Books by Jenny Nimmo

Midnight for Charlie Bone

Charlie Bone and the Time Twister

Charlie Bone and the Blue Boa

Charlie Bone and the Castle of Mirrors

Charlie Bone and the Hidden King

Charlie Bone and the Wilderness Wolf

Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock

Charlie Bone and the Red Knight

The Secret Kingdom

The Stones of Ravenglass

The Snow Spider trilogy

To Alice and Corwine, with love.

First published in Great Britain 2009 by Egmont UK Limited

This edition published 2010

by Egmont UK Limited

239 Kensington High Street

London W8 6SA

Text copyright © 2009 Jenny Nimmo

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

ISBN 978 1 4052 4960 7

eISBN 978 1 7803 1209 5

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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Contents

Cover

Title page

Books by Jenny Nimmo

Copyright

The endowed children

Prologue

1. The enchanted sword

2. Lord Grimwald arrives

3. A family tree

4. Gabriel’s secret

5. Fire in the tunnel

6. Charlie escapes

7. Olivia and the gargoyle

8. The Sea Globe

9. The false godmother

10. Tigerfield Steps

11. Angel in the snow

12. The sea-gold charms

13. The roaring wave

14. A perplexing postcard

15. Fog!

16. A distant voice

17. Eagle thief

18. Rembrandt’s fly

19. Rescuing Solomon

20. On the heath

21. The battle

22. The seat of evil

About the Publisher

The children of the Red King, called the endowed

Manfred Bloor | Talents Master at Bloor’s Academy. Previously head boy. A hypnotiser. He is descended from Borlath, eldest son of the Red King. Borlath was a brutal and sadistic tyrant.
Naren Bloor | Adopted daughter of Bartholomew Bloor, Naren can send shadow words over great distances. She is descended from the Red King’s grandson who was abducted by pirates and taken to China.
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 pictures. Through his father he is descended from the Red King, and through his mother, from Mathonwy, a Welsh magician and friend of the Red King.
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. He is descended from Lilith, the Red King’s oldest daughter, and Harken, the evil enchanter who married her.
Una Onimous | Mr Onimous’s niece. Una is five years old and her endowment is being kept secret until it has fully developed.
Olivia Vertigo | Descended from Guanhamara, who fled the Red King’s castle and married an Italian Prince. Olivia is an illusionist. The Bloors are unaware of her endowment.
Dagbert Endless | Dagbert is the son of Lord Grimwald who can control the oceans. His mother took the gold from drowned men’s teeth, and made them into charms to protect her son. Dagbert is a drowner.
Eric Shellhorn | Eric can animate stone carvings.

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 arrived in the North nine hundred years ago. He was an African magician and each of his ten children inherited a small part of his power. These powers were passed down, through their descendants, to the inhabitants of an ancient city. But not all the inheritors use their powers wisely. Some of them are bent on evil, and Charlie Bone strives constantly to thwart them.

Charlie’s parents are on their second honeymoon. They have been away for more than a month. Postcards arrive for Charlie, describing his parents’ wonderful adventures on the world’s oceans. Although Charlie is happy for them, he wishes they would return. The city is becoming a dangerous place for him and his friends. One of them was almost drowned and their favourite meeting place, the Pets’ Café, has been closed. Charlie is afraid that the Red King’s old enemy, Count Harken, will try and enter the city once again. The count, an enchanter, has already abducted the orphan, Billy Raven, and now keeps him in Badlock, a world that exists in the far distant past.

If only the Red King could return to keep the city safe. But that is too much to hope for. And yet, deep in the ruins of the Red King’s castle, a heart still beats within a tall red tree. The king can watch with the eyes of birds that settle on his branches; he can listen with the ears of creatures that graze beside him; sometimes he can even move. But he who was once mighty is now powerless to help the children who need him. His last spell has been cast. He can only hope that his cloak and sword will protect the man who has chosen to take his place. One thing is certain: the white mare that was once the king’s beloved queen will do all in her power to carry their champion to victory.

The enchanted sword

To the small man hurrying through the city, the dark buildings that rose about him had never appeared so menacing.

‘Menaced,’ muttered Orvil Onimous. ‘That’s what we are, my dears, menaced.’ He was speaking to three cats that paced about him, magnificent creatures with fire-bright coats, from the deep copper of the cat that leapt ahead, to the flame orange and starry yellow of the two that ran on either side of him.

‘You are a comfort, Flames,’ sighed the little man, ‘you know that, don’t you?’

They turned off the High Street and made their way down Frog Street, a narrow alley that led to the ancient city walls. It was a cold, damp night and the cobblestones were wet with melting frost. Every step the small man took became more laboured. He rounded a corner and came within sight of an unusual-looking shop, built into the very fabric of the old walls. Above a large, latticed window, the words ‘The Pets’ Café’ could just be made out on a sign filled with the paintings of animals.

Mr Onimous seemed unable to continue. He hung his head, gasping for air. With his whiskery face and furry brown head he resembled a large vole in an ill-fitting tweed coat.

The cats gathered round him, mewing encouragement, but Orvil Onimous let out a mournful sob and pointed to a sheet of paper nailed to the green painted door.

These premises are closed, said the notice, by order of the city councillors, in accordance with Section 238 of the Public Health Act.

The cats could not read the notice but they were well aware of its meaning. Their friend’s livelihood had been stolen from him. The Pets’ Café, where every customer was obliged to bring a pet, was now closed. The joyful twittering, the braying, barking and mewing that once had welcomed every visitor was now gone, leaving only a bleak silence.

Inside the café, chairs were piled on empty tables, the lights were out in the coloured lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and in the kitchen Mrs Onimous endlessly filled the stove with cakes and cookies that no one would eat.

Thinking of his wife, Mr Onimous took a firm step towards the green door, and then hesitated. A sound at the far end of the alley made him peer cautiously round the corner.

A figure came striding towards him.

‘We’re closed,’ called Mr Onimous. ‘It’s no use coming down here. Besides,’ he added sadly, ‘you haven’t got a pet – unless it’s in your pocket. Go away.’

The stranger paid no attention. He marched purposefully closer. A boy, thought Mr Onimous, noting the slim build and youthful stride. A yellow scarf covered the lower half of the boy’s face, and the hood of his blue coat was pulled well down over his forehead.

Mr Onimous backed nervously round the corner. His heart was beating rather fast, but his gloomy mood had been replaced by resentful anger. Who was this silent stranger, marching towards him when he had expressly told him to go away?

The cats were usually quick to defend Mr Onimous but they stood in the alley with their tails erect, sniffing the air and mewing expectantly.

A strong breeze accompanied the stranger – a sinister breeze in Mr Onimous’s opinion. Can’t be one of the kids, he thought. Can’t be one of the endowed. It’s Wednesday night. They’re all at school and in bed most likely. He ran across to the green door and, pulling a key from his pocket, shakily inserted it into the lock.

‘Mr Onimous!’ The voice was a harsh, urgent whisper.

The little man turned fearfully, and looked into a pair of familiar sky-blue eyes. ‘Tancred Torsson!’ he cried.

‘Sssh!’ Tancred put a finger to his lips.

‘Oh, my dear, dear fellow.’ Mr Onimous clasped both Tancred’s hands and squeezed them tight. ‘Oh, you can’t know how you’ve lifted my spirits. We thought you were dead.’

‘I am dead, Mr Onimous,’ whispered Tancred. ‘Dead to THEM at least. Can I come in? I’ll explain everything.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Mr Onimous unlocked the door and drew Tancred into the empty café. The three cats bounced swiftly after them and Mr Onimous locked and bolted the door.

Tancred pulled down his scarf and gazed at the upturned chairs with their legs pointing desolately at the darkened ceiling. ‘This is so sad, Mr Onimous,’ he said. ‘We must do something about it.’

‘Course we must, but it’s too much for my poor old brain to sort out.’ Mr Onimous led the way round the counter at the back of the café, and into the bright kitchen beyond.

An exceptionally tall woman with a long melancholy face was spooning jam into some rather pale-looking tarts. There were several plates of them spread across the kitchen table, and if it hadn’t been for Mrs Onimous’s desolate expression, you would have thought she was preparing for a party.

‘Don’t say it,’ murmured Mrs Onimous, without looking up. ‘Who’s going to eat a hundred tarts? I couldn’t help myself, Orvil. What else am I to do?’

‘Onoria, my darling,’ Mr Onimous failed to keep a squeak of excitement out of his voice. ‘We have a visitor.’

She looked up, opened her mouth, screamed, staggered backwards and collapsed into an old armchair. ‘Tancred Torsson!’ she gasped. ‘You’re dead!’

‘Not so, Mrs Onimous.’ Tancred pulled back his hood, revealing a mop of thick corn-gold hair. ‘As you see, I am very much alive.’

‘The news is all round the city. They said you had drowned.’ Two fat tears rolled down Mrs Onimous’s cheeks. ‘A terrible accident, they said it was, but we guessed it was that evil boy Dagbert Endless who had drowned you.’

‘Well, he did, in a sense,’ Tancred agreed. ‘I was just about gone when Emma rescued me. And then, soon after my father had carried my lifeless body home, we had visitors.’ Tancred sat at the table and stroked the head of the yellow cat, Sagittarius, drawing a deep purr from his silky throat. ‘I thought you had sent them.’

