trickled out of the hole. The people closest covered their ears and howled.

Blazen Bilbetz stopped blowing into the mouthpiece and looked down a pipe. ‘That’s funny,’ he boomed. ‘It’s never done that before.’ Then he saw Imogen crouched by his feet. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I … I wanted to get your attention,’ said Imogen, suddenly feeling very small.

‘Well, you’ve got it all right. I’ll skin you alive, you little hovinko!’

Enormous hands lifted Imogen up by her arms. She wriggled and kicked, but the giant’s grip only tightened. ‘Put me down!’ she shouted.

‘What do you think?’ said the man, giving her a shake that made her ribcage rattle. ‘Shall we have her stuffed and mounted on the wall?’ The crowd laughed. ‘Do you know who I am, peasant? Do you know whose zpevnakrava you’ve vandalised?’ His eyes, wide and bloodshot, didn’t look to Imogen for the answer, but to his fans below.

‘I am the man that killed one hundred bears, seduced the Queen of Mikuluka, rode across the Nameless Mountains wearing nothing but a squirrel skin. Yes, it’s all true.’ He paused for dramatic effect.

‘It was I who slayed Zlo the Wolf with my bare hands. I who single-handedly protected the Pochybovaci Cathedral and its nuns from the excesses of five hundred marauding Yezdetz. Why … I’ve even delivered a baby behind that bar. I cut the cord with my teeth and wrapped the child in a hanky.’

‘Get on with it!’ – a heckler.

‘I am Blazen Bilbetz,’ said the giant as he drew himself up to his full height. ‘Who are you to come here and interrupt my merrymaking?’ He breathed beer into Imogen’s face, but didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘Whoever you are, you’re going to have to pay for what you’ve broken.’

‘Then you owe me for all the tankards you’ve thrown!’ – the barmaid.

Blazen rolled his eyes. ‘Cough up, girlie,’ he said to Imogen. ‘My zpevnakrava is worth a fair bit.’

Imogen felt like all the air was being squeezed out of her. ‘I haven’t got any money,’ she gasped.

‘That’s a shame, isn’t it!’ cried the giant. ‘Perhaps you think someone else should pay for your mistakes?’

‘I’ll pay!’ – Miro this time.

‘Who said that?’ Blazen looked around.

‘Down here. I’ll give you your money, but first put her down.’

‘Oh, look, a knight in shining armour.’ Blazen chuckled.

‘Me? I thought you were supposed to be the hero,’ said Miro. ‘That’s what everyone says. Blazen the Brave. Blazen the beast-killer. But look at you! You’re nothing but a big bully.’

The room fell silent.

‘You can’t pay,’ said Blazen, sounding a little less sure of himself. ‘You haven’t got twenty crowns. You haven’t even got two crowns!’

But the crowd had turned. ‘That’s enough, Blazen!’ someone yelled from the back of the room.

‘You’ve had your fun,’ said another. Faces turned back to the bar and the normal hum of talk resumed.

‘All right,’ said Blazen to Miro. ‘Twenty-five crowns and you’ve got yourself a deal.’

‘Done,’ said Miro.

Blazen released Imogen, tossed his punctured zpevnakrava aside and climbed down from the table. He turned to Miro with greedy eyes. ‘Right, hand it over.’

‘I’ve got another idea,’ said Miro. ‘How do you fancy earning one hundred crowns?’

‘You haven’t got that kind of money,’ said the hunter, suspicious.

Miro placed a small bag on the table. Blazen seemed to recognise the sound. The soft tinkle of gold on gold.

‘You have my attention,’ he said slowly.

Imogen sat at the edge of the table, rubbing her sore arms. ‘We want you to take us into the forest,’ she said.

‘Is that so?’ Blazen’s eyes were still fixed on the bag.

‘We’re looking for a door in a tree.’

‘A door to where?’ said the giant.

Imogen took a deep breath. ‘A door to another world.’

