Books by Jenny Nimmo

For Ianto, who likes to travel, with love.

First published in Great Britain 2003 by Egmont UK Limited

This edition published 2010

by Egmont UK Limited

239 Kensington High Street

London W8 6SA

Text copyright © 2003 Jenny Nimmo

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

ISBN 978 1 4052 2544 1

eBook ISBN 978 1 7803 1203 3

10

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group

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Contents

Cover

Books by Jenny Nimmo

Title page

Copyright

The endowed

1 A game of marbles

2 Grandma slams a door

3 A tree falls

4 Hiding Henry

5 Olivia makes a mess

6 Into the freezer

7 The black glove

8 You can’t go back!

9 Thunder House

10 Skarpo the sorcerer

11 The Pets’ Café

12 ‘Take him to the dungeons!’

13 Ezekiel’s visitors

14 Run over!

15 The tollroc

16 The wand

17 Tancred and the tree

18 Ambushed!

19 The Time Twister

20 A journey to the sea

21 Paton has a party

The endowed

The endowed are all descended from the ten children of the Red King; a magician-king who left Africa in the twelfth century, accompanied by three leopards.

The Red King had already lived for several centuries and he made a marvellous glass sphere, putting into it memories of his life and travels through the world. He used the sphere to twist through time, visiting the past and the future.

In any other hands, the Time Twister is dangerous and unpredictable.

The children of the Red King, called the Endowed.

Manfred Bloor | Head boy of Bloor’s Academy. A hypnotiser. He is descended from Borlath, eldest son of the Red King. Borlath was a brutal and sadistic tyrant.
Asa Pike | A were-beast. He is descended from a tribe who lived in the Northern forests and kept strange beasts. Asa can change shape at dusk.
Billy Raven | Billy can communicate with animals. One of his ancestors conversed with ravens that sat on a gibbet where dead men hung. For this talent he was banished from his village.
Zelda Dobinski | Descended from a long line of Polish magicians. Zelda is telekenetic. She can move objects with her mind.
Beth Strong | Beth is also telekenetic. She comes from a family of circus performers.
Lysander Sage | Descended from an African wise man. He can call up his spirit ancestors.
Tancred Torsson | A storm-bringer. His Scandinavian ancestor was named after the thunder god, Thor. Tancred can bring rain, wind, thunder and lightning.
Gabriel Silk | Gabriel can feel scenes and emotions through the clothes of others. He comes from a line of psychics.
Emma Tolly | Emma can fly. Her surname derives from the Spanish swordsman from Toledo, whose daughter married the Red King. He is therefore an ancestor to all the endowed children.
Charlie Bone | Charlie can hear the voices of people in photographs and paintings. He is descended from the Yewbeams, a family with many magical endowments.
Bindi and Dorcas | Two endowed girls whose gifts are, as yet, undeveloped.

A game of marbles

It was January 1916. The coldest winter in living memory.

The dark rooms in Bloor’s Academy were almost as cold as the streets outside. Henry Yewbeam, hurrying down one of the icy passages, began to hum to himself. The humming cheered him up. It warmed his spirits as well as his feet.

On either side of the passage the eerie blue flames of gaslights flickered and hissed in their iron brackets. The smell was horrible. Henry wouldn’t have been surprised to find something dead in one of the dark corners.

At home, in a sunny house by the sea, his sister, Daphne, was very ill with diphtheria. To avoid infection Henry and his brother, James, had been sent to stay with their mother’s brother, Sir Gideon Bloor.

Sir Gideon wasn’t the sort of person you would choose to spend your holidays with. There was nothing remotely fatherly about him. He was the headmaster of an ancient school and he never let anyone forget it.

Bloor’s Academy had been in Sir Gideon’s family for hundreds of years. It was a school for children gifted in music, drama and art. Bloor’s also took children who were endowed in other, very strange, ways. Just thinking about them made Henry shudder.

He had reached his cousin Zeke’s room. Zeke was Sir Gideon’s only child and a more unpleasant cousin Henry couldn’t imagine. Zeke was one of the endowed children, but Henry guessed that Zeke’s gift was probably nasty.

Henry opened the door and peeped inside. A row of glass jars stood on the windowsill. Inside the jars, strange things writhed gently in a clear liquid. Henry was sure it couldn’t be water. The things were pale and shapeless. One was blue.

‘What do you think you are doing?’

Aunt Gudrun came marching down the passage, her long black skirt drowning her footfalls with a sinister hiss. She was a very tall woman with a great amount of yellow hair piled into a bun on the back of her head. A real Viking of a person (she was, in fact, Norwegian), with an enormous chest and lungs to match.

Henry said, ‘Erm . . .’

‘Erm is not good enough, Henry Yewbeam. You were spying in my Zeke’s room, were you not?’

‘No, not at all,’ said Henry.

‘You shouldn’t be lurking in passages, boy. Come down to the sitting room.’ Lady Bloor beckoned with her little finger, and Henry had no choice but to follow her.

His aunt led him back past the mysterious locked doors that, only a few moments ago, Henry had been vainly trying to open. He was an inquisitive boy and easily bored. A huge sigh escaped him as he trundled down a creaking staircase to the first floor.

The Bloor family lived in the west wing of the academy, but they only occupied the rooms above the ground floor, which was almost entirely taken up by a draughty grand hall, a chapel and several assembly halls and classrooms. Henry had already explored some of these rooms and found them very disappointing. All they contained were rows of battered desks and chairs, and shelves of dusty-looking books.

‘Here we are!’ Lady Bloor opened a door and thrust Henry into the room beyond.

A small boy, who had been kneeling in the window seat, leapt down and rushed across to Henry. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he cried.

‘Just exploring,’ said Henry.

‘I thought you’d gone home.’

‘Home is miles and miles away, Jamie.’ Henry plonked himself in a deep leather chair beside the fire. The logs in the big iron grate smouldered with strange images. When Henry half-closed his eyes he could almost see the cosy sitting-room at home. He sighed again.

Aunt Gudrun frowned at Henry and said, ‘Behave yourselves, boys.’ She went out closing the door behind her.

When she had gone James came and sat on the arm of Henry’s chair. ‘Zeke’s been doing funny things,’ he whispered.

Henry hadn’t noticed Zeke, but now he became aware of his strange cousin, enclosed in a gloomy silence at the other end of the room. He was sitting at a table, absorbed in something laid out before him. His pale, bony face was frozen in an attitude of intense concentration. Not a muscle twitched, not a breath escaped him.

‘I was scared,’ James said quietly.

‘Why? What did he do?’ Henry asked in a hushed voice.

‘Well, he was doing a puzzle. There were pieces all over the table. Then Zeke stared at them and they all crawled together. Well, most of them. They made a picture. He showed it to me. It was a ship, but some of the pieces wouldn’t fit.’

‘It’s rude to whisper,’ said Zeke without taking his eyes off the puzzle.

Henry pulled himself out of the chair and strolled over to his cousin. He glanced at the twelve pieces lying beside the puzzle and then at the picture of the ship. It took less than a minute for him to see exactly where each piece fitted.

‘Hm,’ said Henry, and without another word he picked up the single pieces, one by one, and deftly placed them into the picture; two in the sky, three in the ship’s hull, two in the rigging and four in the sea.

For a moment, Zeke watched Henry’s hands in fascination. It was only when Henry was putting the last piece in place, that Zeke suddenly leapt up, crying, ‘Who asked you? I could have done it. I could!’

‘Sorry,’ said Henry, stepping back. ‘I thought you wanted some help.’

‘Henry’s good at puzzles,’ said James.

‘Well I’m good at other things,’ snarled Zeke.