‘The cats!’ cried Mr Onimous, clapping his hands. ‘I should have known it. But they lead a mysterious life. I never know where they are off to.’

‘They saved your life too, Orvil,’ said his wife, pouring tea for their visitor. ‘It’s a miracle how they always know when a child of the Red King is in trouble.’

‘I’m no child,’ chuckled Mr Onimous, lifting orange Leo into his arms.

‘You’re a descendant; that’s good enough for them.’ Onoria smiled as Aries, the copper cat, wound himself round her legs.

‘They sat on my bed all through the night.’ Tancred’s eyes took on a faraway gleam as he began to describe the warmth and comfort the cats had brought to his aching limbs, and how their voices had soothed the pain in his head and steadied his faltering heart.

‘I know, I know.’ Mr Onimous thought of his own miraculous recovery.

Mrs Onimous sat down and pushed same tarts across to Tancred. ‘Empty the plate, there’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘And take some home to your mother. We don’t see enough of her down here.’

‘She doesn’t have a pet,’ said Tancred through a mouthful of tart. ‘She’s tried dogs and cats, guinea pigs and rabbits, even a pony, but they all ran away. They couldn’t take my dad’s thunder.’

Tancred’s father was known as the Thunder Man, on account of the violent weather that constantly attended him.

‘Does Charlie Bone know that you survived?’ asked Mr Onimous, biting into one of his wife’s tarts.

Tancred nodded vigorously. ‘So do the others: Lysander, Gabriel and co, but no one else must know. I can do more to help them if Dagbert and the Bloors think that I’m dead.’

‘We won’t tell a soul.’ Mr Onimous lowered his voice as though the Bloors might be outside the door that very moment. ‘I feel so sorry for poor Charlie. His parents have been away for more than a month now, and although I don’t like to criticise a fine person like Lyell Bone, it’s a long time to leave your only child when you’ve already been apart for more than ten years.’

‘I agree,’ said Tancred, ‘but Charlie’s such a great –’ A loud knocking caused him to stop mid-sentence and stare over his shoulder.

‘Whoever can it be?’ Mr Onimous opened the kitchen door and stared across the café at a large figure framed in the window. ‘Bless me, it’s Norton. I’ll –’

‘NO, Mr Onimous!’ Tancred leapt up and pulled the little man back into the kitchen. ‘Charlie asked me to warn you. That’s why I came. Norton Cross has betrayed you, Mr Onimous.’

‘What?’ Mr Onimous frowned at Tancred in disbelief. ‘How can you say such a thing? Norton? He’s the best doorman we’ve ever had.’

‘You have to believe me, sir,’ said Tancred in a low voice. ‘He’s been seen in the company of the Witch Tilpin and others. Some of the villains from Piminy Street, in fact.’

‘Norton?’ Clutching the edge of the table, Mr Onimous sank on to a chair. ‘What’s the world coming to?’

‘Well, at least we’ll be on our guard, Orvil,’ said his wife. She shook her head. ‘Who can have turned our dear Norton to wickedness?’

No one could answer her.

The knocking had ceased at last and, peering into the dark café, Tancred caught a glimpse of two figures walking down the alley. Norton was unmistakable, his bulky form clad in a green padded jacket printed with yellow elephants. His companion was shorter and wore a black cloak and a hat with a drooping feather. The hat was an odd shape, soft and velvety. It reminded Tancred of another hat he’d seen. Was it in a book or in a painting? He couldn’t yet place it.

‘Think I’d better be going now,’ Tancred told the Onimouses.

‘Do take care, my dear.’ Mrs Onimous came and gave him a hug. ‘You’re young to be out alone on such a dark night.’

Tancred was fourteen and accustomed to being out alone on dark nights. His endowment was the only protection he needed, or so he thought. A bolt of lightning or a blast of gale-force wind had always been enough to deter any would-be assailant. ‘I can look after myself,’ he said, extricating himself from Mrs Onimous’s embrace.

A violent gust of wind blew through the kitchen and the cups hanging on the dresser rattled and clinked in a wild tune.

‘All right, Weather-boy, you don’t have to prove it,’ chuckled Mr Onimous.

Tancred walked briskly through the café, calling, ‘Goodnight, Onimouses. Keep safe!’

Stepping into the alley, he closed the café door and stood listening for a moment. Footfalls could be heard turning right on to the High Street. Pulling up his hood, Tancred tiptoed swiftly up the alley and looked round the corner.

The two figures were walking briskly in the direction of Bloor’s Academy. Tancred drew his scarf over the lower part of his face and hurried after them. At first, Norton and his companion seemed unaware of their stalker, but all at once the man in the black cloak swung round. Tancred leapt into a doorway. He stood with his back against the door, breathing heavily.

He must have seen me, thought Tancred, for I saw him.

It was a face Tancred had instantly recognised. Framed in shoulder-length black curls, the stranger’s pale features were dominated by large dark eyes and heavy arched eyebrows. He had a small pointed beard and the tips of his fine moustache curled up to each cheek.

If the man had seen Tancred he was apparently unconcerned, for the footsteps resumed their brisk walk.

It was several minutes before Tancred could bring himself to move again and, by the time he emerged on to the High Street, the two figures were nowhere to be seen. They had evidently taken the side street that led to the Academy.

Keeping close to the buildings, Tancred flew after them. He reached the square in front of the Academy just in time to see Norton climb the steps up to the school.

A cold shudder ran down Tancred’s spine. He had spent three years at the Academy and, in spite of the friends he had made, he had always been aware that at any moment old Ezekiel Bloor and the children he controlled might do something irrevocably evil. And then Dagbert-the-drowner had arrived, and the evil had finally shown its hand. Dagbert thought he had drowned Tancred Torsson; indeed, if it hadn’t been for the cats’ miraculous powers, Tancred would be dead.

He watched Norton climb to the top step, then turn and look back at the fountain in the centre of the square. A circle of swans, their beaks upraised, blew silvery streams into the lamplit air. Tancred pressed himself against a wall, where the light from the street lamps couldn’t reach him. Norton made an odd sign with his hand: a sort of thumbs up, with all his fingers. And then, before Tancred realised what was happening, Norton’s hand had twisted round so that his forefinger was now pointing straight at him. Tancred cursed himself for being such a fool. He had forgotten Norton’s companion.

The man now emerged from behind the fountain and advanced towards Tancred.

‘Who are ye? Give us thy name.’ The voice was deep and husky. ‘Speak!’

With his back to the wall Tancred shuffled sideways, attempting to slide back into the alley.

‘Stop!’ roared the man, and Tancred froze as, from beneath the folds of his cloak, the man drew out a gleaming sword. ‘Spy! Give thy name!’

Tancred found he couldn’t breathe; his legs felt so weak he feared they would give way at any moment. He tried to summon up a wind, to fill the air with hailstones, but in the stranger’s presence he could only muster up a damp breeze. The man was almost upon him, his sword slicing the air in shining arcs of light.

‘Must I die a second time?’ Tancred whispered dismally.

There would be no witnesses. The city seemed deserted, even the noise of traffic had died away; the only sound that Tancred could hear was a faint clattering, which he mistook for his own beating heart. But the clattering grew louder. And now the sound resembled hoofs cantering on stone, and then a voice cut through the night, ‘ASHKELAN!’

The swordsman whirled round and Tancred blinked in amazement as a knight on a white horse charged into the square. The knight was dressed from head to foot in glittering chain mail; he wore a helmet of polished metal with a plume of red feathers flowing from its crown, and a red cloak that billowed behind him like a sail. In his right hand he wielded a bright sword, the hilt encrusted with glittering jewels, and the shield that hung from his saddle was emblazoned with a burning sun.

‘You!’ grunted the man called Ashkelan; holding his sword aloft, he rushed at the knight.

With one blow of his own weapon the knight swept the sword from his assailant’s hand, and it rattled over the cobblestones. There was a scream of pain, followed by a roar of anger as the owner of the sword fell to the ground, clutching his arm.

A stream of mysterious and indecipherable words issued from the man as he reached for his sword. Tancred had been about to run from the scene but he stood rooted to the spot, scarcely able to believe his eyes. For all at once the fallen sword was in the air and flying towards the knight. Lifting his weapon, the knight parried the blow that would surely have severed his arm, but the enchanted sword came at him again, and again he fought off the blow. An extraordinary duel was taking place and, frightened as he was, Tancred could not bring himself to leave the square.

The knight and his mount seemed almost to be one, for the horse turned in a flash. It leapt high above the fountain and raced around the square, its hoofs moving in a cloud of sparks. The enchanted sword, now a flying streak of light, attacked the knight from every angle. How he managed to fight off such a battery of lightning blows, it was hard to comprehend. And then, at last, came the strike that might have finished him. It fell across his chest, slicing through the chain mail and drawing a deep grunt of pain from the knight. But with a mighty upward thrust he caught the enchanted sword and set it spinning into the sky.

Tancred didn’t wait for the sword to fall to earth. Astounded by what he had seen, he tore down the alley and on to the High Street. Fear and excitement caused great gusts of wind to whistle round his head; his hood blew back and the air above him fizzed with blue and white sparks. He reached Frog Street and ran towards the Pets’ Café, calling, ‘Mr Onimous, let me in!’

