The Shadow Thief

CHAPTER ONE
A Town Called Drabville

When you open a book and take a first hesitant glance at the page before you, the crucial factor that determines whether to continue reading or discard the book in disappointment is the opening sentence. After pondering long and hard over the opening sentence of this particular book, I have come to the conclusion that you must write it yourself. Sadly, if you are a person who is a little short on imagination, you might come up with such opening sentences as: ‘Once upon a time…’, ‘Long, long ago…’ or ‘Far, far away in a magical land…’ BORING! You are going to have to do better than that in order to do justice to the incredible story about to unfold. Perhaps it may help you to actually read a little of this story before making a decision, as we all know that opening sentences written in haste are never a wise idea. As far as beginnings go, one of my all-time favourites has to be: ‘All children, except one, grow up.’ An opening like that cannot help but capture your attention! So, whilst you gather your thoughts on opening sentences, I should probably stop burbling and begin to tell the story, which is the reason you opened this book in the first place.

As it happens, this story involves a girl, a young and rather pretty girl, with the unfortunate (although admittedly highly original) name of Millipop Klompet. Of course, on the odd occasion when Millipop spoke to a person long enough for them to ask her name, she made sure to leave out the last three letters and was always quick to say that she was not given a surname due to strong religious reasons. So, due to strong religious reasons, throughout this book I shall refer to her simply as Milli.

This book also involves a town: a town called Drabville, which was the place where Milli was born and lived with her family. Drabville was an orderly town presided over by a Mr and Mrs Mayor, who were both popular and much admired. They made regular public appearances to report town news, snip ribbons at the unveiling of new buildings, launch new initiatives and give out Citizen of the Week awards. The people of Drabville were very proud of the Mayors and their exemplary town. Problems such as poverty, crime and unemployment had been eradicated by the implementation of a series of restrictions known as the Code of Conduct. This code comprised a set of rules that everyone was happy to abide by even if it meant the loss of small freedoms. For example, citizens were prevented from wearing colours other than black, beige or mushroom in the streets. Children were not allowed out to play after four o’clock in the afternoon, and venturing out of doors without the Drabville crest displayed somewhere on your person could incur a hefty fine. There were severe chastisements for the breaking of any rules, but breaches rarely occurred, for few citizens of Drabville had any desire to break the rules.

Milli found the sameness of her town insufferable but inescapable. Every house was designed by the same architect, or, should I say, the architect designed one house and every other was replicated in its image. They were even painted the same colours: grey, with shiny black doors and brass doorknockers. The identical rectangular lawns sat side by side, not one branch of the knotted black trees lining the streets was out of place, and the square slabs of concrete making up the footpath were not blemished with even the smallest of stains. A greyness pervaded Drabville so thick that it not only obscured sunlight but drained the colour out of everything. Because of it butterflies were rarely seen, owls were wide awake at midday and silhouettes, had they been detectable, would probably have been mistaken for ogres. The town was dead, Milli thought; you could search its every nook and cranny and not find a single speck of individuality or colour.

For some time Milli had sensed something missing in the townsfolk too, but as she was unable to explain it to herself, there seemed little point in raising it with anyone else. She couldn’t say exactly what it was that had left them, but she knew it was something important, something invaluable. Milli did not know at the time this story begins that it would be up to her to restore it to them.

Milli led rather a solitary life. Her mother had died when she was just four years old, so, regrettably, they never got the chance to know each other well. Although her memories of her mother were blurred, there were three things Milli did remember quite distinctly. The first was her mother’s name, Enid Rosemary Klompet, which worked like a mantra for dispelling the bout of insomnia that inevitably followed a nightmare. The second was the coolness of her mother’s hands the touch of which had never failed to soothe her out of a tantrum. The third was simply her mother’s pet name for her, which no one used any more: Little Millipede.

Nobody would speak to Milli about her mother’s death or the exact circumstances surrounding it. Instead, they muttered uncomfortably behind their teacups about unfortunate accidents and hurriedly changed the subject. Over time, Milli had learned not to bring the matter up with neighbours or townsfolk, but it did not stop her wishing they might occasionally make reference to her mother in conversation or at least enquire whether Milli missed her. But they never did. They were all far too busy discussing how the indistinguishable flowers in their gardens were thriving or what decoration to choose for the crust of the pie they were next going to bake. You are probably wondering why Milli didn’t ask her own family to tell her about her mother, but, you see, Millipop Klompet belonged to the most un-ordinary of families.

Her older sister, Dorkus, had not ventured outside her bedroom for two and a half years for fear of being eaten by one electrical appliance or another, and was convinced beyond reason that the family dog, Stench, was a spy working for an undercover government organisation. Then there was Milli’s father, the only other person in the house to confide in. Milli might well have tried confiding in him had he been able to concentrate long enough on what she had to say.

Mr Klompet had always been a dreamer, but since the loss of his wife he lived in a permanent state of distraction. He was the sort of person who could sit staring at a jar of Honeylik Seeds for hours on end and thought that the height of entertainment was making smiley faces out of the remains of his breakfast.

Milli’s father was a baker and worked five days a week running the town bakery, kneading, rolling and cooking the breads and pastries to perfection. Milli often marvelled at the way he did exactly the same thing every single day and still looked forward to going to work in the morning.

In their own kitchen, Mr Klompet enjoyed creating exotic, if sometimes peculiar, dishes and had once attempted to bake pea pods filled with toffee in order to combine the flavours of savoury and sweet. The result had been disastrous enough to put Milli off both peas and toffee for the rest of her life. But Mr Klompet was not so easily disheartened. Although some of his experimental cooking was quite horrifying, there were some creations that were quite incredible, like his honey-dipped pear strudel presented in the shape of the Swiss Alps. It was Mr Klompet’s dream to broaden his repertoire and perhaps one day make a passionfruit strudel. But apples and pears were all that were available in Drabville, as the more exotic fruits were prohibited due to the mood-changing properties they contained.

Such was Mr Klompet’s inventiveness that in a different world he would almost certainly have been hosting his own cooking program on national television. But as neither inventiveness nor television was tolerated in Drabville, Mr Klompet had to be content working with the limited resources available to him.

In the Drabville bakery, like any other commercial enterprise of the town, departure from routine was strictly forbidden. The townsfolk were wary of change and most customers only ever bought the same type of white sliced bread that tasted like bed sheets—and if you have ever chewed on bed sheets in the middle of the night during a particularly bad dream, then you will know just how horrid they can taste. But the bland tastebuds of his customers did not seem to bother Mr Klompet. He met anyone and everyone with a huge grin plastered all over his flour-smudged face. Of course, the townsfolk regarded him as a Drabvillian no different from themselves. He abided by the town rules, read the Code of Conduct each night before bed and never questioned the edicts of the Mayor. Therefore, he was an accepted and respected citizen and poor Mr Klompet could not have been more devastated to find that his youngest daughter, Milli, would never be.

If you were to ask me to sum up Millipop Klompet’s personality in one word, you would be wasting your precious and valuable time, for the simple reason that there is not one word in even the most comprehensive of dictionaries that could come close to describing her. Milli was mad. She was ludicrous and bizarre—yet thoughtful and imaginative. She was spontaneous and passionate, bold and spirited. If I asked you to tell me the first thing that pops into your head when I say the word ‘day’, you would most likely reply something along the lines of ‘night’ or perhaps, if you are very creative, ‘sky’. If I were to ask Milli the same question she would probably reply, ‘pomegranate’!

There is something very curious about a girl who sees links between an exotic red fruit and the daytime, which did not quite fit in with the conventions of Drabville. However, Milli’s appearance was the most palpable example of her singularity. With creamy porcelain skin, an impish face and grave brown eyes that widened to orbs at the thought of adventure, Milli had the appearance of a china doll. But, unlike a china doll’s sleek and burnished locks, her hair caused her no end of trouble. She simply could not discipline her unruly mop of dark curls, which by midday had always managed to wriggle free of the obligatory chignon she twisted them into every morning. Since her mother had died, Milli had taken on a permanently unkempt look. Her shoes were scuffed, her socks mismatched and her pinafores not only looked too small but showed signs of having been hastily ironed. Mr Klompet was generally too preoccupied to arrange appointments with hairdressers or seamstresses.

Milli despised her regulation uniform. The metal buttons of her grey pinafore (which she was required to wear over a pleated wool skirt and stiff-collared blouse) gave her a permanent itch at the back of her neck. Whenever the itching became too much to bear, Milli would tear open the top buttons of her pinafore only to be shouted at by the music master at Drabville Elementary School, Mr Trevor Treble. Trevor Treble was a bug-eyed, frog-like man in his sixties who strutted about in his academic gown and took great pleasure in pointing his baton at noncompliant students and bellowing, ‘BUTTONS!’ Milli had accrued a great number of demerit points as a result of those bothersome buttons, not to mention various other misdemeanours. For one thing, her socks simply refused to stay up and invariably slid down her legs, crumpling around her ankles like deflated balloons. Her blouse came untucked, her shoes unlaced, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Milli was the music master’s prime victim and the state of her hair and uniform had been known to cause him heart palpitations.

The other children, whose uniforms never fell short of immaculate, had given up trying to befriend Milli long ago. She warded them off with fierce scowls, dark looks and sometimes even threats of magic, which alone was enough to keep them well at bay. Magic of any kind (including card tricks) was forbidden in the town of Drabville, and there was nothing the children feared more than the consequences of breaking the rules.

They all remembered a terrible day in November some three years back, when a small boy of twelve named Leo took the unprecedented step of not returning his library book on time because he hadn’t yet finished reading it. Leo never got to finish his book, or any others for that matter, because a ghostly grey car rolled silently up to his front door shortly before bedtime. Milli vividly remembered seeing Leo’s parents handing over their only son without so much as batting an eyelid or raising an eyebrow in protest. The memory of their vacant faces still sent shivers up her spine. Leo had been as pale as pizza dough and desperately clutching his parents, but they had only shaken him off as carelessly as one might a bothersome fly at a summer picnic. Now they went about their everyday business as if they had never had a son.

Milli sometimes wondered what had become of Leo and where he was now. She would have liked to find him and bring him home. For, as you have already been informed, more than anything else Milli loved an adventure. Nothing gave her more satisfaction than stepping into the unknown, taking risks and conquering fears. She had even made a secret pact with herself that by the time she reached the age of twelve (now mere months away), there would be nothing and no one she was afraid of.

Once, when she was just five years old, Milli had made herself sleep under her bed instead of on it for a whole week just to rid herself of the fear of Mostro. Mostro was a furry, sabre-toothed monster who Milli was convinced resided under her bed and munched the toes of little children once they were fast asleep. She was sure she could hear him breathing and his talons scratching against the bare boards as he waited for her to doze off. She knew Mostro preferred his toes fresh and pink, so in an effort to ward him off Milli made sure hers were gritty and dirt-blackened before climbing into bed each night.

Remarkably, Milli had managed to banish the childhood fears that still haunt the dreams of you and me and had long since moved on to bigger and more horrible adult fears. But if you were to ask someone who knew her, they would tell you that Milli herself was rather fearsome. She had a hot temper, and when it flared up treading within fifty miles of her was treading on dangerous ground. When displeased, Milli was not the sort of girl to be content with causing rain or perhaps a little thunder; she was more likely to kick up a tempest. I am not in any way implying that Milli was a horrid or violent girl with dreadful rage problems. Perhaps the most accurate description of her was offered by one of her teachers, who had used the word ‘passionate’, although she did not intend it to be in any way complimentary.

Passionate children were considered little more than a nuisance in Drabville as they asked far too many questions and then questioned the answers they were given. Being passionate meant that when Milli got a bee in her bonnet even a snowstorm couldn’t shake it. Although small in stature, Milli could be formidable. As far as a social life was concerned, she preferred her own company to that of tedious children and there was only one small boy in her desolate neighbourhood whose company she could tolerate and, sometimes, even enjoy. His equally unfortunate name was Ernest Perriclof.

As there wasn’t much exploring to be done in Drabville, Milli spent most of her free time longing to cross the Lurid Lagoon and explore the infamous Shreckal Caverns on the other side. But, as Ernest never failed to remind her (he could be a bit of a stickler for the rules), the lagoon and the caverns formed part of the Taboo Territories and access was strictly forbidden. What was more, rumour had it that strange creatures haunted the Shreckal Caverns—faceless creatures with talons sharper than butchers’ knives—and not a soul had ever ventured within ten miles of the place. Even dreaming of going there was considered a portent of misfortune. But you shall hear more about the Shreckal Caverns and its strange inhabitants later on, for now I must get back to the story.

We all know that adventures are never found when we go looking for them, and look for them was precisely what Milli did almost every day. She hadn’t always been a trouble maker. She vaguely remembered a time when she was content to sit quietly with her needlework and obey the rules without fuss. But that memory was fading fast, for soon after her tenth birthday an inexplicable rebellion had overtaken her and she had begun to see everything in a different light. It was a little like being reunited with another self who had been on a long sabbatical and filled Milli with an energy that was not easily contained. Unsettling though it was, it also presented her with innumerable ideas and possibilities she had never before considered. Now she searched for trouble and was constantly on the alert for anything that might be slightly out of the ordinary. But on this particular afternoon, Milli did not go in search of an adventure, and so it was that an adventure found its way to her.

CHAPTER TWO
The Red Doorknocker

Before I go on, I feel obliged to warn you that Milli found no love message in a bottle. Nor did she save the world from a terrible peril. What she did find was a photograph. Yes, a boring old photograph splashed across a tattered page of the Drabville Bugle, which had been used to wrap up shells from last night’s supper of mollusc and turnip broth.

Putting out the garbage was Milli’s chore. In her haste to get it done, she wheeled the cumbersome bin towards its assigned spot next to the picket fence at such a perilous angle that its top flipped open, clonking her on the head and allowing her a clear view of the repulsive contents inside. The bundle of shells was half buried under a pile of mashed potato, the photo just visible. Had it been you or I in the same situation, we may have felt disinclined to rescue the soggy page from under this slimy, greying mound. But Milli glimpsed an opportunity for adventure too tempting to refuse.

Little did she know that the photograph she had found was of immense importance, but then again a photograph stuck under a rotting pile of mashed potato would not usually strike anyone as particularly important.

There was nothing mysterious about the subject of the photograph. It featured a newly erected statue of Mr Mayor, prominently positioned in the centre of Poxxley Gardens. Milli recalled its official unveiling only weeks before. The photograph had clearly been taken from some height as Mr Mayor’s stone face beamed out at her, round as a dinner plate. Below it stood a gathering of townsfolk, come to commemorate the occasion and congratulate the town sculptor, Bernardo Bernardini. Milli was about to dispose of the page, but reconsidered when she spied something fascinating in the background of the picture. Behind the trees, almost indiscernible, stood a grand house with four chimneys. Milli had spent countless idle hours wandering the grounds of Poxxley Gardens or reading under its hundred-year-old oaks. She knew it like the back of her hand, but what this picture showed was like nothing she had ever seen before. Unlike the modest, grey houses of Drabville, this one was set apart by its size, design and undeniable air of splendour. The house would have looked inviting had she been able to ignore the row of thorny, black plants bordering the driveway.

From what Milli could gather, the noble manor was positioned just where Poxxley Gardens blurred into the dense woodland that marked the beginning of the Taboo Territories. From pre-school days it had been drummed into the children of Drabville that the Taboo Territories were an uninhabited and hazardous wasteland. Any who strayed there would more than likely fall into the path of ruthless bandits or wild predators and never return. Who in their right mind would choose to build a house there? And how had its existence gone undetected for so long? This discovery could not be due to mere coincidence. Perhaps, Milli concluded, she was destined to find it. As she headed back towards her house, Milli’s heart was turning cartwheels in her chest and her whole body tingled with a mixture of anticipation and dread. So thrilled was she by her discovery that she momentarily forgot the rule preventing shouting in the streets.

‘Dad!’ she bellowed, tearing inside.