James was too small to see the danger signs. The angry glitter in Zeke’s black eyes went straight over his head. ‘Magic doesn’t always work,’ the little boy said blithely. ‘Henry’s cleverer than you are, Zeke.’

With that remark poor James Yewbeam sealed his brother’s fate and, of course, his own.

‘Get out!’ cried Zeke. ‘Both of you. Hateful Yewbeams. Go, now. I can’t stand the sight of you!’

Henry and James ran for the door. There was a violent gleam in their cousin’s pale face, and they didn’t want to wait around for him to do something nasty.

‘Where are we going?’ panted James as he tore down the passages after his brother.

‘We’ll go to the big hall, Jamie. We can play marbles there.’ Henry pulled a small leather bag out of his pocket and waved it at his brother.

It wasn’t to be. Before they could go any further there was a shout from Aunt Gudrun.

‘James, bedtime.’ James pretended not to hear her. ‘Now, this minute.’

‘Better go,’ said Henry gently. ‘She’ll punish you, if you don’t.’

‘But I want to play marbles,’ said James.

Henry shook his head. ‘Sorry, Jamie. Not now. Tomorrow. But I’ll come and read to you later.’

‘Promise? Will you finish the story of the Wallypug?’

‘James, come here,’ shouted Aunt Gudrun.

‘I promise,’ said Henry, and he meant to keep his promise. But Zeke had other plans for him.

Hanging his head, James trailed back towards the tall figure at the end of the passage.

‘And you, Henry!’ called Aunt Gudrun. ‘You keep out of trouble.’

‘Yes, Aunt,’ said Henry.

He was about to descend the rather grand staircase down to the hall when he had an idea. It was already so chilly he could see his own breath, billowing away from him in little grey clouds. The great hall would be even colder. He might freeze to death.

Henry retraced his steps until he found the door to a room he had already investigated. It was a huge storeroom, full of clothes left behind by past students of the academy. There were rows of coloured capes: blue, green and purple; shelves of hats and suits, and boxes of ancient leather boots.

Henry selected a warm blue cape and put it on. It reached well over his knees, a perfect length for a draughty hall. He would be able to kneel on it without feeling the cold stone floor.

Henry descended into the hall. His hoard of marbles was the envy of all his friends. Henry’s father travelled extensively and never came home without at least one precious new marble for his son’s collection. Henry’s leather bag held onyx stones, polished agate, glass, limestone, quartz and even spheres of painted china.

There were no lights in the hall but an early moon sparkled through the long, frosted windows, giving the grey flagstones a soft pearly glow.

Henry decided to play Ring Taw, his favourite game. Deprived of an opponent, he would try to improve his skill by playing alone. With a piece of chalk, kept handy in his pocket, Henry drew a large ring in the centre of the hall. He then chalked a smaller ring inside the first. Selecting thirteen marbles from his bag, he placed them in a cross inside the smaller circle.

Now Henry had to kneel on the icy floor, just outside the large ring. Already his hands were blue with cold and he could hardly stop his teeth from rattling. Tucking the blue cape under his knees, he took out his favourite marble; it was a clear blue with a silvery glint inside it, like starlight. This was always his taw, or shooter.

Placing the knuckles of his right hand, palm outwards, on the floor, Henry put the blue taw on the tip of his first finger and flicked it with his thumb towards the marble cross. With a sharp clink it hit an orange marble right out of the two circles.

‘Bravo!’ Henry shouted.

There was a light creak from behind him. Henry squinted into the deep shadows on the oak-panelled walls. Was he imagining it, or did a long tapestry shiver slightly? On the other side of the tapestry a small door led into the west wing. Henry preferred the main staircase, for the passage behind the door was dark and creepy.

A cold draught swept past his knees and the tapestry billowed again. A flurry of hailstones clattered against the windows, and the wind gave a sudden moan as it rushed round the snowy courtyard.

‘Wind.’ Henry shivered and drew his cape closer. For good measure he even pulled the hood over his head.

In the passage behind the tapestry, Ezekiel Bloor stood with a lantern in one hand, and in the other – a glowing glass sphere. Dazzling colours swirled out of the glass; a rainbow laced with gold and silver; sunshine and moonlight, one after the other. Zeke knew he mustn’t look at them. He held one of the oldest marbles in the world.

On her deathbed, Zeke’s great-aunt Beatrice, a witch if ever there was one, had pressed the marble into his hand. ‘The Time Twister,’ she said in her cracked, dying voice. ‘For journeys through time. Do not look on it, Ezekiel, unless you want to travel.’

Ezekiel didn’t want to travel. He thrived in the great gloomy building that was his home and could seldom be persuaded to leave it. However, he longed to know what would happen if someone did look into the Time Twister. No one, in Zeke’s opinion, was more deserving of a shove through time, than his wretched cousin Henry Yewbeam.

Henry had by now knocked another three marbles out of the small chalked ring. He hadn’t missed once, in spite of his freezing fingers. He was just stepping back to his place outside the circle when a glass ball came rolling towards him. It was slightly larger than Henry’s blue taw, and tiny points of coloured light danced and shimmered all around it.

‘Oh, my,’ breathed Henry. He stood where he was while the strange marble rolled on until it reached his foot.

Henry picked it up. He gazed into the bright depths within the glass. He saw domes of gold, cities in sunlight, cloudless skies and much, much more. But even as he watched the scenes taking place before his eyes, Henry became aware that a change was taking place within his body, and he knew that he shouldn’t have looked upon those unbelievable and breathtaking scenes.

The oak-panelled walls were breaking up. The frosted moonlight was fading. Henry’s head whirled and his feet began to float. Far, far away, a cat began to mew. And then another cat, and another.

Henry thought of his small brother. Would there be time to reach him before he faded away completely? And if he did, and James saw a brother disappearing before his eyes, might he not be so frightened he would have nightmares forever? Henry decided to leave a message.

While he still had the strength, he took the chalk from his pocket and with his left hand (the right was still clamped round the Time Twister), he wrote on the stone floor, ‘SORRY, JAMES. THE MARBLES . . .’

It was all Henry had time for. The next moment he had left the year of his eleventh birthday and was travelling forward, very fast, to a year when most of the people he knew would be dead.

In a small, chilly room at the top of the west wing, James waited for his brother. He was so cold he had put his coat on over his flannel nightshirt. On the table beside him the flame from his candle, quivered in a draught from the door. Where was Henry? Why was he taking so long?

James rubbed his eyes. He was very tired but too cold to sleep. He drew the bedcovers up to his chin and listened to the patter of freezing sleet against the windowpane. And then his candle went out.

James sat rigid in his bed, too frightened to call out. Aunt Gudrun would be cross and Cousin Zeke would tease him for being a baby. Only Henry would understand.

‘Henry! Henry, where are you?’ James closed his eyes and sobbed into his pillow.

Before he had completely run out of tears, James stopped shivering. The room was getting warmer. He opened his eyes and found that he could see his pillow, his hand, the window. A soft glow had spread across the ceiling. When James looked to see where it was coming from, he was amazed to find that three cats were silently pacing round his bed. One was orange, another yellow and the third a bright coppery colour.

As soon as the cats knew they had been observed, they jumped up and rubbed their heads against the boy’s cold hands, his neck and his cheek. Their gleaming fur was as warm as sunlight, and as James stroked them, his fear began to leave him. He decided to go and look for Henry. Hardly had this thought entered his head than the cats leapt off the bed and ran to the door. They waited, mewing anxiously, as James pulled on his socks and his small leather boots.

With light sparkling on their silver whiskers and bright fur-tips, the cats led the way down the dark passages and narrow steps, while James hurried after them. At last he came to the wide staircase leading down into the hall. Here the cats’ worried mewing became loud and urgent, and James hesitated before he descended into the vast moonlit room.

