First published in Great Britain 2005 by Egmont UK Limited

This edition published 2010

by Egmont UK Limited

239 Kensington High Street

London W8 6SA

Text copyright © 2005 Jenny Nimmo

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

ISBN 978 1 4052 2465 9

eBook ISBN 978 1 7803 1205 7

www.egmont.co.uk

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

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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For David, who led me to the castle, with love.

Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

The endowed children

Prologue

1. A fatal sneeze

2. The phantom horse

3. The boy with paper in his hair

4. Detention for Charlie

5. Billy’s oath

6. Alice Angel

7. The Book of Amadis

8. The white moth

9. A man trapped in glass

10. The jailbird

11. The Passing House

12. Breaking the force-field

13. The battle of oaths and spirits

14. Children of the Queen

15. The enchanted cape

16. The wall of history

17. The black yew

18. Losing the balance

19. Olivia’s talent

20. The warrior

21. The captives’ story

About Egmont Press

The children of the Red King, called the endowed

Manfred Bloor | Son of the headmaster 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.
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 travel into photographs and paintings. He is descended from the Yewbeams, a family with many magical endowments.
Dorcas Loom | Dorcas can bewitch items of clothing. Her ancestor, Lola Defarge, knitted a shrivelling shawl whilst enjoying the execution of the Queen of France in 1793.
Idith and Inez Branko | Telekinetic twins, distantly related to Zelda Dobinsky, who has left Bloor’s Academy.
Joshua Tilpin | Joshua has magnetism. His origins are, at present, a mystery. Even the Bloors are unsure where he lives. He arrived at their doors alone and introduced himself. His fees are paid through a private bank.

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.

Prologue

The Red King and his queen were riding by the sea. It was that time of year when the wind carries a hint of frost. Evening clouds had begun to appear and where the sun could find a way through the gathering dusk, it struck the sea in bands of startling light.

The king and queen urged their horses home but, all at once, the queen reined in her mount and, in absolute stillness, stared out across the water. The king, following her gaze, beheld an island of astounding beauty. Caught in shafts of sunlight it sparkled with a thousand shades of blue.

‘Oh,’ sighed the queen, in a voice of dread.

‘What is it, my heart?’ asked the king.

In the matter of their children the queen’s intuition was greater than the king’s, and when she saw the island of a thousand blues, it was as if an icy hand had clutched her heart. ‘The children.’ Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

The king asked his wife which of their nine children concerned her, but the queen couldn’t say. Yet when they returned to the Red Castle and she saw her two sons, Borlath and Amadis, the queen had a terrible forboding. She saw black smoke rising from the blue island, and flames turning the earth to ash. She saw a castle of shining glass appear in a snowstorm, and when her soul’s eye travelled over the glass walls, she saw a boy with hair the colour of snow climb from a well and close his eyes against the death that lay all about him.

‘We must never let our children see that island,’ she told the king. ‘We must never let them tread on that blue, enchanted earth.’

The king made a promise. But in less than a year the queen would be dead, and he, bowed down with grief, would leave the castle and his children. The queen died nine days after giving birth to her tenth child, a girl she named Amoret. A girl whom no one could protect.

A fatal sneeze

At the edge of the city, Bloor’s Academy stood dark and silent under the stars. Tomorrow, three hundred children would climb the steps between two towers, cross the courtyard and crowd through the great oak doors. But for now the old building appeared to be utterly deserted.

And yet, if you had been standing in the garden, on the other side of the school, you could not have failed to notice the strange lights that occasionally flickered from small windows in the roof. And if you had been able to look through one of these windows, you would have seen Ezekiel Bloor, a very old man, manoeuvring his vintage wheel chair into an extraordinary room.

The laboratory, as Ezekiel liked to call it, was a long attic room with wide, dusty floorboards and a ceiling of bare rafters. Assorted tables, covered with bottles, books, herbs, bones and weapons, stood against the walls, while beneath them, a muddle of dusty chests protruded into the room, threatening to trip anyone who might pass their way.

Dried and faded plants hung from the rafters, and pieces of armour, suspended from the broad crossbeams, clunked ominously whenever a draught swept past them. They clunked now as Ezekiel moved across the floor.

The old man’s great-grandson, Manfred, was standing beside a trestle table in the centre of the room. Manfred had grown during the summer holiday, and Ezekiel felt proud that he had chosen to work with him, rather than go off to college like the other sixth-formers. Mind you, despite his height, Manfred had a skinny frame, sallow, blotchy skin and a face that was all bone and hollows.

At this moment his face was twisted into a grimace of concentration as he shuffled a pile of bones across the table in front of him. Above him hung seven gas jets set into an iron wheel, their bluish flames emitting a faint purr. When he saw his great-grandfather, Manfred gave a sigh of irritation and exclaimed, ‘It’s beyond me. I hate puzzles.’

‘It’s not a puzzle,’ snapped Ezekiel. ‘Those are the bones of Hamaran, a warhorse of exceptional strength and courage.’

‘So what? How are a few measly bones going to bring your ancestor back to life?’ Manfred directed a disdainful glance at Ezekiel, who instantly lowered his gaze. He didn’t want to be hypnotised by his own great-grandson.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the bones, the old man brought his wheelchair closer to the table. Ezekiel Bloor was one hundred and one years old, but other men of that age could look considerably better preserved. Ezekiel’s face was little more than a skull. His remaining teeth were cracked and blackened, and a few thin strands of white hair hung from beneath a black velvet cap. But his eyes were still full of life; black and glittering, they darted about with a savage intensity.

‘We have enough,’ said the old man, indicating the other objects on the table: a suit of chain mail, a helmet, a black fur cape and a gold cloak pin. ‘They’re Borlath’s. My grandfather found them in the castle, wrapped in leather inside the tomb. The skeleton was gone, more’s the pity. Rats probably.’ He stroked the black fur almost fondly.

Borlath had been Ezekiel’s hero ever since he was a boy. Stories of his warlike ancestor had fired his imagination until he came to believe that Borlath could solve all his problems. Lately, he had dreamt that Borlath would sweep him out of his wheelchair and together they would terrorise the city. Then Charlie Bone and his detestable uncle would have to look out.

‘What about electricity for the – you know – moment of life? There isn’t any in here.’ Manfred looked up at the gas jets.

‘Oh that!’ Ezekiel waved his hand dismissively. He wheeled himself to another table and picked up a small tin with two prongs extending from the top. He turned a handle in the side of the tin and a blue spark leapt between the prongs. ‘Voila! Electricity!’ he gleefully announced. ‘Now get on with it. The children will be back tomorrow, and we don’t want any of them getting in the way of our little experiment.’

‘Especially Charlie Bone,’ Manfred grunted.

‘Huh! Charlie Bone!’ Ezekiel almost spat the name. ‘His grandmother said he’d be a help, but he’s the reverse. I thought I’d almost got him on my side last term, but then he had to go whining on about his lost father and blaming me.’

‘He wasn’t wrong there,’ said Manfred, almost to himself.

‘Think what we could do with that talent of his,’ went on Ezekiel. ‘He looks into a picture and bingo he’s there, talking to people long dead. What I wouldn’t give . . .’ Ezekiel shook his head. ‘He’s got the blood of that infernal Welsh magician. And the wand.’

‘I have plans for that,’ said Manfred softly. ‘It’ll be mine soon, just you wait.’

‘Indeed?’ Ezekiel chuckled. He began to propel himself away while his great-grandson concentrated on the delicate job of bone-gluing.

As Ezekiel moved into the deep shadows at the far end of the room, his thoughts turned to Billy Raven, the white-haired orphan who used to spy on Charlie Bone. Billy had become rebellious of late. He’d refused to tell Ezekiel what Charlie and his friends were up to. As a result, Ezekiel and the Bloors were in danger of losing control of all the endowed children in the school. Something would have to be done.

‘Parents,’ Ezekiel said to himself. ‘I’ll have to get Billy adopted. I promised I’d find the orphan some parents and I never did. He’s given up on me. Well, Billy shall have his nice, kind parents.’

‘Not too kind,’ said Manfred, who had overheard.

‘Never fear. I’ve got just the couple. I don’t know why I didn’t think of them before.’ Ezekiel turned his head expectantly. ‘Ah, we’re about to get assistance.’

A distant patter of footsteps could be heard; a few seconds later the door opened and three women walked into the room. The first was the oldest. Her iron-grey hair was piled atop her head like a giant bun; her clothes were black and so were her eyes. Lucretia Yewbeam was the school matron and Charlie Bone’s great-aunt. ‘I’ve brought my sisters,’ she told Ezekiel. ‘You said you needed help.’

‘And where’s the fourth?’ asked Ezekiel. ‘Where’s Grizelda?’

‘She’s best left out of things for now,’ said Eustacia, the second sister. ‘After all, she’s got to live with our wretched brother – and the boy. She might blab – accidentally, of course.’

Eustacia, a clairvoyant, walked over to the table. Her grey hair still held threads of black, but in most other respects she resembled her older sister. Her small eyes darted over the objects on the table and she gave a crooked smile. ‘So, that’s what you’re up to, you old devil. Who is he?’