Her father looked up blankly from the kitchen sink he was polishing. ‘Mmmm?’ was his only reply.

‘This house in Poxxley Gardens, who lives there?’ Milli thrust the newspaper at her bewildered father.

‘House? Poxxley Gardens? That’s government property; no house has ever been built there.’

‘But look! It’s here in the photograph.’

Her father shook his head. ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘What kind of mistake puts things in a picture that aren’t really there?’ she objected.

‘Milli, sweetheart, can’t you see I’m in the middle of a very important project? Why don’t you run along and play with Stench?’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Off you go.’

Milli slammed the front door and stomped down Peppercorn Place feeling outraged. There was only one person who would understand, or at least be prepared to discuss her discovery. Ernest lived just a few streets away in Bauble Lane. As she made her way there, she noticed that people were eyeing her suspiciously and she suddenly realised why. She was wearing a scowl so ferocious it would scare off the foulest of creatures. In Drabville it was considered bad manners not to smile foolishly in public; well, it was included in the Drabville Code of Conduct anyway. (I don’t mean smiling foolishly was included as a rule, but citizens were encouraged to maintain a cheerful demeanour at all times.)

When Milli reached Ernest’s house she tapped quietly on his bedroom window with her fingertip so as not to disturb Mrs Perriclof, who was hypersensitive to noise of any kind and constantly inflicting silence games on her children. This was the Perriclof idea of family fun and the winner was usually rewarded with an extra helping of apple compote or pear pudding at dinnertime. After a short interval, the window opened silently. Milli scrambled in to find Ernest sitting cross-legged on his bed, painstakingly categorising a river stone collection. His coffee-brown curls flopped onto his forehead and he occasionally brushed them away in irritation.

‘Hello!’ Milli said brightly. Ernest grunted in reply.

‘What do you make of this?’ She handed him the reeking page.

Ernest raised his eyebrows, grimaced, but said nothing. Then, all of a sudden, he began to frown. He sat bolt upright and squinted at the picture, turning it at different angles. He first looked mystified, then perplexed.

‘What do you think?’ Milli prompted, but still Ernest said nothing. Silence was something that annoyed Milli immensely but she held her tongue. Finally, Ernest slid off his bed and carried the newspaper to his desk where he placed it under a magnifying glass.

‘Wow!’ he breathed, peering through the lens. ‘Milli, come and look at this.’

‘I have seen it,’ she snapped. ‘Remember? I brought it to you.’

‘Oh, flying focaccias, Millipop, look at the doorknocker!’

When Milli did look more closely, her breath caught in her throat. The doorknocker looked quite ordinary except for one eye-goggling difference. Even more startling than the house’s size and location, was a small dot of colour which was the doorknocker. The use of this colour carried the most serious of all penalties—banishment! Brass doorknockers were the only ones permitted in Drabville but this one was RED! Not even maroon, but bright fire-engine red.

Within the space of a few minutes Ernest found himself suspended in a horizontal position and clinging desperately to his bedpost. A relentless Milli tugged at his ankles.

‘Nooooooo!’ he shrieked. ‘I won’t go, Milli, it’s cursed! Have you ever seen a red doorknocker?’

‘Come on, Ernest, we never do anything exciting.’

‘I’m not running the risk of developing pointy ears or furry knuckles just so you can play amateur detective.’

This exchange would have been rather comical had the situation not been about to take a more serious turn. Milli, of course, could see only excitement in the idea of trespassing into a forbidden area to look for a house with a red doorknocker. After all, opportunities like that did not present themselves every day. But as it turned out, she should have paid more heed to Ernest’s apprehension.

When Ernest finally felt as if his feet were about to detach from his body, he resignedly let go of the bedpost and crashed into an undignified heap on the floor. A triumphant Milli began to bustle around the room tossing items she thought might come in handy into his Three Cheers for Drabville backpack. Milli felt quite at home in Ernest’s bedroom even if it did remind her of being in a museum. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows and the faces of famous explorers stared out at her from dusty frames. Although Ernest was scholarly and excelled in all his studies, his great passion was rocks. Immaculate cabinets lined the walls where his most prized specimens were safely displayed away from prying, sticky fingers. Milli’s favourite was the gemstone cabinet. She liked it best because it contained stones with romantic names like lapis lazuli, amethyst, rose quartz and the silvery-grey hematite. She imagined each one having a different power—always handy when an adventure takes a wrong turn.

‘Stop fogging up the glass!’ Ernest whined as Milli lingered at the cabinet. She scowled and thrust his shoes at him, waiting impatiently for him to put them on. When the last loop was tied, she slung the bag of supplies over her shoulder and clambered out the way she had come in. A jittery Ernest followed, muttering grimly about bad omens, doom and the impending end of life as they knew it.

When the pair finally reached the entrance of Poxxley Gardens it was late afternoon and the wrought-iron gates were closed.

‘Let’s go in,’ Milli said in as confident a voice as she could muster. But Ernest, being the sort of boy who could find a million potential perils in something as simple as opening a bottle of Almond Fizz, was not so enthusiastic.

‘Wish we’d thought to bring coats,’ he moaned. ‘It’s getting quite nippy. I might just dash back for them. Don’t worry, I’ll catch up with you later.’

Seizing Ernest firmly by the arm, Milli dragged them both through the gates. They were inside Poxxley Gardens.

After wandering the meandering paths for some time and still finding nothing, Ernest began to grow weary and ill-tempered.

‘Look, Milli, there is no house.’

‘I just want to have a tiny squiz around the corner,’ she retorted pleasantly. Ernest let out a groan. The path ahead looked identical to the one they had crossed only minutes before.

‘We’re going in circles,’ he grumbled, but Milli was already past him and heading out of sight. Ernest stood rooted to the spot in protest, glaring after her until all he could hear was the faint crunching of her shoes on the gravel. This might be Milli’s idea of entertainment, but quite frankly he could think of much better things he might be doing right now. There were the newly acquired quartz specimens for one, which still needed to be examined, labelled and catalogued. But when the first cricket chirped, Ernest suddenly realised he was alone in the gathering darkness of a public recreational area at a prohibited hour and scampered after Milli.

He found her quickly enough, head down, inspecting the branches overhanging the path.

‘Look at these ferns,’ she whispered. Still wounded from what he perceived to be his earlier abandonment, Ernest looked away. ‘They hang over the path,’ Milli went on, ‘and the spider webs are undisturbed. No one must ever come this way and that means we’re on the right track!’

‘Hoo-rah,’ said Ernest flatly. ‘We really are going to have to find you a hobby.’

The path grew narrower, choked by undergrowth, as Milli and Ernest picked their way along it. Just when they could scarcely put another foot forward, they came to a towering stone wall barring their way. The wall was almost covered in creepers and there were two gargoyles in pouncing position perched at its top like sentinels. Ernest would have been quite happy to turn back at that very moment, but Milli was already considering their options.

‘The wall is too high to climb.’ she said. ‘We’ll have to find another way in.’

She felt her way along the stones, searching for an opening or crack to look through. There was none to be found. She even attempted to catapult herself over the wall using Ernest’s shoulders as a lever, but only ended up flattening him and gaining a painful gash down her left leg. They had just about given up when Ernest spotted a badger snuffling about at the base of the wall.

‘Look,’ he nudged Milli. ‘What’s that animal over there doing?’

But when Milli turned to look, it had scurried out of sight. ‘Probably just dashing home for a coat,’ she said with a grin.

Ernest’s nostrils flared to the size of bottle caps with indignation. He marched over to the spot where the creature had been seen and started searching. Milli watched him with curiosity. After a moment Ernest let out a gasp. He had found a small burrow at the base of the stone wall, hidden by the creeper. Fortunately, it was just large enough for two small, inquisitive children to wriggle through.

Inspired by his discovery, Ernest went first and Milli followed close behind. They scratched their hands and soiled their clothes but were too gripped by the sight before them to care. Looming behind the tangled, unkempt gardens, shimmering like a mirage in the fast fading sunlight, was the house from the photograph. It was much more imposing in reality and not unlike the old mansions sometimes found in the fairy stories they had read as small children. A circular drive led to the front door and four chimneys puffed smoke of different colours. The house was so imposing that Milli and Ernest could not help but feel dwarfed by it. There were no buildings like it in Drabville and even the Town Hall (Drabville’s most ornate edifice) was modest by comparison. As Milli and Ernest advanced towards its entrance, closer inspection revealed that not only was the doorknocker red, it was also shaped like the head of a boar. But that wasn’t all. Written in black curly script on a plaque above the door were the words ‘Hog House’. At their feet was an unusually large doormat. I am sure you will agree that in average households most front doormats have inviting messages written on them such as ‘Welcome’ or ‘Home Sweet Home’, but the owner of this residence had opted for quite a different approach. The doormat at Hog House simply read ‘Scram!’

CHAPTER THREE
A Close Encounter

An inhospitable doormat was not enough to deter Milli. ‘We should ring the bell,’ she suggested brightly.

Ernest was unable to contain his sarcasm. ‘Why not? We’ll probably get an invitation to tea and scones.’

‘We’ve come too far to turn back now,’ Milli declared and reached for the knocker. But before she could take hold of it, something even more unexpected than the hostile doormat or pig-headed doorknocker happened. The boar’s mouth began to widen and, before they had time to jump back, a gale-force wind blew from it, so powerful it knocked them clean off their feet, flinging them as far as the lawn, several metres away. The wind continued for what seemed an inordinate amount of time and both Milli and Ernest had to shield their faces to prevent being pounded by flying gravel.

When the wind finally did die down, Milli got up, more determined than ever, and approached the door again. This time, just moments before her hand touched the knocker, the ground beneath them began to tremble. It started as a tremor but soon the earth was shuddering so violently that Milli and Ernest had to clutch one another to keep from falling. They even found themselves playing something like hopscotch to avoid their feet falling through the deadly cracks now appearing around them.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact only minutes, the shuddering came to an abrupt halt. The children looked at each other, too stunned for words. Ernest placed a hand on Milli’s shoulder indicating that a retreat might be in order. Milli looked as though she was about to comply and even went so far as to turn her back on the door. But then, at the last minute, she decided on a surprise attack and lunged one last time for the doorknocker.

From the boar’s mouth there erupted a growl so low and terrible it made the birds in the nearby trees squawk away in alarm. I, for one, know that if I heard a sound as bone-chilling as that I would run for all I was worth and not stop until I reached the security of people and buildings. But, alas, this story is not about me, and Milli and Ernest held their ground. Well, if truth be told, it might be more accurate to say that Milli held her ground and Ernest’s too.

‘I suppose you’re going to suggest we camp outside until they let us in?’ Ernest suggested testily.

‘It is a great shame, Ernest Perriclof,’ Milli replied, ‘that you do not put that great intellect of yours to better use.’

‘And by better you mean…?’

‘Think of a plan!’

Now, Milli may have been the bravery behind their adventures, but Ernest was definitely the brains. He even knew how to introduce himself in eight different languages and had invented several secret codes, including one that relied on ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Just at that moment Ernest’s scientific brain kicked in and, striding purposefully down the driveway, he began peering around.

‘What are you doing now, Yolk Brain?’ Milli snorted.

‘Actually, Yolk Brain, I’m looking for the letterbox. Letterboxes and rubbish bins can tell you an awful lot about people.’ The letterbox was not that difficult to find, being a decorative pillar positioned near the house adjacent to the driveway.

‘And what does this one tell you, Nancy Drew?’

‘Whoever lives here has put a “No Folly Mail” sticker on their letterbox,’ Ernest explained, as if speaking to a very small child. ‘We both know that folly mail advertises cheap gadgets and second-hand goods. The owner of this property must be wealthy enough not to need the discounts.’

Milli looked at him blankly.

‘You see,’ Ernest continued, ‘wealthy people are used to comfort and wouldn’t like to be locked out of their homes. So, if I am not mistaken, there should be a spare key hidden not far from here. We can get into the house, simple as meringues. All we have to do is find the key.’

‘Wealthy people can also be quite unimaginative,’ Milli added competitively. ‘We need to look in the most obvious hiding places.’

As she spoke, both their eyes turned to the doormat. Hurrying back, they knelt down and lifted the mat into the air. Underneath, the clean rectangle of stone was quite empty. Ernest peered closer in case the key was so small they had missed it at first glance, but Milli had turned her attention to an empty clay pot behind a well-tended shrub sprouting the daintiest of butter-yellow flowers. The pot looked so conspicuously like a hiding spot for a key that, in her zeal to reach it, Milli plunged her arm straight through the bush with the yellow flowers which just happened to be poisonous.

The moment her fingers connected with the petals, a dozen thorns as black as liquorice shot from the centre of the flowers and lodged themselves in Milli’s forearm. She recoiled from the bush and screamed in horror. Ernest screamed too, because he did not really know what else to do.

‘Didn’t you recognise that plant?’ he said, panicked. ‘It’s a Flesh Gobbler and its poison is so deadly it kills its victims in ten minutes flat!’

Milli was too stricken to reply. Instead, she collapsed onto the ground at Ernest’s feet and began to reflect on her short and uneventful life.

‘I trust you will inform my family,’ she requested. Ernest shushed her, muttering wildly to himself. ‘That’s very noble of you,’ Milli went on, ‘your closest friend is dying and you can’t even listen to her last wishes.’

‘Milli, please! I think I may be on to something. It was my Aunt Bulb who first warned me about the Flesh Gobbler. There is no known antidote in traditional medicine, but she’s a botanist and has been working on a cure. Bulb isn’t sure her cure will work because it hasn’t been tested properly yet, but it’s worth a try now. If only I could remember it!’

He screwed up his face in concentration and plonked himself down beside Milli who was now entering the early stages of delirium.

‘Look,’ she giggled, pointing to a ladybug on her leg. ‘Do you think she has a name and a family too, Ernest? With cousins and uncles and great-grandparents?’

Ernest did not feel this warranted a response. Besides, he was still racking his brains for the possible antidote Aunt Bulb had shared with him. Meanwhile, Milli crawled over to a garden bed and sprawled across a patch of earth oddly patterned with blue and purple rings. Ernest rose to retrieve her, but stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of the luminous rings.

‘The Higloopungie!’ he shouted, leaping a foot in the air. ‘I remember now! The only antidote for the poison of the Flesh Gobbler is the distilled gastric juices of the Higloopung Worm. But we don’t have time for that. You’ll just have to swallow some whole.’

Milli looked at him, befuddled, as he dropped to his knees and began clawing at the ground, sending great clumps of dirt flying in every direction. Soon enough, just above the surface, there appeared a slimy blue head. It was about a thumb’s width with bug eyes and gingery whiskers. The Higloopung’s bloated body was the colour of mouldy cheese and webbed with fine capillaries. It cocked its head in a peevish sort of way, causing the growths on its crown to crinkle in a rather unflattering manner.

In case you are not one of those lucky children who has had an explorer for a geography teacher, it is my duty to inform you that the rare Higloopung Worm originated in the remote mountains of Higloopunglia, where they occupy a protected rank in the food chain. In Higloopunglia, the worms are venerated for their healing powers and never boorishly yanked from their underground homes. Only the Great King Compost the Third ever enjoyed the privilege of doing so, and even then only with very good reason.

Ernest let out a whoop as he snatched up the Higloopung Worm and thrust it at Milli.

‘Quickly, eat it!’ he told her. ‘It’s the only way to neutralise the poison!’

‘We can’t just rub them on the cuts?’ Milli asked. The thought of swallowing the writhing worm had brought her sharply back to her senses. But Ernest was adamant.

‘No, no,’ he said, pulling another Higloopung from the ground. ‘You must eat them. Three ought to do the trick.’

Milli wasn’t a squeamish girl but chewing and swallowing such a vile-looking creature was too much for even her to contemplate. ‘I don’t think I can.’

‘You don’t have to chew them,’ Ernest reassured. ‘Just tip back your head.’

Reluctantly, Milli did as he asked, and before she knew what was happening Ernest had popped the worms into her open mouth and she felt them wriggle down her throat.

