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

For Evelyn and Emyr Davies and their family.

First published in Great Britain 2008 by Egmont UK Limited

This edition published 2010

by Egmont UK Limited

239 Kensington High Street

London W8 6SA

Text copyright © 2008 Jenny Nimmo

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

ISBN 978 1 4052 4586 9

eISBN 978 1 7803 1208 8

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 package in the cellar

2. The melting dog

3. Squirra stew

4. Green vapour

5. The Pets’ Café is closed

6. The poisoned net

7. An evil wind

8. Destruction in The Kettle Shop

9. Purr spells

10. Mr Bittermouse

11. Tancred’s note

12. A drowning

13. Charlie is excluded

14. The painting vanishes

15. The shadow’s palace

16. The spy

17. Travelling with the boa

18. A tiger without a heart

19. Lysander to the rescue

20. Amoret

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.

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 winds of Badlock were the cruellest in the world; they came from every quarter, screaming against the giant’s broad back, tearing his hair and lashing his eyes, so that he could barely open them. At every step great gusts swept around his long legs until, at length, he was forced on to his knees.

Behind the giant lay a vast plain of wind-torn scrub and ever-shifting stones. It had taken him and his child a night and a day to cover this inhospitable terrain. They had come from the range of snowcapped mountains that surrounded the plain like a massive wall.

The giant drew his cloak tight about the boy in his arms. They had been making for a little hollow, where a shelter of trees could be seen, and the gleam of water.

‘Forgive me, Roland,’ moaned the giant. ‘I can go no further.’

‘You are tired, Father,’ said the boy, twisting out of the giant’s arms. ‘If I walk you can move more easily.’

The giant marvelled at his little son’s spirit. It must come from the boy’s mother, he thought. It shamed him to see Roland still so unafraid after their long ordeal. Gathering his strength, the giant got to his feet again and battled forward, while his son staggered bravely at his side.

‘Look!’ Roland suddenly sang out. ‘I see a light in the hollow.’

‘The moon,’ murmured his father.

‘No, Father. A flame.’

The giant brushed a hand across his eyes and blinked. Yes, there was, indeed, a light flickering at the edge of the hollow. But how could he tell if it meant danger? They were unlikely to find help in such a godforsaken place.

All at once, Roland suddenly sprinted ahead. He had always been inclined to rush headlong into things that excited his curiosity.

‘Wait!’ called the giant.

But Roland, his arms wide as if embracing the wind, forged through the swirling gusts, whirled away towards the trees and disappeared from view.

When the giant arrived at the hollow, he found his son talking earnestly to a boy of about ten with startling snow-white hair. The stranger raised his rush-light the better to see the form that stood at the lip of the hollow, and the giant noted his large violet-coloured eyes. A goblin, thought the giant. What fairy tricks has he come to play on us?

‘Roland, come here,’ the giant commanded, stepping closer to the pair.

Of a sudden, as if from nowhere, another figure moved into the circle of light: a tall young man with raven hair and a cloak of some dark shiny stuff.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the dark young man. ‘White-haired Owain is no fairy. He has sought you for many months.’

‘For me?’ The giant’s eyes narrowed.

‘You are Otus Yewbeam?’ asked the boy.

‘That is my name.’

The boy made a deep bow. ‘I am so happy to find you, sir. No one could tell me where you had gone. It was an old woman in your village who, nearing the end of her life, overcame her fear of punishment, and told me that you and your son had been taken prisoner by a knight all in green.’

‘Count Harken.’ The giant gave a snort of loathing.

‘But you have escaped,’ said the dark youth.

‘We would have rescued you,’ said Owain, ‘however fiercely you had been guarded.’

Roland, who had been leaping up and down with excitement, could contain his news no longer and burst out, ‘Owain is my cousin, Father, and he,’ he pointed to the dark young man, ‘he is my uncle Tolemeo.’

The giant frowned. ‘Can this be true?’

Tolemeo said, ‘Let us go further into this hollow where we can speak more easily.’ For they had been shouting in sentences devoid of warmth or feeling, as the wind snatched their words and scattered them into the air.

Tolemeo led the way, followed by Owain, whose flaring torch caused Tolemeo’s cloak to sparkle with ever-changing colours, from vivid blue to green to deepest purple.

He is wearing feathers, thought the giant, and a small thread of unease ran through him. Yet I must not expect them to be ordinary, he told himself, for they are the Red King’s children and my own dear wife, Amoret, was a child of the magician-king.

They reached a cluster of rocks at the bottom of the hollow and, easing himself on to a wide slab, the giant asked, ‘Have you news of my wife?’

He did not get an immediate answer. Owain looked at the ground. The white-haired boy seemed, all at once, nervous and uncertain.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Tolemeo, ‘but you are not my idea of a giant.’

‘No,’ said Owain, with an edgy laugh. ‘I always imagined a giant’s head to be swallowed by the clouds.’

Otus smiled indulgently. ‘I am not a true giant, though I come from a race of giants. My father stood two fathoms high. I am only two-thirds his height. My brothers are even smaller. Perhaps our descendants will be a more manageable size.’ He glanced at Roland and then said urgently, ‘But please, have you news of my wife?’

Tolemeo lowered his gaze. His slight uncomfortable shrug caused the giant’s heart to miss a beat.

‘Tell me, please,’ cried Otus, ‘even if it is the worst a man can expect.’

‘Your wife went to her brother Amadis . . .’ Tolemeo began.

‘Yes, yes,’ broke in the giant. ‘We heard that Count Harken was on his way. I thought she would be safe with Amadis. She had a mirror, made by her father, the king, and she used it – for travelling.’ Otus looked into the faces that stared up at him. They didn’t seem surprised. ‘You know of the mirror?’

‘We do,’ Tolemeo affirmed. ‘And we know that it is what Harken craves.’

The giant’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. ‘Count Harken may be an enchanter but he craves everything the king, your father, ever made or owned. They surrounded our house, Harken and his army of trolls and thugs. Amoret tried to take our baby with her, she thought the mirror would transport them both but, somehow, it would not work for Roland. He fell into my arms just as his mother vanished. Minutes later, Harken broken into the house and captured us. They brought us here to Badlock and for two years we have been imprisoned in one of his many towers. Three days ago I kicked out at the wretched troll who brought our food and while he was still reeling from the pain of my boot, clever Roland pushed him into a cupboard and locked the door.’

‘And then I untied my father’s bonds,’ said Roland. ‘They didn’t know I had grown so strong, or they would have chained me to the wall, like my poor father.’

The giant lifted his son into his arms. ‘We have been travelling ever since, but with these accursed winds it is hard to make progress. If we can reach the coast and get a boat, we’ll find my wife no matter what. I’ve heard her brother, Amadis, has a fine castle, on an island in the western sea.’

The silence that greeted this remark was so profound it seemed like a dark chasm where the giant’s mind refused to go.

‘Tell me,’ he whispered.

‘Your wife is dead,’ said Tolemeo steadily. ‘Owain will tell you the rest, for he was there.’

Roland buried his head in his father’s neck, his shoulders heaving with quiet sobs. I have known this all along, thought Otus. How could I have hoped to avoid the truth? ‘Tell me,’ he said.

Owain slipped off his rocky perch and passed the torch to Tolemeo. Then, clasping his hands together, he looked steadily into the giant’s face and began, ‘It was my own uncle, your wife’s older brother Borlath. You must know that he is one of Harken’s allies. He found my father’s island and the castle he had built. The loveliest castle in all the world, they said. Borlath wanted it. He brought an army of mercenaries and tried to starve us out, but my father, who could speak with animals, called to the wolves, the bats, the birds and the rats. The rats were especially useful, they ate all Borlath’s supplies. When winter came the mercenaries grew sullen, they wanted to leave, and that’s when Borlath used his awful power. I saw it myself from the battlements; fire came from his hands, flames from every finger.’ Owain held up his hands, his fingers spread wide. ‘In a second a ring of fire had encircled us. My father lifted me down. “Run, Owain,” he cried. “Run to the well as fast as you can, and don’t come out until I tell you.” So I ran. And as I went I looked up and a bright mirror came flying over my head, and I caught it, and far, far away, I heard Amoret call out, “Give the mirror to my son.” And I went down the well, and my raven came with me. He was my friend, you see, and I talk his language.

‘From the depths of the well we listened, Raven and me. We listened to screams, to roaring flames, to beams tearing and crashing, to moans and cries and boulders falling. And I smelt fire, and worse than fire.’ Owain lifted his glistening eyes to the sky and his chest rose and fell, as though he were fighting for breath. Tolemeo put a hand on his shoulder, and the boy continued, ‘And then it was quiet, very quiet, and I knew my father could never tell me to come out; I knew I would never hear his voice again. So I came out anyway. And they were all dead. Everyone.’

The giant’s mouth had fallen open, but his cry was silent. Roland turned his head to stare at Owain. Horror had dried up his tears.

Owain said gently, ‘When I came out it was snowing, and the castle walls were as shiny as glass, so shiny I could see my face in them.’

‘It was the work of a magician,’ said Tolemeo, ‘my father’s friend, Mathonwy. He sent a cloud of snow to smother the flames. But his help came too late to save Amadis and Amoret. I was in Toledo, my mother’s city, when it happened.’

Owain clasped Tolemeo’s hand. ‘I sent my raven to find him, and since the day Tolemeo arrived, we have been searching for you.’ He put his hand into his jerkin and drew out a mirror set in a jewelled frame. The glass was so brilliant it was as if the sun had touched their faces.