‘My ancestor, Borlath,’ Ezekiel replied. ‘Greatest of all the Red King’s children. Most magnificent, powerful and wise.’

‘Most vile and bloodthirsty, would be more accurate,’ said the third sister, dumping a large leather bag on the table. Her greasy hair hung over her shoulders in sooty swathes and dark shadows ringed her coal-black eyes. Compared with her sisters she looked a mess. Her long coat was a size too large for her, and the greyish blouse beneath looked badly in need of a wash. No one would have guessed that this bedraggled creature had once been a proud and immaculately dressed woman.

‘Venetia’s been waiting for something like this,’ said Eustacia. ‘Ever since that hateful Charlie Bone burnt her house down.’

‘I thought your brother did that,’ put in Manfred.

‘So he did,’ snarled Venetia, ‘but Charlie was responsible, the little worm. I want him snuffed out. I want him gibbering with fright, tortured, tormented – dead.’

‘Calm down, Venetia.’ Ezekiel spun quickly to her side. ‘We don’t want to lose the boy entirely.’

‘Why? What use is he? Can you imagine what it’s like to lose everything? To see your possessions – the work of a lifetime – go up in smoke?’

Ezekiel whacked the table with his cane. ‘Don’t be so pathetic, woman. Charlie can be used. I can force him to carry me into the past. I could change history. Think of that!’

‘You can’t change history, Great-grandpa,’ Manfred said flatly.

‘How do you know?’ barked Ezekiel. ‘No one’s tried.’

An awkward silence followed. No one dared to suggest that it had probably been tried several times, without success. Venetia chewed her lip, still thinking of revenge. She could wait, but one day she would find a way to finish Charlie Bone – permanently.

Lucretia broke the silence by asking, ‘Why the horse?’

‘Because I’ve got the bones,’ snapped Ezekiel. ‘This horse, Hamaran,’ he nodded at the bones, ‘was a magnificent creature, by all accounts. And a mounted man can be very threatening, don’t you agree?’

The others muttered an assent.

‘The boy will be terrified,’ Ezekiel went on gleefully. ‘He’ll do anything we ask.’

Venetia said, ‘And how are you going to control this freak?’

Ezekiel had been hoping that no one would ask him this, because he didn’t have a satisfactory answer, yet. ‘He’s my ancestor,’ he said with a confident grin. ‘Why wouldn’t he help me? But first things first. Let’s get it up and running, as it were. Ha! Ha!’

While Lucretia sat on a moth-eaten armchair her sisters unpacked the leather bag. Phials of liquid began to appear on the table; silver spoons, bags of herbs, small, twinkling pieces of quartz, a black marble pestle and mortar, and five candles. Ezekiel watched the proceedings with hungry eyes.

An hour later the leg bones of a galloping horse had been arranged on the table. The chain mail glistened with a foul-smelling liquid and the fur cloak had been covered with tiny seeds.

The five candles cast leaping shadows on the wall. One had been placed above the helmet, one at the end of each of the chain-mail sleeves, and the last two stood in place of the horse’s missing front hooves.

Venetia had enjoyed the work in spite of herself. It was good to get her teeth into something destructive again. As she caressed the black fur, tiny flames crackled at the tips of her fingers. ‘Are we ready, then?’ she asked.

‘Not quite.’ With a cunning smile Ezekiel put his hand beneath the rug on his lap and produced a small golden casket. In the centre of the jewelled lid a cluster of rubies, shaped like a heart, shone out in the dim room with a dazzling brilliance. ‘The heart,’ said Ezekiel, his voice a deep-throated gurgle. ‘Asa, the beast-boy, found it in the ruin. He was out there digging, as is his wretched habit, and he found a gravestone marked with a B. He dug further and found this,’ he tapped the casket, ‘buried deep beneath the stone.’

From her chair in the shadows, Lucretia asked, ‘Why wasn’t it in the tomb?’

‘Why? Why?’ Ezekiel gave way to a bout of unpleasant, bronchial coughing. ‘Secrecy, perhaps. But it’s his. I know it. Borlath was the only one of the king’s children with the initial B.’ He opened the casket.

‘Aaaaah!’ Eustacia stepped away from the table, for inside the casket lay a small heart-shaped leather pouch that did, indeed, appear to contain – something.

‘See? A heart,’ said Ezekiel triumphantly. ‘Now, let’s get on with it.’ Scooping the pouch from its casket, he placed it on the suit of armour, just left of centre, where he judged a heart might lie. Then he uncoiled a wire from his electric box and wrapped the end once, twice, three times around the pouch.

An expectant hush descended on the room as the old man began to turn the handle of the silver box. Faster and faster. His crooked hand became a flying blur, his black eyes burned with excitement. A spark leapt between the steel prongs and travelled down the wire to Borlath’s heart. Ezekiel emitted a croak of triumph and his hand was still.

The three sisters were tempted to exclaim with rapture, but they knew that silence was essential at such a moment. The bones of Hamaran were beginning to move.

Ezekiel and the Yewbeams were watching the table so intently, they failed to notice Manfred pull out a handkerchief and press it to his nose. His face turned bright pink as he struggled to suppress a sneeze. It was no use.

‘ATISHOO!’

Ezekiel recoiled as if from a blow. He covered his ears and rasped, ‘No,’ as Manfred tried to hold back yet another sneeze. The sisters watched in horror as the young man screwed up his face, and,

‘ATISHOO!’

The bones stopped moving. Vile, black vapour rose from the fur and the chain mail writhed under the smouldering pouch.

‘ATISHOO!’

There was a thunderous bang and a reeking pall of smoke filled the room. As the onlookers choked and spluttered, a huge form lifted from the table and vanished into the billowing black clouds. Hidden under one of the tables at the far end of the room, a short, fat dog trembled and closed his eyes.

A second violent bang shook the whole room, and Lucretia cried, ‘What happened?’

‘That ruddy idiot sneezed,’ shrieked Ezekiel.

‘Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t help it,’ whined Manfred. ‘It was the dust.’

‘Not good enough,’ scolded Venetia. ‘You should have taken your wretched nose outside. The whole thing’s ruined. A waste of time.’

‘Maybe not,’ Eustacia broke in. ‘Look at the table. The bones have gone.’

The smoke was clearing rapidly due to a sudden rush of cold air, and they all saw that the bones of Hamaran had, indeed, vanished. But Borlath’s armour, his helmet, cloak and gold pin, still lay where they were, rather the worse for the spell they had been subjected to.

‘Damn!’ cried Ezekiel. He thumped the table with his fist and the scorched garments shuddered. ‘It didn’t work.’

‘My part did,’ said Manfred. ‘The horse is out there.’ He pointed to a gaping hole in the wall.

‘Dogs’ teeth!’ yelled Ezekiel. ‘My laboratory’s wrecked, and there’s a warhorse on the loose.’

‘A warhorse with a tyrant’s heart,’ said Venetia. ‘See, it’s gone!’

Where the heart had lain, there was now only a scorched black hole in the smouldering armour.

‘What does it mean?’ asked Manfred, in a hushed voice. Ezekiel stroked his long nose. ‘It means that all’s not lost. But I’ll need help. I think I’ll call on a friend of mine, someone with a score to settle.’

Everyone looked at him, waiting for a name, but the old man was not ready to enlighten them.

‘A warhorse could be very useful,’ said Venetia thoughtfully, ‘providing one could ride it.’

They all stared at the empty space left by the bones, as though willing it to speak, and then Manfred said, ‘Billy Raven’s good with animals.’

In a long dormitory, three floors beneath Ezekiel’s attic, Billy Raven woke up, suddenly afraid. He turned to the window for a reassuring glimpse of the moon and saw a white horse sail through ragged clouds – and disappear.

The phantom horse

On the first day of the autumn term, Charlie Bone dashed down to breakfast with a comb sticking out of his hair.

‘What do you think you look like?’ said Grandma Bone from her seat beside the stove.

‘A dinosaur?’ Charlie suggested. ‘I pulled and pulled but my comb wouldn’t come out.’

‘Hair like a hedge,’ grunted his bony grand mother. ‘Smarten yourself up, boy. They don’t like untidiness at Bloor’s Academy.’

‘Come here, pet.’ Charlie’s other, more tender-hearted, grandmother put down her cup of tea and tugged at the comb. Out it came with a clump of Charlie’s hair.

‘Maisie! Ouch!’ cried Charlie.

‘Sorry, pet,’ said Maisie. ‘But it had to be done.’

‘OK.’ Charlie rubbed his sore head. He sat at the kitchen table and poured himself a bowl of cereal.

‘You’re late. You’ll miss the school bus,’ said Grandma Bone. ‘Dr Bloor’s a stickler for punctuality.’

Charlie put a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and said, ‘So what?’

‘Don’t speak with your mouth full,’ said Grandma Bone.

‘Leave him alone, Grizelda,’ said Maisie. ‘He’s got to have a good breakfast. He probably won’t have a decent meal for another five days.’

Grandma Bone snorted and bit into a banana. She hadn’t smiled for three months; not since her sister Venetia’s house had burned down.