After several long moments and a lot of gagging from Milli, the black thorns in her arm dropped to the ground and the punctures they had created healed without so much as a scar. She turned to Ernest, surprised to find him wearing an expression of concern, rather than gloating.

‘Has it worked?’ he asked.

‘I shall have to thank Aunt Bulb,’ she returned meekly.

Ernest grinned and threw himself at Milli, hugging her in relief. Quite unaccustomed to displays of emotion from Ernest, a polite ‘thank you’ was all Milli could think to say.

The sun was disappearing behind Hog House like a ball of fire. Soon it would grow too dark for them to find their way back. They had been winded by a gale, nearly swallowed alive, growled at and almost poisoned. Even the valiant Milli agreed it was time to go home.

When they reached the burrow in the wall and knelt down to scramble back through, they both turned for one final look at Hog House. They thought they saw the eyes in the boar’s head flicker and widen. A pair of fierce bloodshot eyeballs pinned them for a moment before resuming the immobility of stone. Neither Milli nor Ernest could be certain they had not imagined it, but they could not shake the unmistakable, prickling sensation that they had been seen.

Making her way back through the deserted streets to Peppercorn Place, Milli thought about the bizarre events of the afternoon. She knew she would go back to Hog House. In fact, she planned to go the very next day. When the boar’s head had come to life, Milli had not been afraid so much as intrigued. Ernest, who was of the opinion that there were enough challenges in their latest trigonometry assignment, clearly hoped to put the whole unfortunate episode behind him. But Milli had spent her childhood inventing villains more shocking than you have ever read about in story books and finding ingenious ways to defeat them. Her villains had blind white eyes that bored right through your skull. Their hands were black and encrusted with blood. They had yellow nails as sharp as daggers that arched from their fingers and were always itching to carve their emblem into your skin. These villains kept weapons at the ready in their sleeves and boots, and feasted day and night on small children who strayed after dark. Milli had defeated many such villains in her games. So, as you can imagine, she did not find a temperamental doorknocker particularly worrying.

She reached her house and let herself in through the bathroom window, which was always left open in case of emergencies. Creeping into her bedroom, she lost her footing on a slip of paper lying beside the door and went skidding into the wardrobe. Cursing quietly, she picked herself up, hoping the clamour had not woken her family. Only when she was about to change into her regulation nightshift did her eye catch sight of the slip of paper now lying harmlessly on the floor. When she picked it up, she saw that it was, in fact, an envelope with her name printed neatly on the front in very formal lettering. With a growing sense of dread, she tore it open and read:

By the order of the Mayor of Drabville you are under arrest for committing the following offences:

Being out of doors after the hour of four o’clock.
Trespassing.
Shouting in the street.
The use of unauthorised medication.

You will be collected from your residence at exactly eight-fifteen this evening.

Resistance is futile.

Milli stared at the note in disbelief. She and Ernest had been seen. They were going to be arrested. She glanced at her clock: 8.05. This was a disaster. She had to wake her father. No, he wouldn’t understand. She needed to talk to Ernest.

She scribbled a hasty note to Mr Klompet and slid it under his bedroom door. She would get out of this muddle herself. How exactly? That part would be figured out later.

CHAPTER FOUR
Prisoners of Hog House

A long grey car arrived punctually at eight-fifteen and not a second before. Milli was waiting on the pavement when the rear door slid soundlessly open and waited for her to climb in. You are probably wondering why the foolish girl didn’t pack her bags and run the moment she received the letter. But you see, there is nowhere to run to in Drabville, nowhere to hide. It does not matter which remote corner of the town you creep into, you will always be found.

Ernest was already slumped forlornly in the back seat when Milli clambered in. His head was resting in his hands and every now and then a low moan escaped his lips. A screen of tinted glass separated the front and back seats, so Milli could not see the driver. Even so, she got the feeling the driver could see them.

‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.

Slowly, Ernest turned to face her, revealing a ragged scratch down his left cheek. ‘I tried to run.’ He looked so helpless sitting there with his tear-streaked face and hands shaking in his lap that Milli felt a pang of sympathy just looking at him.

‘This is outrageous,’ she fumed. ‘They’ve accused us of offences we didn’t even commit. What do they mean “unauthorised medication”?’

‘The Higloopung Worms,’ Ernest replied glumly.

‘Oh.’ Milli suddenly felt overwhelmed with guilt. This was her fault! Ernest hadn’t wanted to go to Poxxley Gardens, but she had coerced, cajoled and threatened him into it. Getting herself into trouble was one thing, but dragging Ernest into it with her was something else altogether. It was at that moment Milli decided she was going to rescue them, and she would do it for Ernest Perriclof, her only true companion and friend. She reached out and took Ernest’s hand in hers, squeezing it tightly just before the car turned a sharp bend and glided to a halt.

The huge man who opened the door for them had muscles the size of cantaloupes. As they climbed out, Milli saw at once that he didn’t look particularly evil, just bored. Black bristles covered his chin. His jutting jaw and long swinging arms gave him an ape-like appearance. Looking past their beefy escort, Milli recognised immediately where they were. The dainty yellow flowers, twisting gravel driveway, red doorknocker: they were back at Hog House!

Ernest’s jaw dropped as he, too, took in their surroundings but he had to bite his lower lip to keep from crying. Milli, on the other hand, felt a mixture of curiosity and indignation. She opened her mouth to ask how the car had managed to drive through the stone wall, but closed it again when she saw that they had come from a different direction earlier in the day and the driveway curved around to the back of the house where there was, presumably, another entrance.

‘Follow me and don’t try anythin’,’ the man growled, propelling them towards the front door. Milli, being Milli, tried to dart away but the oaf simply reached out, grabbed her and slung her over his shoulder as if she were no heavier than a sack of marshmallows.

‘Put me down, you big salami!’ Milli shouted as she squirmed in his grasp. ‘Just wait until my father hears about this. Kidnapping is a very serious offence and you are in big trouble.’

‘You ‘aven’t bin kidnapped, you’ve bin arrested,’ the man corrected her, stony-faced. When they reached the front door, he put her down and clumsily drew a delicate phial of blue glass from his pocket and sprayed a spicy fragrance in the vicinity of the keyhole. The door swung open instantly.

He pushed them inside and they found themselves standing in an entrance hall the size of a football field. Gilt-framed portraits and the heads of hunted stags hung from the walls, while dusty chandeliers cast eerie patterns on the chequered marble floor. A sweeping staircase with wrought-iron balusters in the shape of crocodiles led to an upper level. Passageways wormed off the foyer in every direction, twisting and turning in a most mind-boggling fashion. Some stretched further than the eye could see and were lined with rows of mirrored doors. Milli’s eyes widened as she remembered the size of the house from the outside. It was big, but not this big. This was a labyrinth.

‘Impossible,’ she breathed.

‘It must be some sort of illusion,’ Ernest whispered in reply.

‘Quiet,’ the man growled and pushed them towards the staircase.

Instead of climbing the stairs as they had anticipated, they were led underneath it where they stopped in front of a pair of green velvet drapes. Grunting, the man who Milli had dubbed Mr Salami because of his thick, red arms pulled the curtains aside to reveal a small and rather dingy-looking elevator.

‘Excuse me, Mr, er…?’ Ernest’s voice trailed off.

‘Gristle,’ the man offered gruffly.

‘Yes, well, excuse me, Mr Gristle, might I just ascertain the purpose of our visit?’

Gristle looked confounded. For a moment his Cro-Magnon brow furrowed before he barked: ‘Inside!’ and gestured towards the open doors of the elevator. Clearly it would be difficult to engage him in conversation.

As they began their rattling descent, Milli took the opportunity to study Gristle’s face more closely. There was something curious about his eyes. Something she could not quite put her finger on. Then she realised that instead of the blank, empty stares she was accustomed to from the townsfolk of Drabville, Gristle’s eyes glinted with emotion. When you looked into them you were able to read his thoughts as clearly as reading the pages of a book. At the moment, he was looking at her with suspicion. It really was quite astonishing. Beneath the panic of being arrested, of possibly never seeing her family again, Milli couldn’t help feeling just a tiny flicker of excitement. What other discoveries would they make inside Hog House? What secrets were concealed behind its mirrored doors? She could already imagine boasting to the children at school about how she had defeated an ogre with eyes like glowing lanterns. For Gristle, she was sure, would not have the intelligence to match his size.

Ernest, on the other hand, was wondering whether there might be some major scientific breakthroughs in progress here, which he could be lucky enough to witness. Both their hopes were dashed when they stepped out of the elevator and onto the uneven dirt floor of an underground dungeon.

The basement floor was damp and the beams of the ceiling so low that Gristle could barely stand upright. Lighting the darkness were braziers studded along a wall, showing a row of cells that looked more like cages. Gristle thrust them into the nearest one and locked the door with his phial.

‘You’ll sleep ’ere tonight,’ he sneered through the bars. ‘Tomorrow there’s some special people for you to meet.’ With a last goofy grin, which was intended to be menacing, he was gone.

Special people for you to meet. Milli didn’t like the way he had said that. It sounded much too much like a threat.

Milli slumped down exhausted beside Ernest on the rough dirt floor. Two rickety wooden stools stood in the corner, but they didn’t look stable enough to bear the weight of pillows, let alone children. The windowless cell was damp and smelled like onions. There was a pile of scratchy-looking sacks against a wall, which Milli guessed was supposed to serve as bedding. It was hard to believe that only earlier that same day Ernest had warned her about the house and its red doorknocker. How she wished she had listened to him. But there was no use moping about that now: the deed was done and time would not wind back just for two children who’d made an imprudent mistake. So they curled up together on the hard floor and tried to keep warm. Although frazzled from the events of the day, their minds were still whirring at top speed. They didn’t speak. There wasn’t much to say. At least, not until morning. They couldn’t do a thing until they learned who was keeping them prisoner. Knowing that a good night’s sleep is essential when devising any plan (especially one involving escape) they both shut their eyes determinedly. But as you can imagine, they didn’t sleep a wink.

When Gristle returned early the next morning the children were as stiff as boards. Everything that could possibly ache ached. Gristle ignored their complaints and grumbles. Instead, he led them towards a mural on the furthermost wall of the basement, which they had overlooked on their arrival. The mural depicted the ruins of an ancient amphitheatre complete with columns, archways and tiered seats. Looking oddly out of place amidst the broken stone were two thrones draped in royal blue velvet. These stood on a platform in the middle of the arena. With a squirt from Gristle’s phial, the whole wall dislodged itself and folded like a fan. The amphitheatre was now a reality; the only difference being the addition of two strangely attired individuals ensconced in the thrones.

Gristle led Milli and Ernest towards the raised platform and the two throned figures. At the same time, some several hundred prisoners also shuffled into the arena. There were grandparents, mothers, fathers and even small children, all herded by a cluster of hooded figures clad head to toe in robes of red. As Milli peered at the captives she began to recognise some of the wretched, dirty faces staring back at her. All of them had mysteriously disappeared from Drabville at one time or another.

There at the rear stood old Mr Mulberry. His face was grey and deeply lined but nevertheless determined. Milli remembered him as the local clockmaker who had always welcomed visits from convivial children. She almost didn’t recognise him, he had aged so dramatically. In front of him was a slender boy of about fifteen whose sharp green eyes looked strangely familiar. Although Milli recognised several others, she could not immediately place them. Her gaze lingered on one woman at the front of the crowd. Although she had the grimy clothes and matted hair of a prisoner, her eyes remained defiant. Milli started when she realised the woman was staring back at her. Don’t be afraid her gaze seemed to say, and Milli thought she saw a smile flicker across the woman’s lips before she turned away.

‘What is going on?’ Milli murmured to Ernest when a queer little man dressed like a court jester was lowered from the balcony via a rope. But a prod from Gristle’s thick fingers discouraged further communication. The little man lifted a trumpet to his lips and a royal march rang out through the arena. When he had finished, he drew himself up to his full height, which was scarcely taller than Milli, and announced ostentatiously, ‘Mrs Marjorie May Mayor’.

A small, plump woman rose from one of the thrones in which she sat propped like a mannequin. She was the picture of wealth and privilege. Everything about her suggested roundness, from her apple cheeks to her calves like Christmas hams. She gave the small party a regal wave and smiled distantly down at them.

‘Mr Morgan Muscat Mayor,’ the little jester cried.

The man who rose was also portly with ruddy cheeks and a walrus moustache. When both figures were standing, everyone bowed, Gristle so low that Milli thought he would topple right over. Watching the pompous pair, the children blinked in disbelief. It had taken them several moments to recognise the familiar faces of Mr and Mrs Mayor—they looked so different from the way they remembered them from public appearances that they were almost unrecognisable. Instead of his usual colourless suit Mr Mayor was wearing a medley of colours including a purple and gold tunic, green stockings and yellow gumboots while his gingery hair stuck out at all angles from beneath a pirate’s hat. Beside him, Mrs Mayor wore a frothy ballgown which billowed out around her and a pair of fluffy pink mules. (By mules I am not referring to beasts of burden, but rather to a kind of dainty slipper which leaves the heel exposed.) Mrs Mayor was also wearing a pair of silver fishnet gloves and an enormous satin bow tied up her golden ringlets. Milli would have giggled had she not been so overwhelmed by the spectacle before her.

‘Millipop Klompet and Ernest Perriclof!’ Mrs Mayor simpered. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

Too stunned to respond, the children once again found themselves propelled forward by Gristle, who seemed to be growing increasingly irate with their tardiness.

The Mayors stepped down from their platform and leisurely circled the children. Mrs Mayor peered at Milli through a pair of opera glasses, frowning and smiling in turn as if she was trying to make up her mind about something. Meanwhile, Mr Mayor surveyed Ernest from head to foot as if he were a prize pooch at a dog show.

‘Bit scrawny,’ was his verdict.

As the Mayors moved, Milli and Ernest noticed a peculiar thing. Something else was moving with them, like a ghost. The children’s first reaction was a sharp intake of breath. Both ducked for cover, Ernest believing it to be a bat diving from a stone lintel and Milli convinced it was a kidnapping ghoul from the underworld. But it was neither bat nor ghoul.

They caught sight of it again when Mrs Mayor raised a hand to examine Ernest’s lustrous curls. A featureless wisp of something dark mimicked her gesture. When she moved into the darkness, the thing vanished, but back in the firelight it flickered and danced around her like a living thing. When Mr Mayor stepped into the light the same thing happened: beside him an elongated wisp rippled on the stone. Although it was black and featureless, there was no doubting it was part of Mr Mayor, like a trunk is part of an elephant.

‘They are called shadows,’ Mrs Mayor purred patronisingly, noticing the children’s fretful faces.

‘Shadows?’ Milli repeated in a small voice.

‘You haven’t noticed before? No, I suppose not. It’s difficult to see something you don’t even know exists. And those,’ she waved a gloved hand lazily towards the red-robed figures, ‘are the Shadow Keepers.’

Milli was about to ask exactly what a shadow was and why it needed a keeper, when Mrs Mayor went on, ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea why you are here?’

Milli and Ernest did not answer, waiting for what they hoped would be an explanation. But none was offered.

‘Do you know what the punishment is for the serious offences you have committed?’ The children felt their palms grow clammy with dread. Mrs Mayor smiled sweetly. ‘I now declare you prisoners of Hog House.’

If you have ever been in a situation similar to this one, then you will know that a threat sounds all the more threatening when the person delivering it is smiling. Mrs Mayor was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

CHAPTER FIVE
Tickled Pink

Up until now Mrs Mayor had been doing all the talking. It was obvious who wore the pants in this relationship. Mr Mayor must have noticed this himself because he seemed to suddenly spring to life and coughed loudly to gain the attention of his audience.

‘As prisoners of Hog House,’ he said, directing his gaze towards Milli and Ernest, ‘you will work for your keep. You will be assigned tasks and presented with work garments, which you must wear at all times. Do not be deceived by my debonair charm. I assure you that any breach of conduct will be dealt with most severely.’