A tall man stepped out of the shadows and Tancred ran straight into him. With a moan of defeat the weather-boy closed his eyes and dropped to the ground.

Lord Grimwald arrives

Charlie Bone had been fast asleep. Now, suddenly, he was not. There were voices in the courtyard below. Charlie got out of bed, crossed the dormitory and looked out of the window. Two men were moving towards the main doors of the Academy. One Charlie recognised as Norton Cross, the doorman at the Pets’ Café. He was half-dragging, half-carrying a smaller person in a large hat with a drooping feather at the back.

‘Grief!’ muttered Charlie. He couldn’t see the face of the man beneath the hat, but he was groaning horribly. Charlie opened the window, just a crack, so that he could hear what was going on.

‘Ssssh!’ hissed Norton. ‘You’ll wake the whole school, sir.’

The two men climbed the steps to the main doors and Norton rang the bell. A moment later there was a loud rattle and one of the doors opened. Weedon the porter stood on the threshold. He was a bald, stocky man with a sour face.

‘I thought he wasn’t supposed to go out yet,’ said Weedon.

‘He wanted to see the city.’ Norton dragged his companion through the door.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Weedon, frowning at the sword that danced past him.

The door was closed before Charlie had a chance to hear Norton’s reply. But then his attention was drawn to a second arrival. Three women came through the arched entrance and crossed the courtyard. Grizelda Bone’s imposing beak of a nose led the way. Grizelda was Charlie’s grandmother. Her sisters, Eustacia and Venetia, came close on her heels. All three were tall and lean, their dark eyes small, their black brows thick and heavy. Grandma Bone’s hair was a startling white, Venetia’s black, Eustacia’s somewhere in between.

Charlie watched them climb the steps, his grandmother teetering very slightly in her high-heeled boots. As she rang the bell, Eustacia, for no good reason, suddenly looked up at the window where Charlie stood.

Charlie backed into the shadows. Eustacia boasted that she was clairvoyant, though Charlie was not entirely convinced. Her power could wax and wane. Tonight it appeared to be waxing.

To complicate matters the dormitory door was suddenly flung open and Charlie was caught in a strip of light from the passage. The matron, Grandma Bone’s third sister, Lucretia, stood silhouetted in the doorway. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’ she demanded.

‘Er, getting some air,’ Charlie said feebly.

‘Air? There’s enough air in here to fill the lungs of a thousand boys, let alone twelve.’

‘Is there?’ Charlie looked round at the eleven boys sleeping behind him. Not one had woken up, even though the matron had made no attempt to lower her voice.

‘Get back to bed!’

Without waiting for Charlie to obey, the matron closed the door. Her footsteps receded so fast Charlie imagined she must be running down the passage. In the two years he had been at the Academy he had never known his great-aunt Lucretia to run. Tonight she must either be escaping from something unpleasant, or she was late for a very important meeting.

And who would be holding a meeting at such a late hour? Only Ezekiel Bloor, Charlie decided. At a hundred and one years old, Ezekiel made no distinction between night and day. He spent his mornings dozing in his wheelchair and afternoons reading up on unpleasant spells. It was only at night that his malicious mind really came alive, and then woe betide anyone who didn’t fit in with his plans.

Charlie was about to close the window when a curious smell drifted up to him: a salty, seaweedy tang that left its taste on the tongue. It was horribly familiar. Looking down into the courtyard he wasn’t surprised to see a large figure appear in the archway. The man wore an oilskin coat and long fisherman’s boots. He moved over the cobblestones with an odd swaying stride, as though he were on the heaving deck of a ship.

Charlie raced back to his bed. Before he climbed into it, however, there was a husky whisper from the bed at the end of his row.

‘The window. Close the window.’

Charlie pulled the bedclothes over his head. He could hardly bear to look at Dagbert Endless, let alone talk to him. Dagbert kept protesting that Tancred’s near-drowning had been an accident. Even the headmaster believed his story. The school had been told that Tancred Torsson had accidentally slipped in the Sculpture room, and been drowned by water pouring from a broken tap. Charlie knew better. Dagbert was a drowner. He even boasted of his power. But neither he nor the Bloors were aware that Tancred had survived. Tancred’s friends intended to keep it that way.

‘The window. Close the window.’ This time the voice was louder. The seaweedy smell from outside mingled with the fishy stench that Dagbert sometimes gave off.

Charlie held his nose and lay still.

‘CLOSE THE WINDOW!’

The shout woke half the dormitory. Some of the boys yawned sleepily and turned over, but Bragger Braine, the bully of the second year, sat up and grunted, ‘Who said that?’

‘I did,’ Dagbert answered in an aggrieved tone. ‘Charlie opened the window and he won’t close it.’

‘Close the window, Charlie Bone,’ Bragger commanded.

His ardent follower, Rupert Small, echoed his words in a thin reedy voice. ‘Close the window, Charlie Bone.’

Charlie held his breath. He was determined not to obey Bragger Braine or his pathetic crony.

‘CLOSE THE WINDOW!’ shouted Dagbert.

This shout woke Fidelio Gunn in the bed next to Charlie. ‘Stop bellowing, Fish-boy!’ he cried, punching his pillow into shape. ‘Let normal people get some sleep.’

For a few seconds silence reigned. Charlie smiled to himself in the dark and whispered, ‘Well done, Fido!’

The whisper irritated Bragger. If his bed had been beside Charlie’s he would have thumped him. But they were half a dormitory apart and a day of thumping other people and starring on the football pitch had exhausted Bragger. He just wanted to go to sleep. The next time Dagbert repeated his demand, Bragger said, ‘Close it yourself, Fish-boy!’

Charlie waited for Dagbert to slip out of bed and close the window, but the fish-boy didn’t move. Soon the room was filled with the soft rhythmic breathing of heavy sleepers. Charlie turned over and closed his eyes.

Minutes passed. Try as he might, Charlie couldn’t sleep. A soft light insisted on creeping through his eyelids. He half-opened one eye. A bluish glow was spreading across the walls; a luminous rippling gleam, like the water in a swimming pool. Charlie screwed his eyes tight shut, trying to wish away the eerie light. This was what happened when Dagbert was nervous or excited. Perhaps he sensed Lord Grimwald’s arrival. Charlie knew that Dagbert was afraid of his father; they seldom saw each other, for Lord Grimwald rarely left his gloomy castle in the Northern Isles.

At the far end of Charlie’s row a bed creaked, and he heard quick footfalls on the bare floorboards. Someone slammed the window shut but no one woke up. Charlie curled himself up and began to drift into sleep. And then something heavy sank on to his bed, just below his knees, and a voice whispered, ‘Charlie, are you awake?’

No. I am asleep, Charlie told himself. He didn’t stir.

‘Charlie, wake up.’

He could have remained as he was, motionless, his eyes closed, but sudden anger made Charlie sit up and whisper harshly, ‘What is it?’

‘My father’s here,’ said Dagbert, his quiet voice husky and urgent. ‘I can smell him.’

‘And I can smell you,’ Charlie grunted. ‘Get off my bed.’

‘Charlie, I think I might need your help.’

‘What?’ Charlie exclaimed. ‘Me help you, after you drowned my friend?’

‘It was an accident.’ Dagbert’s whisper became a low whine. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Oh, you meant to, all right,’ Charlie growled. ‘Emma Tolly saw everything. Now get off my bed.’ He kicked Dagbert in the back.

Dagbert stood up, but he didn’t move from Charlie’s side. Charlie could see his rigid form silhouetted against the glimmering blue-green wall. At last a soft grumble of words came tumbling from Dagbert. ‘You know our secret, our family curse. You know that my destiny is to die in my thirteenth year – unless my father dies before me. It has to be one of us, and now he’s here, unexpectedly, in the night, and I am twelve, Charlie. So what’s going to happen? Find out for me, please. No one else is like you, Charlie. No one else would do it.’

‘Do it yourself,’ muttered Charlie. Turning his back on Dagbert, he wriggled under the bedclothes.

Seconds passed before Dagbert said dully, ‘I’m afraid.’

‘Too bad,’ Charlie replied.

‘But I want to know why my father’s here.’

‘Well, I don’t. Not interested.’ Charlie pulled the bedclothes over his head. He waited for Dagbert’s response, but none came. Before falling asleep, Charlie opened his eyes briefly and found that the dormitory was in darkness again. Hopefully Dagbert had gone back to bed.

Charlie hadn’t been quite truthful with Dagbert. He was interested in Lord Grimwald’s arrival. In fact, he was very curious about everything that he had seen from the window that night. He just wasn’t quite curious enough to risk being caught by some of the school’s unpleasant-looking visitors.

In a dark passage leading off the great hall, two highly polished ancient doors opened into a magnificent, but seldom used, ballroom. Tonight the ballroom had been filled with chairs, and Ezekiel Bloor’s visitors sat in rows beneath four glittering chandeliers. The brilliant light reflected in the crystals was rather disconcerting to some of Ezekiel’s unwholesome-looking guests. They were people who were happier in shadow: thieves, poisoners, fraudsters, kidnappers, swindlers and even murderers. Most of them lived in Piminy Street, a narrow road in the ancient part of the city. Once it had been inhabited by magicians, sorcerers, warlocks and the like. Indeed, among the villains seated in the ballroom that night, there were those who had inherited the talents of their notorious ancestors. Prominent among them was a clairvoyant named Dolores Slingshot, so named because of her deadly accuracy with a catapult. Dolores was eighty years old and wore a wig of claret-coloured ringlets.