Charlie gulped back a mug of tea, flung on his jacket and leapt upstairs to fetch his school bags.

‘Cape!’ he said to himself, remembering it was still hanging in the wardrobe. He pulled out the cape and a small photograph fluttered to the floor. ‘Benjamin,’ he smiled picking it up. ‘Where are you?’

The photograph showed a fair-haired boy kneeling beside a large yellow dog. Charlie had taken the photo himself, just before Benjamin’s tenth birthday. There was no point in Charlie using his endowment to visit the scene of the photo. It could tell him nothing that he didn’t already know.

In his eagerness to use his strange talent, Charlie often forgot that the people he visited could see him, too. Wherever they were, when Charlie looked at their photos, they would see his face floating somewhere nearby. So Benjamin, who was having a drink in Hong Kong, saw Charlie’s smiling face in his orange juice.

Benjamin took Charlie’s magical appearances in his stride, but Runner Bean, his dog, could never get used to them.

The big dog was about to have his breakfast in the Pets’ Café when Charlie’s face looked up from a bowl of Chappimix.

Runner Bean leapt in the air with a howl; this sent a blue snake slithering under a cupboard and caused a very tall woman called Onoria Onimous to drop a plate of freshly baked scones. But the three colourful cats lying on top of the fridge merely yawned and closed their eyes.

Charlie put the photo in his pocket, shoved the blue cape in his bag and ran downstairs.

‘Don’t forget . . .’ Maisie shouted, but Charlie dashed out of the front door and ran to the top of Filbert Street.

A blue school bus was about to drive off, when the door suddenly opened and a boy with a mop of curly chestnut hair popped his head out. ‘I saw you coming,’ said the boy. ‘The driver said he couldn’t wait but I made him.’

‘Thanks, Fido.’ Charlie handed one of his bags up to his friend, Fidelio, and climbed the steps into the bus.

‘Got your cape?’ asked Fidelio.

Charlie pulled the rumpled garment out of his bag. ‘I hate wearing it when I walk up Filbert Street. People laugh. There’s a boy at number twenty who always shouts, “Here he comes, Little Boy Blue, off to Bloor’s, like a posh cockatoo!” But I didn’t ask to go to Bloor’s, did I?’

‘You’re not a posh cockatoo,’ laughed Fidelio. ‘I bet you forgot to comb your hair again this morning.’

‘I tried.’

The bus had come to a halt and the two boys joined the crowd of children jumping down into a cobbled square. They walked past a fountain of stone swans and approached the steps leading to Bloor’s Academy.

As Charlie walked into the shadow of the music tower, he found himself looking up at the steep roof of the turret. It had become a habit of his and he scarcely knew why he did it. Once, his mother had told him she felt someone watching her from the small window under the eaves. Charlie gave an involuntary shiver and followed Fidelio through the wide arched entrance.

Surrounded by children in capes of blue, purple and green, Charlie looked for Emma Tolly and Olivia Vertigo. He saw Emma in her green cape, her long blonde hair in two neat plaits, but he was momentarily baffled by the girl beside her. He knew the face but . . . could it be Olivia? She was wearing a purple cape, like everyone else in Drama, but Olivia’s face was usually covered in make-up, and she always dyed her hair a vivid colour. This girl had a scrubbed look: rosy cheeks, grey eyes and short brown hair.

‘Stop staring, Charlie Bone,’ said the brown-haired girl, walking up to him.

‘Olivia?’ Charlie exclaimed. ‘What happened?’

‘I’m auditioning for a part in a movie,’ Olivia told him. ‘Got to look younger than I really am.’

They climbed another set of stone steps, and then they were walking between two huge doors studded with bronze figures. As soon as all the children were safely inside, Weedon, the porter and handyman, closed and locked the doors. They would remain locked until Friday afternoon, when the children were allowed home for the weekend.

Charlie stepped into the vast stone-flagged hall of Bloor’s Academy. ‘What’s the movie?’ he asked Olivia.

‘Sssh!’ hissed a voice from somewhere near Charlie’s ear.

Charlie looked up into a pair of coal-black eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin. He thought Manfred Bloor had left the school.

‘I hope you haven’t forgotten the rules, Charlie Bone!’ barked Manfred.

‘N. . . no, Manfred.’ Charlie didn’t sound too sure.

‘Come on then . . .’ Manfred clicked his fingers and glared at Charlie who looked down at his feet. He didn’t feel like fighting Manfred’s hypnotising stare so early in the day.

‘Come on, what are the rules?’ Manfred demanded.

‘Erm . . .

Silence in the hall,

Talking not at all,

Never cry or call,

Even if you fall,

‘Erm . . .’ Charlie couldn’t remember the last line.

‘Write it out a hundred times and bring it to my study after tea!’ Manfred grinned maliciously.

Charlie didn’t know Manfred had a study, but he had no intention of prolonging the conversation. ‘Yes, Manfred,’ he mumbled.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re in the second year now. Not a very good example for first-formers are you, Charlie Bone?’

‘Nope.’ Charlie caught sight of Olivia, rolling her eyes at him, and only just managed to stop himself from giggling. Luckily Manfred had spotted someone without a cape and strode away.

Olivia had disappeared into a sea of purple capes whose owners were crowding through a door beneath two bronze masks. Beyond the open door Charlie glimpsed the colourful mess that was already building up inside the purple cloakroom. He hurried on to the sign of two crossed trumpets.

Fidelio was waiting for him just inside the blue cloakroom. ‘Whew! What a shock!’ breathed Fidelio. ‘I thought Manfred had left.’

‘Me too,’ said Charlie. ‘That was the one good thing about coming back to Bloor’s. I thought at least Manfred wouldn’t be here.’

What was Manfred’s new role? Would he be permanently on their tails, watching, listening and hypnotising?

The two boys discussed the problem of Manfred as they walked to Assembly. On the first day of every school year, Assembly was held in the theatre, the only space large enough for all three hundred pupils. Charlie hadn’t joined Bloor’s Academy until the middle of the last autumn term; it was a new experience for him.

‘Yikes! I’d better hurry,’ said Fidelio, looking at his watch. ‘I should be tuning up.’

Dr Saltweather, head of Music, gave Fidelio a severe nod as he climbed up to the stage and took his place in the orchestra. Charlie joined the end of the second row, and found himself standing directly behind Billy Raven. The small albino turned round with a worried frown.

‘I’ve got to stay in the first year for another twelve months,’ he whispered to Charlie, ‘but I’ve already done it twice.’

‘Bad luck! But you are only eight.’ Charlie scanned the row of new children in front of him. They all looked fairly normal, but you could never tell. Some of them might be endowed like himself and Billy; children of the Red King.

For the rest of the morning, Charlie tramped around the huge, draughty building, finding his new classroom, collecting books and looking for Mr Paltry (who was supposed to be giving him a trumpet lesson).

By the time the horn sounded for lunch, Charlie was utterly exhausted. He slouched down to the canteens, averting his eyes from the portraits that hung in the dimly lit corridor – just in case one of them wanted a conversation – and arrived at the blue canteen.

Charlie joined the queue. A small, stout woman behind the counter gave him a wink. ‘All’s well then, Charlie?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thanks, Cook,’ said Charlie. ‘But it’ll take me a while to get used to the second year.’

‘It will,’ said Cook. ‘But you know where I am, if you need me. Peas, Charlie?’

Charlie accepted a plate of macaroni cheese and peas and wandered round the tables until he found Fidelio, sitting with Billy Raven and Gabriel Silk. Gabriel’s floppy brown hair almost obscured his face, and there was a forlorn droop to his mouth.

‘What’s up, Gabe?’ asked Charlie. ‘Are your gerbils OK?’

Gabriel looked up sadly. ‘I can’t do piano this term. Mr Pilgrim’s gone.’

‘Gone?’ Charlie was unexpectedly dismayed. ‘Why? Where?’

Gabriel shrugged. ‘I know Mr Pilgrim was peculiar, but, well, he was just – brilliant.’

No one could deny this. Mr Pilgrim’s piano playing was often to be heard echoing down the Music Tower. Charlie realised he would miss it. And he would miss seeing Mr Pilgrim staring into space, his black hair always falling into his eyes.

Fidelio turned to Billy. ‘So how was your holiday, Billy?’ he asked carefully. For how could anyone spend their whole holiday in Bloor’s Academy without going mad?

‘Better than usual,’ said Billy cheerfully. ‘Cook looked after Rembrandt like she promised, and I saw him every day. And Manfred went away for a bit and so it was OK here, really, except . . . except . . .’ a shadow crossed his face, ‘something happened last night. Something really weird.’

‘What?’ asked the other three.

‘I saw a horse in the sky.’

‘A horse?’ Fidelio raised his eyebrows. ‘D’you mean a cloud that looked like a horse?’

‘No. It was definitely a horse.’ Billy took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. His deep red eyes fixed themselves on Charlie. ‘It sort of hung there, outside the window, and then it just faded.’

‘Stars can do that,’ said Gabriel, who had perked up a bit. ‘They can create the illusion of animals and things.’