Mrs Mayor beamed proudly at her husband. Then, taking him by the arm, she cast a contemptuous glance at the captives and marched off. But before taking more than a few steps she stumbled, losing a slipper as its pencil heel became caught between some cobblestones. Mr Mayor nearly gave himself concussion as he dived chivalrously to the ground to retrieve it.

‘Here you go, Ornament of my Life.’

Mrs Mayor wedged her plump foot back into the dainty slipper before resuming her imperial departure. Watching her go, Milli couldn’t help but think that Mrs Mayor rather reminded her of a walking wedding cake.

Gristle interrupted her thoughts by thrusting a pair of tattered black overalls into her arms. Ernest looked at his with distaste and wrinkled his nose.

‘I can’t wear these,’ he explained to Gristle, who looked as if he was on the verge of punching him. ‘Coarse fabrics aggravate my eczema. I have been advised to avoid them.’

Milli yanked him away just as Gristle swung.

The red-robed figures, who Mrs Mayor had called the Shadow Keepers, were faceless wraiths. They looked like hoary old birds, so tall they stooped. Their usually languorous movements became lightning quick the moment they sensed anything amiss. They carried their skeletal hands folded in their sleeves like monks and unsightly chicken feet protruded from beneath swirling robes. The only time you caught glimpses of their faces was whenever their hoods slipped a little. When this happened you might see cracked beaks where noses should have been and, in place of ears, tubular and furry appendages designed to pick up even the faintest of vibrations. Their red-rimmed eyes were wolfish. Arms outstretched, these alarming beings ushered Milli and Ernest out of the arena and through a maze of passageways until they came out into the magnificent sunlit grounds where the other prisoners were already waiting. As Milli surveyed the prisoners, she saw that the black wisps also hovered beside each of them. There were hefty ones, titchy ones, hunched ones and lanky ones, each doing exactly as its owner did. Their troubles momentarily forgotten, the children laughed in delight to find that their own shadows were equally playful.

The frivolity ended abruptly with the allocation of the day’s labour. Their task was picking fruit in the orchards overlooking the murky waters of the River Slop which wound around the rear of the grounds.

One of the first discoveries made by the children was that most of the foods prohibited in Drabville grew in abundance in the orchards of Hog House. There were vines laden with passionfruit, strawberry runners, buckleberry bushes, knobfruits, melon-bobbins, elbow-grapes, mopquats, fleecy-apples and every other fruit imaginable. Because of their agility, Milli and Ernest were set to work picking a fruit called peaches, which grew on trees. The heavy golden orbs with their furry surfaces were surely not edible? The syrupy scent was so tantalising that at the first opportunity Milli lifted one to her mouth.

‘No, Milli, you might be allergic,’ Ernest cautioned.

A woman working in an adjacent tree just laughed. Milli saw it was the same woman who had watched her so intently back in the arena. ‘Go on, take a bite. They’re delicious,’ she encouraged. ‘Quick, while no one’s looking.’

So Milli did. The flavour exploded in her mouth and the sticky, sweet juice ran down her chin and fingers. How much more exciting than apples or pears was this fleshy, fuzzy fruit. Milli passed the peach to Ernest who took a hesitant bite before devouring it in an instant.

When you are compelled to do it all morning the novelty of fruit picking quickly wears off. After several hours of toiling under the hot sun the children began to grow weary. The process was a tiresome one.

The peaches were gathered in slings before being delicately deposited into brightly painted carts that stood waiting below. They were then trundled away to the airy kitchens by white gloved dwarfs in cropped jackets where they would be transformed into all manner of delicacies. The whole scene looked like something out of a pantomime. But it wasn’t a pantomime, Milli thought miserably, this was real.

At midday they were permitted a short break and rested under the shade of some jujube trees. Flasks of water and hunks of unappetising and rock-dry bread were passed around. Up close Milli could see that the woman who had encouraged them to try the fruit was quite young and might have been attractive had she not looked so tired. Although ringed with dark circles, her eyes still managed to retain a flicker of the liveliness she must once have possessed. A thick, dark braid hung down her back interspersed with sparse threads of silver. Milli noticed her hands: slender, although coarsened from hard work.

Their hunger appeased, the children could not contain themselves any longer and all the questions that had been brewing inside them erupted at once. The woman smiled patiently and introduced herself as Rosie.

‘I know it must be confusing,’ she told them. ‘It does take a while to put all the pieces together.’

‘What pieces? What is going on here?’

‘That’s too long a story for now, especially with the Shadow Keepers so close, but what I can tell you is that we must all work together.’

‘What can we possibly do?’ Ernest wailed. Again Rosie smiled kindly but did not answer immediately.

‘Millipop Klompet and Ernest Perriclof,’ she mused, seeming to savour their names on her tongue. ‘I was beginning to wonder when they’d notice you two.’

‘When who’d notice us?’ they cried in unison. This conversation was not proving at all enlightening and Rosie seemed to be speaking in riddles.

‘Hello!’ A blond head popped through the leaves of a nearby shrub, giving Ernest such a fright that he toppled backwards.

The boy with the startling eyes who had looked familiar to Milli back in the arena was grinning broadly through the branches. Milli stared hard at him. Where did she know him from? He was too old to be a classmate and yet the sea-green eyes and thatch of straw-coloured hair growing as vertical as a scrubbing brush were so very familiar. She did not, however, remember the tanned skin or muscular arms, but the boy had such a sunny attractiveness it was hard not to gawk at him.

‘What’s your name?’ Milli eventually mustered the temerity to ask.

‘Don’t you remember me?’ The boy grinned impishly. ‘I’m Leo.’

With the prisoners escorted to individual cells after supper, another opportunity for discussion did not present itself until early the next morning when, after a breakfast of soggy porridge and burnt toast, the prisoners gathered together in what they referred to as the common room. Here they were free to play cards or flip through dated magazines before they were assigned their day’s work.

The common room was really more of an empty space with four walls than an actual room. Someone had tried to make it more homely by arranging two grubby velvet couches in an L-shape around a threadbare rug. An upturned packing crate served as a coffee table. There was a sink and a blackened kettle for brewing tea. Milli and Ernest found a quiet corner and amidst the low chatter sipped watery tea out of the chipped mugs Rosie handed them. They had to go without sugar or milk. As they drank, they listened intently to what Rosie and Leo had to tell them.

‘Very few people know this, but a shadow is much more than just a smudge trailing you wherever you go,’ Rosie began. ‘It is your life force. It holds everything that makes you unique. Without it you are like wet clay that anyone can shape.’

‘What has that got to do with us being here?’ Milli interrupted.

‘You are here because the shadow of every Drabvillian has been stolen! The trouble began long ago when an evil magician gradually stole the shadow of every man, woman and child until there was no one left to protest. Why do you think the people heel, sit, stay and roll over at the Mayors’ command? Hasn’t it ever struck you as odd that nobody questions the Code of Conduct?’

‘Except us,’ Milli corrected.

‘Yes,’ Rosie agreed. ‘Every now and then a plucky shadow will fight back, resist the separation and make its way home. They always come for you when that happens.’

‘Why take prisoners?’ Ernest asked. ‘Why not just take back the shadow?’

‘It’s near impossible to detach a shadow that has rejoined its owner,’ Rosie replied. ‘They say the separation can only occur at a moment of vulnerability. The shadows are duped the first time but they’re too clever to fall for the same trick again. If your shadow manages to find its way back, you are whisked away to these dungeons before you have time to stir up trouble.’

‘That can’t be right,’ Milli remonstrated (which is really just a fancy word for saying she disagreed but is more suited to her fiery personality). ‘I’ve been this way for ages. Why haven’t they come for me before?’

‘They don’t take much notice of children,’ Rosie shrugged. ‘Adults are the ones with the power to undo everything that has been created. You two made the mistake of venturing into the Taboo Territories just as Leo drew attention to himself by not returning his library book.’

‘Why haven’t you tried to escape? Doesn’t having a shadow count for anything?’

‘Not with the Shadow Keepers around,’ Rosie explained. Then her face lit up with mischief. ‘They might stop us leaving but they can’t stop us thinking.’

‘How could all this have happened?’ asked a dumbfounded Ernest.

‘Slowly,’ was Rosie’s answer. ‘The way in which most terrible things come about. So slowly it was barely noticeable.’

‘So, what does this magician want with shadows?’ Milli asked. Rosie leaned forward and lowered her voice to a murmur.

‘Nobody knows.’

Milli frowned, trying to make sense of the inconceivable story.

‘What about the shadows that don’t escape?’

‘They are being kept prisoner where no one can find them. It is only the shadows that escaped to be reunited with their owners that are imprisoned here at Hog House.’

‘How do they know when a shadow’s escaped?’

‘A person with a shadow stands out like a sore thumb in Drabville,’ Leo said. ‘And Lord Aldor has plenty of spies working for him.’

‘Who is Lord Aldor?’ Ernest asked.

‘Aldor the Illustrious—the mastermind behind Hog House, the Mayors and all their plans. Otherwise known as the Shadow Thief.’

Milli and Ernest leaned forward eagerly, sensing a key piece of the puzzle was about to be revealed. Unfortunately, the door of the common room was flung open at that very moment and Gristle’s bulk filled the doorway. He pointed a finger at Milli and Ernest.

‘You there, come with me!’

The children rose obediently and followed Gristle into the elevator and up to the first floor of Hog House. Gristle stopped outside two very different doors, one either side of the corridor.

‘Congratulations,’ he mocked, ‘looks like you’ve bin promoted to more important duties.’ He knocked on the heavy wood panelling of the first door and nudged Ernest inside.

The second door was painted baby pink and decorated with fat flying cupids blowing horns and firing arrows. Once inside, Milli realised that she was standing in Mrs Mayor’s private boudoir. I personally couldn’t put into words the extent of the luxury suggested by this interior. In fact, it was as if all the unemployed interior decorators in the world had been set to work at once. Mirrors in ornate frames the shape of flowers and curling vines crowded every wall. The carpet was fluffy, ankle deep and a soft powder pink in colour. Huge piles of obscenely plush and embroidered pillows towered almost to the ceiling. Porcelain dolls with delicately painted faces and satin breeches sat in a neat circle around a child’s tea set. This room was bigger than Milli’s entire house back in Peppercorn Place. She was surprised to see a miniature ferris wheel in a corner, decorated with marzipan acorns and fairy lights. She was later to discover that Mrs Mayor referred to this as her ‘meditation wheel’.

Strange as all this was, the most fantastical thing about Mrs Mayor’s boudoir was definitely the air. Yes, the air. You are probably wondering what could have been so amazing about the air. Air, as you and I know it, can be described as clear, odourless and necessary for life. It is not all that exciting in molecular terms but here, in Marjorie Mayor’s bedroom, it was thick with pink and silver glitter, the consistency of a fine powder, which floated dreamily around the room. As if this wasn’t enough, swirly puffs of luminous pink smoke crept from under the bathroom door. The effect of this pink fog was that your nose felt permanently tickled. Milli was glad Ernest and his allergies had been spared this exposure for it would have undoubtedly brought on an attack of wheezing.

Mrs Mayor herself was seated at the largest dressing table Milli had ever seen, while a maid fussed busily about, painting her toenails in black and white zebra stripes.

‘Don’t just stand there gawping, child,’ Mrs Mayor snapped. ‘Come and let me have a look at you.’

Milli walked over hesitantly while Mrs Mayor watched her with a critical eye.

‘We’re going to have to do something about that pigeon-toed stance. But first, into the tub with her!’ She snapped her fingers and a stocky little maid appeared from the bathroom. ‘Burn those filthy overalls she’s wearing and bring some of Agapanthus Regina’s old dresses.’

Milli scowled as the maid led her towards the steamy bathroom. Mrs Mayor had conveniently forgotten that it was she who had made Milli wear the hideous overalls in the first place.

Half an hour later Milli emerged from the bathroom. Her cheeks were shiny, her hair smelled of macadamia nut shampoo and every inch of her tingled with cleanliness. Mrs Mayor was busy sorting through a collection of repulsive dresses. Milli thought she must be very bored to have to resort to playing dress-ups for entertainment.

By midday, one thing Milli had learned was that Mrs Mayor was not so much bored as dreadfully and unashamedly conceited. She could stare into a mirror for hours wearing a dreamy expression on her face, which was only broken by the occasional oooh or ahhh of satisfaction. Sometimes she stroked her cheeks and made pouting faces at herself, all the while alluding to how important it was to always look one’s best. Having finished her own personal grooming, Mrs Mayor turned her attention to Milli, whose own curls were soon piled on top of her head in a cone. She was also forced to squeeze into the tiniest of dancing shoes while her overalls were swapped for a party frock made entirely of lime green taffeta in the shape of maple leaves. Her nails were then painted in colours bright enough to make your eyes water and her face powdered whiter than the china dolls’. There was no doubting what had happened: Milli had been adopted.

CHAPTER SIX
A Frazzled Flamingo

A cross the hall Ernest found himself in an enormous study, so dusty and musty it might have been straight out of Victorian England. Even in the short time he had been there, Ernest had already come to realise that nothing in Hog House was moderately sized. The Mayors seemed to believe that bigger was always better and the study was no exception. Not only was it the size of a marquee, but the walls were so high they tapered into a blur; and when Ernest looked up he could not see where they ended and met the ceiling. Instead, stretching as far as the eye could see were wall-to-wall filing cabinets. The only decorations were the oriental rugs strewn across the floor, and there was one small window, the size of a porthole and it was covered with a grille.

Funnier still, off to one side stood a cherry picker. For those of you who don’t know, a cherry picker is a kind of crane with a platform, much like the contraptions used for cleaning windows on skyscrapers. The platform of this cherry picker was loaded with bulging files that Ernest assumed were waiting to be housed in the unfeasibly high cabinets. In the very centre of the study stood a heavy oak desk, also piled high with a tower of fat ledgers and bulging manila folders.

A voice rang out through the gloom. ‘There you are, boy!’

Mr Mayor snapped shut the leather-bound tome he was skimming through and heaved himself upright from his reclining position on a vast chaise longue. He pumped Ernest’s hand enthusiastically, as if he were being reunited with an old friend. ‘Glad to have you on board.’

He reached for a handful of boiled sweets from a yellow glass bowl and crammed so many into his mouth that his cheeks bulged. As he munched, he offered the bowl to Ernest who politely declined.

‘I’ll be back to collect you at midday,’ Mr Mayor garbled, spraying sticky lolly fragments all over Ernest’s face. ‘Mind you look your spanking best. Your mother would like us to take tea with her this afternoon. Until then, give my secretary a hand. Lord knows, he needs all the help he can get. Cheerio then!’ He thumped Ernest heartily on the back and strode towards the door.

‘One moment, sir!’ Ernest spluttered. ‘What is it exactly that you’d like me to do?’

Mr Mayor began a chuckle that soon grew into a deep reverberating laugh. ‘You’re quite the comedian, aren’t you, son?’ he said, mopping his sweating brow with a silk handkerchief. ‘Now, if there’s anything you need, just ask my secretary.’

Ernest looked around but there did not appear to be any sign of a secretary. He turned to ask Mr Mayor where his secretary might be hiding, but Mr Mayor had already gone, locking the study door behind him.

Under lock and key, Ernest had no choice but to begin nosing about the room. What was expected of him? The ubiquitous filing cabinets offered no clue. Unless, of course, he opened one.

The first cabinet Ernest reached for was locked, as were all the others he tried. The only thing he managed to do was jam his thumb in a faulty latch that snapped over his finger as he tried to prise it open. ‘Ouch!’ he cried out. But there was no time to investigate the damage, for a panicked screech filled the room. This was immediately followed by the mountain of folders stacked like a fortress on the desk toppling left, right and centre. Ernest coughed as clouds of dust filled the air. When at last it settled he could see, seated behind the desk on a swivel chair with a quill in foot, one very startled flamingo. Ernest wasn’t sure what he had expected to find, but it certainly wasn’t a pink bird wearing spectacles and a spotted necktie.