In a corner at the back of the room stood a huge white cube. Even in a corner it seemed to dominate the room. Everyone who entered eyed the cube with surprise and curiosity. As well they might, for it was hard to understand how the great white square had managed to get itself down the narrow passage outside. In fact, it hadn’t. Weedon had been forced to open up the disused doors at the side of the ballroom and push the cube (with the help of four removal men) through the garden and into the room. The whole process had been extremely difficult and exhausting. Even Weedon didn’t know what lay beneath the cladding. The visitors wondered if they were about to find out.

The last person but two to arrive was a sickly-looking arsonist called Amos Byrne. When he had taken his place, Weedon closed the doors and all eyes turned to the stage.

The grand piano had been pushed to the back and in its place stood an oval table covered with a purple cloth. At one end of the table an ancient man in a wheelchair sat grinning at the audience. Ezekiel Bloor’s white, waxy hair framed a face so gaunt and bony it looked more like a skull than the face of a living person. Next to him, and not smiling at all, his great-grandson, Manfred, sat slightly turned from his neighbour, an ashen-faced woman with strands of grey hair and a nose as blue as a bruise.

At the other end of the table, the headmaster, Dr Harold Bloor, was in the middle of a long, extremely boring speech when another guest arrived. He was a well-muscled man wearing only a string vest and camouflage trousers. He took a chair at the back, twirled it in one hand and brought it to rest with a loud bang. The headmaster glared at the latecomer and then resumed his speech. It went on for another ten minutes before grinding to a halt, and those of the audience who hadn’t fallen asleep were able to applaud.

The applause didn’t go on for as long as the headmaster would have liked, however, because the doors suddenly crashed open and a strong salty smell wafted into the room, followed by a large man.

‘Lord Grimwald!’ Dr Bloor’s mouth hung open. ‘We didn’t expect . . . that is to say we hardly dared to hope that you would arrive today. As you see, your . . . your . . .’ he pointed to the cube.

‘Sea Globe.’ Lord Grimwald smiled at the cube with satisfaction. ‘Well, I’m here now, so get on with it.’ He swayed down the narrow aisle between the seats as though his legs were of different lengths. His crinkled grey hair was streaked with a seaweedy green and his eyes were an icy aquamarine. The strong, salty smell that accompanied him caused several people to sneeze and cough.

‘We have already covered several issues,’ said Dr Bloor, ‘but I have not yet introduced –’

‘Yes, yes. Go on.’ Lord Grimwald climbed the steps up to the stage and Manfred, leaping up, hastily pulled an extra chair between himself and his neighbour.

Lord Grimwald sat down heavily on the empty chair. ‘Grimwald,’ he said, extending his hand to the woman on his left.

She took the eel-like fingers with a barely concealed look of distaste. ‘Titania Tilpin,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘I am about to speak.’

Everyone in the room appeared to know Titania and wild applause broke out. She gave her audience a gratified smile and said, ‘I know what you are expecting and I shall not disappoint you.’

More applause. The headmaster frowned. He had not received such generous applause. ‘Allow Mrs Tilpin to speak,’ he said.

The woman smiled and drew from the folds of her sparkling black cloak a round mirror set in a jewelled frame. The mirror glass blazed so brilliantly some of the visitors had to cover their eyes. And then, with blissful sighs, the spellbound audience fell silent.

‘The Mirror of Amoret,’ announced Mrs Tilpin. ‘Most of my audience have seen it already, but for your benefit, Lord Grimwald, this mirror was made by the Red King for his daughter Amoret. It is nine hundred years old.’

‘And is an aid to travel,’ Lord Grimwald interrupted in a bored tone. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’

‘Much more than an aid,’ Mrs Tilpin said indignantly. ‘I have only just begun to understand its many properties. Formerly I have used it to bring my ancestor, the enchanter Count Harken, into the city. He was eventually driven back into his own world – I won’t go into detail – but I have hopes that he can return again. Now, I have something to show you all.’ She turned and, tossing back her sequinned cloak, held the mirror so that its radiant light was beamed on the wall behind her.

A glowing circle appeared on the wall. It grew to the size of a small table. And then, within the circle, the fuzzy contours of plants and trees appeared. As a green jungle came into focus, a boy could be seen, wandering through the trees with a tiger at his side. The boy had snow-white hair and thick-lensed spectacles. Unfortunately a jagged line ran diagonally across the scene, cutting it in two.

‘Your mirror is flawed,’ Lord Grimwald observed.

‘Charlie Bone did it,’ snapped Mrs Tilpin. ‘Infernal boy. I had a promise from Ezekiel here that he would help to mend it. But, so far, his promises have come to nothing.’

‘I am old, Titania,’ Ezekiel protested. ‘My magic is waning and I must conserve my strength. I told you to consult Dorcas Loom. She can do it, I am certain.’

‘It is of no consequence,’ Lord Grimwald said with a yawn. ‘We can see the boy well enough. Continue, Mrs Tilpin.’

‘Of no consequence!’ Mrs Tilpin glared at Lord Grimwald. She shook her shoulders like a hen ruffling her feathers and the black cape sparkled. ‘My mirror is of great consequence.’

‘Of course, of course, Titania,’ said the headmaster. ‘Tell us more – our audience is waiting.’

With a defiant look at Lord Grimwald, Mrs Tilpin pointed to the white-haired boy. ‘Billy Raven,’ she said, ‘and a tiger that is not a tiger – an illusion conjured up by the enchanter to entertain the boy.’

Ezekiel gave a sudden cackle. ‘How delicious to see the little wretch trapped in Badlock, never to return. Never to claim his inheritance. There’s a will, you see, my friends.’ He wheeled himself to the front of the stage and addressed the audience directly. ‘That’s where you come in. The document is signed by my great-grandfather, Septimus Bloor. It leaves all his land, his treasures and even this house, to his oldest daughter, Maybelle, and her heirs. Her only remaining descendant is Billy Raven,’ Ezekiel turned his chair and pointed to the wall, ‘still strolling through the enchanted jungle. Billy is unaware, you see, and only I know the truth because it was told to me by my great-aunt Beatrice, a witch, who poisoned Maybelle and forged a false will leaving everything to my side of the family. But the real will still exists.’ Ezekiel banged the arm of his wheelchair with surprising vigour. ‘And I believe that Lyell Bone, father of Charlie, has hidden it.’

At this point Manfred stood up and, leaning over the table, declared, ‘It must never be found by anyone outside this room. Do you understand?’

A low murmur broke out. There were enthusiastic nods and cries of, ‘Never!’ and ‘We’ll see to it!’

‘See to it you must,’ said Manfred, his dark, hypnotic gaze travelling over the assembled villains. ‘Find it you must. Destroy it we must. Lyell Bone is at sea, hopefully never to return.’ He glanced at Lord Grimwald. ‘But he might have passed a hint, a clue to his son Charlie. We will deal with the boy. You must find the will.’

‘Carefully, mind,’ said Dr Bloor. ‘Nothing violent. We don’t want to cause suspicion or alert the law. The Pets’ Café is a good place to start. Councillor Loom and Norton Cross,’ he looked at Norton in the front row and Norton gave a nod, ‘they have helped us to close the place. Once the owners are evicted you can search the café. There may be a tunnel that leads to the castle ruins. Find it! Investigate!’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Amos the arsonist.

‘And me,’ called the man in the string vest. ‘I’m very nimble, me.’

‘Don’t cause suspicion,’ warned Dr Bloor.

‘Rewards?’ piped up Dolores, tossing her red ringlets. ‘What do we get for helping you?’

‘Money,’ said Ezekiel. ‘Lots of it. What else would you want?’

‘Money’ll do,’ said Dolores. ‘Ten thousand if I find the will.’

Ezekiel scratched his long nose, wondering if he could eventually go back on his word. ‘Ten thousand,’ he agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

‘A thousand for trying!’ demanded a white-haired man in a purple suit; an illusionist by the name of Wilfred Coalpaw.

Dr Bloor shook his head. ‘Just for trying? It’s rather –’

‘Agreed!’ cried Ezekiel, who had decided that going back on his word wouldn’t be too difficult. ‘A thousand for each of you. There’ll be plenty to go round if we find where Septimus hid the rest of his treasure. You can go now.’ He waved his hand dismissively.

There was a great deal of scraping, stamping and shuffling as the audience rose from their seats and made for the door. A few of them cast curious glances at the white cube. A sound came from it. Waves perhaps. There was the faint rustle of a tide rolling on to a stony shore.

‘By the way,’ called Manfred, as though to distract them, ‘Ingledew’s Bookshop. Keep an eye on it. Get in there if you can. Old tomes make good hiding places.’

The guests murmured among themselves and left the room.

Six people remained sitting in the front row: Grizelda Bone and her three sisters on one side of the aisle, Norton Cross and the swordsman on the other.

‘Bring us some tea!’ Dr Bloor demanded when Weedon poked his head round the door.

‘And biscuits,’ added Ezekiel. ‘And cake!’

‘For all of you?’ asked Weedon, counting heads.