Billy shook his head. ‘No! It was a horse.’ He replaced his glasses and frowned at his plate. ‘It wasn’t far away. It was right outside the window. It reared up and kicked the air, like it was fighting to be free, and then it just – faded.’

Charlie found himself saying, ‘As if it was receding into another world.’

‘That’s right,’ said Billy eagerly. ‘You believe me, don’t you, Charlie?’

Charlie nodded slowly. ‘I wonder where it is now?’

‘Wandering round the castle ruin with all the other ghosts?’ Fidelio wryly remarked. ‘Come on, let’s get some fresh air. We might see a horse galloping round the garden.’

Of course he was only joking but, as soon as the four boys walked through the garden door, Fidelio realised that his words held a ghostly ring of truth. He was the only one of the four who was not endowed. Fidelio might be a brilliant musician, but his endowment was not one that could be classed as magical.

It was Charlie who noticed it first: a faint thudding on the dry grass. He looked at Gabriel. ‘Can you hear it?’

Gabriel shook his head. He could hear nothing, but there was a presence in the air that he couldn’t define.

Billy was the most affected. He stepped back suddenly, his white hair lifting in a breeze that no one else could feel. He put up his hand as if to ward off a blow. ‘It went right past,’ he whispered.

Fidelio said, ‘You’re having me on, aren’t you?’

‘’Fraid we’re not,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s gone now. Maybe it just wanted us to know it was here.’

They began to cross the wide expanse of grass that Dr Bloor liked to called his garden. It was really no more than a field, bordered by near-impenetrable woods. At the end of the field the red stones of an ancient castle could be glimpsed between the trees: the castle of the Red King. The four boys almost instinctively made their way towards the tall red walls.

Charlie’s Uncle Paton had told him how, when Queen Berenice died, five of the Red King’s children had been forced to leave their father’s kingdom forever. Brokenhearted, the king had vanished into the forests of the north and Borlath, his eldest son, had taken the castle. He had ruled the kingdom with such barbarous cruelty most of the inhabitants had either died or fled in terror.

‘Well?’ said Fidelio. ‘D’you think the phantom horse is here?’

Charlie looked up at the massive walls. ‘I don’t know.’ He looked at Billy.

‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘It’s here.’

The others listened intently. They could hear the distant shouts and chatter of children on the field, the thump of a football, the call of wood pigeons, but nothing else.

‘Are you sure, Billy?’ asked Charlie.

Billy hugged himself. He was shivering. ‘I think it would like to speak, but it’s caught on the wrong side.’

‘Wrong side of what?’ asked Fidelio.

Billy frowned. ‘I can’t explain.’

Charlie became aware that someone was standing behind them. He turned round, just in time to see a small figure dart away and join a group of new boys, playing football together.

‘Who was that?’ asked Gabriel.

‘New boy,’ said Charlie.

It was impossible to tell whether the boy was in Art, Drama or Music because he wasn’t wearing a cape. Today, it was warm and sunny. Summer was not yet over.

The sound of the horn rang out across the field and the four boys ran back into school.

For Charlie, the afternoon was no better than the morning. He found Mr Paltry at last, but too late for his lesson. ‘What’s the point of coming to a lesson without your trumpet?’ grumbled the elderly teacher. ‘You’re a waste of time, Charlie Bone. Endowed, my foot. Why don’t you use your so-called talent to locate your trumpet? Now get out and don’t come back until you’ve found it.’

Charlie left quickly. He had no idea where to look. ‘The Music Tower?’ Charlie asked himself. Perhaps one of the cleaners had found his trumpet and put it in Mr Pilgrim’s room at the top of the tower.

The way to the Music Tower led through a small, ancient-looking door close to the garden exit. Charlie braced himself, opened the door and began to walk down a long, damp passage. It was so dark he could barely see his own feet. He kept his eyes on a distant window in the small circular room at the end of the passage.

As he got closer to the room he began to hear voices, angry voices; men arguing.

There was a clatter of footsteps. Charlie stood still until whoever it was had reached the bottom of the long, spiralling staircase. A figure appeared at the end of the passage. It loomed towards Charlie and raised its purple wings, blocking out the light.

Plunged in darkness, Charlie screamed.

The boy with paper in his hair

‘Quiet!’ hissed a voice.

Charlie shrank against the wall as the person, or thing, swept past and whisked itself through the door into the hall.

Charlie didn’t know what to do. Should he go back the way he had come, or on towards the tower? The hissing person might be in the hall, waiting for him. He chose the tower.

As soon as he emerged in the round sunlit room at the end of the passage, Charlie felt better. Those purple wings had been the arms of a cape, he reasoned. And the angry person was probably a member of staff, arguing with someone. He began the long, spiral ascent to the top of the tower. Bloor’s Academy had five floors, but Mr Pilgrim’s music room was up yet another flight.

Charlie reached the small landing where music books were stored on shelves, in boxes and in untidy piles on the floor. Between the rows of shelving a small oak door led into the music room. A message had been pinned to the centre of the door. Mr Pilgrim is away.

Charlie rummaged in the boxes, lifted the piles of music and searched behind the heavy books on the shelves. He found a flute, a handful of violin strings, a tin of oatcakes and a comb, but no trumpet.

Was there any point in trying the room next door? Charlie remembered seeing a grand piano and a stool, nothing else. He looked again at the note. Mr Pilgrim is away. It looked forbidding, as though there was another message behind those four thinly printed words: Do not enter, you are not welcome here.

But Charlie was a boy who often couldn’t stop himself from doing what all the signs told him not to. This time, however, he did knock on the door before going in. To his surprise, he got an answer.

‘Yes,’ said a weary voice.

Charlie went in.

Dr Saltweather was sitting on the music stool. His arms were folded inside his blue cape and his thick, white hair stood up in an untidy, careless way. He wore an expression that Charlie had never seen on his face before: a look of worry and dismay.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Charlie. ‘I was looking for my trumpet.’

‘Indeed.’ Dr Saltweather glanced at Charlie.

‘I suppose it isn’t in here.’

‘Nothing is in here,’ said Dr Saltweather.

‘Sorry, sir.’ Charlie was about to go when something made him ask, ‘Where is Mr Pilgrim, sir?’

‘Where?’ Dr Saltweather looked at Charlie as if he’d only just seen him. ‘Ah, Charlie Bone.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t know where Mr Pilgrim has gone. It’s a mystery.’

‘Oh.’ Charlie was about to turn away again but this time found himself saying, ‘I bumped into someone in the passage; I thought it might be him.’

‘No, Charlie.’ The music teacher spoke with some force. ‘That would have been Mr Ebony, your new form teacher.’

‘Our form teacher?’ Charlie gulped. He thought of the purple wings, the hissing voice.

‘Yes. It’s a little worrying, to say the least.’ Dr Saltweather gave Charlie a scrutinising stare, as though wondering if he should say more. ‘Mr Ebony came here to teach history,’ he went on, ‘but he turned up with a letter of resignation from Mr Pilgrim. I don’t know how he came by it. And now this – man – wants to teach piano.’ Dr Saltweather raised his voice. ‘He comes up here, puts a message on the door, tries to keep me out of a room in my own department . . . it’s intolerable!’

‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Charlie. ‘But he was wearing a purple cape, sir.’

‘Ah, yes, that!’ Dr Saltweather ran a hand through his white hair. ‘It seems that Mr Tantalus Ebony is in the Drama department, hence the purple.’

Charlie said, ‘I see,’ although, by now, he was very confused. He had never heard of a teacher being in three departments at once.

‘They are Dr Bloor’s arrangements, so what can I do?’ Dr Saltweather spread his hands. ‘Better run along now, Charlie. Sorry about the trumpet. Try one of the Art rooms. They’re always drawing our musical instruments.’

‘Art. Thank you, sir,’ said Charlie gratefully.

The Art rooms could only be reached by climbing the main staircase and Charlie had just put his foot on the first step when Manfred Bloor came out of a door in the hall.

‘Have you finished writing out your lines?’ asked Manfred coldly.

‘Er, no.’

Manfred approached Charlie. ‘Don’t forget, or you’ll get another hundred.’

‘Yes, Manfred. I mean no.’

Manfred gave a sigh of irritation and walked away.

‘Excuse me,’ Charlie said suddenly, ‘but are you still, erm, a pupil, Manfred?’

‘No I am not!’ barked the surly young man. ‘I am a teaching assistant. And call me sir.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The word ‘sir’ tasted funny when applied to Manfred, but Charlie smiled, hoping he’d said the right thing at last.

‘And don’t forget it.’ Manfred marched back into the Prefects’ room and slammed the door.

Charlie still hadn’t found Manfred’s study. He was now torn between looking for his trumpet and writing out a hundred lines. But then he remembered that he didn’t know the last line of the Hall rules. ‘Emma will tell me,’ he said to himself, and he began to climb the stairs.

Emma was often to be found in the Art gallery, a long, airy room overlooking the garden. Today, however, the room appeared to be empty. Charlie searched the paint cupboard and inspected the shelves at the back of the room, then he crossed the gallery and descended an iron spiral that took him down into the sculpture studio.

‘Hi, Charlie!’ called a voice.