The soft fluff-like down on the flamingo’s head quivered uncontrollably as he scrutinised Ernest. His bill was black, his legs reedy and his webbed feet stuck out at a curious angle, which is what happens when a flamingo sits down. Adjusting the spectacles on his bill, the flamingo stared agitatedly at the intruder. It seemed a painfully long time before either of them spoke.

‘Are…are you,’ Ernest stammered, ‘the secretary?’

The bird leapt from his chair in sudden indignation. On two legs, he was almost five feet tall and stood eye to eye with Ernest. Up close Ernest could see a bald patch on the flamingo’s crown; he was losing his feathers from stress just as people lose hair. He wondered why the bird erratically blinked its right eye until he realised it was a nervous twitch.

‘In case you don’t know,’ the flamingo’s voice sounded thin and shrill, ‘flamingos are renowned for their superior secretarial skills.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ernest said. ‘I didn’t know.’

The bird ignored the apology. ‘And if you would be so kind as to refrain from clattering about and making ouching sounds. Noise makes me very jittery and when I am jittery I cannot think clearly, and when I cannot think clearly I fall behind, and when I fall behind I run the risk of jeopardising my reputation for having the most superior secretarial skills in all the animal kingdom!’

It was clear that reasoning was not going to be possible. Ernest tried a different tactic.

‘Perhaps you can tell me what I’m supposed to be doing here?’ he asked.

The flamingo fluffed his feathers importantly. ‘Even with my superior secretarial skills, I cannot be expected to know why you are here. Have you come via a recommendation? Do you have a resumé? Are you even legitimate!’

Comforted by the fact that he had finally encountered a creature more highly strung than himself, Ernest found he had the confidence to expand the conversation.

‘What exactly are you organising?’ he asked.

‘That,’ the flamingo shot back, ‘is irrelevant!’

Plopping down on his knees, he became totally immersed in gathering the toppled folders. By now Ernest was well and truly perplexed, but he knew that engaging this unsociable bird in conversation was his only hope of gathering information.

‘I’m Ernest, by the way. What’s your name?’

‘I’m an employee of the Mayors. I don’t need a name.’

‘But you must have one.’

‘If I have, it’s long been forgotten.’ The flamingo looked suddenly crestfallen. The corners of his bill twitched and the down on his head quaked even more wildly.

‘Here, let me help you,’ Ernest offered in an attempt to distract the secretary from what was obviously a sensitive topic.

Touched by this display of kindness (something he had never before experienced in Hog House) the flamingo allowed Ernest to gather the scattered sheets and slot them back into their folders.

‘Thank you, thank you. Can’t afford to stop. Can’t afford to chat. Mustn’t fall any further behind!’ Leaving Ernest to clear up the mess on the floor, he settled himself in the cherry picker, which began to rise until it disappeared from view.

With the flamingo out of sight, presumably filing, Ernest seized the opportunity to examine the folders in front of him. These appeared to contain information about various residents of Drabville. Inside the first folder were profiles as well as photographs of the Bottlebrush family: six-year-old Emma Bottlebrush with her neat braids, Mother and Father Bottlebrush in identical frog-patterned sweaters, and Grandma Bottlebrush with a budget haircut that had left her looking like a troll. There was a comprehensive collection of birth and marriage certificates, applications made, permits issued, order forms and receipts all bound together by a large rubber band. Thumbing through the pages, Ernest found there was a leaf for every year of Emma Bottlebrush’s life, which gave her six in total. The troll grandmother had eighty-three!

Ernest’s perusal was interrupted by the return of the cherry picker which came trundling down. The flamingo leapt out and resumed his work at the desk.

‘What are all these files?’ Ernest asked, trying to sound casual as he handed the flamingo a stack of papers gathered from the floor. But the flamingo was spinning furiously on his chair, too busy to hear him. As he spun, his webbed feet flew, sorting documents, clipping pages and inserting finished folders into a shaft at the bottom of the desk. No sooner did he rise to load a bundle of folders onto the cherry picker than a new stack dropped from a chute onto the desk. Each time this happened, a great haze of dust was emitted and the flamingo coughed into a checked handkerchief.

‘How did you come to be Mr Mayor’s secretary?’ Ernest queried, guessing it was not by choice. He had never seen such a stressed bird in his life.

The flamingo glared at him from behind gritty spectacles. ‘I am very busy. These files won’t file themselves. It will be my head, not yours, on the chopping block.’

Sensing there was more to the story, Ernest persisted. ‘I’ve never seen a flamingo working in an office before. What time do you get to go home?’

At the word ‘home’, the flamingo’s wings fell motionless on the desk and he stared wistfully through the barred window at the fragment of blue sky. Suddenly his face crumpled, his whole body shook and he began to sob hysterically.

‘I will never see home again!’ he gasped. ‘Never feel the rush of water on my feathers. Never taste the salty tang of algae soup.’

Ernest was mortified. He hadn’t intended his comments to unleash such an outburst. He placed a comforting hand on the flamingo’s back and patted him hesitantly. He would have hugged him had he not considered it inappropriate given the short time they had known each other.

‘I wouldn’t recognise my own children if I saw them,’ the flamingo wailed tragically. ‘I don’t even remember my own name!’ His spectacles had steamed up and tears rolled down his bill.

‘Calm down,’ Ernest said, kneeling beside him. ‘Who brought you here?’

‘I was captured,’ the flamingo whispered. ‘Plucked right from my nest in front of my wife, children and all my neighbours. I’m sure they’ve given up waiting for me to come back by now.’

‘I’m sure they haven’t,’ Ernest said. ‘Listen, I’m a prisoner here too, but I’m going to find a way out. My friend Millipop Klompet and I have no intention of staying in this nightmare.’

The bird appeared a little heartened at this news. He blew his nose, wiped his spectacles on his feathers and blinked hopefully at Ernest.

‘Really? How?’

‘We’re still working on that,’ Ernest replied, ‘but there’s a lot of people on our side.’

The flamingo sighed. ‘Life wasn’t always like this,’ he reminisced. ‘You know we flamingos were once revered as the living embodiment of the sun god. But then things changed. We have no rights now. My great-grandfather, God bless his soul, was once used as a croquet mallet by a reckless girl! I live in constant fear of ending up on the Mayors’ dining table. Like the ancient Romans, they consider pickled flamingo tongue quite a delicacy. That’s why I have to be a super secretary and make myself indispensable.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Ernest promised him. ‘I won’t let anyone pickle you.’

The flamingo gave a joyous wail at this and threw his wings around Ernest’s neck.

‘When Milli and I escape, we’re taking you with us,’ Ernest went on. He wasn’t sure he should be sharing such confidences with a virtual stranger, but he felt the woeful flamingo could be trusted.

‘If I can be of any assistance to you or your friend, Milliplop Klobberit, don’t hesitate to ask,’ the bird said.

A rattle at the door brought the conversation to an abrupt end. Mr Mayor poked his beefy face into the room. The flamingo had just enough time to scuttle into the cherry picker and zoom upwards at top speed before Mr Mayor could notice anything amiss.

‘Ready for afternoon tea?’ he asked. ‘I trust you’ve had a productive morning.’

As Ernest followed Mr Mayor out of the study, he glanced up, hoping to catch a last glimpse of his new friend and perhaps offer him a reassuring smile. But the flamingo was well out of sight and all he could see was a solitary pink feather drifting slowly to the floor.

CHAPTER SEVEN
A Prickly Tea Party

Before he was deemed presentable enough to attend afternoon tea, Ernest was forced to undergo a radical transformation inspired by Mr Mayor’s idea of what was fashionable. He found himself outfitted in a yellow waistcoat, tweed breeches and a tie patterned with tiny ladybugs. Instead of flopping over his eyes, his curls had been disciplined away from his face with hair wax so they formed a kind of shiny helmet. Milli could not repress a giggle when she saw him, even though her own puffy-sleeved dress and lacy bonnet were equally comical.

The setting for the ritual of afternoon tea was an elegant courtyard decorated with spouting fountains in the shape of lions and nymphs frolicking together, as well as classical statues on stone pedestals. They reached it by going through a dense maze of neatly trimmed hedges. So winding and tortuous was this maze that the children had to scurry after the Mayors in order not to be left behind. They were forced to walk so briskly that at first it escaped their notice that the hedges were not composed of trimmed bushes planted close together to form a boundary, as one might normally expect of hedges. They were, in fact, made up of hedgehogs piled on top of one another like circus acrobats. The hedgehogs, from what they could gather, were forced to remain stationary for the duration of afternoon tea. Red-uniformed soldiers with muskets at the ready, stood poised to shoot any that accidentally slipped out of position. The idea was both preposterous and repugnant. Milli and Ernest squirmed to see hundreds of pleading eyes following their every movement.

‘The hedgehogs look terribly uncomfortable,’ Milli ventured. ‘Why do they need to keep still like that?’

‘What a silly question, child. Because that is their function, that’s why,’ Mrs Mayor replied breezily. ‘Just as chairs are for sitting on.’ She laughed uproariously at their concern.

‘But it’s so unkind!’ Ernest exploded.

‘Unkind?’ The Mayors looked at each other in mock horror. ‘Fun is number one we always say!’

‘Doesn’t goodness count for anything around here?’ Milli said crossly.

‘Good-ness.’ Mr Mayor sounded out the word as if it were an alien term in his vocabulary.

‘Is goodness fashionable?’ Mrs Mayor asked eagerly.

‘Is it valuable?’ Mr Mayor asked hopefully.

‘It’s not a thing!’ Milli exclaimed in frustration. ‘It’s…it’s…a way to behave.’

Mr and Mrs Mayor were baffled. Try as they might, they could not get their heads around the idea of something that was not a commodity being important. Finally, they threw up their hands in exasperation.

‘Goodness,’ the Mayors snorted, ‘what’s it good for?’

Milli and Ernest gave up.

A wrought-iron table covered with a frilly cloth and fine china had been set up in the courtyard. Milli and Ernest had to admit that it all looked rather dainty, until Mrs Basilisk, the prune-faced housekeeper, arrived and Mrs Mayor began to bark orders.

‘Tell Cook to prepare one serve of Boffin Buns, some Daisy Cakes, a platter of Turtle Paste Sandwiches, a Jelly Giraffe and a nice bowl of Dunking Treacle. What would my treasures like to drink?’

Judging by what they had seen so far, who could tell what exotic beverages would be on the Hog House menu? The children decided to play it safe.

‘Could we just have some juice, please?’ Milli requested.

‘Juice?’ Mrs Mayor guffawed. ‘What kind of juice? Hickleberry, Huckleberry, Cloudburst, Wildwood or Wet Moss?’

‘Perhaps just some tea,’ Ernest said, trying not to look as confounded as he felt.

‘Then Hairy Dewberry Tea for four,’ was her decision.

Mrs Basilisk, all in black save for the cameo at her throat, gave the children a withering look as she plonked down the tea trays on her return. A look which seemed to say: you may have beguiled the impressionable Mayors but don’t think you stand a chance with me. Mrs Basilisk was as thin as a beanpole with a jaundiced complexion. In fact, the children had never seen anyone more urgently in need of some vitamin D. Her bow-legged stance made her appear part grasshopper and her lips were pursed so tightly it was difficult to differentiate between them and a cat’s bottom.

During the tea party, Mrs Mayor struggled to divide her time equally between chatting and munching, and at times had difficulty juggling the two. When a soggy bit of Boffin Bun flew from her mouth and lodged itself in Mr Mayor’s whiskers, he retrieved it as if it were a gift from the gods and popped it with exaggerated relish into his mouth. He called Mrs Mayor his ‘Raunchy Nugget’ and they exchanged sizzling looks and complicit smiles. Our naive protagonists looked dubiously over their teacups at this exchange. Had you or I been present, we would have known exactly what the Mayors were thinking and would probably have had to stop eating immediately.

The children had long finished their tea by the time Mr and Mrs Mayor finally dabbed their greasy lips with linen napkins embroidered with their initials. At last, thought Milli, the tedious tea party was over. But it was far from over. Mrs Mayor called for some peppermint leaves to chew on before launching into a deep discussion with her husband on a topic the children had trouble following. Finding themselves completely excluded from these adult affairs and with nothing to look at but stock-still hedgehogs, they began to grow restless. Ernest shifted in his seat. Milli tugged at her collar and studied the table, from the floral teapots to the trail of crumbs leading to Mrs Mayor’s plate and finally down at Ernest’s half-eaten Boffin Bun. She watched Ernest use the tip of his forefinger to surreptitiously crumble the Boffin Bun onto the lace tablecloth. He slowly spelled out a single word: Walk. Luckily, Mr and Mrs Mayor were so engrossed in their conversation that neither of them noticed this secret communication.

‘Might Ernest and I take a walk before it gets too late?’ Milli asked, widening her eyes to look as guileless as possible. ‘We haven’t had much exercise today.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Ernest added. ‘My legs are awfully stiff from all this sitting down.’

Mr Mayor frowned and nodded in approval. ‘We don’t want them catching Stiffleg, do we, Majorie?’ he said with genuine concern.

‘Certainly not!’ Mrs Mayor replied. ‘I think a walk is a splendid idea, although Gristle had better go with you.’

To Milli’s surprise, Gristle emerged on cue from behind the hedgehog maze where he had been waiting.

Milli was not pleased about Gristle accompanying them, but luckily he seemed to find their company as disagreeable as they found his and so kept his distance. Milli flopped onto a nearby bench as soon as they rounded a corner, but leapt straight up again upon discovering that it too was made up of a cluster of hedgehogs, this time on all fours. Apologising profusely, Milli opted to stand. She poured out everything that had happened in Mrs Mayor’s chambers. In turn, Ernest told her about the depressed flamingo and the files he had glimpsed on Emma Bottlebrush and her family. They both agreed that they were on to something, but would have to watch their step. Their sudden adoption, however, was trickier to make sense of.

‘What would a beastly pair like the Mayors want with children?’ Milli said.

‘They don’t really want children,’ Ernest clarified. ‘You don’t think they care a jot about us, do you?’

‘Why then?’

‘Because there’s nothing like a pair of adopted children to enhance your political profile.’

Ernest’s theory was interrupted when a noise like a cork popping drew their attention. Looking up, they saw in the uppermost row of hedgehogs a gap like a missing tooth. In that gap there now appeared a chilling apparition. It was of a face so pallid and ravaged it might have belonged to a corpse. It lasted but a moment and then was gone.

Startled by what they had seen, the children moved tentatively in the direction from which the sound had come and came upon a lifeless hedgehog on the path. The little creature lay paws up and from the charred smell lingering in the air appeared to have been incinerated. Wisps of smoke still trailed from its body. Never had they set eyes upon a sadder sight. Someone or something had callously disposed of the creature for the mere opportunity to spy on them more closely. Too overcome for words Milli slipped off her lacy cardigan (a gift from Mrs Mayor) and used it to cover the body of the little hedgehog.

Back at the table, the children were greeted by two beaming faces.

‘We have a surprise for you,’ Mrs Mayor crooned. ‘Can you guess what it is?’

‘No.’

‘Try!’

Of course, the children couldn’t guess. Hog House was so unpredictable that nobody could speculate as to what was going to happen in the next few seconds!

Mrs Mayor could hardly contain her excitement. ‘Your nursery is ready!’ Milli and Ernest did not know quite what to say in response to this announcement. Why were they being given a nursery?

‘Look,’ Mrs Mayor purred, ‘they’re too happy to speak!’

‘Your delectable mother decided the two of you would want your own quarters,’ Mr Mayor continued. ‘To romp, play games and do what children do.’

Personally, Milli thought they were far too old for a nursery, but she gave a beatific smile all the same.

‘Thank you,’ she gushed. ‘We really don’t deserve such spoiling.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Mayor told her. ‘There’s just one other small thing. We have been thinking…’

‘…that your names…’ Mr Mayor added, pausing to wait for the sound of gunshots to subside.