Henry was not there. His marbles lay scattered on the stone floor, winking in the bright frosted light from the windows. As James moved slowly down the stairs, the cats ran before him, wailing and growling.

James reached the bottom step and walked to the chalked circle. He could see that Henry had been playing Ring Taw, his favourite game.

‘Henry!’ James called. ‘Henry, where have you gone?’

Never had a place appeared so vast and empty to small James Yewbeam. Never had his brother’s absence seemed so utterly complete. He wouldn’t try to call again. It was quite clear that Henry was gone. And he hadn’t even said goodbye.

Before the tears could fall again, the three cats pounced into the white circle, drawing the boy’s attention to four words chalked on the floor. A message? If only James could read. Henry had been patiently trying to teach him for weeks but, so far, James hadn’t managed a single word.

Perhaps he hadn’t really tried. Now, when it was a serious matter . . .

‘S . . . s . . . s . . .’ murmured James as the cats paced along the row of letters.

Next came an ‘o’ and then two ‘r’s, and further on his own name. And all at once James found he could understand the words his brother had left for him.

‘SORRY, JAMES,’ he read, ‘THE MARBLES . . .’ There the message ended.

Obviously Henry wanted his brother to keep the marbles safe for him. James picked up the leather bag but before he could reach the blue taw, the orange cat tapped it playfully and it sped across the hall. The yellow cat raced after it while the copper cat swept another three marbles out of the ring.

Now the great hall was alive with the sound of clinking glass and joyful purring. James was surrounded by dancing, glistening spheres of colour. The cats were playing a game and, as he watched them, a big smile broke over the boy’s face.

‘Stay with me,’ James begged the cats.

The cats would stay. For as long as he was in that cold, dreary building, they would keep James Yewbeam as warm and safe as any small boy had a right to expect.

Grandma slams a door

Winter held the city in an iron fist. Roofs, trees, chimneys and even things that moved, were covered in a thick crust of frozen snow.

Charlie Bone had been looking forward to an extra day of Christmas holiday. The new term surely couldn’t start in this weather? But Grandma Bone had dashed his hopes.

‘No shirking for you,’ she said in her usual sneering way. ‘Bloor’s Academy opens come rain, wind or snow. The snowploughs have cleared the main road, and the school bus will stop at the top of Filbert Street on Monday morning at eight o’clock sharp.’ Her lips made a nasty backfiring noise as she said the last word.

Charlie was a weekly boarder at Bloor’s Academy and on Sunday nights he had to pack a bag for five days away from home. On this particular Sunday, Charlie was paying more attention to the snowflakes brushing his window than his packing.

‘Pyjamas, toothbrush, pants,’ Charlie muttered to himself. ‘Socks, clean shirts . . .’ He scratched his head. He was supposed to wear a blue cape to school but he hated putting it on before he got to the academy. The other children in Filbert Street sniggered at him. Bloor’s was a rather unusual school. Only children who were talented in music, art or drama could get in. Charlie had none of these talents. He was one of the twelve endowed children who were there because of unique other gifts. In his case, it was a gift he often thought he would rather be without. He could hear photographs, or rather the people in them. As soon as Grandma Bone and her three nasty sisters found out they had packed him off to Bloor’s. Theirs was a family of clairvoyants, hypnotisers, werewolves, witches and worse. They were descended from a mysterious red king, a magician of amazing powers and, like all endowed children, Charlie must be watched, his talent nurtured.

The doorbell rang and Charlie ran downstairs, eager to escape the dreary packing. As soon as he opened the door, his friend Benjamin’s dog, Runner Bean, pushed past Charlie and began to shake wet snow off his back. His feathery tail sent sprays of water flying across the hall, straight into the path of Charlie’s other grandma, Maisie Jones.

‘You’d better dry that dog in here,’ said Maisie cheerfully, as she stepped back into the kitchen. ‘I’ll fetch his towel.’ She kept a special towel for Runner Bean, who was a frequent visitor.

The big yellow dog bounded after her while Charlie took Benjamin’s coat and hung it on the hall stand.

‘Are you on for building a snowman tomorrow?’ Benjamin asked Charlie. ‘Our school definitely won’t open.’

‘Mine will,’ said Charlie gloomily. ‘Sorry, Ben.’

‘Aw!’ Benjamin’s face fell. He was a small straw-haired boy with a permanently anxious expression. ‘Couldn’t you pretend to be ill or something?’

‘No chance,’ said Charlie. ‘You know what Grandma and the aunts are like.’

Benjamin knew only too well. Charlie’s aunt, Eustacia, had once been Benjamin’s minder. It was the worst two days of his life: disgusting food, early bedtimes and no dogs in bedrooms. Benjamin shuddered at the memory. ‘OK,’ he said sadly. ‘I guess I can make a snowman on my own.’

A door opened on the landing above them and a voice called out, ‘Is that you, Benjamin Brown? I can smell dog.’

‘Yes, it’s me, Mrs Bone,’ said Benjamin with a sigh.

Grandma Bone appeared at the top of the stairs. Dressed all in black and with her white hair piled high on her head, she looked more like the wicked queen from a legend than someone’s grandmother.

‘I hope you don’t intend to stay more than ten minutes,’ said Grandma Bone. ‘Charlie has to have an early night. It’s school tomorrow.’

‘Mum says I can have another hour,’ Charlie shouted up to his grandmother.

‘Oh? Oh, well, if that’s the case, why should I bother to take an interest in your welfare. I’m clearly wasting my time.’ Grandma Bone swept back into her room, slamming the door behind her.

Whether it was this door-slamming or a minor earth tremor, Charlie would never know, but something caused a small picture to fall from its hook in the hall.

Charlie had never studied the faded old photographs that adorned the walls of the dark hallway. In fact, since he had discovered his unwelcome talent, he had positively avoided them; he didn’t want to hear what a group of crusty-looking forebears had to say.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Benjamin. ‘How did that happen?’

Charlie realised this was a photograph he wouldn’t be able to avoid. As he picked it up and turned it over, he felt a strange fluttering in his stomach.

‘Let’s see!’ said Benjamin.

Charlie held out the black-framed picture. It was one of those faded sepia-coloured photographs. The glass was cracked but hadn’t fallen out, and through the cracks the boys could make out a family of five, grouped together in a garden. Behind them, the yellowed wall of a cottage could be glimpsed, and on the other side of the photo, beyond a stone wall, a small sailing boat sat on a velvety sea.

‘Are you OK?’ Benjamin glanced at Charlie.

‘No,’ muttered Charlie. ‘You know why. Oops, here we go.’ Already a thin buzz of voices was coming through to him.

It was the mother who spoke first. Henry, stand still. You’ll spoil the picture. She was a pretty woman in a lacy frock with a high collar. A brooch, like a star, was pinned just beneath her chin. A boy of about four sat on her lap, and a girl of perhaps six or seven leaned against her knee.

Beside the woman stood a man in a soldier’s uniform. He had such a merry face Charlie couldn’t imagine him with the fierce and solemn look a soldier was supposed to have. But it was the boy, standing in front of the soldier, who held Charlie’s gaze.

I can’t breathe, muttered the boy.

‘Hey, Charlie, he looks a bit like you!’ Benjamin pointed a grubby finger at the older boy.

‘Mm!’ Charlie agreed. ‘Same age as me too.’

A stiff white collar seemed to be giving the boy called Henry some trouble. It was clamped round his neck above a tightly-buttoned jacket, and almost brushed his chin. He wore knee-length breeches, long, black socks and shiny black boots.

Ouch! muttered Henry.