‘Hey, come on over,’ called another.

Charlie looked round to see two boys in green aprons grinning at him from either side of a large block of stone. One had a brown face and the other was very pale. Charlie’s two friends were now in the third year. They had both grown considerably during the summer holiday, and so had their hair. Lysander, the African, now had a neat head of dreadlocks decorated with coloured beads, while Tancred had gelled his stiff, blond hair into a forest of spikes.

‘What brings you down here, Charlie?’ asked Tancred.

‘I’m looking for my trumpet. Hey, I hardly recognised you two.’

‘You haven’t changed,’ said Lysander with a wide smile. ‘How d’you like the second year?’

‘I don’t know. I’m in a bit of a muddle. I keep going to the wrong place. I’ve lost my trumpet. I’m in trouble with Manfred and there’s an er, um, thing in the garden.’

‘What d’you mean, a thing?’ Tancred’s blond hair fizzled slightly.

Charlie told them about the horse Billy had seen in the sky, and the hoofbeats in the garden.

‘Interesting,’ said Lysander.

‘Ominous,’ said Tancred. ‘I don’t like the sound of it.’ The sleeves of his shirt quivered. It was difficult for Tancred to hide his endowment. He was like a walking weathervane, his moods affecting the air around him to such an extent that you could say he had his own personal weather.

‘I’d better keep looking for my trumpet,’ said Charlie. ‘Oh, what’s the last line of the Hall rules?’

‘Be you small or tall,’ said Lysander quickly.

‘Thanks, Sander. I’ve got to write the whole thing out a hundred times before supper, and give it to Manfred – if I can find his study. You don’t happen to know where it is, do you?’

Tancred shook his head and Lysander said, ‘Not a clue.’

Charlie was about to return the way he’d come when Tancred suggested he try somewhere else. ‘Through there,’ said Tancred, indicating a door at the end of the Sculpture studio. ‘The new children are having their first art lesson. I think I saw one carrying a trumpet.

‘Thanks, Tanc!’

Charlie walked into a room he’d never seen before. About fifteen silent children sat round a long table, sketching. Each of them had a large sheet of paper and an object in front of them. They were all concentrating fiercely on their work, and none of them looked up when Charlie appeared.

‘What do you want?’ A thin, fair-haired man with freckles spoke from the end of the table. A new Art teacher, Charlie presumed.

‘My trumpet, sir,’ said Charlie.

‘And why do you think it’s here?’ asked the teacher.

‘Because, there it is!’ Charlie had just seen a trumpet exactly like his. The instrument was being sketched by a small boy with bits of paper sticking to his hair. The boy looked up at Charlie.

‘Joshua Tilpin,’ said the teacher, ‘where did you get that trumpet?’

‘It’s mine, Mr Delf.’ Joshua Tilpin had small pale grey eyes. He half-closed them and wrinkled his nose at Charlie.

Charlie couldn’t stop himself. He leapt forward, seized the trumpet and turned it over. Last term he had scratched a tiny CB near the mouthpiece. The trumpet was his. ‘It’s got my initials on it, sir.’

‘Let me see.’ Mr Delf held out his hand.

Charlie handed over the trumpet. ‘My name’s Charlie Bone, sir. See, they’re my initials.’

‘You shouldn’t deface musical instruments like this. But it does appear to be yours. Joshua Tilpin, why did you lie?’

Everyone looked at Joshua. He didn’t go red, as Charlie would have expected. Instead, he gave a huge grin, revealing a row of small, uneven teeth. ‘Sorry, sir. Really, really sorry, Charlie. Only a joke. Forgive me, please!’

Neither Charlie nor the teacher knew how to reply to this. Mr Delf passed the trumpet to Charlie, saying, ‘You’d better get back to your class.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Charlie clutched his trumpet and turned to the door. He took a good look at Joshua Tilpin as he went. He had an odd feeling that the new boy was endowed. Joshua’s sleeves were covered in scraps of paper and tiny bits of eraser. Even as Charlie watched, a broken pencil lead suddenly leapt off the table and attached itself to the boy’s thumb. He gave Charlie a sly grin and flicked it off. Charlie felt as though an invisible thread were tugging him towards the strange boy.

He quickly left the room, and the thread was broken.

The sculpture studio rang with the sound of steel on stone. Tancred and Lysander weren’t the only ones chipping away at lumps of rock. Charlie flourished his trumpet in the air, ‘Got it,’ he sang out.

‘Knew it,’ said Tancred.

Charlie’s next priority was the hundred lines. Where should he write them? He decided on his new classroom. As he crossed the hall he was swamped by groups of children, some coming in from games, others rushing down the stairs, still more emerging from the cloakrooms. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, except Charlie. Something had gone horribly wrong with his timetable. He hurried on, hoping to find at least some of his year group in the classroom.

There was a note pinned to the classroom door. It was printed in the same old-fashioned script as the words on Mr Pilgrim’s door:

Tantalus Ebony

Music, Mime and Medieval History

Charlie put his ear to the door. Not a sound came from the other side. He went in. There were no children in the room, but there was a teacher. He sat at a high desk in front of the window; a teacher with a long, narrow face and black eyebrows that met across the bridge of his nose. His dark hair covered his ears, and a heavy fringe ended just above his eyebrows. He wore a purple cloak.

‘Yes?’ said the teacher, looking up from his book.

Charlie swallowed. ‘I’ve come to write out some lines, sir.’

‘Name?’ The man’s voice rumbled as though it came from underground.

‘Charlie Bone, sir.’

‘Approach!’ The teacher beckoned with a long, white finger.

Charlie walked up to the desk. The man stared at him for a full minute. His left eye was grey and his right eye was brown. It was most disconcerting. Charlie was tempted to look away but he held his ground and looked first into one eye, and then the other. An angry frown crossed the man’s face and he leaned back, almost as though he feared that Charlie had seen some part of himself that he wished to keep secret. Eventually, the teacher said, ‘I am Tantalus Ebony.’

‘I guessed that, sir.’

‘How presumptuous. Stand still.’

Charlie was about to say that he hadn’t moved, when Mr Ebony went on, ‘Why are you not with the rest of your form?’

‘I got a bit muddled, sir.’

‘Muddled? Muddled is for first formers. Not a very promising beginning for your second year, is it, Charlie Bone? And you say you have lines already. I wonder why?’

‘I was talking in the hall, sir.’

Mr Ebony’s response was amazing. He roared with laughter. He rocked with unrestrained giggles.

‘Ahem.’ The teacher gave a little cough. ‘Go and write your lines, then. And don’t disturb me. I’m going to sleep.’ Mr Ebony pulled his purple hood over his head and closed his eyes. Still sitting bolt upright, he began to snore.

Is it possible to be watched by someone who isn’t looking at you? Charlie had the impression that the strange teacher was still awake. Or rather that someone else, behind the sleeping face, was still on guard.

After waiting a few seconds, Charlie tiptoed to his desk, got out an exercise book and began to write out the hall rules. He had just completed the last line when the bell went for tea. Mr Ebony opened his eyes, threw back his hood and cried, ‘OUT!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Charlie gathered up his paper and hurriedly left the room.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ asked Fidelio, when he saw Charlie in the canteen.

‘Where have you been?’ said Charlie.

‘I had English, then games.’

Charlie saw a weekend of detention looming ahead. Mr Carp, the English teacher, wouldn’t forgive him for missing a lesson. ‘I was writing out my lines for Manfred,’ he said gloomily. ‘And I still haven’t found out where his study is.’

Fidelio couldn’t help, nor could Gabriel when he arrived at their table. ‘What’s with the pigtail, then?’ he said, munching a bar of Choclix. ‘I mean, what’s Manfred supposed to be? He’s not Head Boy any more, and he’s not a teacher. So what is he?’

‘He’s a hypnotiser,’ said Charlie grimly. ‘Always has been and always will be. He’ll probably stay here for ever and ever, perfecting his skills until he becomes a musty old magician like his great-grandfather.’

‘As long as he keeps out of my way, I don’t care what he is.’ Gabriel swallowed the rest of his Choclix and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. ‘By the way, I’ve decided to take piano with Mr Ebony. I can’t give it up, and he’s quite good, actually.’

For some reason this worried Charlie.

‘I’d go to Miss Chrystal, if I were you,’ he advised Gabriel. ‘Mr Ebony isn’t – isn’t what he seems. I think he’s dangerous.’

The others looked at him questioningly, but Charlie couldn’t explain his feeling.

After tea, Charlie took his trumpet to Mr Paltry’s room. The elderly teacher was having a quiet cup of coffee. ‘I can’t give you a lesson now,’ he said irritably. ‘Put your trumpet on the shelf and leave me in peace.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Charlie placed his trumpet on a shelf with five others, hoping it wouldn’t get lost or stolen again. ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know where Manfred Bloor’s study is?’

‘I don’t know every single room in the building, do I?’ Mr Paltry fluttered a freckled hand. ‘Now, shoo.’