‘All,’ said Dr Bloor. ‘Eleven, to be precise.’

With a bad-tempered mutter, Weedon withdrew his head and closed the doors.

‘At last, the elite.’ Ezekiel beamed down at his six remaining guests. ‘Now we can discuss things more . . . comprehensively. Ashkelan Kapaldi, welcome!’

The swordsman stood and bowed deeply, first to the stage and then to Grandma Bone and her three sisters. He was a very colourful figure with his wide lace collar and emerald-green tunic, embroidered with gold. His cuffs were made of lace too, and his breeches were green velvet. Wide leather boots reached almost to his thighs, and a scarlet cummerbund encircled his waist. A broad leather belt hung diagonally across his chest from his shoulder to below his waist, and attached to this was a dark green scabbard.

‘In the seventeenth century,’ Ezekiel announced, ‘Ashkelan Kapaldi was the greatest swordsman in Europe.’

‘Swordsman?’ questioned Grandma Bone.

‘Seventeenth . . .?’ murmured her sister Eustacia.

‘I did it,’ said Mrs Tilpin. ‘That is to say, I did it with the help of the mirror and my son Joshua, who is endowed with magnetism. Together,’ she made a small circular motion with her hand, ‘they drew Asheklan from his painting. And here he is . . . and his sword!’

At this Ashkelan withdrew his sword from its scabbard and sent it skimming towards the four sisters. They rose, as one, with loud shrieks and exclamations, and the sword came to a halt, swaying gently on its point. A deep scratch on the polished floor left no doubt as to the sword’s effectiveness.

‘Fear not, ladies,’ said Ashkelan as the sword swept back to him. ‘See, it is under my command.’ He grabbed the sword and limped closer to Ezekiel. ‘I have been told, good sire, that every endowed child in this part of the world is within these walls of a weekday.’

‘That is so,’ said Dr Bloor.

‘Not so,’ stated Ashkelan. ‘I can sense the endowed and I have seen one, not one hour since, in the very courtyard before your establishment. A boy of medium height; a creeping, prying, nasty boy. And he is protected, sir, by none other than the Red Knight.’

‘Red Knight,’ breathed Ezekiel, leaning towards Ashkelan. ‘A Red Knight, you say?’

‘Aye. His mount is a white mare,’ said the swordsman, ‘his cloak all red, the helmet’s plume a fluttering scarlet. And he wounded me, good sirs and ladies. He wounded me and I cannot let that pass.’

‘Of course not, sir!’ Ezekiel was now bent almost in half, his breath rattling in his chest. ‘Whoever this knight may be, we shall put an end to him.’

‘First the boy,’ said Manfred coldly. ‘We can’t have an endowed boy wandering the streets without our knowledge.’

A family tree

Tancred got to his feet. Had he known it was Charlie’s Uncle Paton standing there in the dark, he wouldn’t have taken fright. He brushed the knees of his jeans, feeling rather foolish. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said.

‘On the contrary, Tancred,’ Paton said in a low voice, ‘it is I who must apologise. My wretched affliction compels me to walk in the shadows. I’m afraid I’ve already distressed at least three other people tonight.’

‘There’s a man with a sword . . . a sword that . . .’ Tancred hesitated, unsure how to describe the scene that had so unnerved him.

‘I know, I saw him too,’ said Paton, ‘and the knight.’

‘I didn’t know where to go, what to –’

‘Come with me.’ Paton took Tancred’s arm and hurried him away from Frog Street. ‘I was on my way to the bookshop. We can discuss things there. Hurry! And tread softly if you can.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They walked together down the High Street, their footsteps light and brisk. Every so often Paton would stop and hold Tancred still so that he could listen for any following sounds. But there were none. And yet something accompanied them. A hoarse whisper seemed to echo down the street, a faint groan came from a shifting manhole cover, and there was a soft whine in the air above them, either from overhead cables or TV aerials. And then there was the smell, strong and salty, that clung to their hair and faces.

‘The father of the boy who tried to drown you is here,’ murmured Paton.

‘I know. I can taste him,’ Tancred said.

They reached a row of ancient half-timbered buildings standing in the shadow of the great cathedral. Ingledew’s Bookshop was one of a dozen small, rather exclusive shops on a paved walk that ran beside the cathedral square. There was a lamp post standing immediately outside the window, but the lamp at the top was unlit. The council had given up replacing the bulb as it exploded so frequently. The councillors were all aware of Paton Yewbeam’s unfortunate talent, and guessed that he was responsible for the power surges. But none of them could bring themselves to mention it, for fear of being ridiculed. They pretended to believe that the constant shattering of glass was caused by hooligans.

Soft candlelight illuminated the bookshop window, where large, leather-bound books lay on folded velvet. Paton rang the bell and a tall woman appeared so quickly behind the glass in the door it seemed likely that she had been waiting for him. She withdrew the bolts, unlocked the door and opened it, saying, ‘Paton, come in.’

There was tenderness in the woman’s voice, and the sort of intimacy that made Tancred feel a little uncomfortable. And then she saw him and uttered a little gasp of surprise.

‘Julia, it’s Tancred,’ Paton reassured her. ‘I thought it best to bring him here.’

‘Sorry, Miss Ingledew,’ Tancred mumbled. ‘Hope I’m not intruding.’

‘Of course not.’ She gave him a warm smile and walked down the three steps into her shop.

Tancred followed her while Paton locked and bolted the door again. Miss Ingledew led the way round the shop counter, where three candles in bronze saucers burned with a sudden brightness as the visitors stirred the air.

Behind the counter, a thick velvet curtain hid Miss Ingledew’s cosy sitting room. Here, a log fire burned in the grate, and shelves of books lined the walls right up to the ceiling. Tancred was surprised to see Miss Ingledew’s niece, Emma, kneeling before the fire. She had her back to him, while she brushed her pale gold hair over her head. Tancred gave a polite cough and said, ‘Em?’

The girl tossed back her long hair and stared at Tancred, her cheeks reddening.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’ve . . . erm . . . got a cold, or a sore throat that might soon be a cold. So I didn’t go back to school.’

‘Me neither.’ Tancred grinned.

‘Well, you can’t go back, can you?’ Emma wrapped a hank of hair around her hand. ‘I mean you can’t ever, now they think you’re dead.’

Paton and Miss Ingledew had disappeared through the door into the kitchen, and the clink of crockery could be heard above the low murmur of their voices.

Tancred eased himself on to the sofa behind Emma. ‘I suppose I could turn up and give everyone a fright,’ he said.

‘Not a good idea.’ Emma came to sit beside him, and he noticed that her hair was still damp. It was very fine, silky hair and he had a sudden urge to touch it. This thought made him blush for some reason, and he stared into the flames, not quite knowing how to continue the conversation.

Miss Ingledew saved him the trouble by carrying a tray of tea into the room. She set it down on her desk, every other available surface having been taken over by books and candlesticks.

‘I’ve told Julia about the things you saw tonight.’ Paton handed Tancred a mug of tea.

‘Thanks, Mr Yewbeam!’ Tancred clutched the warm mug. ‘But you saw them too,’ he added anxiously. ‘You know I didn’t imagine it.’

‘What did you see?’ Emma demanded as she reached for her tea. ‘What’s been going on?’ She turned to Tancred. ‘And, come to that, why are you here, in the middle of the night?’

Tancred explained that he had come to warn the Onimouses that Norton Cross, their doorman, could no longer be trusted. He went on to describe the extraordinary events that had followed: the foreign swordsman who seemed to have stepped from the past, the sword that fought on its own and the mounted knight in his scarlet cloak. ‘If the knight hadn’t turned up, I’d have been done for,’ Tancred finished dramatically.

Emma’s grey eyes widened. ‘Oh, Tancred!’

Tancred glanced at her anxious face and smiled. ‘Funny thing is, I recognised the swordsman. I’m sure I’ve seen him in the school – in a painting, that is.’

‘You have.’ Paton lowered himself into an armchair by the fire. ‘I saw him once, and have never forgotten it. He is one of Mrs Tilpin’s forbears. I imagine it was she who brought the man into our world.’

‘With the help of a mirror that does not belong to her, no doubt,’ Miss Ingledew remarked crisply.

‘Charlie’s mirror?’ said Emma.

‘Indeed.’ Paton’s dark eyes glinted. ‘The Mirror of Amoret.’

‘But who is this mysterious swordsman?’ begged Emma.

‘Ashkelan Kapaldi,’ Paton told her. ‘A swordsman of renown, and a magician of sorts. Though, as far as I can tell, it was only his sword that he could bend to his will, and set to killing, all on its own. He was active during the English civil war. How do I know this?’ He waved a hand at a bookcase in the corner. It contained ancient, dusty books bound in peeling leather, their yellowed leaves covered in mysterious, faded writing. Tancred had taken a look at one of them, and understood hardly a word.

‘He seemed to recognise me,’ Tancred said thoughtfully, ‘that swordsman. I felt that he knew I was endowed.’

‘It’s something we have in common,’ Paton remarked. ‘I can often recognise one of the Red King’s descendants. Most of us have a way of knowing each other. Isn’t it the same for you, Tancred?’