The giant gasped, and turned his head away. ‘Amoret,’ he murmured.

Tolemeo took the mirror from Owain and thrust it into the giant’s hands. ‘Take the mirror, Otus Yewbeam,’ he said sternly. ‘You have lost your wife but you still have your son.’

The giant was about to reply when Tolemeo suddenly spun on his heel, his nostrils flaring, his eyes wide and alert. ‘They are upon us,’ he cried.

‘I heard nothing,’ said the giant.

‘Nevertheless.’ Tolemeo lifted Roland on to his shoulders. ‘We have but a moment.’ He began to stride round the lake. ‘Otus, make haste. They approach.’

The giant stood, clutching the mirror to his chest. He looked up to the rim of the hollow, and there they were – a long line of shadows weaving through the trees. A deep, nasal roar filled the giant’s ears as Harken’s troll army began to run down the steep bank. Their tiny eyes and scribble mouths were all but hidden in the fleshy spread of their huge noses. They wore scaley breastplates of dull metal, and tall, ridiculous helmets that disguised their lumpy heads. Their weapons were cudgels, spears and deadly slingshots, and behind them came a group of hideous beings that were neither troll nor human.

The giant began to run, his long legs easily clearing the rocks at the lake’s edge. Ahead of him, he could see Roland’s small face gazing back from Tolemeo’s shoulders. ‘Run, Father, run,’ called the little boy.

The trolls’ bellowing filled the hollow. Rocks and spears began to rain down from every side, and now the giant could see that they were surrounded.

‘The Count is angry,’ a thick, rasping voice announced. ‘He punished me for your escape, Otus Yewbeam. And now I shall punish you.’

The giant recognised Oddthumb, leader of Harken’s guards. He was bigger than the others and his face was a corpse-like grey, but what marked him out was the thumb of his right hand, a huge, gnarled, stumpy thing, wider than his palm.

Otus ducked as a rock came winging from Oddthumb’s slingshot.

‘The mirror, Father,’ cried Roland. ‘Use the mirror to save yourself. Mother would have wished it.’

Tolemeo stopped and called back, ‘It’s the truth, Otus. Give them the mirror. It will slow them down. I will save your son, but you will have to fend for yourself.’

‘Save Roland,’ cried the giant, and he threw the mirror high into the air.

Every troll face was raised in fear and astonishment as the shining circle spun to earth, its radiance piercing their weak eyes and momentarily blinding them.

A howl of pain and fury went up. The mirror dropped at Oddthumb’s feet. He felt its weight but couldn’t see it.

‘Farewell, Otus!’ called Tolemeo.

The giant turned.

Tolemeo was rising from the ground with Roland and Owain clasped in his arms. Higher and higher. Now they were over the lake, and the feathered cloak billowed around them, while the dark water shimmered in the breeze. When they were higher than the trees that rimmed the hollow, two great wings spread behind Tolemeo. He swung in the air and lay like a swimmer, while the wings beat gracefully above him. He might have been a great bird soaring through the starlit sky, if you chose not to see the two small figures clasped to his chest.

A joyous smile lit Otus Yewbeam’s face, and in the long, solitary years that were to follow, the smile would return every time the giant remembered that moment.

The trolls had recovered their sight. They ran down to the lake, swinging their cudgels, grunting and swearing. The giant knew it would be useless to run. He saw that Oddthumb had picked up the mirror. The shadow would have what he wanted at last.

The package in the cellar

‘Pretty Cats!’

In the hall of number nine, Filbert Street, a small boy stood at the foot of the staircase. He looked sickly and too thin. Scraping a tangle of dull brown hair away from his face, he stuck out his tongue. ‘Flames! That’s what they call you, isn’t it?’

The three cats, sitting on the rail, stared down from the landing above. They had fiery coloured coats: copper, orange and yellow. The orange cat hissed; the yellow cat lifted a paw and flexed his dangerous claws; the copper cat gave a deep, threatening growl.

‘Why don’t you like me? I’m smarter than you. One day,’ the boy raised his fist, ‘you’ll be sorry.’

A door opened behind him and a voice called, ‘Eric, what are you doing?’

‘Come and look.’

Two women stepped into the hall. They would have been identical if there had not been twenty years between them. Both were tall and dark-eyed, with thin, chilly mouths and long, narrow noses. But whereas one had bone-white hair, the other’s was as black as a crow’s wing.

‘Look!’ Eric pointed up at the three cats.

The older woman uttered a throaty snarl. ‘What are they doing here? I’ve forbidden them, expressly.’

The younger woman, Eric’s stepmother, grabbed his hand and dragged him back. ‘I’ve told you never to approach those creatures.’

‘I didn’t,’ said Eric. ‘I’m down here and they’re up there. And anyway, they can’t hurt me.’

‘Of course they can,’ his stepmother retorted. ‘They’re wild creatures.’

‘With leopards’ hearts,’ her sister added. Raising her voice, she called, ‘Charlie! Charlie Bone, come here, this minute.’

A door opened upstairs and a moment later a boy with tousled hair leaned over the railing. The yellow cat walked up to him and rubbed its head against his arm. The other cats jumped down and circled his legs.

‘What is it, Grandma?’ Charlie stroked the yellow cat’s head and yawned.

‘Lazy lump!’ said his grandmother. ‘Have you been asleep?’

‘No,’ Charlie replied indignantly. ‘I’ve been doing my homework.’

‘Did you let those cats in?’

‘They’re not doing any harm,’ said Charlie.

‘Harm?’ Grandma Bone’s dark eyes became angry slits. ‘They’re the most harmful creatures in this city. Get them out.’

‘Sorry, Sagittarius.’ Charlie lifted the yellow cat off the banisters. ‘Sorry, Aries and Leo,’ he said to the cats winding themselves round his legs. ‘Grandma Bone says you’ve got to go.’

Whether it was Charlie’s tone of voice or his actual words was not clear, but the cats appeared to know exactly what he was saying. They followed him into his bedroom and, when he had opened his window, they jumped through it, one by one, on to the branch of a chestnut tree that stretched close to the sill.

‘See you at the Pets’ Café,’ Charlie called as the Flames leapt on to the pavement. They bounded up the street with a chorus of mews that made a dog, on the other side of the street, stop dead in its tracks.

Charlie smiled and closed the window. Returning to the landing, he found his grandmother, his great-aunt Venetia and Eric still staring up at him.

‘Have they gone?’ Grandma Bone demanded.

‘Yes, Grandma,’ Charlie said wearily.

At this point a third woman emerged from the sitting room. With her sharp features and abundant grey hair she was clearly related to the other two women. She was, in fact, Charlie’s great-aunt Eustacia. She was carrying a flat rectangular object covered in brown paper. It was about a metre and a half long and, perhaps, just under a metre wide.

Charlie knew there was no point in asking about the package. He would be told to mind his own business. But he had a fairly good idea what it was. He began to feel unaccountably excited.

‘What are you staring at?’ Great Aunt Eustacia grunted at Charlie.

‘Get back to your homework,’ ordered Grandma Bone.

Eric’s thin little mouth twisted into an unpleasant smirk. ‘Goodbye, Charlie Bone!’

Charlie didn’t bother to reply. He went back to his room and closed the door with a loud click. But then, as quietly as possible, he opened it, just a fraction. He wanted to know what was going to happen to the object Eustacia was carrying. Surely, it had to be a painting.

It was two years since Charlie had discovered his extraordinary endowment. It had begun when he heard voices coming from a photograph. Over the next few months Charlie found himself travelling into photographs and talking to people who had died many years before. When he turned his attention to paintings, the same thing had happened: he could meet the subjects in old paintings, people who had lived centuries before. Charlie often tried to avoid these situations; it was one thing to go into the past, quite another to leave it. Once or twice he’d been lucky to get out alive.

For some reason, the rectangular object with its covering of wrinkled brown paper aroused Charlie’s intense curiosity. He put his ear to the crack in the door and listened.

‘Why you’ve brought it here, I can’t imagine.’ Grandma’s voice crackled with irritation.

‘I told you,’ whined Great Aunt Eustacia, ‘my basement’s damp.’

‘Hang it on your wall, then.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Then give it to –’

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Great Aunt Venetia. ‘It gives me the creeps.’

‘She made me take it,’ Eustacia said fretfully. ‘Mrs Tilpin isn’t someone you can argue with.’

Charlie stiffened. He hadn’t heard Mrs Tilpin’s name mentioned for some time. Once, she had been a rather pretty music teacher called Miss Chrystal, but she hadn’t been seen since she had been revealed as a witch.

‘They won’t keep it at the school,’ went on Eustacia. ‘Even Ezekiel is wary of it. He says it steals his thoughts, it draws them away like a magnet – he says.’

‘Joshua Tilpin is a magnet,’ said Eric.

His stepmother uttered a short, dry laugh. ‘Huh! The witch’s son. So he is.’

At this everyone began to talk at once, and Charlie had difficulty in making out what was said, but it seemed that Grandma Bone had finally agreed to allow the painting, or whatever it was, to be stored in her cellar. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t her cellar, because she shared the house with her brother, Paton. Charlie and his other grandmother, Maisie, had been permitted to live there until Charlie’s parents returned from their second honeymoon, and their house, ‘Diamond Corner’, had been restored.