Children were advised to leave their capes indoors on sunny days because, believe it or not, it was colder in the dark academy than it was outside. So, putting his cape in the cloakroom Charlie went into the garden and asked as many people as he could grab if they knew the whereabouts of Manfred’s study. Nobody had heard of it. Charlie ran indoors again. As he put on his blue cape, he slipped his fingers in his pocket. The three pages of lines had gone.

‘No!’ yelled Charlie, just as Gabriel walked in.

‘What’s up?’ asked Gabriel.

Charlie told him, and for the next fifteen minutes Gabriel helped him to search the cloakroom, but the three pages were nowhere to be found. Fidelio appeared and joined in the hunt. They looked in empty classrooms and even went down to the canteen. And then the gong went for supper.

‘Someone’s determined to get me into trouble,’ moaned Charlie. ‘I’m losing everything, my trumpet, my lines . . . what’s going on?’

‘Come and have supper,’ said Fidelio. ‘Food helps the brain.’

‘Huh!’ Charlie grunted.

The three boys made their way to the long, cavernous dining-hall and took their places at the end of the Music table.

The staff sat at a table on a raised platform at the end of the room, and Charlie noticed that Manfred was sitting next to his father. So he was now, officially, a member of staff. At least he won’t be doing his homework with us, thought Charlie.

Supper was almost over when Dr Bloor stood up and clapped his hands. There was instant silence. The big man walked to the front of the platfom and surveyed the lines of children below him. He was an impressive figure in his black cape, his shoulders wide, his grey hair neatly cropped and his moustache as straight as a ruler. His eyes were almost hidden beneath thick folds of flesh, and it was difficult to tell what colour they were. Now they looked black, yet Charlie knew they were grey.

It was some moments before the headmaster spoke. The children looked up at him expectantly. At last he said, ‘A word to those of the new children who are endowed. You know who you are, so I shall not mention you by name. You will do your homework in the King’s Room. Someone will show you the way. Do you understand?’

Charlie heard three thin voices utter the words, ‘Yes, sir.’ He couldn’t see where they came from, but they certainly didn’t belong to anyone on the music table.

Dr Bloor suddenly shouted, ‘DISPERSE!’

Children sprang into action like clockwork. Benches squeaked on the tiled floor, plates were collected into piles, glasses clinked, cutlery clanged, and then everyone made for the doors. As Charlie climbed up to the first floor, he was joined by Gabriel and Billy; Emma Tolly was ahead of him, and Tancred and Lysander could just be seen flying up another flight to the second floor.

Emma waited for Charlie to catch up with her. ‘I found these on the floor of our cloakroom,’ she said, holding out three crumpled sheets of paper. ‘I heard you were looking for them.’

‘My lines,’ cried Charlie, grabbing the paper. ‘Thanks, Em. But how did they get in the Art cloakroom?’

‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Emma.

Charlie shoved the pages into his bag. The sound of heavy footsteps behind him made him look back and he saw Dorcas Loom trudging slowly up the stairs. She was a plump girl with fair curly hair and a healthy complexion. Dorcas was a fervent admirer of Charlie’s great-aunt, Venetia, and with her endowment she could make clothes that had a deadly magic.

‘What are you staring at?’ she said sullenly.

‘A cat may look at a queen,’ replied Charlie.

Dorcas gave a ‘Hunh!’ of disgust, and continued to plod up the stairs.

Charlie and his friends stepped into the strange, circular King’s Room with its round table and curving, booklined walls.

Manfred was standing on the far side of the table, staring straight at the doors. Charlie’s heart lurched, and then disappointment washed over him in a sickening wave as he saw a hunched figure sitting beside Manfred. It was Asa Pike, Manfred’s devoted slave; the boy who could become a beast at dusk. He should have left school. Why was he was still here? There were also three new children in the room. Joshua Tilpin was one of them.

‘Come on, come on,’ ordered Manfred impatiently. ‘Stop crowding in the door. I have an important announcement to make.’

Charlie pulled himself together and walked round the table until he came to a place beside Tancred. From here he could see the Red King’s portrait. An old painting of a misty figure in a red cloak and a slim gold crown. Gabriel, Billy and Emma followed Charlie, while Dorcas stomped in and closed the door with her foot.

‘Show some respect for my father’s house!’ barked Manfred.

Dorcas glowered, but didn’t dare to look Manfred in the eye. ‘Someone’s sitting in my place,’ she muttered.

‘Don’t be stupid, Dorc,’ said Manfred.

Asa sniggered, ‘Dork. That’s good.’

Manfred ignored him. ‘Just sit anywhere, girl, and hurry up about it.’

If Dorcas had wanted to sit on Manfred’s other side she was out of luck. Squeezed in, between Manfred and Joshua Tilpin, were two extraordinary-looking girls They both had very shiny black hair, cut just below their ears, a deep fringe and a complexion that was so pale and smooth it looked like porcelain.

Twins, obviously, thought Charlie. If they’re real. For the girls’ faces were so blank, and their bodies so still, they might have been dolls.

Dorcas shuffled round the table and put her books next to Joshua’s. He gave her one of his beaming crooked-toothed smiles, and Dorcas actually smiled back.

‘Now that we’re all here,’ said Manfred, glancing at Dorcas, ‘I want to explain a few things. First of all, you probably didn’t expect to see me again. Well, you’re stuck with me.’ No one made a sound except Asa, who snorted.

‘I’m now a teaching assistant,’ Manfred went on importantly. ‘My job description is to supervise your homework, monitor your progress, invigilate exams, and to help with any personal or work-related problems.’ He paused to take a breath and Charlie wondered who on earth would want to ask the ex-head-boy for help.

‘Now, for introductions.’ Manfred named everyone at the table until he came to the inscrutable girls beside him. ‘And these are the twins, Inez and Idith Branko.’

As soon as their names were mentioned, the twins bent their heads and stared at the books in front of them. With alarming speed the books flew across the table. One pile landed in Charlie’s lap, and the other in Tancred’s.

‘Oh, no!’ Tancred grunted. ‘Telekinetics.’ The sleeves of his cape ballooned out, his blond hair crackled and a draught sent a shiver through the loose sheets of paper lying on the table.

‘I see that the summer holidays haven’t improved your self-control, Tancred,’ said Manfred in a mocking tone.

Tancred and Charlie stood up and handed the twins’ books back across the table. The girls didn’t say a word, and their faces remained completely blank.

Charlie couldn’t resist remarking, ‘It’s polite to say thank you.’

Idith and Inez remained silent, but one of them, who knows which, shot him a very nasty look.

‘Try and be pleasant to the new girls, Bone,’ said Manfred. ‘The twins are related to Zelda Dobinsky, who has left us. Apparently, she is a mathematical genius, so she’s gone to university at a very early age. Unfortunately, Asa here is the opposite of a genius. He’s still with us because he failed all his exams.’

Scowling with embarrassment, Asa hunched even further down in his seat and Charlie felt a rare twinge of sympathy for him. To be ridiculed by someone he admired must have been very painful.

‘Last, but not least, we have Joshua Tilpin,’ Manfred announced.

On hearing his name, Joshua leapt up and made a bow. Anyone would have thought he was a prince. And yet he looked a mess. His green cape was covered in dust, there were leaves and grass in his hair, and a cobweb hung from one ear.

‘Sit down, Joshua,’ said Manfred. ‘You’re not a pop star.’

Joshua beamed at him and, to everyone’s amazement, Manfred smiled back. Getting a smile out of Manfred was like getting jam out of a stone.

Whatever next? thought Charlie. He was just about to start his homework when Manfred said, ‘Charlie Bone, you didn’t bring me your lines.’

‘Oh, sorry, Manfred. I’ve got them here.’ Charlie fumbled in his bag.

‘I asked you to bring them to my study.’

‘But . . . I don’t know where it is,’ Charlie confessed.

Manfred sighed. He looked at the ceiling and declared,

‘I am behind words

on the way to music

beneath a wing

and before trumpets, masks and brushes.’

He paused for effect and brought his gaze back to Charlie. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

In any other circumstances, Charlie would have said, ‘Clear as ditchwater,’ but as the situation was already pretty grim, he decided to say, ‘Yes, Manfred.’

‘Good. Then bring your lines to my study before bedtime, or it’s detention for you.’

Detention for Charlie

Charlie was lucky to have a friend like Lysander Sage. Lysander always finished his homework early, and today, as soon as his work was done, he applied himself to Manfred’s riddle.

As Charlie was leaving the King’s Room, Lysander grabbed his arm. ‘I think I know where Manfred’s study is,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s go and find our dorms and I’ll explain.’

Billy Raven had crept up on them. ‘Can I come with you?’ he asked Charlie.

‘Billy Raven, I want a word with you.’ Manfred stood outside the King’s Room, looking at the three boys.

Billy gave a resigned shrug and walked back to Manfred.

‘Poor kid,’ said Lysander, under his breath. He began to explain how he had interpreted Manfred’s riddle.

‘I started at the end,’ he said. ‘Trumpets, masks and brushes must refer to the signs above our cloakrooms. So Manfred’s study is before you get to them. If it’s on the way to music, then it must be somewhere down that long passage to the music tower, and that’s beneath the west wing – get it?’

‘Mm,’ said Charlie. ‘But what about the words? Behind words, he said.’