His mother sighed. Is it too much to ask you to stand still?

I think there’s a fly under my collar, said Henry.

At this, the soldier burst out laughing, and Henry’s brother and sister dissolved into helpless giggles.

Really, said the serious mother. I’m sure our poor photographer doesn’t find it amusing. Are you all right, Mr Caldicott?

There was a mumbled, Yes, thank you, madam, and then something fell over. Charlie couldn’t be sure if it was Mr Caldicott or the camera. The figures in the photograph swung all over the place, making Charlie feel quite dizzy.

‘You look green,’ Benjamin remarked. He led the rather shaken Charlie into the kitchen, where Maisie was rubbing Runner Bean with a towel.

‘Oh dear,’ said Maisie, taking in the situation at a glance. ‘Have you had one of your thingies, Charlie?’

‘He has,’ said Benjamin.

There was a loud sizzle as Charlie’s mother, Amy, dropped an exotic-looking vegetable into a frying pan. ‘What was it this time, love?’ she asked.

Charlie put the photograph on the kitchen table. ‘This fell off the wall when Grandma Bone slammed her door.’

‘It’s a wonder there are any doors left hanging in this house, the way that woman slams them,’ said Maisie, emptying the cracked glass into a newspaper. ‘What with the slamming and your Uncle Paton’s light bulbs, and your mum’s rotten vegetables. I sometimes think I’d be better off in a Home for the elderly.’

Everyone ignored this remark. They’d all heard it so often. Maisie wasn’t old enough to be in a Home, and she’d been told a hundred times that her family couldn’t live without her.

‘So do you know who these people are?’ Charlie pointed to the family in the black frame. Without the cracked glass, the soldier and his family could be seen more clearly.

Charlie’s mother came and looked over his shoulder. ‘They must be Yewbeams,’ she said, ‘Grandma Bone’s relations. You’d better ask her.’

‘No way,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll ask Uncle Paton before I go to bed. Come on, Ben.’

Tucking the black frame under his arm, Charlie led Benjamin and Runner Bean up to his room. An hour playing computer games passed very quickly, and then Grandma Bone was hammering on Charlie’s door and telling him, ‘Get that dog off your bed.’ How did she guess? But then a lot of the Yewbeams had powers.

The boys trailed downstairs with Runner Bean behind them, and Charlie let Benjamin and his dog out of the front door.

He stood in the hall a moment, staring at the rectangle of pale wallpaper where the framed photograph had hung. What had caused that photo to fall? Could it really have been a door being slammed? In this house, the force at work was bound to be more mysterious.

‘Perhaps Uncle Paton will know,’ Charlie murmured. He ran upstairs.

Uncle Paton was Grandma Bone’s brother, but he was twenty years younger, and had a good sense of humour. He also had a talent for exploding light bulbs when he got near them, so he spent most of the day in his room and only went out after dark. Even in the daytime, lights were on in shop windows. At night he was not so easily seen.

Charlie retrieved the photograph from his room, and knocked on his uncle’s door, ignoring the permanent DO NOT DISTURB sign.

There was no response to his first knock, but his second drew an irritated, ‘What is it?’

‘It’s about a photo, Uncle Paton.’

‘Are you hearing voices again?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Come in then.’ This was said in a weary tone.

An extremely tall man with a great amount of untidy black hair looked up from a desk by the window. As he moved, his elbow sent a stack of books toppling to the floor.

‘Bother,’ said the tall man, ‘and other more rude things.’

Paton was writing a history of his family, the Yewbeams, and he needed a great many books to help him do it.

‘Where’s the photo then? Come on, show, show!’ Paton clicked his fingers impatiently.

Charlie laid the photo in front of his uncle. ‘Who are they?’

Paton squinted at the family group. ‘Ah, that’s my father.’ He pointed to the small boy sitting on his mother’s knee. ‘And that,’ putting an ink-stained finger beside the girl, ‘that’s poor Daphne who died of diphtheria. The soldier is my grandfather, Colonel Manley Yewbeam – a very merry man. He was on leave from the army. There was a war on, you know. And that’s my grandmother, Grace. She was an artist –a very good one.’

‘And the other boy?’

‘That’s . . . good lord, Charlie, he looks rather like you. I never realised that before.’

‘His hair is different. But I suppose he could have had it squashed down with something.’ No amount of squashing would keep Charlie’s thick, springy hair flat.

‘Hm. Poor Henry,’ muttered Paton. ‘He disappeared.’

‘How?’ Charlie was amazed.

‘They were staying at Bloor’s, Henry and James, while their sister Daphne was dying. It was the coldest winter for a century – my father has never forgotten it. One day, in the middle of a game of marbles, Henry just vanished.’ Paton stroked his chin. ‘My poor father. Suddenly, he was an only child. He idolised his brother.’

‘Vanished,’ murmured Charlie.

‘My father always suspected his cousin, Ezekiel, had something to do with it. He was jealous of Henry. Ezekiel was a rotten magician, but Henry was just naturally clever.’

‘Is that the Ezekiel who’s . . . ?’

‘Yes. Dr Bloor’s grandfather. He’s still there, festering away somewhere in the academy, surrounded by gas lamps and bad magic.’

‘Wow! So he’s about a hundred years old.’

‘At least,’ said Paton. He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Charlie, these voices you hear, do they ever say anything that isn’t directly connected to that moment in time when they were being photographed?’

‘Erm, no,’ said Charlie. ‘Not yet. I don’t like looking at them for too long.’

‘Mm, pity,’ said Paton. ‘Could be interesting. Here you are then.’ He held out the photograph.

‘No thanks,’ said Charlie. ‘You keep it.’

Paton looked disappointed. ‘My father would be so happy to know a little more.’

‘Is he still alive, then?’ Charlie was surprised. He’d never seen his great-grandfather. In fact, he’d never heard anyone speak of him.

‘He’s a grand old fellow,’ said Paton. ‘He’s in his nineties now, but he still lives in that very same cottage by the sea.’ He tapped the photograph. ‘I visit him every month. If I start at midnight I can be there before sun-up.’

‘What about Grandma and the aunts. They’re his daughters, aren’t they?’

Uncle Paton made one of his here-comes-a-bit-of-scandal expressions. His thin lips compressed and his long black eyebrows arched up towards his hairline. ‘There was a rift, Charlie. A terrible quarrel. Long, long ago. I can hardly remember what caused it. For them, our father doesn’t exist.’

‘That’s awful!’ But somehow Charlie wasn’t surprised. After all, Grandma Bone wouldn’t even speak of Lyell, her only son and Charlie’s father. When he vanished, she had simply sliced him out of her heart.

Charlie said goodnight to his uncle and went to bed. But as he lay awake, trying to imagine his first day back at Bloor’s, Henry Yewbeam’s mischievous face kept breaking into his thoughts. How had he disappeared? And where did he go?

A tree falls

The temperature dropped several degrees during the night. On Monday morning, an icy wind sent clouds of sleet whipping down Filbert Street, blinding anyone brave enough to venture out.

‘I can’t believe I’ve got to go to school in this,’ Charlie muttered as he struggled through the wind.

‘You’d better believe it, Charlie, there’s the bus! Good luck!’ Amy Bone blew Charlie a kiss then turned into a sidestreet and made her way towards the greengrocer’s. Charlie ran up to the top of Filbert Street where a blue bus was waiting to collect Music students for Bloor’s Academy.

Charlie’d been put in Music only because his father had been in it. His friend, Fidelio, on the other hand was brilliant. Fidelio had saved a seat for Charlie on the bus, and as soon as Charlie saw his friend’s bright mop of hair and beaming face, he felt better.