‘…are just far too ordinary for our family,’ Mrs Mayor finished.

‘Therefore,’ Mr Mayor went on, ‘we have renamed you…’

‘…Buttercup Crumpet!’ Mrs Mayor squealed in delight as she gave Milli’s cheeks a vigorous pinch. Mr Mayor turned his attention to Ernest.

‘And Mozart Bluegumm!’ he announced, squashing the air from Ernest’s lungs in a big bear hug. ‘Now off you both go and play until dinnertime.’

You may be wondering why the Mayors were so foolish as to leave the children alone to hatch plans and conspire their escape. But they believed Milli and Ernest to be quite happy living in their Poxxley Gardens manor in the lap of luxury and never once considered that they might want to leave. Mr and Mrs Mayor also happened to be quite mad. But do not make the mistake of thinking that this would make things easy for the children. Mad villains are often more terrifying than the evil ones, because you are never able to predict what they might do next. Traditional villains at least behave consistently, but the Mayors’ plans could change in the time it takes someone to sneeze.

At this point in this narrative you may also be wondering why the children did not simply stroll leisurely out of Hog House and back to their families. But this would be what is known as a ‘quick fix’, commonly sought by those who only see things from their own perspective. From experience, I can assure you that quick fixes very seldom work. As astute thinkers, the children knew that should they make their way back to Drabville in secret, they would be located and re-captured within the hour. All they would succeed in doing is losing the privileges they had acquired. They would be thrown back into the dungeons where they would be of no use to anyone. Besides which, they had more to worry about now than saving their own skins. For the first time the prisoners had been offered a glimmer of hope and Milli and Ernest were far too responsible to snatch it away from them. Frustrated though they were, they must remain as Crumpet and Gumm for the time being at least, whiling away the hours until a more efficacious plan presented itself.

The children had exactly one hour before dinner was served. Milli would have liked to go straight to the dungeons where she knew the prisoners would be resting after their day of planting dunyips (which are something of a cross between turnips and onions), but Mrs Mayor insisted they become acquainted with their new nursery.

The nursery was unlike anything they had ever set eyes on before. Not even in story books had Milli encountered anything as magical as this. Try as she might, she was unable to hide her delight. The room itself was designed in the shape of an enormous carousel, complete with golden-maned horses with jewel-encrusted saddles and a candy-striped domed roof. Two of the carousel’s carved chariots had been set up as beds, one with a pink eiderdown and one with a blue. The names ‘Buttercup Crumpet’ and ‘Mozart Bluegumm’ hung in an arc above the beds and flashed with multicoloured lights at night. At the flick of a switch the carousel began to turn and a soft lullaby played from a hidden organ. Toys, games, books and musical instruments littered the carousel’s floor.

Milli picked up a volume of traditional fairytales. Leafing through the pages, she got quite a shock to find that the faces of the stories’ heroes and heroines had been replaced with those of the Mayors. It was Mr Mayor’s pudding face she saw instead of Prince Charming’s, and Mrs Mayor’s ringleted head sat on the slender shoulders of every fairy princess. Not only that, but all the original names had been altered so they now read ‘Marjorie’ and ‘Morgan’.

When Mr and Mrs Mayor finally retired, exhausted by the company of children, Ernest wanted to continue exploring the nursery. There were drawers built into the striped walls that he felt sure would contain gadgets that could keep one occupied for hours. But Milli was unrelenting. They had an appointment to keep with the prisoners whom they had already come to think of as their friends.

Accessing the dungeons was relatively easy once the children had learned to dodge the Shadow Keepers. This they did by becoming adept at blending in with the walls and keeping to dark corners. Never having come across intruders, the Shadow Keepers themselves kept up a routine surveillance and were not especially on the alert.

‘What in the name of marshmallow pie has happened to you two?’ Rosie chuckled when she saw them. ‘From rags to riches in the space of a few hours.’

‘I seem to have been assigned the role of Mrs Mayor’s personal pet,’ Milli replied glumly.

Rosie raised her eyebrows enquiringly at Ernest.

‘Office duties for me,’ he told her, ‘only I haven’t quite worked out what they are yet.’

‘You have access to Mr Mayor’s office?’ Leo asked. ‘Have you any idea what sort of information is hidden in there? All of Lord Aldor’s secret files are kept in that office. Files that can help us!’

‘I knew your arrival was more than mere coincidence,’ Rosie said, her whole face lighting up. ‘You might just be the best thing that’s happened here in a long time.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Ernest laughed nervously, appalled at the suggestion of anyone’s fate resting in his hands. ‘I’m not really the heroic type. Milli and I just want to get home.’

‘What Ernest means, of course, is that we’ll do whatever we can to help,’ Milli cut in.

‘You said you want to get home?’ Leo replied.

‘Just tell us what we need to do.’

‘Look out for clues along the way,’ Rosie said. ‘Find out what you can, but make sure to stay out of Lord Aldor’s way. He is pitiless with anyone who crosses him.’

‘We still don’t know who he is,’ Milli said, the colourless face from the maze flashing through her mind.

‘No one really knows much about him, except that everything that’s gone wrong in Drabville has gone wrong because of him.’ Rosie looked around and lowered her voice to an undertone. ‘According to folklore, Lord Aldor the Illustrious bartered his own heart with Hecate, Goddess of the Underworld, in order to live a thousand years.’

‘Why would anyone want to live that long?’ Milli said, puzzled.

‘He must have figured a thousand years would be ample time to achieve world domination,’ Rosie said. ‘He’s already got Drabville under his control.’

‘Some say that being heartless means Lord Aldor is also bloodless,’ Leo added. ‘He has to feed entirely on Blood Pudding, prepared especially for him in the kitchens of Hog House.’

The children involuntarily shivered and recoiled at this image. And I can hardly blame them. If any of you have ever heard of Blood Pudding then you will know that it must be the most monstrous preparation ever invented by humans. My own grandmother used to make it (along with chunky sausage and salt-cured ham) and secretly feed it to my mother in her early years without her knowledge of its ingredients. I can only be grateful that this tradition was not passed down. This barbaric foodstuff (originally known by the Italian name of Sanguinaccio) is made from pigs’ blood to avoid wastage of any part of the animal. Here is one of the many repellent recipes for Blood Pudding.

Blood Pudding

Drain the blood of a freshly slaughtered pig into a deep cooking pot.
Stir continuously with a large stick to avoid coagulation (for then it will be lumpy and spoiled).
Place pot over stove and add vast amounts of roughly chopped dark chocolate, raisins, roasted almonds, as well as a stick of cinnamon or coil of lemon rind if desired. Simmer and stir until a dense cheesecake consistency is achieved.
Allow mixture to cool slightly before pouring into jars or pudding moulds.
Feed anytime (either chilled or at room temperature) to unsuspecting children secure in the knowledge that its nutritional value remains unsurpassed.

According to those unfortunate enough to have been duped into consuming the dish, it is delicious until you know what’s in it. (A word of advice: beware of any adults offering puddings containing excessive amounts of chocolate.) All Milli and Ernest could think was: what kind of man would choose such a meal of his own volition?

‘The Mayors are merely puppets in Lord Aldor’s game,’ Rosie continued. ‘Sooner or later you will meet him, and when you do, just remember—’

At that moment the deafening gong of the dinner bell sounded and Milli and Ernest had to run so that Gristle would find them in the nursery when he came to fetch them down to dinner. The name Aldor the Illustrious rattled about in Milli’s head as she tore up the stairs. It hung there like an omen. She didn’t like the way it burrowed and wriggled in her mind like a fat grub that could not be dislodged.

When Gristle came to collect them he made no comment about them being out of breath. They followed him silently through a series of hallways. Some of the doors they passed were open and they were able to steal quick glimpses of what lay inside. They travelled past a dusty cellar, a room splattered with all the colours of the rainbow, and several rooms with nothing in them at all but strange, lone items like a birdbath, a waterfall and a castle made entirely of children’s building blocks. They stopped at a pair of magnificent white doors, which opened slowly in response to a spray from the blue glass phial Gristle seemed always to carry with him. Two footmen in livery escorted Milli and Ernest to their places before retreating discreetly to their stations by the sideboard.

The dining room was as lavish as they had come to expect of any room in Hog House. Glittering crystal and candelabra sat on the table and frescos of ancient banquet scenes adorned the walls. Pewter goblets stood beside each plate and Milli had already counted several decanters of wine. But the imposing blackwood table was the room’s centrepiece. It was so long that those seated at its opposite ends would have needed megaphones to hear each other. The carved Tudor chairs in which the children sat were so high-backed that Milli’s head only reached halfway. Her feet did not touch the ground and she felt very small ensconced in a chair large enough to seat four. Its curved arms ended in lion’s paws. For a moment Milli thought she saw them twitch, but knew from experience that if you stared at an object long enough, it seems to come to life before your eyes.

A solemn silence hung over the grand dining room, broken only by the ticking of the clocks on the sideboard. Milli looked at the gleaming array of cutlery beside her silver plate. Never in her life had she seen so many knives, forks, spoons and tongs. Mrs Mayor was going to be very put out at her lack of table etiquette. She had only ever used a knife and fork and then only under duress.

The children squirmed in their chairs and glanced miserably at one another, both noticing at the same time that the table had been set for six.

Part II
Puzzles and Possibilities

CHAPTER EIGHT
Bon Affétit

The first arrival to enter the dining room was a girl of about fifteen. At least they thought it was a girl, although her appearance caused some initial confusion. Her jet-black hair stood upright in spikes, defying the laws of gravity, and the kohl smudged around her eyes was so heavy she looked as if she might have been recently involved in a street brawl. The girl’s clothes were also black and weighed down with silver chains which rattled when she moved. She wore a studded collar around her throat, a large safety pin through one nostril and sturdy lace-up boots on her feet.

‘The new additions to the family,’ the girl said sarcastically as she slumped unceremoniously into a chair and began to clean her ragged fingernails with a knife. ‘Just what I’ve always dreamed of—a baby brother and sister.’

She appeared conspicuously out of place in Hog House. Milli thought she looked more like the Bride of Frankenstein than the Mayors’ daughter.

When Mr and Mrs Mayor entered and took their seats opposite the children, the girl sank even lower in her chair and scowled savagely.

The only place now left was the head of the table and an air of expectation settled over the room. Milli and Ernest both felt it, even though they had no idea who the final guest was to be. The white doors flew open and they just had time to catch sight of the sour-faced girl rolling her eyes skywards and her parents leaping from their seats in welcome before a man floated into the room.

You are probably imagining that when someone ‘floats’ into a room, it is saying something about their graceful walking style. But I do not mean this at all; I mean that he was literally walking on air and his feet did not touch the ground but rather hovered several inches above it. This added to his already great height and made him look more like a phantom than a man. The children knew he must be Aldor the Illustrious even before he was formally introduced.

‘Welcome, Your Lordship, we are terribly honoured that you could join us this evening,’ Mrs Mayor gushed effusively. Along with her husband, she proceeded to fawn and fuss over him as if her very life was dependent on his approval.

Lord Aldor towered above them all. He wore fine crimson robes over his emaciated frame. These robes fell in gentle folds, the bell sleeves reaching almost to his knees. His skin had an unhealthy pallor and his cheeks were so sunken they clung to the bone. He had the far away look of one whose time was consumed by heinous plotting. As he glided to his seat, Milli noticed a thin spool of smoke that she would later learn always trailed after him.

Whilst Mr and Mrs Mayor were clearly awestruck by Lord Aldor’s presence, he watched their antics much like an indulgent parent who has almost run out of patience.

Lord Aldor stooped to kiss Mrs Mayor’s hand. ‘Dear lady,’ he said, ‘radiant as usual, I see.’ His voice sounded sonorous, like the notes of an oboe.

On receiving the compliment, Mrs Mayor could hardly contain her excitement. She became flushed and flustered, and when she tried to speak only a girlish giggle came out.

Lord Aldor moved to his chair as if in slow motion. Blue-white hair swam around his head. The wispy locks fell to his waist and his beard had been twisted into a plait. His hair was laced with strands of precious metals that glinted whenever they caught the light. As he looked around the table, something halfway between a smile and a smirk played about his lips. When his gaze met Milli’s, she found that his eyes chilled her to the bone. Their colour was impossible to determine; his pupils kept dissolving only to reappear in a different shade. One moment his eyes were a pair of bottomless black pools; the next they glowed like hot embers. Right now they were as amber as those of a cold-blooded snake.

You may be wondering what was so villainous about an old wizard with an expensive hair-do and a smoking behind. Undoubtedly, you have heard the old adage: never judge a book by its cover and you will know that appearances can be deceiving. What made Lord Aldor truly terrifying was that he had lost any capacity to feel. He loved no one, cherished little, and knew nothing of remorse. In short, he was not recognisably human. If the children had witnessed Lord Aldor accidentally cutting his finger in the middle of a gruesome wizard ritual, they would have seen flesh as white as a lizard’s underbelly. Had they dared to touch his hand, it would have felt as cold as stone; and had they sat beside him long enough, they would most likely have fallen down dead from the wickedness that seeped from the very pores of his skin.

Lord Aldor shook his pinkie finger and it tinkled like a bell. Immediately maids poured into the room bearing an assortment of steaming plates, pots and platters. The ringing pinkie was not only a cue for the maids to enter, it was also a cue for the carved oak arms of the chairs to spring to life. Milli flattened herself against the back of her chair as the lion paws whipped the serviette from the table and tucked it carefully under her chin. The children may have sat frozen in shock, but everyone else behaved as if this were a regular occurrence. The paws proceeded to select morsels and pile them onto the plates in front of each guest.

The food that arrived was beyond anything Milli or Ernest had ever seen or tasted before. At most dinner parties you are given a first course followed by a second and then dessert with tea or coffee later in the evening. At this dinner party, all the courses were served at once so that you could start wherever your fancy took you. If you avoided a dish because it did not appeal, no one could take offence because it would go unnoticed.

Huge towers of wobbling jellies stood alongside dishes of fragrant green and gold rice. Spice-encrusted drumsticks lay piled in pyramids on silver dishes. Ribbons of tricoloured pasta wound around wild mushrooms sprinkled with truffle shavings. There were shrimp cakes, curried eel, terrines of salmon and asparagus, and mounds of lightly frosted fruits. Ernest was most disturbed to see a whole barbecued octopus bursting with almonds and raisins in the centre of the table. All of the world’s most exotic dishes were crammed together on the one tabletop.

When everyone’s mouths were full and the conversation sparse, the girl with hair like the spokes of a wheel put down her spoon and asked to be excused.

‘Don’t be so impolite, Agapanthus Regina,’ Mrs Mayor hissed under her breath, ‘we’ve only just sat down.’

There could not have been a more ill-fitting name for the black-clad misfit, Milli thought. It seemed the girl agreed.

‘You can call me Nettle,’ she said, and winked at the children conspiratorially (which means she behaved as if they were all part of a secret agreement).

Milli thought it might be polite at this point to introduce herself, but Mrs Mayor brusquely cut her off.

‘Agapanthus Regina, please welcome Buttercup Crumpet and Mozart Bluegumm. We call them Crumpet and Gumm for short.’

Milli almost choked on her caviar-stuffed olive. ‘Those are not our names!’ she retorted angrily.

‘Of course they are,’ Mrs Mayor said breezily, oblivious to Milli’s objection. ‘They sound so much prettier than your birth names, don’t you think?’ Knowing full well how useless confrontation was when dealing with someone as frivolous as Mrs Mayor, Milli returned to her food with a face like thunder.

Thankfully Lord Aldor brought the subject of names to an end.

‘I take it the invitations for the Hocus Pocus Ball have been prepared?’ he asked, his voice revealing as much emotion as an icicle.

‘All arranged,’ Mr Mayor assured him.

‘I’m counting the sleeps!’ Mrs Mayor squealed. Lord Aldor forced a frosty smile.

Milli and Ernest exchanged quick glances. Could this be a clue? The Hocus Pocus Ball sounded important. But what was it for?