There began a succession of bangs, scrapings and irritated exclamations as the painting was presumably carried down into the cellar. Finally, the cellar door was shut and, after more discussions, bangs and clicks, Grandma Bone, her two sisters and Eric left the house.

Charlie waited in his room until he heard everyone bundle into Great Aunt Eustacia’s car. Then, with much mis-firing and a painful scraping of gears, the old Ford lurched down the street.

After another five minutes had passed, Charlie slipped out of his room and ran downstairs. When he reached the cellar he found that the door had been locked. Luckily, Charlie knew where all the keys were kept. He went into the kitchen and pulled a chair up to the dresser. Standing on tiptoe, he reached for a large blue jug patterned with golden fishes.

‘And what might you be up to?’ said a voice.

Charlie hesitated. The chair wobbled. Charlie uttered a shaky yelp and steadied himself. He hadn’t noticed Grandma Maisie folding the washing in a corner.

‘Maisie, are you spying on me?’ asked Charlie.

Maisie straightened up. ‘I’ve got better things to do, young man.’

Charlie’s other grandmother was the very opposite of Grandma Bone. Maisie wasn’t much taller than Charlie and battled hard to keep her weight down. Being the family cook didn’t make this easy.

‘Now, I wonder why you were trying to get those keys?’ Maisie’s face was too round and cheerful to look stern. Even frowning was an effort. ‘Don’t deny it. There’s nothing else up there that would interest you.’

‘I think Great Aunt Eustacia has put a painting in the cellar.’

‘What if she has?’

‘I . . . well, I just wanted to . . . you know, have a look at it.’ Charlie clutched the fish jug and drew out a large, rusty-looking key.

Maisie shook her head. ‘Not a good idea, Charlie.’

‘Why?’ Charlie replaced the jug and jumped down from the chair.

‘You know them,’ said Maisie with meaning. ‘Those Yewbeam sisters are always trying to trick you. D’you think they didn’t know you’d be just itching to take a look at . . . whatever it is?’

‘They didn’t know I was listening, Maisie.’

‘Huh!’ Maisie grunted. ‘Course they did.’

Charlie twiddled the key between his fingers. ‘I just want to take a look at the outside of it, the shape of it. I won’t take the paper off.’

‘Oh no? Look, Charlie, your parents are watching whales on the other side of the world. If something happens to you, how am I going to . . .?’

‘Nothing will happen to me.’ Before Maisie could say another word, Charlie walked briskly out of the kitchen and along the passage to the cellar. The key turned in the lock with surprising ease. But as soon as the low door opened, Charlie knew that there was really no doubt – something would happen to him. He could feel it already: a light, insistent tug, drawing him closer; down a set of creaking wooden steps, down, down, down, until he stood in the chilly gloom of the cellar.

The package was propped against the wall, between an old mattress and a set of rusty curtain poles. Charlie couldn’t be certain but he thought he could hear a faint sound coming from beneath the crumpled wrapping paper.

‘Impossible!’ Charlie clutched his hair. This had never happened before. He had to see a face before he heard its voice. But this sound was coming from something out of sight. As he stepped towards the package a deep whine whistled past his ears.

‘Wind?’ Charlie reached out a hand.

At his touch the paper rustled and creaked. The whole package seemed suddenly alive and Charlie hesitated. But a second of doubt was immediately overcome by his burning curiosity, and he began to tear at the wrapping. Strips of paper flew into the air, borne by Charlie’s frantic fingers and the unnatural wind that blew from who knew where.

The painting didn’t even wait to be entirely revealed. Long before every corner was free of the paper, a dreadful landscape began to seep into the dim cellar. This was not how it should happen. Charlie was mystified. He waited for the familiar tumbling sensation that usually overwhelmed him when he travelled into paintings. It never came. He watched in astonishment as the brick walls of the cellar were swallowed by a vista of distant mountains. Tall, dark towers appeared in the foreground; one swam so close to Charlie that he could smell the damp moss that patched the walls. Ugly scaled creatures scuttled over the surface, pausing briefly to stare at Charlie with dangerous glinting eyes.

It has to be an illusion, Charlie told himself. He put out his hand – and touched the horny spine of a black toad-like thing. ‘Ugh!’ Leaping away from it, he tripped and fell on to his back. Beneath him he could feel rough stone cobbles, slippery with grey-black weeds. Above him purple clouds rushed through an ash-coloured sky, and all about him the wind roared and rattled, howled and sighed.

‘So I’m there already.’ Charlie got to his feet and rubbed his back. ‘Wherever there is.’

In brief intervals, when the wind died to a low whine, Charlie could hear the tramp of heavy feet and a low muttering of voices. ‘It’s here,’ one said. ‘I can smell it.’

‘It’s mine.’ This voice glooped like a sink full of dishes. ‘I know how to catch it.’

‘Oddthumb knows,’ came a chorus of low, tuneless voices.

Charlie backed round the tower as the marching feet drew closer. There appeared to be no windows in the building and Charlie was just beginning to think that it was without a door, when he was suddenly seized round the waist and lifted high in the air. A huge fist closed over his mouth and a voice, close to his ear, whispered, ‘Boy, your life depends on your silence.’

Shocked and speechless, Charlie was swung backwards through an open door and set down. He found himself on the lowest step of a stone staircase that spiralled upwards before disappearing into the shadows.

‘Climb,’ whispered the voice, ‘as fast as your feet will take you.’

Charlie mounted the stone steps, his heart beating wildly. Up, up and up, never stopping until he had reached a door at the very top. Charlie pushed it open and went into the room beyond. A narrow window high in the wall shed a dismal light on to the sparse furnishings beneath: the longest bed Charlie had ever seen, the highest table and the tallest chair, and . . . could that be a boat, hanging on the wall? He turned quickly as the owner of the room ducked under the lintel and walked in, closing the door and locking it.

Charlie beheld a giant, or the nearest thing to a giant he had ever seen. The man’s white hair was coiled into a knob at the back of his head, and a fine, snowy beard reached a neat point just above his waist. He wore a coarse shirt, a leather waistcoat and brown woollen trousers tied at the ankle with cord.

The giant held a finger to his lips and then, raising his arm, pushed open a small panel set between the rafters of the roof. Without a word, he lifted Charlie up to the dark space revealed. Charlie rolled sideways and the panel was immediately replaced, leaving him in a dark, stuffy hole with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs.

‘They’ll not find you. Trust me,’ whispered the giant, whose head was perhaps only a foot below the rafters.

There was a tiny hole right beside Charlie’s ear and when he turned his head, he could see directly into the room below. He had just positioned himself as comfortably as possible when he heard voices echoing up the stairwell.

‘Otus Yewbeam, are you there?’

‘Have you seen the boy?’

‘Caught him, have you?’

‘He’s ours.’

‘Mine,’ came Oddthumb’s husky snarl. ‘All mine.’

A battery of fists and cudgels began to thump against the door.

‘Patience, soldiers,’ called Otus. ‘I was sleeping.’ One step took him to the door, which he unlocked, with much sighing and rattling.

A crowd of squat, ugly beings rushed in and surrounded the giant. They wore metal breast-plates over their patched leather jerkins, and strapped to their heads were tall helmets like metal top hats. Axes, knives, catapults and cudgels hung from their belts, though some had bows slung over their backs, and quivers bursting with shiny arrows. Most came well below the giant’s waist, but there was one, somewhat larger than the others, who looked familiar to Charlie. Couldn’t be the same carved stone troll that had once sat outside Great Aunt Venetia’s gloomy house?

‘Why did you lock the door against us?’ this larger being demanded.

‘Not against you, Oddthumb,’ said the giant, ‘against durgles.’

‘Durgles!’ spat Oddthumb.

‘Durgles are very destructive,’ said Otus. ‘Many a day they have eaten my bread whilst I slept.’

‘Liar,’ said Oddthumb. ‘A durgle can no more unlock a door than a diddycock. You have got him, I know it.’

‘Who?’ Otus enquired in a mild tone.

‘The boy,’ snarled one of the smaller beings. ‘He’s here. The Watch see’d him a’coming from far off. Caught he was, by the Count’s guile.’

‘Enchanted,’ said the being beside him.

‘Spell-brought,’ chorused the others.

There was a loud creak as Otus lowered himself on to his bed. He was now out of Charlie’s sight, though he could still see a long leather-bound foot.

‘Respected soldiers, I have seen no boy,’ said Otus. ‘Search this room if you must.’

‘We will,’ grunted Oddthumb. ‘Up, giant!’

Otus had barely risen from the bed, when Oddthumb and his crew had pushed it over. They slashed at the blankets, battered the straw mattress, tore off a cupboard door, turned over a thin rush mat, poked up the chimney, pulled charred wood from the fire, and hacked at the floorboards. The frenzied attack lasted no more than ten minutes and, from his hiding place, Charlie saw a growing pile of ash and straw, broken pottery and chunks of bread.

‘Squirras!’ cried one of the soldiers suddenly.

Charlie couldn’t see what he had found. It must have been on the far side of the room.

‘Greedy, greedy,’ said Oddthumb. ‘Six squirras for your brekfass, Otus?’

‘I’m a giant,’ sighed Otus.

‘We’ll leave one – the smallest,’ Oddthumb said spitefully.

‘I thank you,’ said Otus.

A soldier with a warty face came and stood directly under Charlie’s spyhole. ‘No boy here, General,’ he said. ‘In forest maybe?’