‘This term’s going to seem very boring,’ sighed Fidelio, ‘after all that excitement.’

‘I don’t think I mind a bit of boringness,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m certainly not going in the ruined castle again.’

The bus parked at one end of a cobbled square with a fountain of stone swans in the centre. As the children left the bus, they noticed that icicles hung from the swans’ beaks and their wings were laced with frost. They appeared to be swimming on a frozen pool.

‘Look at that,’ Charlie exclaimed as he passed the fountain.

‘The dormitory’s going to be like a fridge,’ Fidelio said grimly.

Charlie wished he’d packed a hot water bottle.

Another bus had pulled up in the square. This one was purple and a crowd of children in purple capes came leaping down the steps.

‘Here she comes!’ said Fidelio, as a girl with indigo-coloured hair came flying towards them.

‘Hi, Olivia!’ called Charlie.

Olivia Vertigo clutched Charlie’s arm. ‘Charlie, good to see you alive. You too, Fido!’

‘It’s good to be alive,’ said Fidelio. ‘What’s with the Fido?’

‘I decided to change your name,’ said Olivia. ‘Fidelio’s such a mouthful and Fido’s really cool. Don’t you like it?’

‘It’s a dog’s name,’ said Fidelio. ‘But I’ll think about it.’

Children in green capes had now joined the crowd. The Art pupils were not as noisy as the Drama students and not so flamboyant, and yet when their green capes flew open, a glimpse of a sequinned scarf, or gold threaded into a black sweater, made one suspect that more serious rules would be broken by these quiet children than by those wearing blue or purple.

The tall grey walls of Bloor’s Academy now loomed before them. On either side of the imposing arched entrance, there was a tower with a pointed roof and, as Charlie approached the wide steps up to the arch, he found his gaze drawn to the window at the top of one of the towers. His mother said she had felt someone watching her from that window, and now Charlie had the same sensation. He shivered slightly and hurried to catch up with his friends.

They had crossed a paved courtyard and were now climbing another flight of steps. At the top, two massive bronze-studded doors stood open to receive the throng of children.

Charlie’s stomach gave a lurch as he passed through the doors. He had enemies in Bloor’s Academy and, as yet, he wasn’t quite sure why. Why were they trying to get rid of him? Permanently.

A door beneath two crossed trumpets led to the Music department. Olivia waved and disappeared through a door under two masks, while the children in green made their way to the end of the hall where a pencil crossed with a paintbrush indicated the Art department.

Charlie and Fidelio went first to the blue cloakroom and then on to the assembly room.

As one of the smallest boys, Charlie had to stand in the front row beside the smallest of all, a white-haired albino called Billy Raven. Charlie asked him if he had enjoyed Christmas but Billy ignored him. He was an orphan and Charlie hoped he hadn’t had to spend his holiday at Bloor’s. A fate worse than death in Charlie’s opinion. He noticed that Billy was wearing a pair of smart fur-lined boots. A Christmas present, no doubt.

They were only halfway through the first hymn when there was a shout from the stage.

‘Stop!’

The orchestra ground to a halt. The singing died.

Dr Saltweather, head of Music, paced across the stage, arms folded across his chest. He was a big man with a lot of white, wiry hair. The row of music teachers standing behind him looked apprehensive. Dr Saltweather was just as likely to shout at them as the children.

‘Do you call that singing?’ roared Dr Saltweather. ‘It’s a horrible moan. It’s a disgraceful whine. You’re musicians, for goodness sake. Sing in tune, give it some life! Now – back to the beginning, please!’ He nodded to the small orchestra at the side of the stage and raised his baton.

Charlie cleared his throat. He couldn’t sing at the best of times, but today the assembly room was so cold he couldn’t stop his jaw from shaking. The temperature had affected the other children as well, even the best singers were hunched and shivering under their blue capes.

They started up again, and this time Dr Saltweather couldn’t complain. The old panelled walls vibrated with sound. Even the teachers were doing their best. Merry Mr O’Connor threw back his head and sang heartily, Miss Chrystal and Mrs Dance smiled and swayed, while old Mr Paltry frowned with concentration. The piano teacher, Mr Pilgrim, however, did not even open his mouth.

Charlie realised that Mr Pilgrim was not standing up. He was next to Mrs Dance, who was extremely small, and being very tall himself, it was not immediately apparent that he was still sitting down. What was wrong with him? He never looked you in the eye, never spoke, never walked in the grounds like other teachers. He seemed to be completely unaware of his surroundings, and his pale face never showed the slightest flicker of emotion.

Until now.

Mr Pilgrim was staring at Charlie and Charlie had the oddest sensation that the teacher knew him, not as a student, but someone else. It was as if the dark, silent man was trying to recognise him.

There was a sudden, violent crack from beyond the window. It was so loud they could hear it above their boisterous singing. Even Dr Saltweather paused in his conducting. Another crack resounded over the snow outside, and then a tremendous thump shook the walls and windows.

Dr Saltweather put down his baton and strode to one of the long windows. When some of the children followed he didn’t bother to stop them.

‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Dr Saltweather. ‘Snow’s done for the old cedar!’

The huge tree now lay halfway across the garden; its branches broken and its tangled roots pulled clear of the ground. There was another crack as a long branch supporting the crown of the tree finally broke and, with a dreadful groan, the trunk sank into the snow.

So many games had been played under its sweeping branches, so many whispered secrets kept safe by its wide shadow. Now it was gone, and in its place there was only a wide expanse of snow and an unbroken view to the ramparts of the ruined castle. Snow encrusted the top of the walls and clung to the uneven surfaces, but the blood red of the great stones stood out ominously in the white landscape.

As Charlie stared at the castle walls, something happened. It could have been a trick of the light, but he was sure another tree, smaller than the cedar, appeared in the arched entrance to the castle. Its leaves were red and gold and yet other trees had lost their autumn colours.

‘Did you see that?’ Charlie whispered to Fidelio.

‘What?’

‘A tree moved,’ said Charlie. ‘Look, now it’s standing by the castle wall. Can’t you see it?’

Fidelio frowned and shook his head.

Charlie tried to blink the tree away. But when he looked again, it was still there. No one else appeared to have seen it. Charlie had a familiar fluttery feeling in his stomach. It always happened when he heard the voices, but this time there had been no voices.

A bang from the stage made him look back. Mr Pilgrim had got to his feet, very suddenly, knocking over his chair. He gazed over the heads of the children, into the garden beyond the window. He could have been looking at the fallen tree, but Charlie was sure he was staring past to the red walls of the castle. Had he seen the strange, moving tree?

Dr Saltweather swung away from the window. ‘Next hymn, children,’ he said as he marched back to the stage. ‘You’ll never get to your classes at this rate.’

After assembly, Charlie had his lesson with Mr Paltry – Wind. Mr Paltry was an impatient, elderly flautist. Teaching Charlie Bone to play the recorder was like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it, he complained. The old man sighed frequently, polished his glasses, and wasn’t above whacking the recorder while Charlie was in mid-blow. Charlie reckoned that if Mr Paltry continued attacking him in this way, he would eventually lose his teeth and then perhaps he would be released from his horrible music lessons.

‘Go, Bone, go!’ Mr Paltry grunted after forty minutes of mutual torture.

Charlie went, very happily. Next it was on with the wellingtons and out into the snowy garden. In cold weather the children were allowed to wear their capes outside; in summer, capes had to be left in the cloakroom.

Fidelio was late arriving from his violin lesson, so when the two boys finally ran outside, the snow had already been trampled by three hundred children. Snowmen were being built, snowball fights were in progress, and Mr Weedon, the gardener, was trying to shoo children away from the fallen tree.

‘I want to see something by the castle,’ Charlie told Fidelio.