‘It is only the greatest magical event of the century,’ Lord Aldor informed them, anticipating the question on their minds. ‘It will bring together the most brilliant artists in the Conjurors’ Realm.’

This information was more puzzling than enlightening.

‘Crumpet and Gumm are to be our guests of honour,’ Mrs Mayor continued her happy babble. For a moment, Lord Aldor’s thin lips curved into a snarl and he looked as if he wanted to strike her. Then, he took a breath and his face resumed its usual impassiveness.

‘It is not an event for children,’ he said coolly.

There was a tense silence at the table, followed by small whimpers of distress from Mrs Mayor. The whimpers increased in volume and she blew her nose loudly, blinking up at him through a stream of tears. In the end Lord Aldor decided that letting the children come was easier than enduring this display of emotion, which always made him uncomfortable. So he acquiesced.

‘Just be sure to stay out of the way,’ he growled at them.

Nettle, who had given up waiting to be excused, drained the last of her Brandybee Squash, belched loudly and rose from her chair.

‘Manners, Agapanthus Regina!’ her mother called after her. Nettle did not so much as look back.

‘Don’t mind her,’ said Mr Mayor in hushed tones, ‘she’s very artistic. Runs in the family, doesn’t it, my little Picasso Dumpling?’

Nettle was waiting for Milli and Ernest back at the nursery, looking more intimidating than artistic as she leaned against a wall and chomped noisily on a stick of gum. Every few moments a huge blue bubble formed on her lips, obscuring her entire face from view. But she did seem different since they had last seen her. The tension was gone from her face and she seemed to have relaxed a little.

‘I think we might have something in common,’ Nettle suggested.

Milli was sceptical. ‘What’s that?’

‘A burning desire to get the hell out of here.’

‘Why should we trust you? They are your parents, after all.’

‘Hey!’ Nettle jabbed Milli’s arm. ‘In name only.’

Although she appeared sincere in her lack of regard for the Mayors, Milli remained wary. Nettle was still a resident of Hog House and they could afford to trust no one.

Ernest, on the other hand, seemed taken by her feisty brashness, which set his heart aflutter. No one was more surprised at this than Ernest himself, but when he looked at Nettle he saw not a radical who flouted convention but rather a lost and lonely soul. He felt their connection was subliminal.

‘We’re only putting up with this nonsense long enough to work out how to escape,’ he blurted in an attempt to win favour.

‘Ernest!’ Milli could have kicked him.

‘I know how you feel,’ Nettle nodded knowingly. She flicked at a bow on Milli’s dress and looked at her uncomfortable shoes. ‘Believe me, I’ve been there. My dear parents have given me every reason to grass on them. I’ll tell you everything I know.’

The sight of Mrs Basilisk running a gloved finger over the surface of a hallstand to check for dust reminded Milli of how exposed they were.

‘Where is it safe to talk?’ she said.

‘My bedroom’s on the next floor; meet me there this time tomorrow.’

‘How will we know which room?’ Ernest asked.

‘You’ll know.’

Every Saturday afternoon Mr Mayor went into town to visit the Mayoral chambers while Mrs Mayor hopped into bed to have what she called her glam kip, although she didn’t really do much kipping. All it meant was that she tossed and turned for about twenty minutes before spending the next several hours flicking through piles of glossy magazines and munching on imported confectionery. But as far as Mrs Mayor was concerned, as long as she was in a semi-recumbent position it still counted as rest. Because this Saturday was no exception, Milli and Ernest found themselves free to collaborate behind the locked door of their nursery. Milli had wooed Mrs Mayor into giving them time alone by telling her they wanted to prepare a surprise for the Hocus Pocus Ball. Overcome by a combination of parental pride and excitement, she had generously granted them all the time in the world.

They left Mrs Mayor safely engrossed in a velvet-lined box of Cappuccino Swirls and a copy of Vixen magazine and retired to the nursery to get down to business. Ernest found himself torn between discussing the plight of the stolen shadows or playing with a miniature train set.

‘We have to get hold of that phial Gristle uses to unlock doors,’ Milli said for the third time. But the only response she got out of Ernest who, like a boy, had succumbed to the more immediate thrill of engines and locomotion was: ‘Brmmm!’

‘This is a trap!’ Milli cried, tossing the train set out an open window. ‘Don’t you see you are being seduced by toys and gadgets?’

‘Can’t I be seduced for five minutes longer?’ implored Ernest.

‘Snap out of it!’ Milli reprimanded, taking hold of his shoulders and attempting to shake him to his senses. But before she could get her point across fully, from down the hall came a howling like a banshee.

They ran to find Mrs Mayor’s bedroom door wide open and Mrs Mayor herself huddled under a pile of frilly bedclothes. They were baffled to see a wild-eyed Nettle smashing every mirror within reach. Mrs Mayor kept up a continual howling that was almost painful to listen to. If you can imagine the unpleasant sound of fingernails scraping down a chalkboard, then imagine that sound ten times louder and more aggravating. Milli and Ernest had to duck to avoid flying shards of glass as Nettle continued her rampage. Neither of them had ever witnessed such a display of open hostility and did not know quite how to react. But the disturbance ended as abruptly as it had begun when the commanding figure of Lord Aldor entered.

With an unnatural calm he drifted across the room and was able to restrain Nettle simply by spreading his arms over her. She almost disappeared from view beneath the magician’s sweeping robes. Aldor mouthed an incantation they could not hear over the racket Mrs Mayor was making. Nettle stopped struggling immediately, blinked and looked around the room, as if she had forgotten what she was doing there.

‘To your room,’ Lord Aldor commanded and like a marionette, Nettle obeyed.

Nettle gone, Mrs Mayor emerged cautiously from under her duvet and reached for a bottle of Rosewater Recovery Mist. She sprayed her flushed cheeks and smoothed her ruffled hair. Ignoring the rubble of broken glass she smiled gratefully at her rescuer and began to straighten her magazines as if the incident had already been forgotten.

‘Now, children, how is that special surprise coming along?’

CHAPTER NINE
Unwelcome Discoveries

Milli and Ernest had to wait until Hog House was fast asleep before creeping up to the third floor to keep their appointment with Nettle. Mrs Mayor took the longest time to doze off, probably because she had insisted Milli sing her lullabies from a fleecy volume entitled Ditties from Slumberland. Milli did not know the tunes so she had to make them up as she went along, which was not easy given the lyrics were so dreadful:

Snoozy, woozy, scatterbrained flea, Close your lids and dream of me.

Swashbuckling pilchards gargling with glue,

The colour of sleep is cobalt blue.

When Mrs Mayor did doze off, Milli noticed with some alarm that she wasn’t asleep more than five minutes before suffering strange paroxysms during which she thrust herself into the air, arms and legs splayed. Each spasm lasted only seconds before she thumped back down on the bed and resumed her rhythmic snoring. When Milli was confident that not even the jolts would wake her, she padded down the dimly lit hallway lined with portraits of Hog House ancestry to the nursery. There she discovered that her exposure to bad verse was not over for the evening. Ernest was labouring over the composition of an ode, To Nettle, which was clearly giving him no end of trouble.

Milli peered over his shoulder. ‘The idea that girls like that stuff is poppycock,’ she said primly, in an attempt to deter him from a course of action that could only end in tears.

‘What would you know about it? Has anyone ever written a poem about you?’

‘No, because if they dared they wouldn’t live to tell the tale.’

‘Well, not everyone’s a cynic like you, Milli. I’m sure my sentiments will be appreciated.’

‘At least try and stay focused—we have slightly more pressing matters to deal with. Let’s go.’

Nettle had been right in saying her room would be hard to miss. This was probably in some part due to its medieval door, with actual thorny vines (growing through a skull and crossbones) as decoration. They tapped lightly and a pair of dark eyes glared at them through a peephole before they heard the sound of bolts sliding and the door creaked open.

Nettle’s bedroom was a jumble of clutter and disorder. The shutters were closed, the bed unmade and a smell of burning hung in the air. Clothes lay in a crumpled heap on the floor alongside a mountain of empty snack-packs. The only toy in sight was a brown bear with a scar across one cheek and he was clad in black leather and brandished a cutlass. Pink had been outlawed here.

Nettle had to sweep things off her bed before there was room to sit down. An awkward silence followed that was first broken by Milli. After the initial hesitation, the atmosphere thawed and the children felt sufficiently comfortable to broach a subject that had been playing on their minds.

‘What happened back there?’

‘Can’t deal with my mother’s obsession with vanity,’ Nettle replied offhandedly. ‘Guess I just lost it.’ She played with a loose button on her black military jacket. ‘She cares more about chipping her nail varnish than she does about me.’

‘Have you ever been close?’ Milli wanted to know, only too aware of the void a mother’s absence can leave.

‘I only remember being an embarrassment to my parents,’ Nettle sighed. ‘I never looked right, never said the right things. After me, The Illustrious One advised them against having any more biological children.’ There was an uncomfortable silence as the children registered the motivation behind much of Nettle’s antagonism. Ernest tactfully tried to change the subject.

‘How does Lord Aldor fit in?’ he said.

‘He’s always coming to the rescue when my mother can’t cope. She won’t even sneeze without getting the green light from him first.’

‘Why is that?’ Milli asked.

‘She’s completely taken in by him, they both are. He can move them around to suit himself, just like pawns in a game of chess.’

‘Why do they allow it?’

‘My parents are social climbers which means they’ll do anything for a bit of attention. Their deal with Aldor allows them to maintain this lifestyle and all they have to do in return is smile and shake hands with people.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ said Ernest.

‘Look,’ said Nettle. ‘It’s quite simple—it’s called greed.’

‘What about the Hocus Pocus Ball?’

‘They’re going all out for that so they must stand to gain something.’

‘I wonder who the guests are whose way we have to stay out of?’

‘Every known and respected magician in the Conjurors’ Realm has been invited.’

Ernest marvelled at the idea of a realm devoted entirely to magic.

‘I’ve never met a magician,’ he said.

‘Well, you’re in for a show. These guys make my parents look boring.’

When Milli saw Ernest fishing about in his pockets she realised they needed to get out of there, and fast.

‘We had better go before someone notices we’re missing. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Nettle,’ Milli said. Praying Ernest would go quietly, she tried to bundle him out of the room. The last thing she needed was a lovesick Ernest to complicate matters. Besides, Ernest was hers! She hadn’t invested all these years developing him just to have him snatched away unceremoniously by a girl in a cape.

Unfortunately, Milli’s prayers went unheeded as his poem had been uppermost on Ernest’s mind for the duration of the conversation. He was simply waiting for an opportune moment to deliver it. Now seemed as good a time as any. He withdrew the slip of paper from his pocket, took a deep breath and focused his gaze on the middle distance, which he knew to be a well known tip for public speakers. Without any introduction, he launched into a theatrical recital:

To Nettle

There once was a girl called Nettle

Hair as black as a cast-iron kettle

Safety pin through her nose

Sharper than any Daphne or Rose

Never was there a girl with more mettle!

Milli waited with bated breath for the laughter she was sure would follow. But it didn’t come. When Ernest had finished, Nettle looked at him with a new regard.

‘Gee, thanks, Ernie. No one’s ever written me a poem before.’

She gave his arm a friendly punch and Ernest could not have looked happier had a truckload of rare gemstones landed on his doorstep.

‘Friends?’ Nettle said hopefully.

‘Friends,’ the children agreed. They all shook hands and knew for the second time that they were not alone. A pact had been formed.

They all agreed that first and foremost they needed to secure one of the blue glass phials which all important members of the house seemed to carry on their person. This would grant them access to every room, which meant they would be able to investigate without hindrance. What exactly they hoped to find was hazy but, as any investigator worth his or her salt knows, locked doors are locked for a reason. As far as they could tell, the Mayors, Lord Aldor, Gristle and the housekeeper, Mrs Basilisk, were the only ones in possession of the precious scent. They knew it would be impossible to catch Lord Aldor and Mrs Basilisk off guard, which left them with the option of either the Mayors or Gristle, both of whom they felt more confident of outmanoeuvring. But they would have to steal the phial without being discovered. Discovery meant joining the prisoners in the dungeon where they could kiss any hope of escape goodbye.

Milli and Ernest had to wait an entire week before an opportunity to pilfer a phial presented itself. When it did, it was quite by accident. Out of sheer boredom, they were exploring the myriad corners of Hog House that were not barred to them. They wandered through the stone-flagged floors of the airy and spacious kitchens, where they encountered someone bashing an octopus on a marble table in order to tenderise it. Cooks in immaculate snow-white aprons kneaded dough and kicked impatiently at chooks that scampered underfoot. Milli and Ernest were particularly fascinated by the Wizard Washing Wheel, a device with rotating mechanical arms which dunked cutlery and crockery first into sudsy water, then clean water to rinse.

They discovered the larder when a grumbling chef, brandishing a large butcher’s knife, pushed past them as he exited the room. Inside they found that the Mayors were big on pickling. Everything and anything that could be pickled had been. Ernest could not help thinking of Mr Mayor’s overworked secretary whose fears about the fate of his tongue now seemed not entirely unfounded. Whilst examining the assorted jars of condiments and spreads, the children were caught by a glowering Mrs Basilisk, who escorted them from the kitchen by their ears, threatening to set them to work sorting lentils should she find them in there again.

Once at a safe distance from the clutches of Mrs Basilisk, their attention was drawn by the sound of music. Milli and Ernest followed it up a spiralling staircase, so narrow they had to climb single file. The staircase smelled badly of old socks and egg sandwiches, but it did lead unexpectedly to Gristle’s quarters, a turret in a secluded attic wing of the house. They came to a door that had been left ajar. Just inside it, propped against a wall, the sight of a club they had often seen Gristle carrying instantly gave Ernest second thoughts.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ he whispered.

‘Good or not, it’s the best chance we’ve got to get that phial,’ Milli replied and, taking a breath, she pushed the door open.

They cringed as the terrible sound of opera singing swelled and ballooned around them. It came from a rickety gramophone on a stand. They almost had to turn back, so dizzying was the sound. It was like a fat lady about to throw herself off a cliff but wanting to make sure the world knew about it first. The shrill, mind-exploding notes bounced off the walls and hit them with the impact of cricket balls.

The room itself was small and circular, made cosy by the warmth of embers burning in the grate of a small fireplace, and surprisingly clean and neat. An iron bedstead with a sagging mattress was pushed up under a tiny arched window, which, Milli suspected, was too small even to allow Gristle’s head to poke through. The room looked as if it had been designed to house an elf rather than the ogre-like Gristle. There was a rustic chair covered in a patched throw, and what looked like a child’s finger painting hung lopsided on the wall. Open on the windowsill, its pages fluttering in the breeze, sat a fat manual entitled Opera for Oafs.

Another door led to an even more minuscule bathroom. Confident of total privacy, Gristle had also left this door ajar. Peeking through the crack, the children were met by a troubling sight. Almost bursting out of a tin tub and surrounded by a spume of bubbles sat Gristle! By his side, tea steamed from a fine china cup. They could see his face reflected in a foggy, heart-shaped mirror. Transported by the music, his eyes were shut and he wore a smile of contentment such as they had never seen on him before. A rubber duck bobbed beside him atop the sea of bubbles. A stone ledge displayed a surprising assortment of bathing accessories: a giant pumice stone, a scrubbing brush hanging from a rope, a bowl of fizzing bath bombs, a slick and expensive-looking shaving kit and a flagon of Banana Bliss Bubble Bath.

Gristle sang along with the record as he scrubbed himself, pausing occasionally to use the brush as a conductor’s baton. So this was the private sanctuary Gristle disappeared to between the hours of six and seven every night, the only time of the day when he was carefree. Under different circumstances the children might have laughed, but they were far too conscious of the consequences should their presence be discovered.