‘Words are in books,’ said Lysander. ‘I reckon if you can find a bookcase in that passage, Manfred’s study will be behind it. Bookcases are often used as doors to secret rooms.’

‘Wow! You’ve got it, Sander. I did see a bookcase down there. Brilliant! Thanks!’

‘You’re welcome. Hope it works.’

They had reached the first dormitories and began to scan the lists of names pinned to each door. Lysander found that he was still sharing with Tancred, and to Charlie’s relief he saw his own name on a list with Fidelio’s. Billy’s name was at the bottom.

Fidelio was already unpacking his bag. He’d saved a bed beside his for Charlie. The dormitory was almost exactly the same as last year’s. Six narrow beds on each side of a long bleak room, with a single dim light bulb hanging in the centre.

Charlie quickly shoved all his possessions in a bedside cabinet and hung his cape on its hook. ‘I’m going to try and find Manfred’s study,’ he told Fidelio. ‘Can you cover for me if Matron comes in?’

‘I’ll say you’re in the bathroom,’ said Fidelio. ‘Good luck.’

Charlie was halfway down the passage when he met an excited Billy Raven coming the other way.

‘I’m being adopted,’ said Billy. ‘Manfred just told me.’

‘That’s great!’ cried Charlie. Billy had always longed to be adopted.

The small boy touched his white hair. ‘I wonder why they want me. I mean, they could have chosen any boy. Someone nicer looking, someone different.’

‘Who are they? asked Charlie, suddenly concerned for Billy.

‘They’re called de Grey. Mr and Mrs de Grey. They’re a bit older than I expected, actually. Manfred showed me a photo. But he says they’re nice, and very kind. And they’ve got a lovely house. I shall have my own room with everything I could want, even a TV, he says. Imagine, my own TV.’

Charlie would have liked to see the de Greys’ photo. He might have been able to learn a little more about them, if he’d heard their voices. ‘Did Manfred give you the photo?’ he asked.

Billy shook his head.

‘Well, it’s great news, Billy.’

Charlie was about to dash on when Billy suddenly asked, ‘Did you bring your wand to school with you?’

‘Yes, I –’ Charlie stopped. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

‘I just thought, you know, it would be good if you had it with you – to protect you, kind of thing. D’you keep it in your bedside cupboard?’

‘No.’ Charlie kept his precious wand under his mattress, but he wasn’t going to tell Billy. He’d said enough already.

‘No. It’d be too long for the cupboard,’ said Billy. ‘Under the mattress, then?

Charlie felt uncomfortable. Was Billy still spying for the Bloors? ‘I’ve got to dash, Billy,’ he said quickly. ‘Got to get my lines to Manfred’s study. See you later.’

Charlie hurried on. All the activity in the school had shifted to the dormitories, and the great flagstoned hall echoed with Charlie’s solitary footsteps. For the second time that day, he opened the ancient door leading to the Music tower. He stepped into the dark passage and surveyed the rough stone walls. Halfway down, on his right, he saw a small recess. Charlie crept along in the gloom until he came to a narrow set of shelves, crammed with drab, serious-looking books.

‘Hm. Are you a door, then?’ Charlie pushed one side of the bookcase, then the other. Nothing moved. Perhaps it wasn’t a door at all. One by one, Charlie began to remove the books, searching for a knob or a handle to open the supposed door. But there was nothing.

‘What are you doing?’

Charlie almost jumped out of his skin. A figure in a purple cape came gliding towards him. ‘Why are you here?’ asked Tantalus Ebony.

‘I was looking for Manfred’s study,’ stammered Charlie.

‘I see.’ Mr Ebony gave Charlie a look of such overwhelming hatred, Charlie had to step back, dizzy with shock. A suffocating brew of smells filled his nostrils: stale air, candle grease, rotting things, mildew and soot.

‘You do well to be afraid, Bone,’ said the teacher coldly. ‘You’re a troublesome little devil, aren’t you?’

Before Charlie could reply, the man’s features seemed to dissolve and an array of completely different expressions crossed his pale face. For a fraction of a second, Charlie felt that, from behind the changing masks, someone gazed out at him with infinite tenderness. He was sure that he had imagined this, however, when the look of haughty indifference returned to the teacher’s face.

‘You wanted the study.’ Mr Ebony pressed a knot in the wood at the top of the bookcase. Immediately it swung aside, revealing the dim interior of a small study.

‘Thank you.’ Nervously, Charlie stepped inside.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Toodle-oo.’ The extraordinary teacher’s voice changed completely. He waved his long fingers and rushed away, humming a slightly familiar tune.

Charlie looked round the room. It was very tidy. A photograph of a younger-looking Dr Bloor, with a small boy and a dark-haired woman, hung above the mantlepiece. Manfred and his parents. Beneath the window there was a desk, and an adjustable leather chair that faced the courtyard beyond. Charlie stepped up to the desk and put his lines on a stack of papers. He was about to turn away when something caught his eye. A small print of a horse lay beside the papers. Charlie picked it up. There were other pictures beneath: prints of horses’ skeletons.

At this point, Charlie should have left the room, but he had noticed a packet of photographs lying at the end of the desk. Charlie was not the sort of boy to hold back when he saw something interesting. And he was always interested in photographs. As he carefully lifted the packet, he failed to hear the soft swish behind him.

The photos were disappointing. There were only two people in them: a man and a woman. They were both middle-aged and rather ordinary. The man had thinning hair and spectacles; the woman’s face was round, her hair short and straight, and her teeth very long. In all the photographs she was smiling. No, not smiling, Charlie decided. It seemed rather that she was holding something invisible between her teeth.

In most of the photographs the couple were sitting side by side on a sofa, but there were two taken in a garden and two more in a kitchen. Charlie was scrutinising the empty-looking kitchen when he suddenly heard the woman speak.

Smile, Usher. We want to put the boy at ease.

I don’t like children. The man’s voice was light and slightly nasal. Never have.

It won’t be for long.

How long?

Until he does what they want. You’ll have to use your talent – you know – to stop him getting out.

Talent? said the man in a whiney voice. What use . . .

Charlie heard footsteps. He quickly put the photos back into the packet and replaced it at the end of the desk. But when he went to the door, he found that it was stuck. There was no handle, no keyhole, no latch. He was caught.

Charlie banged on the door. ‘Hi! Anyone there? It’s me, Charlie Bone.’

There was no answer.

Charlie banged again. ‘Hi, Mr Ebony, sir. Are you there? Manfred?’

Charlie continued to knock and call for several minutes, and then he gave up.

It began to get dark. Charlie sat in the chair and thought about the photographs. All at once, it came to him. They were Billy Raven’s new parents. Billy had always longed to have nice, kind parents and a real home. How could Charlie tell him the truth?

As he sat in the gloom, wrestling with his dilemma, the lights across the courtyard went out, one by one, until Charlie was left in complete darkness. He made his way round the room, fumbling for a light switch. There didn’t seem to be one. He pushed at the door. He knocked and called, but no one came. The cathedral clock struck nine. Charlie sat on the floor and dozed.

A sound from the courtyard woke him up. Clop! Clop! Clop! Charlie shook his sleepy head. Hooves. There was a horse in the courtyard. Charlie stood up. He could just make out the window’s pale rectangle of light, but it was impossible to see anything in the yard beyond.

The cathedral clock struck ten and the hoofbeats faded. Charlie was about to shout again when the door swung open and a fierce light was beamed in his face.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Charlie recognised Dr Bloor’s deep voice. ‘I came to give Manfred some lines, sir, and then the door closed.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘Mr Ebony let me in, sir.’

‘Did he, now?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Charlie wished Dr Bloor would shine the torch away from his eyes.

‘Well, it’s detention for you, Charlie Bone. You’ll stay in school an extra night. Now, get back to your dormitory.’

Dr Bloor hauled Charlie out of the room and gave him a push down the passage. Charlie had almost reached his dormitory when the matron loomed round a corner and grabbed his shoulder.

‘Ouch!’ cried Charlie. ‘If you were going to give me detention, don’t bother. I’ve already got it.’

Charlie could hear Lucretia Yewbeam grinding her teeth. ‘Be quiet, until you’re spoken to. Where have you been?’

‘Stuck in Manfred’s study,’ said Charlie with a sigh. ‘He asked me to give him my lines.’

‘Lines? On the first day of term. You’re hopeless. I can’t believe we’re related.’

‘Nor me,’ said Charlie in an undertone.

Next morning, on their way down to breakfast, Charlie told Fidelio everything that had happened the night before. His friend listened attentively until Charlie began to talk about the photographs.

‘So you’ve been listening again,’ Fidelio said wryly.

‘I couldn’t help myself,’ Charlie admitted. ‘They were a nasty pair, Fido. But how can I tell Billy?’

‘Let’s just hope you’re wrong, and those people weren’t the de Greys.’

The two boys walked into the dining-hall and took their places at the music table.

‘Interesting about the horses,’ Fidelio said as he buttered a piece of dry toast.

Billy Raven looked up from his cornflakes. ‘Did you say horses?’