‘No boy, eh? No boy.’ Oddthumb paced across the room. He stopped beside Wart-face and looked up.

Charlie found himself staring into a stoney grey eye. He dared not blink. He dared not breathe. His own eye began to ache as he held it wide open and unmoving. Could Oddthumb see him? Did he sense Charlie’s presence, lying above? An urge to sneeze overcame Charlie. He pressed his lips together, brought his fingers slowly up to his face and clamped them over his nose.

‘Dreaded creatures up there,’ whispered Wart-face. ‘Blancavamps maybe. Let us leave here, General.’

‘Blancavamps?’ Oddthumb stroked his chin with a grotesque thumb, as big as his hand. ‘Have you got blancavamps, Otus?’

Charlie had difficulty in stifling a gasp.

‘Sadly,’ said the giant. ‘They steal my sleep.’

Oddthumb threw back his head and gave a hideous burbling chuckle. In a second the room was filled with gurgling laughter, as the soldiers echoed their general. The dreadful sound stopped abruptly the moment Oddthumb closed his mouth. Without another word, the general marched out, followed by his troops.

Charlie listened to the stamp of heavy feet receding down the steps. A door at the foot of the tower clanged shut and the soldiers began to march down the street. Charlie waited breathlessly. He dared not move for fear one of the soldiers remained in the room below. He could hear Otus settling his room to rights after the rough intrusion.

Long after the footsteps had faded, the giant came and grinned up at Charlie. ‘You are safe, boy. Be not afeared, I will get you down.’

‘Thanks,’ Charlie said huskily.

The giant pushed back the panel, saying, ‘Step on to my shoulders.’ He held up his arms and Charlie thrust his legs through the hole. Otus gently lifted him down and set him on the bed.

Charlie wriggled his aching shoulders and rubbed his arms. ‘I’m not sure how I got here,’ he said.

The giant pulled his chair up to the bed and sat down. Putting his head on one side, he regarded Charlie quizzically. ‘Your name?’ he asked.

‘Charlie Bone, sir.’

‘You are a traveller?’

‘I . . . yes, I am sometimes. I can travel into photos and paintings.’ Observing the giant’s puzzled frown, Charlie added quickly, ‘Photos are a bit difficult to explain, but I expect you know what a painting is.’ The giant nodded. ‘Anyhow, this time it was different, my travelling, I mean. This time a painting has . . . kind of . . . captured me.’

‘Mm.’ The giant nodded again. ‘My wife had a mirror that took her a-travelling.’

‘A mirror?’ Charlie said excitedly. ‘My ancestor, Amoret, had a mirror. It caused a bit of trouble. Someone wanted it . . . an enchanter.’

‘Amoret was my wife!’ The giant clutched Charlie’s hand in his huge fist. ‘My name is Otus Yewbeam.’

‘Then . . . you’re my ancestor, too.’ Charlie’s gaze slid over the giant’s long frame, from the crown of his head to the tip of his long foot. ‘Maybe I’ll grow a bit.’

The giant smiled. ‘I was this high when I was a boy.’ He held his hand about six feet from the ground.

‘Oh,’ said Charlie, a little sadly.

‘What is your century?’ asked Otus.

‘Um . . . twenty-first,’ said Charlie, after a bit of thought.

‘There are nine hundred years between us.’

Charlie frowned. ‘I don’t get it. I’ve never, ever come into the past this way. I was just looking at a painting; I saw mountains and towers, but no people, and then, suddenly, it was all around me.’

‘He is powerful,’ Otus said gravely. ‘He wanted you in Badlock.’

‘Who?’

‘Count, enchanter, shadow of Badlock; he has many names. He brought me here as a captive, twenty years ago, when my wife fled to her brother’s castle.’ The giant’s large eyes clouded for a moment, and he looked up at the fading light in the window. ‘He wanted Amoret. He wanted all the Red King’s children. Five he won easily, they already walked the path of wickedness. The others – Amadis, Amoret, Guanhamara, Petrello and Tolemeo – they fled the evil. It was Tolemeo who rescued my son, Roland, and for that the shadow punished me. His soldiers relish torture. Now they let me bide in peace. I am forgotten, almost.’

Charlie reminded the giant that, today, the soldiers had not let him bide in peace. ‘I’ve put you in danger,’ he said. ‘If they catch me . . .?’

‘No,’ the giant leaned forward earnestly. ‘They will not catch you.’ He got up and strode over to a hearth set into a wide chimney breast. ‘Presently, we shall dine on squirra, boy.’

‘Oh, good.’ A note of anxiety crept into Charlie’s voice. What was a squirra, he wondered.

The giant opened a small door in the wall and brought out a black rat-like creature with an extremely long, hairless tail. ‘Only one,’ Otus sighed. ‘But it will suffice.’

Charlie’s stomach lurched. ‘If that’s a squirra, what’s a blancavamp?’

Otus chuckled. ‘They are what we, in our world, know as bats, but blancavamps are white as snow. The people of Badlock believe them to be ghosts. But I am not afeared of them.’

‘Nor me.’ Charlie darted a quick look in the giant’s direction. Otus was already skinning the squirra and, hoping it was something he would never need to do, Charlie looked quickly away. ‘Have you ever tried to get home again?’ he asked the giant.

Otus gave a rueful smile. ‘My wife’s brother, Tolemeo, tried a second time to rescue me, but Oddthumb and his ruffians caught us. Tolemeo was lucky to escape with his life. And, knowing my wife had perished, I cared less and less how and where my life should end.’

Charlie recalled the fleeting image of a beautiful woman smiling out from a mirrored wall, and a near-impossible plan began to take shape in his mind.

‘Badlock is a country no one from our world can find,’ the giant continued. ‘No one but clever Tolemeo. It is an awful place. There is the eternal wind, and then, in winter, there is a deluge. Water fills the land between the mountains, a fathom deep.’

‘It is a boat, then.’ Charlie nodded at the wooden boat-shape hanging on the wall.

‘Indeed, a boat. There is no other place to live but in a tower.’

‘And where does the Enchanter live?’

‘In a dark fortress, a scar on the mountain. I’ll show you.’ Dropping the meat into an iron pot, Otus wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his belt and, before Charlie could protest, lifted him up to the high window.

Night was falling fast, but the mountains were sharply outlined against a ribbon of pale green sky. Close to the top of the tallest mountain, flickering red lights could be seen and, behind them, a black shape capped with steep turrets.

‘He is seldom there,’ said the giant, ‘but the fires burn constantly to remind his subjects that he is watching them.’

Charlie shuddered. It had only just occurred to him that he might be trapped in this hostile world forever. He was about to be lowered to the ground when he shouted, ‘Stop. I see something.’

A few feet away from the base of the giant’s tower stood a large yellow dog. It was staring up at the window. When the dog caught Charlie’s eye, it began to bark.

‘Runner Bean!’ cried Charlie.

How had his best friend’s dog followed him into a painting? It couldn’t happen.

But it had.

The melting dog

A few minutes after Charlie had travelled into Badlock, his best friend, Benjamin Brown, a small, tow-haired, anxious-looking boy, left his house at number twelve, Filbert Street, and crossed the road to number nine. His dog, Runner Bean, trotted behind him.

When Benjamin rang the bell at number nine, the door was immediately opened by Charlie’s grandmother, Maisie.

‘Benjamin, love,’ cried Maisie, drawing him into the hall. ‘I hope you can do something. Charlie’s gone.’

‘Gone, Mrs Jones? Gone where?’ Benjamin dutifully wiped his shoes on the doormat.

‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be standing here asking you to do something, would I?’ Maisie closed her eyes and scratched the back of her neck. ‘Whatever am I going to tell his parents?’

‘I don’t expect you’ll have to tell them anything,’ said Benjamin. ‘Perhaps my mum and dad can help, being detectives.’

Benjamin instantly regretted saying this. His parents were working on a very important case. They had just left the house, Mrs Brown disguised as a man, and Mr Brown disguised as a woman. Benjamin didn’t much like it when his parents dressed like this; they hadn’t even explained the circumstances that demanded the fake moustache (for Mrs Brown) and the blonde wig (for Mr Brown), they had just told Benjamin to go over to Charlie’s house, where Maisie would give him lunch.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think my parents can help,’ Benjamin apologised.

‘I’m pretty sure they can’t.’ Maisie turned away and led Benjamin down a dim passage. ‘This is one of those disappearances that normal people couldn’t hope to solve.’

‘But I’m normal,’ Benjamin reminded her.

Maisie sighed. ‘Well, I know. But you’re a friend, and you could get one of the others: the endowed ones – or whatever they call themselves.’

‘Children of the Red King,’ Benjamin said quietly.

They had reached the cellar door, which stood wide open. Maisie beckoned to Benjamin and pointed into the cellar. Benjamin looked down into the murky underground room. Maisie nodded encouragingly. Benjamin didn’t like cellars, nor did Runner Bean. The big dog began to whine.

‘Do I have to?’ Benjamin asked.

‘It’s down there,’ said Maisie in a hushed voice.

‘What is?’

‘The painting, dear.’

Benjamin uttered a very slow ‘Ooooh’ as he realised that Charlie must be travelling. ‘He hasn’t really disappeared then.’

‘This time he has,’ said Maisie solemnly.

Benjamin stared into the cellar. He descended three, four steps until he could see the whole room. A dim light, hanging from the ceiling, showed him a disused cupboard, broken chairs, curtain poles, piles of newspapers and magazines and large black plastic bags filled with bulging objects. And then he saw the painting. It was standing against one of the walls, beside an old rolled-up mattress.