‘There’s no such thing,’ said Blazen.

‘One hundred crowns says you’re wrong,’ said Miro, pushing the bag across the table.

Blazen’s head stayed still, but his eyes followed the money. ‘That’s a lot of ground to cover, searching for something that doesn’t exist. I’d need my men with me.’

‘One hundred crowns now and one hundred crowns when it’s done,’ said the prince.

Blazen held out his shovel-sized hand. Miro shook it.

‘We’ll start at first light,’ said the hunter. ‘After the bells have tolled.’

‘What are we supposed to do until then?’ asked Miro. Blazen grinned, displaying yellow, gold and missing teeth.

‘Why, drink, of course!’

And he did. He drank beer, he drank liquor, he drank some cloudy green stuff that smelled like aniseed sweets. He drank with the card players, the barmaid, the inn’s cat. He drank until every surface was strewn with bodies, like the scene after a battle. And then, realising he was the last warrior standing, he allowed himself to sink to the ground. Cradling a half-empty bottle of grog, he closed his eyes.

‘How do we wake him?’ said Miro.

‘I don’t know. Give him a pinch,’ said Imogen.

The prince did as instructed. ‘Well, that didn’t work.’

‘Harder,’ said Imogen.

‘You do it,’ said Miro.

‘Water. Fetch some water. That’s how they do it in films.’

‘In what?’

‘Just try it,’ said Imogen.

Splash!

For a few seconds, Blazen fought wildly, thrashing about on the floor, waving his legs and arms like an upturned beetle. ‘I’m drowning!’ he cried. He smashed his grog bottle and held up the sharp end. ‘What do you want, you little hovinko?’ It wasn’t really a question.

Miro looked down at the giant. ‘We want you to do as you promised.’ Blazen belched. ‘We want you to take us to the Kolsaney Forests.’

‘Fine,’ said the hunter. ‘But first I need my morning beer.’

Imogen had a bad feeling about this.

As the sun began to set that evening, Imogen and Miro returned to the second tallest tower. They were not in good spirits. Miro was two hundred crowns poorer and they were both completely exhausted.

Their search through the forests had been unsuccessful. They’d travelled in the direction that Imogen thought was correct and they’d seen thousands of trees, but not a single door.

Marie was curled up in one of the big seats by the fire. Imogen could see that she’d been crying.

‘I thought you’d be back last night,’ said Marie. ‘I was worried.’

‘So did we,’ said Imogen, collapsing on the bed. ‘We spent the night stuck in an inn, and the day searching the forests. Did you get my note?’

Imogen looked round for the scrap of paper she’d left by the bed. It had been a hastily scribbled message telling Marie not to leave the tower and that they’d be back soon. Marie glared at the fire and Imogen understood. She’d burned it. What a baby.

‘Marie, you know I had to leave you behind. You would have been afraid in the forests.’

‘I would not!’ said Marie, her voice shrill.

‘You would too,’ said Imogen. She removed her cloak and let it fall off the edge of the bed. ‘Anyway, we didn’t find the door. It was a wasted journey.’

‘But it must be there somewhere,’ said Marie. ‘Perhaps we should go back and look for it tomorrow.’

‘There’s no point,’ said Miro. ‘If Blazen Bilbetz can’t hunt it down, there’s no way we’d spot it on our own. It’s like the door doesn’t want to be found.’

Over the next few days, Imogen tried everything she could think of to get home. She asked Miro if she could send her mum a letter, but there was no postal service and Imogen didn’t know how a postman would find the door in the tree.

She asked about sending a text, but there were no phones. She’d have had her own if Mum had got her one for her birthday, but Mum was always going on about phones not being good for you.

Miro hadn’t even heard of the internet. He said he didn’t believe in magic. The grown-ups Imogen spoke to had never heard of a door in a tree. They didn’t believe in magic either.