‘You said you didn’t want to go near it,’ his friend reminded him.

‘No, but . . . it’s like I said, I saw something. I want to know if there are any footprints.’

‘OK.’ Fidelio gave a good-natured shrug.

As they ran past the fallen cedar, Billy Raven called out, ‘Where are you going, you two?’

Almost without thinking, Charlie shouted, ‘None of your business.’

The albino scowled and shrank against the dark branches of the tree. His ruby-coloured eyes flashed behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

‘Why did you say that?’ Fidelio asked as they hurried on.

‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Charlie. ‘There’s something wrong with Billy Raven. I don’t trust him.’

They had reached the entrance to the ruined castle. The snow beneath the huge arch was clear and smooth. No one had been in or out of the ruin.

Charlie frowned. ‘I saw it,’ he murmured.

‘Let’s go in,’ said Fidelio.

Charlie hesitated.

‘It doesn’t look so bad in daylight,’ said Fidelio, peering through the arch. He bounded in and Charlie followed. They tramped across a courtyard and took one of the five passages that led deeper into the ruin.

After several minutes of shuffling through the dark, they emerged into another courtyard. That’s where they saw the blood. Or something like it. A few deep red flecks lay in the snow besidea patch of red-gold leaves.

‘The beast!’ cried Charlie. ‘Let’s get out.’

It was only when they were standing safely outside the walls again that Fidelio said, ‘It might not have been the beast.’

‘There was blood,’ said Charlie. ‘And it was the beast. It’s killed something. Or wounded it.’

‘But there were no other marks, Charlie. No sign of a fight, or footprints . . . or . . .’

Charlie didn’t wait to hear the rest of his friend’s very reasonable doubts. He raced away from the ruin as if he were re-living the long night when a yellow-eyed beast had chased him through the endless passages and cold echoing chambers. When he reached the fallen tree, he waited for Fidelio to catch up with him.

‘Clear off, you!’ said a deep voice behind him.

Already nervous, Charlie jumped and swung round. Mr Weedon’s red face appeared through the mesh of broken branches. He was wearing a shiny black helmet and Charlie caught the glint of a saw, held in the big man’s black gauntlet.

‘This tree’s dangerous,’ said Mr Weedon. ‘I’ve told you kids not to play here.’

‘I wasn’t playing,’ said Charlie. Fidelio had caught up with him and he felt a little more confident.

‘Oh, no. Not you, Charlie Bone. You never play, do ya? A very serious boy, aren’t cha?’

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ Charlie said angrily. ‘You can’t . . .’

There was a loud roar followed by a grinding noise as Mr Weedon made his way through the tangle of branches towards Charlie. Twigs flew in all directions as the saw bit through wood and foliage.

‘Come on!’ Fidelio pulled at Charlie’s cape. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘That man’s dangerous,’ Charlie muttered as they ran away from the tree. ‘How does he know who I am?’

‘You’re famous,’ said Fidelio breathlessly. They were now far enough from Mr Weedon to take a rest. ‘Getting lost in that old ruin last term was quite an event. Everyone knows who you are.’

Charlie wished it wasn’t so.

The sound of a hunting horn rang out across the grounds, a signal for the end of break.

The temperature was still falling. After supper, the twelve endowed children went, as usual, to the King’s room, to do their homework. It was there that a very nasty row broke out between two great friends: Tancred Torsson and Lysander, the African.

Lysander was feeling the cold more than most, but being a good-humoured person his complaints were made in a friendly, almost jokey, way. What he actually said to Tancred was, ‘Tanc, what have you done to the weather?’

‘Not you too!’ Tancred jumped up and stamped his foot. ‘I can’t change the temperature. Storms are my thing, but I don’t use my talent frivolously. I thought that you, of all people, would know better.’

Before Lysander could reply, Manfred Bloor spoke up. ‘Come on, Tancred! Spare a thought for our African friend here. You’re freezing him to death.’

‘I’m not!’ screeched Tancred, tearing at his crackling hair.

‘He’s only joking, Tanc,’ said Lysander with a smile.

By this time some of the children were beginning to feel uncomfortable. Charlie was particularly concerned. Lysander and Tancred had saved him from the ruin. Together they were a powerful force against the darker powers that lurked in Bloor’s Academy. He couldn’t bear to see them quarrelling.

‘Are you on his side now?’ Tancred demanded, glaring at his old ally.

‘Everyone’s on my side,’ sniggered Manfred.

Lysander silently shook his head, but unfortunately Zelda Dobinski chose that moment to show off her particularly nasty gift for moving things. She was staring at a huge reference book on the shelves behind Tancred. The book launched itself across the room and caught Tancred in the back just as he whirled towards the door.

‘Owww!’ roared Tancred.

Six children burst into wild laughter, while five looked on in horror.

Tancred didn’t notice the sympathetic faces. He was only aware of the mocking laughter. Wind rushed furiously round the room as the stormy boy swept through the door, leaving it banging violently against the wall.

Charlie couldn’t stop himself. ‘Wait!’ he cried, leaping after Tancred.

‘And where do you think you’re going, Bone?’ said Manfred.

‘I’ve left my pens in the cloakroom,’ lied Charlie.

A scrawny, red-haired boy looked up and sneered, ‘Always forgetting things, aren’t you, Bone?’

‘Not always, Asa.’ Charlie was scared of Asa Pike. He was Manfred’s sidekick and could change his shape at dusk.

‘Close the door,’ said Asa, as Charlie stepped outside.

Charlie pulled the door shut behind him. The passage outside was deserted. Charlie decided to try the hall.

As he descended the wide staircase, a blast of arctic air almost rocked him off his feet. He stepped down into the stone-flagged hall and stood very still. Something was happening to his eyes. He was seeing things that should not be there. A cloud of sparkling particles swirled in the very centre of the long room. Was it an ice storm?

Gradually the pale fragments grew more vivid. Now they were forming a blurred shape, blue with a touch of black beneath it. Before Charlie’s astonished gaze, a figure in a blue hooded cape was materialising.

Charlie had no doubt that he was seeing a ghost. But when the figure turned to face him, he found, to his horror, that he was looking at . . . himself?

Hiding Henry

It was the other Charlie who spoke first.

‘What a joke,’ said the boy. ‘I haven’t travelled very far at all.’

He had such a normal sort of voice that Charlie was reassured. This wasn’t a ghost. But if not a ghost, what was it? Clearing his throat, he asked, ‘Where have you come from exactly?’

‘Here,’ said the boy. ‘Just now I was here, but,’ he shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed up at the row of electric lights illuminating the hall, ‘it wasn’t like this. How did it get so bright?’

‘Electricity,’ said Charlie. He was beginning to recognise the boy. ‘Are you . . . ?’ he began. ‘I mean, have you . . . well, the thing is, I’ve seen you in a photo. Are you Henry Yewbeam?’

‘That’s me,’ said Henry, beaming. ‘I think I’ve seen you too. Somewhere. Who are you?’

‘I’m your . . . erm . . . sort of cousin, Charlie Bone.’

‘No! This is very good news. A cousin, well, well.’ Henry marched over and shook Charlie’s hand. ‘Very glad to meet you, Charlie Bone.’

‘The news isn’t that good,’ said Charlie. ‘What was the date when you . . . just now?’

‘January 12th, 1916,’ said Henry. ‘I always know the date.’

‘I’m afraid it isn’t that now.’

‘No?’ Henry’s smile began to fade. ‘So . . . ?’

‘You’re almost ninety years ahead of where you were,’ said Charlie.

Henry’s mouth opened but no words came out. Instead, there was a sharp ping as something dropped out of his hand and hit the floor.