Tancred wasn’t sure. He certainly wouldn’t have known that pretty Miss Chrystal, the former music teacher, was, in fact, a witch of the very darkest nature. He slowly shook his head. ‘I didn’t know Mrs Tilpin.’

‘No,’ Paton agreed. ‘She was a tricky one.’

Emma slipped off the sofa and knelt in front of the fire again, flicking out strands of her damp hair. ‘Why has it all got so ominous?’ She looked at Paton, as though he must hold the answer.

Paton was in no hurry to reply. He sipped his tea and then stared into his mug, apparently having forgotten Emma’s question. He hadn’t forgotten, however. ‘Convergence,’ he said at last. ‘Two things have occurred in these last few months. Charlie’s father has reappeared and Titania Tilpin has become the witch she was destined to be. I believe she is the conduit – the channel, if you like – between the present and the distant past; the world of her ancestor, Count Harken of Badlock. And it is Titania who is drawing Harken’s minions back into our city. Some of them are present-day villains, descendants of Harken, others are, for now, mere shadows; whispers, rustlings, echoes. But if Titania and Harken have their way, these shadowy phantoms will soon take on form and substance and then our lives, if we manage to hold on to them, will be changed forever.’

Paton’s dreadful prophecy shocked everyone into a long silence. Eventually Emma, scrambling on to the sofa again, said shakily, ‘Billy Raven is there, in Harken’s world, so Charlie says.’

‘I’m sure it’s true,’ Paton said. ‘And I’m equally sure that Charlie will try to rescue him.’

‘And what about Charlie’s father?’ asked Tancred.

‘Ah, Lyell.’ Paton’s frown lifted and he actually managed to smile. ‘My recent travels have borne fruit. It’s quite incredible what you can turn up these days.’

Tancred and Emma stared at Paton, uncomprehending.

On the other side of the fireplace, Miss Ingledew pulled herself from the depths of a battered armchair, and gave a light, ringing laugh. ‘Paton,’ she cried, ‘they haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

Paton cleared his throat. ‘I’ll explain,’ he said. And he told them of his search for a certain pearl-inlaid box that Billy Raven’s father, Rufus, had entrusted to Lyell Bone. Soon after this, Rufus and his wife were both dead, victims of a supposed traffic accident, and Lyell began ten long years of spellbound forgetfulness, a trance-like state brought about by Manfred Bloor’s dreadful hypnotic power.

Paton’s deep voice shook with emotion when he spoke of Lyell and Rufus, but his tone became firmer when he described his growing suspicion that Billy Raven was closely connected to these vile crimes. Why, for instance, did Ezekiel Bloor keep the orphan Billy almost a prisoner in the school? And then allow him to be dragged into the past by the enchanter of Badlock?

‘I don’t have an answer either,’ said Paton, looking at the bemused expressions around him.

‘So how d’you know about the box?’ Tancred ventured.

‘Ah, the box. I was coming to that.’ Paton stood up and began to pace the room. ‘My suspicions led me to search for any of Billy’s remaining relatives. I discovered the aunt who cared for him after his parents’ deaths, but she would tell me nothing. It was only by chance that she mentioned a certain Timothy Raven, Billy’s great-uncle. I could see that she instantly regretted it, and she wouldn’t tell me where he lived. I had to discover that for myself. I now know that she was on Ezekiel’s payroll. She didn’t even tell me that her own mother was still alive. It was Timothy who told me that. I found him in Aberdeen. He was ailing when I met him and has since died, but he was able to give me an old address of Billy’s great-grandmother. And I found her.’

Paton’s audience waited breathlessly for his next revelation. He smiled at them with satisfaction and announced, ‘Her name is Sally Raven and she lives in a care home on the north-east coast. It seems she had become estranged from her daughter and knew nothing of Billy’s fate after his parents had died. But she told me about the box, Maybelle’s box she called it, with its beautiful pattern of inlaid mother-of-pearl. It was given to her by her husband’s aunt Evangeline, and Sally gave it to her grandson, Rufus, on his wedding day.’

Emma uttered a quiet, ‘Ah!’ She had been thinking of weddings lately. She looked at her aunt, who smiled.

‘The key was lost,’ Paton continued, rather hurriedly. ‘And there was no way of opening the box. It was just a very beautiful object, Sally said. But in her heart she knew it contained something special because there were others, on the Bloor side of the family, who desperately wanted it.’

‘The Bloors?’ said Tancred and Emma.

‘Just so,’ replied Paton. He turned to Miss Ingledew. ‘Shall we show them?’

‘I think we had better.’ Miss Ingledew went to her desk and unlocked a small drawer at the top. She withdrew a folded piece of paper and carried it over to Tancred. ‘Open it out,’ she said. ‘I call it the Raven Tree.’

Tancred unfolded the paper on his knees, where Emma could see it.

‘A family tree!’ Emma exclaimed.

‘Sally Raven is an extraordinary woman,’ Paton told them. ‘She has a case full of photos, letters and cards from her family and her husband’s. She was able to help me draw up a family tree that goes right back to Septimus Bloor, old Ezekiel’s great-grandfather.’

‘So Billy is related to Ezekiel?’ said Tancred with a frown.

‘Distantly,’ Paton agreed. ‘Billy is descended from Maybelle, who married a Raven. Ezekiel is descended from Maybelle’s brother, Bertram, who inherited Septimus’s fabulous wealth. But Sally believes that Septimus left his fortune to Maybelle and her heirs. And his original and true will is hidden in that beautiful box. The box she gave to Rufus. The box she believes Rufus entrusted to his dearest friend. And he was Lyell Bone.’

Tancred gave a low whistle. ‘What a tangle.’ He was about to hand back the family tree when Emma restrained him. She was scrutinising the paper intently.

‘There’s a line that goes nowhere,’ she said, pointing to a name on the far left side of the tree. ‘N-I-A-something, and then Ita, and then Eamon.’

‘Irish,’ said Paton. ‘I intend to follow it up, but it may be impossible. Sally told me that her husband had a half-sister who lived in Ireland with her grandparents. Her mother died when she was born. But we’re only interested in the line that ends with Billy. If Sally is right then Billy Raven is the heir to Septimus Bloor’s fortune.’

Tancred rolled his eyes. ‘No wonder they want to get rid of him. Does Charlie know about this, Mr Yewbeam?’

Paton nodded. ‘I managed to fill him in before he left for school on Monday.’

The telephone on Miss Ingledew’s desk suddenly gave a sharp ring, and everyone jumped. Miss Ingledew picked up the receiver. The voice at the other end could be heard quite clearly and Tancred leapt off the sofa, crying, ‘It’s Dad. Oh no, I forgot to ring him.’

Miss Ingledew had to hold the receiver well away from her ear as Mr Torsson’s voice thundered into the room, sending pens and papers flying off her desk. Paton took the receiver from her and shouted, ‘Torsson!’ into the phone. ‘Tancred’s here, as you no doubt suspected. He’s quite safe, but he’d better spend the night in the bookshop. There’s a lot going on. We’ll talk about it later.’

Mr Torsson’s reply was loud but reasonable. He’d managed to get his thunder under control. Tancred took over from Paton and told his father he would be home in the morning. He replaced the receiver with a sigh of exhaustion.

‘It’s all right to stay the night, is it?’ he asked Miss Ingledew, darting a look at Emma.

‘We’ll make up a bed on the sofa,’ Miss Ingledew said with a smile.

Paton decided it was time for him to leave. He wished everyone a good night and reminded Miss Ingledew to lock and bolt the door as soon as he had left. He waited outside the shop while she did this, and then she waved at him through the glass in the door, and he set off.

When he left Cathedral Square, he heard a low muttering of voices that grew louder as he approached the turn to Piminy Street. A group of people were coming up the road towards him. They were an odd bunch, with their heavy topcoats, their furs and their leathers and strangely dated hats. One of them wore a string vest. Paton retreated a few steps and slid into the shadows behind a narrow porch. He watched as they all turned into Piminy Street. There must have been at least a dozen of them. When they had passed the first few houses, Paton felt confident enough to step quietly into the street, but one of the group turned suddenly and stared at him, her eyes glinting in the dark; she was very small, her face ancient in the lamplight, her hair a deep red. Paton averted his eyes and hurried on.

Not for the first time he wished that Julia Ingledew didn’t live so close to Piminy Street. ‘On the doorstep of another world,’ he said to himself as he walked briskly through the city, avoiding lamp posts where he could. The salty tang on his lips reminded him that Lord Grimwald was in the city once again. At Ezekiel’s invitation, no doubt. And Paton thought of Lyell Bone, out on the wild ocean.

As Paton strode down Filbert Street, a black car rolled past him and stopped outside number nine. Grizelda Bone got out of the car and climbed the steps to the door.

‘I’ll wager she’s up to her neck in all this skulduggery,’ Paton said to himself.

Gabriel’s secret

Gabriel Silk had a secret. He wanted to tell Charlie about it, but there was never an opportunity. They were in different dormitories now, and different classes. The canteen was too public, and out in the grounds they were never alone. There might, however, be a chance when Charlie was on his way to a music lesson.