‘Tell you later, Billy,’ said Charlie. ‘By the way, I’ve got detention this weekend, so I’ll be keeping you company.’

‘My new parents are coming to fetch me on Saturday,’ said Billy.

‘So soon?’

‘I shall have my own home!’ Billy bounced up in his seat. ‘Yippee!’

Charlie grinned. He didn’t want to dash Billy’s hopes, but he was sure that real adoptions didn’t happen this way. How did the Bloors get away with it? They kept children hidden from their relatives, they moved orphans around without them having any say in it, they even made fathers disappear.

‘Charlie!’ Fidelio nudged him. ‘If you don’t want your breakfast, I’ll eat it.’

Charlie spooned cornflakes into his mouth as quickly as he could. ‘I s’pose you don’t feel like getting detention with me?’ he asked.

Fidelio looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry. Can’t. I’ve promised to play in my brother’s band on Saturday morning.’

‘At least I might get a look at Billy Raven’s parents. That should be interesting’ said Charlie.

During the first break, Charlie saw Emma and Olivia running round the field.

‘Hey, you two!’ cried Charlie, as he panted beside the girls. ‘Are you, er . . . occupied on Saturday?’

‘Bookshop!’ said Emma. ‘It’s Aunt Julia’s busy day.’

‘Have you got detention again, Charlie?’ asked Olivia, slowing her pace.

‘Yep. So, are you busy?’

Olivia stopped running and Emma drew up beside her.

‘Well?’ said Charlie, taking a deep breath.

‘Actually,’ said Olivia solemnly, ‘Saturday is probably going to be the most important day in my whole life.’

‘Definitely,’ agreed Emma.

‘I’m auditioning for a movie. It’s a really big movie. There are at least three huge stars in it, and I’m going to be Tom Winston’s daughter, or at least I think I will be.’

‘Tom Winston?’ Charlie asked.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Tom Winston,’ said Olivia, frowning. ‘He’s a HUGE star!’

‘Oh. OK. Well, good luck. Hey, you might be famous, Livvie!’

‘Bound to be,’ said loyal Emma.

‘Might be,’ said Olivia with a confident smile.

‘So, will you talk to us when you’re famous?’ asked Charlie.

‘What do you think?’ Olivia’s smile grew wider.

The hunting horn rang out and Charlie never got to answer Olivia, because the two girls tore away and reached the garden door long before him. Charlie decided they must have been in training over the holidays.

‘Guess what?’ Charlie said, leaping into the blue cloakroom. ‘Olivia Vertigo’s going to be a movie star.’

Fidelio was sitting on a bench, changing his shoes. ‘How come?’ he said, dropping one of his trainers.

Several other children stared at Charlie and Gwyneth Howells, the harpist, said, ‘Olivia Vertigo thinks she’s so brilliant.’

‘But she is,’ said Rosie Stubbs generously. ‘I mean, I bet she will be famous.’

Gwyneth gave her best friend a withering look, and Rosie said, ‘Oh come on, Gwyn, you must admit she’s a fantastic actress.’

‘She’s going to an audition on Saturday,’ Charlie told them. ‘It’s for a part in a gigantic movie. She’ll be Tom Winston’s daughter.’

‘If she gets the part,’ sniffed Gwyneth.

‘She will,’ said Fidelio. ‘No question.’

Soon the whole school was buzzing with talk of Olivia Vertigo’s imminent fame. And Olivia began to wish that she’d kept her audition a secret.

Somehow, Charlie managed to keep out of trouble for the rest of the week, and when Friday arrived he found that he wasn’t dreading his extra night in school as much as he expected.

He went down to the main hall to wish Olivia good luck before she left, but she didn’t thank him.

‘I wish you hadn’t told so many people,’ she grumbled. ‘It’s bad luck.’ And she strode away without a backward glance.

‘She’s nervous,’ Emma explained. ‘Sorry about your detention, Charlie. We’ll meet on Sunday, shall we?’

‘Pets’ Café at two o’clock,’ said Charlie.

‘You’re on.’ Emma dashed after Olivia, her long blond pigtails bouncing against her cape.

A familiar smell assailed Charlie when he walked into the dormitory, and he wasn’t surprised to see Cook’s dog, Blessed, sitting at the foot of Billy’s bed. Today the old dog looked even more depressed than usual. Charlie assumed this was due to his great age and bad health (Blessed was extremely stout), but Billy quickly put him right.

‘He’s upset,’ said Billy, who was trying to pack a battered-looking case. ‘Partly because I’m being adopted, but mostly because he saw a terrible thing happen.’

‘Oh?’ Charlie sank on to the bed next to Billy’s. ‘What did he see?’

Billy glanced at Blessed, who gave a small grunting sort of whine.

‘It’s difficult to explain. I keep thinking I’ve got it wrong and he means something different, but then he says, “True! True! Horse fly through wall.”’

‘What?’ Charlie’s eyebrows shot up.

Billy stopped packing and sat on his bed. ‘He says he was at the top of the house in a long, long room. Manfred was there, and old Mr Ezekiel, and your three great-aunts, Charlie. He says there were things on a table: fur and metal things and – very, very old bones.’

Charlie’s scalp tingled. ‘What sort of bones?’

‘Horse bones.’

Blessed gave a sudden, throaty growl.

‘He said that the bones turned into a horse.’ Billy spoke very slowly, as though he were waiting for Charlie to stop him. But Charlie just listened, open-mouthed.

‘Two of your great-aunts did things to the stuff on the table,’ went on Billy, ‘and Mr Ezekiel had a tin that made sparks. There was a bang and a lot of smoke and a horse jumped off the table and crashed through the wall.’

‘What the hell are they up to? I didn’t know my aunts could do stuff like that.’

‘There were four of them, remember? Manfred and Mr Ezekiel as well. Perhaps that made their power stronger.’ Billy frowned and shook his head. ‘It must have been the horse that I saw in the sky.’

Charlie realised that this strange spell explained a great deal: the pictures on Manfred’s desk, for instance, the ghostly presence in the garden, and the hoofbeats Charlie had heard in the courtyard. ‘But what’s the purpose of it all?’ he muttered.

Billy shrugged. ‘Perhaps we’ll never know.’

‘Oh, I think we will. In fact, you can bet your life on it.’

‘If I could see the horse, I could talk to it,’ said Billy.

‘Maybe you could talk to it anyway,’ Charlie suggested.

Billy stared at Charlie through the thick round lenses of his spectacles. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. He jumped down from the bed and resumed his packing. The small pile of clothes laid out on the bed only half filled the large suitcase.

‘I haven’t got any more. That’s it.’ Billy closed the suitcase and heaved it on to the floor.

‘Nothing else?’ Charlie was concerned. Where were Billy’s toys, books, games, trainers, weekend clothes? At home the cupboard in Charlie’s room was packed with stuff. Was this all that Billy owned in the world?

‘There is something else.’ Billy pulled a plastic bag from his bedside cabinet and emptied it on the bed. As well as the five small books that Cook had given him, there was a pack of cards, a small one-eared bear, and something wrapped in yellowing tissue paper.

‘The Bloors usually give me food for presents,’ said Billy, carefully unfolding the tissue paper, ‘so most of my possessions have been eaten.’ He gave a sheepish grin. ‘But I kept these.’ He peeled back the last piece of tissue, revealing four white candles. ‘I found them in my aunt’s cupboard before I was sent to Bloor’s. Her dog told me they came with a birthday cake, but she never put them on the cake, and I never knew who sent it to me.’

Charlie stared at the four candles lying in Billy’s hand. Each one looked as though it had been made from a coiled feather. The delicate wax filaments curved round the candles in spirals that made them appear mysterious and magical.

‘I never lit them,’ said Billy softly.

‘I can see that.’ Charlie screwed up his eyes and bent closer to the candles. ‘I wonder who sent them.’

‘I wish I knew.’ Billy carefully folded the candles into the tissue paper and slipped them in his pocket.

It was just as well that he did, because the next minute, Lucretia Yewbeam marched into the dormitory and began to examine Billy’s packing.

‘This is a mess,’ she said, throwing everything out on to the floor. ‘Fold your clothes properly, Billy Raven. Your new parents won’t accept slipshod packing.’

‘Who are Billy’s new parents?’ asked Charlie.

‘None of your business,’ snapped his great-aunt.

‘But it is Billy’s business,’ argued Charlie. ‘He only knows their name, not where they’re from, or if they’ve got a family, or if they live . . .’

‘You don’t need to know these things,’ said the Matron. ‘Billy will know soon enough. Now brush your hair before supper, boy. You look as though you’ve just crawled out of bed.’

Charlie gave a grunt of disgust. Trust Lucretia Yewbeam to mention his hair. She’d probably guessed that he’d forgotten to pack his hairbrush.

When the matron had gone, Charlie helped Billy to repack his suitcase. Not that it looked any neater the second time around.

‘It’ll have to do,’ said Billy cheerfully. ‘Just think, I’ve got a home to go to!’

Charlie wondered if the small boy was as happy as he sounded. That night Billy thrashed about in his sheets. Starting a new life with unknown parents was not exactly any everyday occurrence.

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