Charlie saw a large glass marble rolling across the hall. ‘Wow!’ he exclaimed, but before he could pick it up, Henry shouted, ‘Careful, Charlie. Don’t look at it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what brought me here.’

Charlie stood back from the shining glass marble. ‘You mean it brought you through time?’

Henry nodded. ‘It’s a time twister. My mama told me about it, but I’d never seen it until just now. I should have guessed what it was. I knew Zeke would try and punish me.’

‘Zeke?’

‘My cousin, Ezekiel Bloor.’ Henry suddenly grinned. ‘I say, he’s probably dead by now.’ And then a sad and solemn expression crossed his face. ‘They’re probably all dead: Mother, Father, my sister, and even my brother, James. There’s no one left.’

‘There’s me,’ said Charlie, ‘and I think your brother is . . .’

At that moment, a dreadful howl came from the stairs above them. The boys looked up to see a squat, ugly-looking dog standing at the top of the stairs. It howled again, raising its long nose towards the roof, while folds of almost hairless skin shook beneath its whiskery chin.

‘What an ugly beast,’ Henry whispered.

‘It’s Cook’s dog, Blessed.’ Charlie didn’t wait for the dog to howl again. ‘Quick,’ he said, grabbing Henry’s arm. ‘You’ve got to hide. This isn’t a good place for you to be right now. There are people here who might – do something nasty, if they find out who you are.’

‘Why?’ asked Henry, his eyes widening.

‘Just a feeling,’ said Charlie. ‘Come on.’ He dragged Henry towards the door into the west wing.

‘Where are we going?’ said Henry, scooping up the Time Twister and slipping it into his pocket.

For a moment Charlie had no idea why he was taking Henry into the west wing. He turned the heavy brass ring in the door and pushed his new friend into the dark passage beyond.

‘I know this place,’ whispered Henry. ‘I never liked it.’

‘Nor me,’ said Charlie. ‘But we have to go this way to find somewhere safe.’ He closed the door behind him just as Blessed gave another mournful howl.

The two boys made their way along the passage until they reached an empty, circular room. A dim light, hanging from the ceiling, showed an ancient wooden door and, opposite the door, a flight of stone steps.

‘The tower?’ Henry looked at the steps and pulled a face.

It was then that Charlie realised why he had brought Henry to this place. ‘You’ll be safe at the top,’ he said.

‘Will I?’ Henry looked doubtful.

‘Trust me,’ said Charlie.

As Henry began to mount the steps, Charlie noticed his peculiar tweed breeches. They reached only to the knee, where a button held them in place over loose grey socks.

Henry’s boots looked distinctly feminine: black and shiny, they were neatly laced just above the ankle.

‘We’d better find you some more clothes,’ Charlie muttered as they reached a second circular room. A door led off this room into the west wing, but Charlie urged Henry up a second flight of steps. ‘The Bloors live through there,’ he said.

‘Interesting,’ said Henry. ‘Some things haven’t changed then.’

They kept climbing upwards but long before they reached the top of the tower, the sound of a piano could be heard, echoing down the narrow stairwell.

Henry stopped. ‘There’s someone up there.’

‘It’s the piano teacher, Mr Pilgrim,’ said Charlie. ‘No one else comes up here, and Mr Pilgrim doesn’t really notice things. He won’t be a problem, promise!’

Another two sets of stairs brought them to the small room at the top of the tower. Sheets of music lay scattered on the floor and the shelves that ran from floor to ceiling were crammed with huge leather-bound albums, and thick dog-eared scores.

‘It’ll be warm here,’ said Charlie, moving a few piles away from the bookcase. ‘You see, if we put some paper on the floor like this,’ he spread several sheets of music between the bookcase and a wall of piled scores,‘it’ll make a sort of bed, and you can hide here till morning.’

‘And then what?’ asked Henry.

‘Well . . .’ Charlie scratched his head. ‘Then I’ll find a way to get you some breakfast, and maybe some new clothes.’

‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’ Henry gave an anxious frown.

‘They’re just different. We don’t wear that kind of stuff now.’

Henry glanced at Charlie’s long grey trousers and thick-soled shoes. ‘No. So I see,’ he said.

‘I’d better be getting back,’ said Charlie. ‘The head boy, Manfred Bloor, will be after me, and I don’t want to get on the wrong side of him. He hypnotises.’

‘Oh. One of those.’ Henry had heard about the hypnotisers in his family. ‘Are you one of them?’ he asked Charlie. ‘The endowed?’

‘’Fraid so,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s how I knew you.’

‘What about him?’ Henry pointed to the door behind which the piano music flowed on.

‘He won’t bother you,’ said Charlie. ‘’Bye now.’ He gave a wave and backed out of the small room feeling inexplicably guilty.

In the King’s room, a boy with a long, sad face glanced anxiously at Charlie’s empty seat. The boy’s name was Gabriel Silk, and he worried about Charlie. He should have gone after Tancred, not let Charlie go. Charlie was younger and likely to land in some sort of trouble. He was the kind of boy unfortunate things happened to.

And then the howling began. At first they all tried to ignore it, but in the end Manfred flung down his pen and exclaimed, ‘Bloody dog! Billy, go and shut it up.’

‘I’ll go,’ Gabriel offered.

‘I said Billy.’ Manfred gave Gabriel one of his horrible stares and then turned his piercing black gaze on Billy. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You can talk to the wretched thing. Ask it if it’s got a bellyache.’

‘Yes, Manfred.’ Billy scuttled to the door.

As he ran down the chilly stairwells and dark corridors, he talked to himself. He hated it when everyone else was shut away doing homework. He was afraid of meeting the ghosts. He knew they were there – gliding about in the dark. Billy never went home. He had no home to go to. Sometimes he stayed with an aunt. But not often.

He had reached the wide landing where a grand staircase led down into the hall. Blessed was sitting at the top of the stairs, still howling.

Billy sat beside the dog and put one hand on its plump back. ‘What’s the matter, Blessed?’ The words came out in a series of little grunts and sniffs. A language that Blessed could understand.

The old dog stopped howling. ‘Boy came,’ he said. ‘Bad thing. Wrong.’

‘What boy? Why was it wrong?’ asked Billy.

Blessed considered this question. He seemed to be having some difficulty with his reply. At last he grunted, ‘Boy came from nowhere. With ball, very small. Shiny. Blessed not like this ball. It bad magic.’

Billy was perplexed. ‘Was it Tancred?’ he asked. ‘Boy with lots of yellow hair?’

‘No. Boy was like that one.’ Blessed stared down the hall.

Following the dog’s gaze, Billy was surprised to see Charlie Bone quietly closing the door into the west wing.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Billy called.

Charlie looked up, startled. ‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘Just looking for Tancred.’

‘Blessed said another boy was here; a boy like you.’

‘Blessed’s got a vivid imagination.’ Charlie began to cross the hall.

‘He says there was a ball. It was small and shiny and he didn’t like it.’

‘I think Blessed was dreaming,’ said Charlie, climbing the stairs towards Billy.

Billy looked at the old dog. ‘Blessed doesn’t lie,’ he said. ‘Dogs can’t.’

‘They can dream, can’t they? Come on, Billy. We’d better get back to our homework or we’ll get detention.’

‘Go back to Cook,’ Billy told the dog. ‘Go on, Blessed. No more howling.’

Blessed gave a sullen grunt and began to flop down the stairs, while Billy and Charlie ran back to the King’s room.

When homework was over, Charlie had half a mind to go and visit Henry. He didn’t like leaving him alone in the tower, nearly a hundred years from where he was supposed to be. Of course, he wasn’t quite alone, but Mr Pilgrim hardly counted. Charlie badly needed to confide in someone.