A small shadow flickered over it, and Benjamin saw that a white moth was hovering round the light bulb. All at once, the moth swung away and vanished. Benjamin went to the bottom of the steps and walked over to the painting. Runner Bean scrabbled down after him. He was panting very heavily and occasionally emitted a nervous whine.

The painting gave Benjamin the shivers. He was, as Maisie had admitted, a normal boy, so he experienced none of the insistent tugs that Charlie had felt, nor did he feel or hear the moaning Badlock winds. He did, however, get the impression that the almost photographic reality of the painting showed a place that had not been imagined but copied faithfully. It existed. Or did, once. With its dark towers, sunless sky and looming mountains it was certainly a hostile, sinister country.

There was a green scrawl in the bottom right-hand corner of the painting. ‘Badlock.’ If Badlock really was a place, it was not somewhere that Benjamin would have wanted to visit. So why did Charlie ‘go in’? It was deserted and, as far as Benjamin could remember, Charlie had always needed first to hear a voice, and then to focus on a face, before he entered a picture. And in all the time Benjamin had known about his friend’s endowment, Charlie had never actually disappeared. His physical presence had always remained in the present, while his mind roamed the world behind the pictures.

‘What d’you think’s going on, Ben?’ asked Maisie from the top of the steps.

Benjamin shook his head. ‘Don’t know, Mrs Jones. Where’s Charlie’s uncle?’

‘Paton? Bookshop,’ said Maisie. ‘Where else?’

‘Think I’ll go over there. Mr Yewbeam will know what to do.’ Benjamin turned towards the steps.

Runner Bean didn’t follow his master, but stood before the painting in an odd attitude, his head on one side, as though he were listening to something. He gave a low, mournful howl. And then, before Benjamin’s very eyes, the yellow dog became a smaller, paler version of himself.

‘Runner?’ Benjamin leapt towards his dog. He touched the tip of Runner Bean’s tail, which was standing out, as stiff as a broom, but in less than a second the tail had melted away and with it the whole of Benjamin’s beloved dog.

Benjamin shrieked, ‘RUNNER!’ just as the front door slammed.

‘Oh, my giddy aunt!’ Maisie clapped a hand over her mouth.

She was roughly pushed aside by Grandma Bone, who had suddenly appeared beside her.

‘What on earth is going on?’ demanded Grandma Bone.

Benjamin stared up at the two woman. Maisie was shaking her head, her eyes were very wide and her eyebrows were working furiously up and down. She seemed to be warning him. Distraught as he was, Benjamin began to think, fast. It was always understood by Charlie and himself that Grandma Bone must know absolutely nothing about what went on, especially if it had anything at all to do with Charlie’s travelling.

Grandma Bone had caught sight of Maisie’s eyebrow-wriggling. ‘What’s the matter with you, woman?’ she snarled.

‘Surprise,’ said Maisie. ‘So surprised. Thought we heard a rat, didn’t we, Benjamin?’

Benjamin nodded vehemently.

‘I thought I heard a bark.’ Grandma Bone glared suspiciously at Benjamin. ‘Where’s your dog?’

‘He . . . he didn’t come with me today,’ said Benjamin, almost choking with distress. Could Grandma Bone see the unwrapped painting from where she stood? He didn’t think so.

‘Unusual. Not to bring your dog. Thought it was your shadow?’ The tall woman turned on her heel and walked away, adding, ‘I’d come out of that cellar if I were you. It’s more than likely the rats’ll get you. Where’s Charlie, by the way?’

‘Gone to the bookshop,’ Maisie said quickly. ‘And that’s just where Benjamin’s going, isn’t it, Ben?’

‘Er – yes.’

Benjamin dragged himself regretfully up the cellar steps. He felt that he was betraying Runner Bean, leaving him trapped inside the awful painting. But what else could he do? Charlie’s Uncle Paton would provide an answer. He usually knew what to do when things went wrong.

Maisie saw Benjamin to the door. ‘Take care, dear,’ she said. ‘I don’t like to think of you alone in the city, without your dog.’

‘I am eleven,’ Benjamin reminded her. ‘See you later, Mrs Jones.’

‘I hope so, dear.’ Maisie closed the door.

Benjamin had taken only a few steps up the road when he became acutely aware that part of him was missing. The dog part. He’d been without Runner Bean before, when his parents took him to Hong Kong. But this was different. This was in a city where almost nothing was ordinary. Without warning, people could suddenly disappear, street lights could explode, snow could fall in summer.

Ingledew’s Bookshop wasn’t far from Filbert Street, but today it felt as though there was a huge chasm between Benjamin and safety. He was halfway down the High Street when he saw two children on the other side of the road. Joshua Tilpin, a small, untidy, sullen-looking boy, shambled beside his taller companion, a boy with a pale greenish complexion and an odd lurching walk. Dagbert-the-Drowner.

Pretending he hadn’t seen them, Benjamin walked nonchalantly on, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Dagbert nudge Joshua and point across the road.

Benjamin lost his nerve. Instead of continuing up the road, he darted into a side street. For a few minutes he stood in the shadows, watching the two boys. He was being silly, he told himself. Why should he be afraid of two boys from Charlie’s school? He hardly knew them. All the same, they gave him the creeps. Joshua had a reputation for making people do things against their will; not hypnotism, exactly; they called it magnetism. As for Dagbert, he drowned people. Recently, he’d tried to drown Charlie in the river.

Glancing up the street behind him, Benjamin was relieved to find that he knew where he was. He began to run.

‘What’s up, Benjamin Brown?’ called a voice. ‘Lost your dog?’

Benjamin didn’t look back. Joshua and Dagbert must have raced across the road and followed him.

‘You’re not frightened of us, little Ben, are you?’ Dagbert shouted. ‘Where’s Charlie?’

Almost falling over his own feet, Benjamin bounded into a cobbled square. In the centre of the square stood an old detached house. It was surrounded by a low wall and a weedy garden. Nailed to the gate was a weathered board that read, ‘Gunn House’. The rest of the board was filled with music notes: crochets, quavers, minims and semibreves, though one hardly needed the musical notation to know that a family of musicians lived here. The noise coming from within the house made it obvious. The walls shook with the sound of drums, violins, flutes, cellos and singing voices.

Benjamin pressed the doorbell and a deep recorded voice announced, ‘DOOR! DOOR! DOOR!’

The Gunns’ door-voice always unnerved Benjamin, but then a tinkling bell would have been drowned by the music, and visitors would have waited on the step in vain.

The door was opened by Fidelio Gunn, a violin in one hand and a bow in the other. ‘Hi, Ben, where’s Charlie?’ said the freckle-faced boy.

‘Oi!’ came a shout behind Benjamin.

‘Charlie’s – er –. Can I come in, PLEASE?’ asked Benjamin.

Catching sight of Benjamin’s pursuers, Fidelio said, ‘You’d better.’

Benjamin leapt into Gunn House and Fidelio slammed the door.

‘What’s going on, Ben?’ Fidelio led the way into a chaotic kitchen. A grey cat was eating the remains of a breakfast that still hadn’t been cleared from the table, and a woman in a long colourful skirt was singing at the sink. A small freckle-faced girl tuned her violin beside her.

‘Pianissimo, please, Mum!’ Fidelio shouted. ‘Mimi, take your violin somewhere else.’

Mrs Gunn looked over her shoulder. ‘Benjamin Brown,’ she sang. ‘What a surprise! Can’t believe my eyes! Where’s the dog of impressive size?’

‘Where’s Charlie Bone?’ asked Mimi, plucking a string.

‘Look, Benjamin is a person in his own right,’ said Fidelio. ‘He doesn’t have to have an appendage.’

‘A what?’ said Mimi, plucking another string.

‘An attachment,’ replied her brother. ‘Benjamin’s dog is not permanently attached to him, nor is Charlie. Sit down, Ben.’

Benjamin pulled out a chair and sat down. Feeling hungry, he picked up a piece of dry toast and took a bite out of it.

‘Pudding has just licked that,’ Mimi informed him.

Benjamin eyed the grey cat and sadly replaced the toast.

Fidelio took a chair beside him and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. Mimi stopped plucking at her violin and perched on the other side of the table. Mrs Gunn hummed softly while she scraped at something in the sink.

‘What’s happened, Ben?’ asked Fidelio. ‘It’s not just those morons outside, is it?’

‘No.’ Benjamin looked at Mimi.

‘Mimi always knows what’s going on,’ said Fidelio. ‘You can’t keep secrets from her, but she can keep a secret, can’t you, Mims?’

My lips are already sealed.’ Mimi gave Benjamin a big, sealed smile.

‘OK.’ Benjamin began his story rather slowly, but then the drama of Runner Bean’s disappearance got the better of him and he poured it all out in a tearful rush.

‘I can’t believe it.’ Fidelio sat back. ‘Charlie’s never taken a dog with him before. I didn’t know he could.’

‘He didn’t take him,’ wailed Benjamin. ‘Runner Bean vanished long after Charlie went in. At least I think so. But Charlie’s never gone right into anything, has he? He always stays outside. It’s only his mind that goes in.’

‘Until now,’ Fidelio remarked. ‘Perhaps his endowment is developing.’