Gabriel had been waiting in the corridor of portraits, hoping to waylay Charlie as he crossed the hall. He had intended to stand just inside the corridor, but found himself wandering further down, studying the portraits on the wall. He passed them every day but had never really studied them. The subjects were mostly stern-looking men and women, though occasionally you could find a smiling person. If you knew your history well enough, you could tell by their clothes what century they had lived in. Gabriel had been told that every one of them was descended from the Red King. There was even a Silvio Silk, in a black velvet suit and a white curled wig. He might have been Gabriel’s ancestor, but he bore no resemblance to him.

If Gabriel wore someone else’s clothes, he immediately knew what sort of person had worn them before. He could sometimes picture them, see what they had done and even hear their voices. But portraits could tell him nothing. ‘If I was Charlie, I could go right in and talk to you,’ Gabriel whispered to Silvio Silk. ‘And you could talk to me.’

Silvio Silk didn’t bat an eyelid. He wore the same resigned expression that he had worn when the artist painted him, two hundred years before.

Gabriel wandered further down the corridor. He passed men in sober black suits, in rich red jackets and glittering gold waistcoats; he passed women whose necks were hung with diamonds and pearls, whose hair was garlanded with flowers, and whose shoulders were draped in velvet and fur. And then he stopped before a full-length portrait of a cavalier. Gabriel’s eye was drawn to the sword at the man’s side. It had a delicately wrought golden hilt, and the man’s gloved fingers rested on it almost lovingly. As Gabriel stared at the intricate gold curves they glinted suddenly, as though the sun had caught them. And then Gabriel found his gaze lifting to the face above the wide lace collar. The man had shoulder-length black hair, and between the black moustache and pointed beard, the fleshy lips had an unpleasant grin.

Gabriel stepped back to get a better view, and now he noticed that the eyes seemed wrong. There was no light in them. It was as if the man’s spirit had left the painted face.

A cold shudder ran down Gabriel’s spine. It was dark in the passage. There were no lights, no sunlit windows. Had he imagined the sudden bright glint on the gold sword-hilt? Was the lack of light in the man’s eyes or merely Gabriel’s own shadow? No. There was something different about this painting. The name on the bronze plaque at the base of the frame read Ashkelan Kapaldi. The plaque had come loose, it hung at an angle and there were fingerprints on the shiny surface of the paint. Someone had touched the portrait very recently; pressed and prodded it repeatedly.

‘Gabriel Silk, what are you doing?’ Manfred’s voice came ringing down the corridor of portraits.

Gabriel turned guiltily, although, as far as he knew, he had nothing to feel guilty about. He must make sure that Manfred didn’t guess what was on his mind. The Talents Master had been using hypnotism a great deal recently.

‘What are you doing here?’ Manfred came up to Gabriel and stared at him.

‘Nothing, sir.’ Gabriel looked away from the narrow black eyes. Beneath his black cape, Manfred was wearing a bright green waistcoat. Surprising for one who was usually so soberly dressed.

‘Nothing?’ The Talents Master glared at Gabriel, forcing him to look up. ‘Nothing?’

Gabriel felt dizzy. ‘Going to a music lesson, sir,’ he said faintly.

‘Go then! And stop hanging about!’

Gabriel was about to turn away when he saw two figures coming down the corridor behind Manfred. One of them was limping, the other lurching. Gabriel’s eyes widened in surprise, for the limping man bore a strong resemblance to the man in the portrait: Ashkelan Kapaldi.

The surprise in Gabriel’s eyes caused Manfred to whirl round. ‘Go!’ he shouted at Gabriel. ‘This instant!’

Gabriel walked away quickly, but not so quickly that he didn’t hear the Talents Master say, ‘It’s not wise, sir, for you to leave the west wing during the day. Pupils will recognise you . . . and wonder.’

‘Let them wonder.’ The stranger’s voice had a foreign lilt. ‘Let them be amazed . . .’

‘It’s not the time, Ashkelan.’ This second voice had a cavernous, echoing sound. Something in the ebb and flow of it reminded Gabriel of Dagbert Endless. He hastened into the hall, which was full of children on their way to different classrooms. Occasionally someone would whisper to a companion, while glancing anxiously about in case a prefect was watching. Silence in the hall was the rule.

Gabriel spotted Charlie’s wild mop of hair. He wore a slight frown and his thoughts were obviously miles away. Gabriel waved, trying to get Charlie’s attention, but Charlie didn’t see him. And then Dagbert Endless walked between them. He followed Charlie doggedly across the hall and into the passage that led to Señor Alvaro’s music room. Gabriel pursued them.

Safely out of the hall, Gabriel called, ‘Charlie!’

Dagbert swung round and snapped, ‘What do you want?’

Gabriel was momentarily taken aback by Dagbert’s sharp tone. ‘I want to speak to Charlie,’ he said.

‘Hi, Gabe!’ Charlie had noticed Gabriel at last. ‘What is it?’

Gabriel saw that Dagbert wasn’t going to leave them. ‘It’s nothing,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll catch you later.’

Charlie watched Gabriel slouch away, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets. Obviously he didn’t want Dagbert to hear what he had to tell Charlie.

‘Why d’you keep following me?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Shouldn’t you be in a lesson?’

Dagbert shrugged. ‘I’ve lost my flute. I thought Señor Alvaro might have it.’

‘Why? Mr Paltry teaches flute.’ Charlie walked faster, trying to shake Dagbert off.

Dagbert caught up with him. ‘OK. The truth is . . . my father’s here.’

‘I know,’ said Charlie irritably. ‘We’ve been through that. What d’you want me to do about it?’

‘I want you to keep my sea-gold creatures for a while.’

‘What?’ Charlie stopped dead in his tracks. He could hardly believe his ears. ‘Are you seriously asking me to keep something that you almost k–’ he quickly corrected himself, ‘something that you drowned Tancred for taking?’

‘I’ve told you,’ Dagbert said desperately. ‘I didn’t mean to drown him. It was an accident.’ He dug into his pocket and brought out a handful of tiny charms: five golden crabs, a fish and a miniature sea urchin. ‘Please, keep them safe for me.’ He held the charms out to Charlie. ‘My father’s looking for them.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t explain right now.’ Dagbert pushed the charms at Charlie.

Charlie stepped back. ‘Why me?’

‘You’re the only person I can trust.’

Charlie found this hard to believe. ‘What about your friends: Joshua, Dorcas, the twins? What about Manfred?’

Dagbert shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, no.’ He grabbed Charlie’s wrist and attempted to press the charms into his hand. ‘Please!’

‘No.’ Charlie snatched his hand away and the sea-gold creatures spilled on to the floor. The sea urchin rolled towards Señor Alvaro’s door which, at that very instant, began to open.

Señor Alvaro stood in the doorway regarding the sea urchin at his feet. He gave it a small kick.

‘No!’ Dagbert pounced on the charm as it rolled across the floor. ‘You could have broken it.’ He hastily gathered up the five crabs and the golden fish as well and shoved them into his pocket.

‘What’s going on?’ Señor Alvaro frowned at the wall behind the boys. It was now a rippling bluish-green; silvery bubbles rose from a shell that floated just behind Charlie’s ear, and fronds of seaweed waved gently from the skirting board.

Charlie glanced at the scowling Dagbert. ‘It’s what happens, sir,’ he told the music teacher. ‘He can’t help it.’

‘Can’t help it?’ Señor Alvaro raised a neat black eyebrow. He was young for a teacher and his clothes were always interesting and colourful. He had permanently smiling brown eyes, a sharp nose and shiny black hair. He didn’t appear to be too surprised by the watery shapes on the wall.

As Dagbert shuffled away, the weeds and shells and bubbles gradually faded, and the wall took on its usual greyish colour.

‘Come in, Charlie,’ said Señor Alvaro.

Charlie always enjoyed his music lessons now. He knew he wasn’t talented but Señor Alvaro had convinced him that music could be fun, as long as you blew with conviction and hit the right notes, more or less. Charlie had even managed half an hour’s practice the previous evening, and Señor Alvaro was pleasantly surprised.

‘Excellente, Charlie!’ The music teacher’s Spanish accent was soft and compelling. ‘I am astounded by your improvement. A little more practice and that piece will be perfect.’

The lesson was at an end but Charlie was reluctant to leave. Señor Alvaro was one of the few teachers at Bloor’s whom Charlie felt he could trust. He had an overwhelming urge to confide in him.

‘Do you understand about Dagbert?’ he asked as he put his trumpet in its case.

‘I know about the boy’s father, if that’s what you mean, Charlie. I’m aware of the curse placed upon the Grimwald dynasty and I know that Dagbert believes the charms his mother made can protect him.’ Señor Alvaro’s tone was very matter-of-fact. Charlie was surprised he knew so much.

‘Do you know about . . . about . . . my talent?’ Charlie was unsure of putting this question and found himself stuttering.

‘Of course!’ Señor Alvaro gave one of his heartwarming smiles. ‘I’ll see you on Friday, Charlie. Usual time.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Charlie left the room.

When he closed Señor Alvaro’s door he felt slightly dizzy. Perhaps it was the darkness of the passage, coming so soon after the bright lights in the music room. He closed his eyes for a moment and a rushing, foggy grey seeped behind his lids; it was the sea, and in the churning grey waves there was a small boat bobbing among the foam. Charlie saw this boat in his mind’s eye whenever he thought of his parents, somewhere on the ocean, watching whales. But today he could just make out a name on the side of the boat: Greywing.