When he reached the dormitory, he found Fidelio filling his cupboard with the clothes from his bag. There were two boys from Drama in the room and Charlie couldn’t risk being overheard. ‘I want to ask you something,’ he whispered to his friend. ‘Can we go somewhere else?’

‘The art room,’ Fidelio said softly.

As they came out of the dormitory, they walked straight into Billy Raven.

‘Billy gives me the creeps these days,’ Fidelio whispered as they sped down the corridor. ‘I used to feel sorry for him, but I don’t like the way he watches people.’

‘Someone’s got to him,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t know who it is, but they’re making him spy for them. I don’t think Billy can help it.’

They had reached the art room.

‘Light’s still on,’ Charlie commented. ‘But no one’s here.’

‘Mr Boldova might come back,’ warned Fidelio. ‘We’d better hide over there.’

A large painting of trees had been propped against two easels near the wall, and the boys managed to squeeze behind it and squat on the floor. In a hushed voice, Charlie began to tell his friend about the sudden appearance of Henry, the boy with the Time Twister, who had vanished nearly a hundred years ago. However, as soon as he mentioned the voices in the photograph, Fidelio clutched his arm.

‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘D’you mean you can hear what’s going on in photos?’

Charlie nodded. He had never told Fidelio about his peculiar talent. ‘I don’t like people to know,’ he muttered.

‘I don’t think I would either,’ said Fidelio. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul. Go on about Henry. Where is he now?’

‘I took him up to the top of the music tower. I couldn’t think of anywhere else.’

‘What about Mr Pilgrim?’

‘He won’t even notice Henry, and if he does . . .’ Charlie hesitated, ‘I don’t think he’ll harm him.’

‘Hm. I wonder! You can’t tell with Mr Pilgrim,’ murmured Fidelio. ‘So, what are you going to do with this long-lost great-great-uncle?’

‘I thought I’d try and smuggle him home at the weekend. But first I’ve got to get some food to him.’

‘Lunch break would be best,’ said Fidelio. ‘He can have my meat – if it’s not mince; and you can sneak up to the tower while I . . .’ He broke off suddenly, as a face appeared at the top of the tree painting.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Emma Tolly.

Charlie was tempted to tell her; she was, after all, a friend, as well as endowed, but something held him back. ‘We’re just talking,’ he said. ‘Can’t get any peace in the dorm.’

‘I know,’ Emma sighed. ‘I came to finish a drawing.’

‘We were just going,’ said Fidelio.

The two boys wriggled out from behind the painting.

Just as they were leaving the art room, Charlie caught sight of a large sketch book, lying open on a table. He stared at it, and moved closer.

‘It’s mine,’ said Emma. ‘Just sketches, nothing special.’

But they were special. Both pages of the open book were covered with pictures of birds: birds in flight; swooping, hovering, soaring and diving. They were so real, Charlie felt that if he touched them he would feel real feathers.

‘They’re brilliant,’ he murmured.

‘Brilliant,’ Fidelio repeated.

‘Thank you!’ Emma gave one of her shy smiles.

All at once, the door behind them opened, and a voice said, ‘What’s going on in here?’

Mr Boldova appeared. You could tell he was an art teacher because his clothes were covered in splashes of paint. Even his green cape, which he often forgot to wear, had little flecks of colour on the sleeves. Mr Boldova always looked as if he had just been on holiday. He had bright hazel eyes, a very healthy complexion, and long brown hair tied in a ponytail.

‘I was showing my work to Charlie and Fidelio,’ Emma said confidently. ‘We were just going.’

‘That’s all right, Emma.’ The art teacher beamed at them all.

It was impossible to be afraid of Mr Boldova. He never gave detention, never punished pupils for untidiness, forgetfulness or even being late. The only thing that made him angry was bad art. He gave Charlie a searching look and said, ‘Ah, Charlie Bone.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Charlie. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

The three children slipped past him and ran for their dormitories. It was already five minutes to lights out. Matron would be on the warpath, and Matron was not an understanding person. She was, in fact, Charlie’s great-aunt, Lucretia Yewbeam.

As they dashed into their dormitory, the boys heard Miss Yewbeam shouting at some poor girl who had lost her slippers.

‘We’ll just make it before she gets here,’ said Fidelio, rushing to the bathroom.

Billy Raven was sitting up in bed. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked Charlie.

‘Had some extra work to do,’ said Charlie. He pulled on his pyjamas and jumped into bed, just as Matron poked her long face round the door.

‘Lights out!’ she barked, flicking the light switch.

Out went the bare bulb hanging in the centre of the room.

‘That was a close one,’ murmured Gabriel Silk from the bed next to Charlie.

Just before Charlie finally drifted off, he thought of the boy in the tower; cold, hungry, and probably frightened. What was to be done with Henry Yewbeam?

Unable to sleep, Henry Yewbeam was staring out across the city. There was a small, round window in the wall between the bookcases and Henry, anxious to know if the world had changed in ninety years, had climbed on to a stool to find out.

The world had, indeed, changed. The sky above the horizon seemed to be on fire. It had a terrifying orange glow. Could it be the rows of street lights leading into the distance? Pinpricks of radiance shone out from the dark blocks of houses and, below the tower, pairs of shining lights, some red, some white, swept across Henry’s field of vision, like earthly shooting stars.

‘Motor cars,’ murmured Henry, as one came closer. ‘So many.’

‘So many,’ said a voice, like an echo.

Henry became aware that a man was standing in the darkness beside him. The piano music coming from the room next door had stopped. Henry was relieved; he didn’t have much of an ear for music.

‘Are you Mr Pilgrim?’ Henry asked.

There was no reply to his question. In the soft light coming through the window, Henry could make out a pale face and very black hair. The man’s expression was solemn and faraway.

‘I’m Henry Yewbeam,’ said Henry.

Still no reply.

It was like talking to someone who wasn’t really there. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter if Henry told him the truth.

‘I’m very old,’ he said. ‘Or at least I should be.’

In the distance a clock began to strike. The deep chimes of the cathedral pealed out across the city. Mr Pilgrim turned to Henry. His eyes held a strange glitter.

Henry had just counted the twelfth stroke when Mr Pilgrim said, ‘Are you cold?’

‘Yes,’ said Henry.

The piano teacher took off his blue cape and wrapped it round the boy’s shoulders.

‘Thank you,’ said Henry, stepping off the stool.

Mr Pilgrim smiled. He stretched up to a high shelf and pulled a tin from a row of books. Lifting the lid, he offered the tin to Henry. ‘Oatcakes,’ he said. ‘You see, I live up here practically. And one gets hungry.’

‘One does,’ Henry agreed, politely taking only one oatcake.

Mr Pilgrim didn’t offer him any more. He put the tin on the stool and said, ‘Help yourself.’ The faraway look had come back into his eyes. He seemed to be trying to remember something. Frowning, he murmured, ‘Goodnight.’

And then he was gone, slipping away down the stone steps with hardly a sound.

Henry would have liked the strange man to stay. He was grateful for the extra cape but, to tell the truth, it was not as cold as it had been. In fact, the temperature was rising rapidly. The icicles hanging outside the window were beginning to melt.

All around the tower there was a steady drip, drip, drip of ice turning to water. It was a sound that filled Henry with foreboding. He had just worked out that his sudden twist through time must have had something to do with the cold. He had arrived in Bloor’s when the temperature had reached exactly the same degree as when he had left, in 1916. A change in the weather could make a difference to time travel.

‘I won’t be able to get home,’ Henry said to himself. ‘I’ll never see my family again.’ And suddenly his situation seemed almost too grim to bear. ‘But I must!’ he murmured.

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