Benjamin shook his head. ‘Something’s wrong, Fido.’ He got up and walked over to a window that overlooked the square. ‘My stalkers have gone. I think I’ll take a chance and run up to the bookshop. Charlie’s uncle will know what to do.’

‘Has he . . . has he . . . has he . . . popped the question?’ sang Mrs Gunn.

‘Pardon?’ said Benjamin.

‘Uncle Paton, Mr Yewbeam,’ Mrs Gunn dropped her musical tone temporarily. ‘He’s surely going to make an honest woman of Miss Ingledew. How can he resist? He really ought to marry her. The whole city is waiting.’

‘You mean you’re waiting, Mum,’ said Fidelio. He turned to Benjamin. ‘I’ll come with you, Ben. Don’t like to think of you alone in this city without your dog.’

‘I am eleven,’ sighed Benjamin.

‘And I’m twelve,’ said Fidelio firmly. ‘There’s a difference.’

After weeks of dark skies and frosty winds, today a few rays of frail sunshine had begun to filter into the city. They did nothing to lift Ben’s spirits. He felt quite resentful towards Charlie for doing something so risky. But that was Charlie all over. He was always rushing into situations without thinking them through.

Fidelio, who seemed to have read Benjamin’s mind, said, ‘It’s possible that Charlie never meant to go into that painting. He might have been sucked in, against his will, just like your dog.’

‘Hm,’ Benjamin grunted.

The boys were now entering the narrow cobbled street that led to the cathedral. On either side of them, half-timbered houses with ancient crooked roofs leaned over the cobbles at dangerous angles. The bookshop stood directly opposite the great domed cathedral; a sign above the door read Ingledews in olde worlde script and, in the window, two large leatherbound books were displayed against a curtain of dark red velvet. Miss Ingledew sold rare and precious books.

If the boys had paid attention to the gleaming black car that stood outside the shop, they might have had second thoughts, but they were in such a hurry they rushed straight in. A small bell, attached to the inside of the door, tinkled pleasantly as they entered the shop. The sight that met their eyes, however, was not at all pleasant.

Sitting in a wheelchair beside the counter was Mr Ezekiel Bloor, the owner of Bloor’s Academy. Mr Ezekiel, as he liked to be called, was a hundred and one years old and his head was as close a thing to a living skull as you’re ever likely to see. He was covered in a tartan blanket and wore a red woollen hat pulled well down over his large wrinkled ears. There was very little flesh covering his large nose with its high knobbly ridge, or the sharp cheekbones and long chin. Mr Ezekiel’s eyes, however, were another matter. They glittered beneath the protruding forehead as black and lively as the eyes of a ten-year-old.

Behind the ancient man’s wheelchair stood a burly, bald-headed man: Mr Weedon was the school porter, chauffeur, handyman and gardener. There was nothing he would not have done for Mr Ezekiel, including murder.

Fidelio and Benjamin would gladly have stepped backwards out of the door, but it was too late to escape. They reluctantly descended the three steps into the shop.

‘Aha!’ croaked Ezekiel. ‘What have we here? Odd customers for a rare book, I’d say. I bet you haven’t got a hundred pounds to spare, Fidelio Gunn, not coming from a family of eight. You can’t even afford a pair of shoes, I’d say.’ He directed his mocking gaze at Fidelio’s shabby trainers.

Fidelio shifted his feet self-consciously, but he was not the sort to be outdone, even by the owner of Bloor’s Academy. ‘I save my best for school, sir,’ he said, ‘and we’ve come to see Emma Tolly.’

‘Girlfriend, is she?’ snorted Ezekiel. ‘The little bird?’

‘Not at all, sir,’ Fidelio said calmly. ‘She’s a friend.’

‘And who’s the scrawny lad trying to hide in your shadow?’ Mr Ezekiel twisted his head to see Benjamin, who was, indeed, trying to hide behind Fidelio. ‘Who are you, boy? Speak up!’

Benjamin was now in quite a state; desperate to get help for Runner Bean, he could scarcely concentrate on anything else, yet he knew he couldn’t mention his dog’s disappearance to Mr Ezekiel.

‘Come on, you half-wit!’ spat the old man.

Fidelio said, ‘He’s Benjamin Brown, sir. Charlie’s friend.’

Mr Weedon decided to enter the conversation. ‘So where’s Charlie Bone today?’ he asked, with a sneer.

Benjamin croaked, ‘Busy.’

Mr Ezekiel gave a nasty chuckle. ‘I know who you are. Your parents are private detectives. Hopeless sleuths. Where’s your dog, Benjamin Brown?’

Benjamin screwed up his face, gritted his teeth and sent Fidelio a helpless look of despair. ‘E – rr . . .’

Fidelio came to his rescue. ‘He’s at the vet. Benjamin’s very upset.’

Mr Ezekiel threw back his head and cackled lustily. Weedon joined in with a deep chortle, while the boys watched them in baffled silence. What was so funny about a dog being at the vet?

The curtains behind the counter parted and an elegant woman with chestnut hair appeared. She was carrying a heavy gold-tooled book, which she laid very carefully on the counter. ‘Hello, boys. I didn’t know you were here,’ said Miss Ingledew.

‘They’re after your little bird,’ Mr Ezekiel sniggered.

Miss Ingledew ignored his remark. ‘I think this might be what you want, Mr Bloor,’ she said, turning the book so that he could see its title.

‘How much?’ snapped the old man.

‘Three hundred pounds,’ Miss Ingledew told him.

‘Three hundred.’ Mr Ezekiel slammed a mottled hand on to the valuable book, causing Miss Ingledew to wince. ‘I only want to know a bit about marquetry. Mother-of-pearl inlaid boxes in particular, dates and sizes, et cetera.’ He began to flip the pages over with his long, bony fingers. ‘Help me, Weedon.’

While the old man was occupied with the book, the two boys moved swiftly across the shop and round the counter. Mr Ezekiel began to whine about the small print as they stepped through the curtains and entered Miss Ingledew’s back room.

Here, there were even more books than in the shop itself. They covered the walls from floor to ceiling: old, faded, mellow books; large on the bottom shelves and very small at the top. They gave the room a musty, leathery smell that was rather comforting. But it was, after all, a sitting room, so there were several small tables, a sofa, two armchairs, an upright leather chair and a desk. Hunched over the desk was a black-haired man who, even sitting down, seemed exceptionally tall.

The man paid no attention to the boys but continued to pore over the papers in front of him.

Fidelio cleared his throat.

Without looking up, the man said, ‘If you want Emma and Olivia, they’ve gone to the Pets’ Café.’

‘Actually, Mr Yewbeam, it’s you we wanted,’ said Fidelio.

‘Ah,’ said Charlie’s uncle. ‘Well, I’m busy.’

‘This is urgent,’ Benjamin blurted out. ‘Charlie’s gone into a painting, and so’s my dog, and they won’t come out.’

‘They will.’ Uncle Paton continued to scrutinise the papers. ‘Eventually.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Fidelio in as urgent a tone as he could muster. ‘This time Charlie’s gone right in – he’s disappeared – vanished.’

Uncle Paton raised his eyes to peer at them over the top of his half-moon spectacles. ‘Vanished?’

‘Yes, Mr Yewbeam. Completely gone,’ said Benjamin, on the edge of tears. ‘There was this painting in your cellar, and Charlie’s grandma, the nice one, asked me to go down and help because Charlie had disappeared. So I went down and Runner Bean followed me, and then he . . . went in, too.’

Uncle Paton frowned. ‘What sort of painting was this, Benjamin?’

‘Horrible,’ said Benjamin. ‘Lots of dark towers and mountains. It had a name at the bottom. Badlock, I think it was.’

‘Badlock!’ Uncle Paton sprang up so rapidly his chair fell over and all the paper fluttered off the desk.

‘Is it a dangerous place?’ Benjamin asked breathlessly.

‘The worst place in the world,’ said Uncle Paton. ‘Though I can’t be certain that it was ever actually in this world.’

Benjamin’s mouth fell open. He gaped at Paton Yewbeam, trying to make sense of what he had said. Even Fidelio was lost for words.

‘No time to lose. Come on, boys.’ Uncle Paton brushed aside the curtain and marched into the shop, quickly followed by Fidelio and Benjamin.

Squirra stew

Julia Ingledew was anxiously watching Ezekiel Bloor as he thumbed through her precious book. She didn’t like to wrest it away from him in case even more damage was done. When he saw Paton Yewbeam, however, the old man looked up.

‘Aha! Paton Yewbeam!’ Ezekiel declared. ‘Thought you didn’t go out in daylight.’

‘I go out when I please,’ Uncle Paton retorted, snatching his fedora from a hat stand in the corner.

‘Hm,’ sniffed the old man as Paton strode to the door. ‘I suppose that’s why this oldey worldey shoppey is so dark. You could do with a bit of electricity in here, Mrs Books.’

Uncle Paton stopped mid-stride, causing Benjamin to walk straight into him. ‘Watch your tongue, Ezekiel Bloor,’ growled Paton.

‘Or else . . .?’ sneered Ezekiel. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of asking this good lady to marry you, Paton. She’d never have you, you know.’ He broke into a fit of cackling.

The boys watched uneasily as both Miss Ingledew and Paton Yewbeam turned very pink. Ezekiel had let go of the book to wipe his mouth and Miss Ingledew took the opportunity to slide the rare book away from him. Mr Weedon pulled it back again.

Recovering his composure, Paton said, ‘Kindly keep your nose out of my business, Mr Bloor.’