Charlie opened his eyes. Why had the name come to him so suddenly? Did anyone else know about it? His grandmother Maisie? Uncle Paton? The company that arranged his parents’ whale-watching holiday?

‘Charlie!’

Gabriel came running down the passage just as the bell went for lunch. ‘Can we talk outside, Charlie, after lunch?’

‘Why not now?’ asked Charlie.

‘I can’t explain. It’s too complicated,’ said Gabriel.

‘Give us a clue!’

‘It’s about the Red Knight.’

‘Now I’m really interested.’ Charlie hurried into the hall where the usual crowd of children were rushing to their cloakrooms: blue for music students, purple for the actors and green for the artists. Gabriel hovered beside Charlie while he washed his hands and then they walked together across the hall and down the corridor of portraits towards the blue canteen. As they passed Ashkelan Kapaldi, Gabriel nodded at the portrait and whispered, ‘I saw him today.’

‘I think I saw him last night,’ Charlie whispered back.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’

Charlie shrugged.

Fidelio had kept two places for them at a corner table. While they ate their macaroni cheese, Charlie bent close to his friend and, as quietly as he could, described the swordsman both he and Gabriel had seen outside his portrait.

‘I wouldn’t be in your shoes,’ Fidelio remarked with a grin.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Gabriel asked in an offended tone. ‘This man isn’t after me and Charlie particularly.’

‘Sorry.’ Fidelio often forgot how touchy Gabriel Silk could be. ‘But you’re both endowed, Gabe. These weirdos are always after you lot; by and large they leave normal people like me alone.’

Gabriel had to admit that this was true. He realised that he would have to take Fidelio into his confidence as well as Charlie. Best friends always stuck together during break.

After lunch the three boys jogged round the grounds. It was one of those dreary March days when the sky is a dark grey slab and the cold air sneaks into your very bones. Sixth-formers were allowed to stay indoors, but the rest of the school, almost three hundred children from eight years old to sixteen, were trying various ways to keep warm.

Some of the boys were playing a rather half-hearted game of football, others were being violently active in an athletic kind of way, and yet more were doing formal exercises, presided over by an enthusiastic outdoor type called Simon Hawke.

Most of the girls were walking around in pairs or large groups. Someone had put up an umbrella, even though the rain wasn’t more than a damp mist. It was a very bright umbrella, printed with red and yellow butterflies. The girl beneath it had almost white hair and wore a scarlet coat. She was holding her umbrella high enough to cover the head of a very tall African.

‘Is that Lysander?’ Gabriel pointed at the boy beneath the umbrella.

‘Must be,’ said Fidelio. ‘Who’s the girl?’

‘Never seen her before,’ said Charlie.

The girl turned towards them and Charlie recognised Olivia Vertigo. He had never seen her as a bleached blonde before. Her hair colour changed frequently from purple to green to indigo – she’d even gone stripy – but never white. He wondered why she and Lysander were together. They were both endowed, but they had little else in common. And then he remembered that their best friends were both missing. Lysander was seldom apart from Tancred Torsson, while Olivia and Emma were practically inseparable.

Charlie waved at Olivia and she leapt forward, catching Lysander’s head in her brolly. ‘Ow!’ he yelled. Olivia flapped her hand at him and came bouncing over the grass in her red fur-tipped boots. Lysander stood looking around for another companion for a moment but, finding none, he followed Olivia over to the group.

Gabriel groaned to himself. Now he would have to tell his story to four people instead of one. It was such a small incident, it might mean nothing or everything. He hadn’t wanted to broadcast it this way; in fact, he decided, he probably wouldn’t tell anyone at all, because what he had seen wasn’t that important. His mind had simply exaggerated its significance.

‘We’ve been talking about the Pets’ Café,’ said Olivia, obligingly closing her umbrella, ‘and you – know – who.’ She glanced at Lysander.

‘Shhh!’ Lysander looked over his shoulder as the Branko twins passed behind them.

The Branko twins were now lingering just within earshot. They had pale, impassive faces and the fringes of their shiny black hair touched the tips of their long thick eyelashes. The eyes beneath those lashes were dark and inscrutable. If the twins were to get the slightest hint that Tancred was still alive, they would pass the news straight to Manfred, and that would be a disaster. The Bloors would be furious that his survival had been kept a secret, and Dagbert might even make a second attempt on Tancred’s life.

‘Let’s move,’ Lysander suggested, nodding at an ancient wall standing at the top end of the grounds.

The massive red walls surrounded a castle built by the Red King nine centuries ago. It had been a vast and beautiful building but today it lay in ruins, its thick walls crumbling, its stone floors lined with moss and weeds, its roofs fallen and its once sturdy beams mildewed and rotting. But just inside the great arched entrance was a paved courtyard surrounded by thick hedges, and facing the entrance were five smaller arches, each one leading into the castle. Four were like the mouths of dark tunnels. Only one gave a view of the green hill beyond.

‘Smells a bit fusty in here,’ said Olivia. She planted herself on one of the stone benches placed between the arches.

The others squeezed in beside her, but Fidelio suddenly jumped up and ran to the entrance. He stood beneath the arch where he could get a good view of the rest of the school. ‘Don’t want any snoops,’ he said.

A low grunt came from beneath the bench beside them. Everyone stared at it until a grey paw emerged, followed by a long-nosed, overweight, short-legged dog.

‘Blessed!’ they cried.

Olivia held her nose. ‘I might have known.’

‘He can’t help being smelly,’ Gabriel reproved her.

‘He looks so sad,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sure he misses Billy.’

At the mention of Billy’s name, Blessed waddled over to Charlie, wagging his bald tail. Charlie stroked the dog’s rough head, saying, ‘Billy will come back, Blessed, I promise you.’

The dog grunted a couple of times and then waddled away through the arch.

‘How are you going to keep that promise, Charlie?’ said Gabriel. ‘Billy doesn’t even want to come back.’

‘He will.’ Charlie looked pointedly at Gabriel. ‘You wanted to tell me something, Gabe.’

Gabriel grimaced. ‘I said you, Charlie, not everyone.’

‘We’re not everyone, Gabe.’ Olivia dug her elbow into his side. ‘Or is it just very, very private?’

Gabriel shifted uneasily on the cold stone bench. ‘Not private exactly. I mean, I suppose it concerns you as much as anyone, being endowed.’

‘Come on, Gabe. I can’t bear the suspense,’ said Lysander.

Gabriel stared at his hands rather than meeting anyone’s eye. ‘It’s about the Red Knight,’ he muttered.

No one spoke. It was as if Gabriel had dropped a spell into the chilly air. He looked up and saw that they were taking him very seriously.

‘What about him?’ asked Charlie with a catch in his voice.

‘I think you’re the only one who’s seen him,’ said Gabriel, playing for time.

‘I’ve seen him,’ Olivia said quietly.

‘Oh, yes. I forgot.’ Gabriel had seldom seen such an earnest expression on Olivia’s face. It was encouraging. ‘As you know,’ he continued, ‘my family inherited the Red King’s cloak. It was kept in a chest under my parents’ bed and, as I told you before, the cloak disappeared just before the knight was seen.’

Charlie nodded. ‘He was on the iron bridge, and he saved Liv and me from drowning. He’s saved my life twice now.’

‘The cloak was billowing all around him, like a great red cloud,’ Olivia said, elegantly demonstrating with her arms, ‘but we couldn’t see his face because of the helmet and the visor. We thought it might be the Red King himself, or his ghost.’

‘No,’ said Gabriel. ‘It wasn’t. I’ve thought and thought about it. I’ve gone over it in my mind, trying to remember every little detail –’

‘Buck up, Gabe,’ said Fidelio. ‘Some of the others are leaving the grounds. It’s nearly the end of break.’

Fidelio’s interruption flustered Gabriel. He frowned with concentration while the others waited for him to continue.

‘It was one morning,’ Gabriel began, ‘very early, still night really, because the moon was up. Something woke me, I don’t know what. I went to the window to see if a fox had crept in and got one of our chickens. And I saw this figure in our yard in the moonlight. He was wearing a navy duffel coat with the hood up, so I couldn’t see his face. The funny thing was my dad was down there, talking to him in a very low voice, almost whispering really. And then my dad handed the man a parcel. Quite a big parcel, tied up with string. And then the man left. He crossed our yard and when he reached the gate, he gave my dad a wave, and then he was gone. And the next day I found that the cloak had disappeared, and I thought it must have been the man in the duffel coat who took it. And if my dad gave it to him, he must have trusted him.’

‘Or he was under some kind of spell,’ muttered Charlie.

‘It might not have been the king’s cloak, Gabe,’ said Lysander, standing up and rubbing his cold bottom. ‘I mean, we know your dad writes thrillers. It could have been a manuscript or a load of books.’

Gabriel shook his head. ‘It was the cloak.’

‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Lysander.

‘Because the horse was there,’ said Gabriel, ‘the white mare: Queen Berenice. She was standing just beyond the hedge, waiting for the man, whoever he was.’

The others stared at him for a moment, and then Lysander said, ‘Come on, we’d better get going.’

They left the castle courtyard and began to run across the grass towards the school door. Just before they stepped into the hall, Charlie said, ‘Did you ask your dad about the stranger, Gabe?’

‘He told me I’d been dreaming,’ Gabriel said.

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