At night, when Imogen was lying in the four-poster bed, her worry creatures began to reappear. They waited until Miro and Marie had drifted off, then they’d crawl across the covers and hold Imogen’s eyes open. They hissed bad thoughts in her ears. You’ll never make it home. Your mum doesn’t even want you back.

‘What do you expect me to do?’ Imogen whispered. ‘I’ve tried everything I can!’

She shook the quilt, throwing the worry creatures to the floor. If she was lucky, they’d creep away after that, slinking off into the darkness. If she was unlucky, it could be hours before they’d let her sleep.

In the morning, Imogen would check under the quilt. No worry creatures there. She’d peep behind the curtains. No worry creatures there either.

Looking out of the window at the bright blue sky and the cheerful red roofs of Yaroslav, Imogen felt sure that everything would be okay. The worry creatures were wrong. She’d find her way home eventually.

In the meantime, why shouldn’t she have a little fun? After all, this was a place with no school, no chores and no bossy grown-ups.

A nneshka’s visit to Castle Yaroslav was going well. King Drakomor expressed his sadness that her parents weren’t able to join them, but Anneshka could see that he was secretly glad to have her all to himself.

The king gave her a tour of the castle, pointing out the favourite bits of his collection. Yeedarsh, the old servant, followed them from room to room. He poured them mead and fetched them apricot-filled doughnuts, but Anneshka didn’t like his presence. She could feel his eyes on her, even when he was supposed to be stoking the fire. He was too sharp, too observant.

On the third day of her visit, the king sent Yeedarsh away and showed Anneshka into his study. He helped her squeeze past an enormous orange jewel and held her hand as she stepped daintily over a row of exotic lizard eggs. When she got her skirts caught on the teeth of a stuffed wildcat, King Drakomor bent down to set her free.

In the middle of the study there was a desk. Behind the desk there were bookshelves filled with precious stones. They glinted and glimmered in the low light.

‘What do you think?’ said the king.

‘It’s magnificent,’ said Anneshka. ‘Really, I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘I brought you here because I want to speak in private.’

Anneshka kept her face still. This was it. Just as the stars had promised.

‘Since we first met …’ King Drakomor groped for the right words. ‘From the very first moment …’ He held on to the corner of the desk to steady himself.

‘Go on,’ said Anneshka.

‘I intend to make you my wife,’ he blurted.

Anneshka moved a hand to her mouth. ‘Your Majesty!’ She hoped she sounded sufficiently surprised. ‘Your Majesty, I had no idea …’

‘Of course, I had intended to firm things up with your father first—’

‘He’ll be delighted,’ she said, rushing forward and taking the king’s hand. ‘And so am I.’

The king smiled and Anneshka could see her outline reflected in his eyes.

He took a black box out of a drawer in the desk. ‘This used to belong to my brother,’ he said, removing a gold ring from the box. ‘And this one belonged to his wife.’ He showed her a smaller ring. ‘I would like them to become ours – from one king and queen to the next.’

‘They’re lovely,’ said Anneshka.

‘I’ll send them off to be polished, get them looking as good as new. We’ll need to think carefully about how we make the announcement. Once we’ve told the people, they’ll expect the wedding within a matter of days and I would prefer it if we could take our time … We’ll need to speak to the prince when we’re ready.’

‘The prince?’ She couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of her voice.

‘Miroslav, my brother’s son.’

‘Oh … I assumed that you’d sent him away.’

‘No. He’s somewhere in the castle with his friends … Peasants, I gather. The boy’s running quite wild.’

Anneshka would have to choose her words carefully. ‘And what does he mean for our future,’ she asked, ‘if we are to get married?’

‘What do you mean?’ The king looked confused. ‘You don’t have to mother him, not if you don’t want to … although it might do him some good.’

‘Never mind, láska. That’s not what I meant, but there’s no rush to deal with the boy. Especially if we’re not announcing the wedding yet. I just wanted to get you thinking … to set the cogs in motion as it were.’

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