‘And you run along about yours.’ Ezekiel waved his wet hand dismissively.

Paton hovered, glaring at the old man. ‘I hope you’re not damaging a rare book.’ He looked at Miss Ingledew. ‘Ju . . . Miss Ingledew, do you want me to . . .?’

‘No, no,’ said Miss Ingledew, still very pink. ‘You go, Pa . . . Mr Yewbeam. I can see it’s urgent.’

‘It is rather.’ Paton was now in an agony of indecision. He clearly wanted to stay and protect Miss Ingledew, but Benjamin was already halfway up the steps, and tugging at his sleeve.

‘I’ll ring you,’ Miss Ingledew picked up her mobile, ‘if anything goes wrong.’

‘You do that.’ Paton gave her a meaningful look and stepped through the door that Benjamin was impatiently holding open.

‘What are you going to do, Mr Yewbeam?’ asked Fidelio, as they sped down the street.

‘It depends what is called for,’ said Paton.

‘Look!’ Benjamin pointed down the street.

Running towards them were two girls: Emma Tolly, in a blue anorak with her blonde hair flying over her face, was struggling with a large basket, while beside her, Olivia Vertigo also carried a basket, this one smaller and obviously easier to hold. Olivia looked quite spectacular in an outsized sweater with STAR picked out in gold sequins on the front. She also wore a sparkly white hat and a gold scarf. Her hair was a deep purple.

‘Mr Yewbeam,’ called Olivia. ‘You’ve got to help.’

‘Please, please, please,’ cried Emma. ‘Something awful has happened.’

The two parties met in the middle of the street.

‘We’re extremely busy, girls.’ Uncle Paton brushed past them and continued on his way.

‘What’s your awful happening?’ asked Benjamin, stopping in spite of himself.

‘The Pets’ Café has been closed,’ wailed Emma. ‘Permanently. It’s awful. We could see Mr Onimous sitting at a table. His head was in his hands. He looked so depressed.’

‘We can deal with that later, Em.’ Fidelio stepped round the girls. ‘Something worse has happened to Charlie.’

‘And Runner Bean,’ Benjamin added. ‘They’ve both gone. Vanished. Utterly disappeared into a painting.’

Emma lowered her basket, from which a loud quacking could be heard. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘We won’t know till we get to Charlie’s house,’ said Fidelio, anxiously watching the departing figure of Uncle Paton.

‘We’ll come!’ Olivia was never one to be left out of things. ‘Let’s leave our pets at the bookshop, Em.’

‘Wouldn’t go in the shop if I were you,’ Fidelio called over his shoulder. ‘Old Mr Bloor is there.’

The two boys ran on while the girls stood making up their minds. Eventually, Emma decided she couldn’t leave her Auntie Julia alone with Mr Bloor. She carried on up the street with her pet duck, Nancy, while Olivia hastened after the boys with her white rabbit, George.

It was a tricky time for Uncle Paton. He had emerged into the High Street, where lights blazed in every shop window. Paton pulled the brim of his black hat well down over his face, trying vainly not to glance at the windows. But today was Saturday and the High Street teemed with shoppers. Leaden clouds had covered the sun and raindrops were beginning to fall, softly at first, and then with a vengeance. Umbrellas were hastily put up and, being so tall, Paton was immediately at risk. ‘Watch it!’ he gasped, as he nearly lost an eye. Leaning sideways, he found himself looking into a window full of prancing mannequins.

‘BANG!’ The plate glass window shattered.

Amid screams of shock and disbelief, Paton hurried on. He failed to notice a red light as he sailed over the crossing, and a blue Volvo almost ran him down. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ called Uncle Paton, glancing at the car’s side-lights. This time the explosion was quieter, a mere pop. The driver didn’t even notice, and Uncle Paton was able to reach the kerb undetected.

Unfortunately, another car, unable to brake fast enough, had crashed into the back of the Volvo. Both drivers leapt out and ugly words rose into the damp air.

Suspecting that Uncle Paton might have something to do with the cracked window, the two boys pushed their way through the crowd and were just in time to see Paton, bent almost double, running away from the scene of his latest ‘accident’. He had nearly reached number nine, Filbert Street, by the time they caught up with him.

‘Was that you, Mr Yewbeam?’ asked Benjamin. ‘The window thing, I mean.’

‘’Fraid so, Benjamin. I’d be grateful for your silence in the matter.’

‘Course, Mr Yewbeam.’

They ascended the steps of number nine, Uncle Paton leading the way. As he opened the door, he raised a finger to his lips and whispered harshly, ‘Not a sound. My sister may be at home.’

‘She is,’ Benjamin whispered back.

There was a shriek from the street and Olivia came flying up to them, the basket swinging wildly from her hand. ‘Wait for me!’ she called.

‘Ssssh!’ hissed the boys.

‘Sorry,’ said Olivia, catching her breath. ‘Is the demented grandma about?’

Benjamin nodded. Olivia scrambled up the steps and hopped into the hall with the others. Uncle Paton quietly closed the door, and Olivia plonked her basket beside the coat-stand.

They tiptoed into the kitchen, where Maisie was waiting anxiously. ‘Nothing’s happened,’ she said. ‘Not a sign. I keep taking a look, but the wretched picture just sits there, looking back at me. D’you know what? I can feel a kind of smugness coming from it.’

‘We’ll take a look.’ Uncle Paton removed his hat.

Benjamin’s stomach gave a loud bleat.

‘Goodness,’ Maisie exclaimed. ‘I’ve even forgotten lunch. That’s a first. I’ll get a bit ready while you lot go down into the cellar.’

Uncle Paton thought it unnecessary for them all to visit the cellar. Telling Fidelio and Olivia to wait in the kitchen, he chose just Benjamin to accompany him. Benjamin had, after all, seen Runner Bean vanish, and he could tell if the painting had changed at all.

Paton lit three candles in a tall candelabrum that stood on the dresser. ‘Don’t, whatever you do, turn the light on in the cellar,’ he told Benjamin.

‘Course not, Mr Yewbeam,’ Benjamin said emphatically.

Paton descended the steps backwards with the candelabrum in his right hand. Benjamin followed.

‘Ye gods, what a grim place!’ Paton declared as the flickering candlelight played over the surface of the painting.

Benjamin shuddered. Badlock had looked sinister before. In candlelight it looked terrifying. He could hardly bear to think what might have become of Runner Bean in such an awful place. And then he saw it. At the bottom of the painting, peeping round the corner of one of the towers, was a dog. Runner Bean. His mouth was open in a silent howl.

Benjamin screamed.

‘What the –’ Uncle Paton almost dropped the candelabrum.

‘Look, look, Mr Yewbeam!’ Benjamin pointed a shaking finger at Runner Bean.

Paton bent closer to the dog’s head.

Benjamin’s scream had brought the others rushing to the cellar door.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Maisie demanded.

‘Can I come down, please?’ begged Olivia. ‘I can’t stand not knowing.’

‘Runner’s h-h-here . . .’ Benjamin quavered.

‘Here?’ said Fidelio.

‘Here . . . but, not here. There,’ moaned Benjamin.

‘In the painting.’ Uncle Paton’s tone gave the already tense atmosphere an edge of menace. This was too much for Olivia, who began to scramble down the steps. She was stopped by a shout from the hall.

‘RABBIT!’ screamed Grandma Bone.

Grandma Bone was scared of most animals, but harmless rabbits were her bêtes noires.

Olivia reluctantly climbed back, while Fidelio said calmly, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Bone. It won’t hurt you.’

‘It’s EVIL,’ shrilled Grandma Bone, and then she saw Olivia. ‘What are you doing here, you harpy?’

Olivia had never been called a harpy before. She was rather pleased. Her rabbit, George, had escaped from his basket and was now halfway up the stairs, happily grazing the carpet. Grandma Bone was standing at the top; one of her small black eyes was screwed shut, the other watched the rabbit’s progress in horror.

Olivia leapt up the stairs, grabbed her rabbit and carried him back to his basket. ‘He honestly wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ she said, fastening the basket lid.

‘I asked you what you were doing here.’ Feeling safer, Grandma Bone slowly descended the stairs.

Before Olivia could think of a reply, Uncle Paton emerged from the cellar and said, ‘I think it’s about time you answered a few of my questions, Grizelda.’

‘Such as?’ Grandma Bone tossed her head imperiously.

‘Such as – what is that painting doing in the cellar, and where has it come from?’

‘None of your business.’ With a wary glance at George’s basket, Grandma Bone swept down the stairs and crossed the hall into the sitting room. Uncle Paton followed her and the three children trooped after him. Maisie, however, sank on to the hall chair with a baffled sigh.

‘It is my business,’ Uncle Paton insisted.

Grandma Bone settled herself in an armchair and picked up a newspaper.

‘Are you listening to me, Grizelda?’ roared Uncle Paton, and then, to the concern of the three children hovering by the door, he said, ‘Your grandson has vanished into that painting.’

Benjamin muttered, ‘We’re not supposed to tell . . .’

Grandma Bone lowered her newspaper. Her long, grumpy face was momentarily transformed by a look of pure delight. ‘But that’s what he does,’ she said.

In the giant’s tower, Charlie gave Runner Bean a brief wave, before being lowered to the floor by Otus.

‘A dog?’ said Otus. ‘Their like is ne’er seen in Badlock.’

‘We must rescue him before those awful troll-things come back,’ said Charlie, making for the door.

‘Boy, wait!’ commanded Otus. ‘This is not as simple as it seems.’

‘Nothing here is simple.’ Charlie began to run down the stone spiral.

‘STOP!’ The giant’s huge roar echoed down the stairwell and Charlie was forced to obey. ‘It is most likely a trick, Charlie, to force you into the open. Come back, I beg you.’

Charlie reluctantly trudged back to the giant’s room. The situation would be hopeless, he realised, if both he and Runner Bean were caught. ‘I feel so guilty,’ he told the giant, ‘leaving him out there all alone, specially now he’s seen me.’

‘I know, I know.’ Otus lit a candle and set it on the table. ‘But all about us there are towers and watchers. Soon the darkness will come, a darkness like no other, Charlie. No stars shine in Badlock and moonlight is – scarce. So we will creep down our tower and rescue the poor dog then.’

The giant stirred the pot hanging over his stove. ‘I had a dog once, in the world we come from. It was a fine dog and we were scarce parted. Here in Badlock there are no dogs or cats. There are only bugs and slimy, creeping, cold-blooded things called durgles. And the birds fly on bony featherless wings, and they have long, fearful beaks.’

Charlie climbed on to the giant’s bed. ‘Why are there no dogs or cats?’

‘The shadow and his people consider a creature’s use is solely for the food it can provide, or for the pelt that can become a cloak, a jerkin, or even shoes. Every warm-blooded creature has been hunted, almost to extinction. Only squirras survive; they breed like demons, that is the reason, perhaps.’

‘What about blancavamps?’ asked Charlie.

‘Aha, the blancabats.’ Otus smiled. ‘They dare not touch the blancavamps, for they are ghosties.’ He ladled several dollops of steamy stew into two wooden bowls. ‘Come to the table, Charlie-my-descendent, and eat your supper.’

Charlie hauled himself off the bed and on to the tall chair, while the giant tore a round loaf in two and placed a piece beside each bowl. He then half-sat on the table and began to swish the bread into the stew, using it as a kind of spoon. Charlie did the same. Squirra stew was surprisingly good, but then Charlie was very hungry.

They ate in silence for a while. Charlie kept thinking of the dog outside the tower. How frightened he must be. And then the warm stew settled in his stomach and he could only think how comforting it was. Occasionally he glanced at his ancestor’s face. He could see no resemblance between the Yewbeams he knew and the giant. Grandma Bone and her sisters had tiny black eyes and thin lips, while Otus had grey eyes, and a wide, generous mouth. But, of course, many generations had come between them.

‘Tell me about your life,’ said the giant, scraping the last morsel from his bowl.

Charlie licked his fingers until every delicious trace of the stew was gone, and then he began. He told the giant how his father had been hypnotised by Manfred Bloor, and lived for ten long years in the school called Bloor’s Academy, while no one knew he was there. He went on to say how he, Charlie, had discovered his talent for travelling into pictures. He described Grandma Bone and her terrible sisters, and his friends, the normal boys like Fidelio and Benjamin. ‘Only Fidelio isn’t really normal,’ Charlie added. ‘He’s a musical prodigy and one day he’ll be famous.’

And then Charlie recounted some of his adventures with those other children, the endowed, descendants of the Red King, like himself. Emma, who could fly, Billy, who understood animals, Lysander, who could call up his spirit ancestors, Tancred the storm-bringer, Gabriel the clairvoyant, ‘And there’s Olivia.’ Charlie gave a chuckle. ‘She’s an illusionist, but the Bloors don’t know about her. She’s kind of our secret weapon.’

‘So this ancient man, Ezekiel, keeps you prisoner in his Academy for the . . . the?’ The giant looked at Charlie questioningly.

‘Gifted, I suppose you’d call it,’ said Charlie. ‘And we’re not really prisoners.’

‘But under his control.’

‘Sometimes we disobey.’

‘Good! Good!’ cried Otus, clapping his hands. He glanced up at the window. ‘Darkness has come. The dog can be rescued.’

‘Runner Bean!’ Charlie had almost forgotten poor Runner Bean while he’d been talking to the giant.

Otus led the way down the tower. He held the candle in an iron dish. It smelled like burning fat and cast huge leaping shadows on the stone walls. When they reached the outer door, the giant stopped and listened. Charlie waited beside him, scarcely able to breathe.

Otus had barely opened the door, before Charlie rushed out. He was met by such an overpowering blackness, he felt he might have been blinded. And through the terrible dark came the winds, first from one side, then another, driving him against the wall of the tower, dragging his legs, howling in his head.

‘RUNNER!’ Charlie screamed into the wind.

He waited for an answering bark. But nothing could be heard above the winds.

‘Best return, boy,’ called Otus. ‘He has been taken.’

‘No!’ Charlie ran blindly forward. Suddenly, he was falling. He landed with a groan on to hard, rocky ground. Putting out a hand, he felt a damp wall. Something scuttled over his fingers and he screamed again.

There came a deep, throaty bark and, even in his dangerous position, Charlie felt a surge of joy. ‘Runner!’ he called.

The giant’s voice drifted above the wind. ‘Cursed giant that I am. I should have warned you of the pits. Where are you, boy?’

‘Here!’ cried Charlie. He heard the thud of boots. A giant hand touched his, and then he was being hauled up the side of the pit. As he reached the top, a shaft of weak, ragged moonlight showed him a large yellow dog perched on the rim. ‘Runner!’ he shouted.

Runner Bean barked delightedly as the giant bundled boy and dog towards the tower. ‘Hush, dog!’ he said, pushing them both through the door.

Charlie grabbed the excited dog’s collar, while Otus closed the door and drew two heavy bolts across it.

‘Faith, that dog will have us all in chains before night has passed,’ the giant muttered.

‘Did someone hear us?’ Charlie stroked Runner Bean’s head, calming him down.

‘I fear my neighbour,’ Otus admitted, as he ascended the stone staircase. ‘His tower is close, and he is not a kind man.’

Now that Runner Bean had found Charlie, he seemed reluctant to climb the shadowy steps. Charlie had to coax him up with strokes and promises of bones, though he had no idea if any would be found once they reached the giant’s room.

The giant had thought ahead. By the time Charlie had enticed the nervous dog to the top of the stairs, Otus had fished two bones out of the cooking pot. Flinging them across the floor, he chuckled, ‘Chew on those, brave dog.’

‘I don’t think he feels very brave,’ Charlie remarked as he watched Runner Bean ravenously gnawing the bones.

‘Charlie, you must flee from here,’ Otus said gravely. ‘We cannot hope to hide that dog. Soon my neighbour will alert Oddthumb and his crew. You will hear the horn, and then you must be gone.’

‘But how?’ Charlie gazed round the giant’s room. ‘I can’t,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘I don’t know how I got here. When I travel I have a wand . . .’

‘A wand?’ The giant’s eyes widened. ‘Truly, you are a magician, then?’

‘No, no.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘It’s just something that I inherited from my other ancestor, a Welsh wizard. It’d take too long to explain.’

Too long, indeed, for, at that moment, the eerie sound of a wailing horn echoed round the giant’s tower.

‘Oh, mercy, what’s to be done?’ The giant strode round and round, clenching his fists and glaring at the high window. ‘I shall defend you with my last breath, Charlie. But I am only one. I cannot prevail. Oddthumb will take you. Oh, poor boy, what is to become of you?’

The giant’s mournful voice was too much for Runner Bean. He leapt up with a dreadful howl – and something astonishing happened. From inside one of the dog’s ears, a white moth fluttered out. She came to rest on Charlie’s arm.

‘Claerwen,’ breathed Charlie. ‘My wand.’

‘In my day, we called such things moths,’ said the baffled giant.

‘Yes, yes. She is a moth, but she was once a wand,’ Charlie told the giant. ‘Mr Yewbeam, Otus – we can go now. Thank you, thank you . . .’

‘Then go,’ said Otus, ‘for I can hear troll feet. Swiftly, swiftly, Charlie Bone.’

‘Maybe I could take you with me, Otus?’

The giant sadly shook his head. ‘An impossibility. Go now, Charlie.’

Charlie flung his arm round Runner Bean. ‘I’ll came back, Otus, I promise. I’ll find a way to get you out of Badlock.’ Gazing at the moth, he cried, ‘Claerwen, take me home.’

The room about him began to jerk and jolt. Defying gravity, the table, chair and bed tumbled sideways, then became airborne. Charlie was treading air. Now he was upside down. His ears were bombarded with a thousand sounds. He felt Runner’s coarse hair melting under his fingers and tried to grip it tighter, but something, or someone, was trying to tear the dog from his grasp. And then his hand was empty and he was whirling away.

Charlie caught one last glimpse of his ancestor’s kind, incredulous face before he was thrust through time, through a sparkling, shifting web of sounds, smells and sensations.

He landed with a light bump on the cold cellar floor of number nine, Filbert Street. The painting of Badlock stood against the wall behind him. Giving it one brief glance, Charlie ran to the steps and climbed up to the hall. He could hear voices arguing above him.

‘Mercy on us!’ yelled Maisie, jumping out of her chair. ‘Charlie’s back!’

There was a sudden silence in the sitting room. Uncle Paton stepped out, followed by Fidelio, Benjamin and Olivia.

‘Charlie!’ cried Benjamin. ‘Have you got Runner?’

Charlie still felt unsteady. Grasping the banister for support, he said, ‘Bit of a problem there, Ben.’

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