‘Over there!’ Milli mimed, spying the pair of boots sitting just inside the bathroom door. They could just glimpse the glass stopper of the phial protruding beneath the tongue of one boot. Keeping an eye on Gristle’s shaggy back, Milli knelt on the floor, reached out a tentative hand and carefully lifted the phial from its hiding place. Quick as a whip, she withdrew the stopper and transferred its contents into an empty bottle labelled ‘Midnight Hags’, helpfully supplied by Nettle. She handed it to Ernest and returned the phial to its sweaty hiding place, trying hard to avoid contact with the boot itself.

The children were so pleased with their achievement, they did not hear the sloshing of water as Gristle emerged from the tub. The bathroom door flew open and there, in a fluffy bathrobe and bunny slippers, stood Gristle. For a few minutes they stared at each other in stunned silence. Luckily, Ernest had had the wherewithal to whisk the bottle behind his back and tuck it into the belt of his trousers.

‘We’re terribly sorry, we didn’t mean to intrude,’ Ernest stammered, edging backwards.

‘We were just playing hide and seek and got lost,’ Milli added. Looking more embarrassed than angry, Gristle bent down so his face was level with theirs.

‘Games,’ he growled, advancing towards them, ‘belong in the nursery.’

Racing from the angry ogre the children tore down the tower steps and dared not stop until they had to catch their breath. Using their newly acquired phial they opened the nearest door and found refuge in the library of Hog House. This sombre and airless room with vaulted ceilings housed numberless tomes on its cobwebby shelves. The shelves lined every wall from floor to ceiling. Dust motes floated in the shafts of sunlight that sliced through clerestory windows, candles dribbled wax and the silence was deafening.

Milli approached a shelf and lifted a thick volume. When she tried to open it she found the cover was locked. There was no blurb, author’s name or date of publication. Only the title flickered on the cover: World Domination Made Easy. The others had equally menacing titles: Time and Tyranny; Making Crime Pay; How to Control the World and Make Friends in Six Easy Steps; Never Underestimate the Pleasure of Power; and The Art of Sham. In another section, Ernest discovered more bewitching titles: Madame Zinkwit’s Magical Mothball Remedies; One Hundred and Seven Uses for Spider Eggs; and Sprout Wings with Matilda Smiggle’s Beetle Broth. None were much use with their contents locked.

They were just replacing Tinctures to Cure All Skin Conditions when they noticed a light coming from behind one of the shelves. They considered a hasty retreat but a compulsion drew them forwards. With pounding hearts they gently slid several volumes from their places in order to investigate further. Peeping through the gap revealed the danger of their discovery! They had stumbled upon the prestidigitator at work in his sanctum. If you think about it, this mouthful of a word (try saying prestidigitator aloud), works perfectly to encapsulate the work of a conjuror by combining the ideas of hey presto and digits.

Lord Aldor’s workroom was a dim and narrow galley littered with all manner of gruesome specimens. A tortoise hung from the rafters. A gorilla’s palm served as an ashtray and beside it sat a pair of ears that had once belonged to a fluffy dog. A chunk of raw liver wobbled on a silver platter. Dirty Petri dishes (their contents crystallised) as well as other scientific implements cluttered a marble bench.

Lord Aldor himself was facing the children and bent over his work of casually impaling Christmas Beetles onto fishing wire. Occasionally, he snacked from a heaped bowl of what appeared to be ribbed, gelatinous confectionery. Simultaneously the children took a step backwards. But before they could retreat unnoticed from the grisly scene, Lord Aldor’s head suddenly snapped to attention. Looking directly at them, he picked up the bowl of transparent jellies, which they now saw were a languidly wriggling mass.

‘Larvae, anyone?’

CHAPTER TEN
The Sky’s the Limit

Days passed and the spectacular sights offered by Hog House came to feel familiar. On more than one occasion, the children wondered if they were destined to live out the rest of their days in idle luxury. The responsibility of helping the others weighed heavily with them but what could they hope to achieve with so little to guide them? Milli and Ernest spent many restless hours trying to unravel the mystery surrounding the shadows. There was no one to answer their questions or explain Lord Aldor’s intentions. It was at these times that they especially missed the predictability of their old lives in Drabville (which did not seem nearly as monotonous now) and the sensible advice adults there could always be relied upon to offer. Then there was the question of the shadows that had reunited with their owners only to be imprisoned in the dungeons of Hog House. Milli and Ernest knew that if they were going to help the prisoners escape, such a plan would rely wholly on their ingenuity and inventiveness. So far they had had little opportunity to display either. Instead, they spent long hours at play in the nursery discovering the workings of some new gadget or in the dining room sampling some new gastronomic delight.

It seemed that whenever they tried to gather clues, Lord Aldor was watching them. When they snuck into the gardens to confer with Rosie and Leo, he was perched on a bench smiling his sardonic smile. When they crept down to the dungeons to smuggle treats to their hungry friends, he appeared out of thin air, seemingly bent on exposing their plans. When they arranged to meet Nettle in the room with the birdbath, he was waiting by the door and Milli and Ernest were forced to saunter casually past, pretending to be headed elsewhere. With every day that passed, they grew more and more despondent, until one day, out of the blue, came a breakthrough.

The children were reading quietly in their nursery when Nettle arrived and announced that Lord Aldor would be departing on important business the very next morning. Mr and Mrs Mayor had been expected to accompany him, but had decided at the last minute that they could not bear to leave their precious charges, Crumpet and Gumm. Although homesick, the children were not having such a terrible time being Crumpet and Gumm. They had a mansion to explore, feasts every night, doting guardians, and friends in Nettle and the prisoners. But the knowledge that they were confined to the grounds of Hog House kept Milli and Ernest on task. Despite the luxuries they had been given, the house was still a prison, albeit an opulent one, and they were forced to watch their friends robbed of both freedom and dignity.

Milli could scarcely conceal her excitement as she watched Gristle speeding Lord Aldor away in the long grey car, leaving a cloud of dust behind them. Not only were they temporarily free of Lord Aldor’s oppressive presence, but the magnanimous Mayors were off attending the opening of a conservatorium in Drabville and would be busy with official duties for most of the morning.

‘It’s time to get down to business,’ Milli said decisively, rubbing her hands together.

‘If it’s all the same to you,’ Ernest said, ‘I think I’ve had enough for one day. I might just have an early night.’

‘It’s midday,’ Milli reminded him. ‘Anyway we can’t give up now.’

Ernest half-wished that Mrs Mayor was around to whisk Milli off for a hot stone massage. He felt he was betraying a loyalty, even though, being a very intelligent boy, he knew this loyalty was misplaced.

‘Mr Mayor would readily sell off your organs if he thought it was in his best interest,’ Milli assured him. Then she set off so determinedly towards Mr Mayor’s study that Ernest had no choice but to follow her. They had decided on this room as the place to begin their search through the simple process of deduction (which just means that when they looked around them they could find no better option). As Lord Aldor’s lackey, Mr Mayor would more than likely have access to important information even if he didn’t fully understand it.

Milli gave a sharp tap on the study door. A moment later it opened just a crack, enough for the children to discern the distinctive black bill of one very edgy flamingo. Despite having been warned about the slightly unconventional secretary, Milli was still taken aback to see a bird wearing a pince-nez and a spotted tie. But it is amazing how adaptable we children can be because in no time at all she was chatting away to him as if he were an old chum.

‘You must be Milliplop Klobberit,’ the flamingo said reverentially. ‘Come in, come in.’

When the children were safely inside, he bolted the door behind them and glanced fearfully around, as if he expected Mr Mayor to leap out at any moment, barking impossible deadlines.

‘Everyone’s out for the day,’ Ernest said gently, ‘you’ve got nothing to worry about. Right, Milli?’

Milli didn’t answer. She was standing with her hands on her hips, sizing up the filing cabinets towering above her. She didn’t look awestruck, only more dogged to defeat another of the obstacles standing between her and escape.

‘Where are the secret files then?’ she promptly asked the flamingo.

‘The what?’ he stuttered.

‘The secret files,’ Milli repeated. ‘Surely you must know this office better than anyone.’

‘Well, I don’t know about any secret files…I’m not privy to that kind of information,’ he faltered, ‘but there are some…Oh, I mustn’t. I’ll be terminated!’

‘Listen.’ Milli knelt down by the quivering bird. A pile of pink feathers already lay scattered at his feet and the down on his head was trembling terribly. ‘Ernest and I want to help you get out of here. But first you need to help us.’

The flamingo seemed to understand the importance of their mission and, taking a great gulp of air, nodded in consent.

‘There are some files even I don’t have the key to.’

‘We expected that might be the case,’ Milli said, as she pulled and held aloft the bottle of scent from her pocket. Ever since their encounter with Gristle in the tower, she had carried it around with her, waiting for an occasion to put it to use.

‘Very well then,’ the flamingo complied, looking as though he had made a deal with the devil, ‘but if anyone asks, my involvement in this treacherous scheme was absolutely zilch. In fact, I did all I could to keep you from the secret files, but I was outnumbered. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ Milli’s mischievous grin did nothing to settle the flamingo’s nerves.

He beckoned the children towards the cherry picker, which, up close, looked rather unstable. Ernest’s spirits sank to his toes. With his feet on the floor Ernest believed he could be of some use, but when unnerved—as he was by heights—he had the tendency to squeal like a trapped rabbit or, as Milli enjoyed telling him, like a little girl. He had hoped that for once luck might be on his side and the files would be at ground level. But Ernest remembered, as if it were only yesterday, stepping on that split acorn four years ago. It meant he still had another two years of misfortune to go before it ran out.

The cherry picker strained and rocked unsteadily as it ascended. After about five minutes of a faltering climb, Ernest began to feel queasy. They still could not see the ceiling, and now they could not see the floor either.

‘Don’t look down,’ Milli advised as Ernest turned a sickly shade of cabbage green. She wasn’t enjoying the bumpy ride much herself, but knew better than to express reservations in front of Ernest.

At long last, the cherry picker jolted to a halt. The children looked down at the abyss the study had been transformed into beneath them.

The cabinet they had stopped in front of was dishearteningly ordinary and certainly did not look as if it could contain classified information. The only difference between it and the other cabinets was that its contents were secured behind a heavy red padlock. Purposefully, Milli aimed the phial at the keyhole, squirted and watched as the padlock fell away and rocketed downwards. Although they listened keenly, such was their altitude that they did not even hear it hit the floor.

The interior of the cabinet was long and hollow and the children felt thwarted to find it contained only one solitary box folder. The gap between the cherry picker and the cabinet seemed to grow enormously when Milli leaned over to retrieve their discovery. For one terrifying moment the cherry picker lurched and Milli found herself hanging perilously forward. Luckily, the flamingo, who had plenty of experience in such emergencies, behaved rather like an air hostess on board a plane entering turbulence. He used his tie like a lasso to steady Milli whilst at the same time patted Ernest reassuringly on his head. Once the folder was tucked securely under Milli’s arm, the flamingo fiddled with the stiff gears of the cherry picker and they began their unsteady descent.

Having returned to the safety of ground level, the children made themselves comfortable in Mr Mayor’s wide leather desk chair. They sat rigid while the flamingo hovered anxiously around the door listening for any approaching footsteps. The tension in the air was palpable. The folder’s bland exterior had taken on an air of malevolence and all three of them were bursting with suspense. But they were in for a big disappointment. Two disappointments to be exact. The first was that inside the folder lay a single sheet of paper. For their efforts, the children had been expecting a hefty stack of documents. But as everyone knows, life is unfair, and I still have not told you the second disappointment.

‘Patterns!’ cried Ernest in dismay. ‘Flipping patterns!’

The paper was indeed scrawled all over with squiggly, wiggly, higgledy-piggledy lines, not dissimilar to those made by a computer gone haywire. It was completely indecipherable. Was it a hoax? Had they been led down the garden path or did the file really contain the information they needed? They looked at each other in dismay as they struggled for suggestions.

‘And to think I could have been assembling my new model aeroplane,’ Ernest said unhelpfully.

‘Sometimes, Ernest,’ Milli retorted hotly, ‘you can be such a cucumber!’

‘Now, now,’ the flamingo chided, ‘squabbling isn’t going to help anyone.’

Again they concentrated on the cryptic paper, as if staring at it long and hard enough would encourage it to yield up its secrets. Milli looked at the document as if she would like to shred it.

‘Open Sesame,’ she hissed.

Nothing.

It was the flamingo who decided to pursue another train of thought. ‘Let’s think,’ he began. ‘What is the first and foremost rule of Hog House?’

The children looked bewildered until Milli piped up, ‘Nothing is what it seems?’

‘Precisely. Books may be cheeses, vases really camels, and files could be something like…crystal balls.’ The flamingo could see that Milli and Ernest were having difficulty following his line of logic. ‘Try asking the file a question,’ he said simply.

Thinking the idea preposterous (even by Hog House standards) but not wanting to appear rude, Milli obliged. Feeling like a complete dolt, she held the page up in front of her nose and asked, ‘Where are the shadows?’

When nothing happened she put the paper down and looked helplessly at Ernest. ‘You didn’t really think it would be that simple?’

But Milli received no reply for both Ernest and the flamingo were staring transfixed at the symbols, which had begun to reconfigure before their very eyes. A picture was forming. As it grew clearer, they could see it depicted the murky waters of a lake. As there was only one body of water within a hundred miles of Drabville, there was no doubting which it was. They were looking at none other than the forbidden red waters of the Lurid Lagoon and they were even more foreboding than they had imagined.

Encouraged, Milli interrogated the page again. ‘How will we get there?’

A sepia coloured map rippled into view. Stencilled on the page were four recognisable landmarks making up the Taboo Territories. The broad and red expanse of the Lurid Lagoon, small humps representing the Sultry Sands known as the habitat of mammoth scorpions with high-voltage pincers, the Roquefort Marshes famous for emitting a stink so powerful as to render a man senseless and, shadowing the far right corner, the forbidding Shreckal Caverns. Dotted lines snaked in all directions. But which direction should they take? Three faint words slithered into view: Follow the Slop.

Luckily for the children, the flamingo happened to be a very skilled cartographer and, grabbing quill and parchment, he copied the map in perfect detail. They grew more enthusiastic by the minute. It seemed the patterned page might just tell them everything they needed to know.

‘What is the Hocus Pocus Ball?’ Milli asked eagerly.

At this question, the page began to wonk. It buzzed like static on a television set. It wriggled like slugs in a bucket. The children could sense that something important was coming. Then into sight drifted a scroll of parchment, scripted in the most careful calligraphy. Looking closer, Milli could see that it was no ordinary scroll of parchment. It was an invitation…to the Hocus Pocus Ball, picked out in gold-leaf lettering.

Calling All Conjurors…

Lord Aldor the Illustrious frostily requests your company for what promises to be the magical event of the century:

THE HOCUS POCUS BALL

Time: 8 pm talon sharp

Venue: Hog House Ballroom (ample parking at rear)

Dress: Fanciful

Prepare to be amazed, entranced, captivated and even catapulted into the cosmos (not recommended for the faint-hearted). Mingle with the glitterati of the magical world and be dazzled by the spectacular finale of the Great Guzzle at the Shreckal Gaverns.

WARNING: Those with high blood pressure or hereditary heart disease should seek medical advice before attending.

Greedy for more information, the children popped one more question, which perhaps pried just a little too deep.

‘What is the Great Guzzle?’

Unfortunately then, the edifying page closed its doors. Affronted by the question, the patterns spun in such a frenzy that the friction caused the paper to burst into flames. The fire devoured the parchment in seconds and the ashes crumbled onto the desk until all that was left were a few black smudges on Mr Mayor’s handsome writing set.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Follow the Slop

When Mr and Mrs Mayor returned from their duties dispensing charity and goodwill to a community they’d robbed of spirit, the first thing they did (after ordering a hot snack) was to send for Crumpet and Gumm. When one has a guilty conscience, one tends to be on edge, and Milli and Ernest’s initial reaction was to think that their activities of the afternoon had been exposed. Fearing the Mayors would send out a search party if they tried to avoid them, the children had little choice but to assume a naive expression and go and greet their new parents.

They were met by the same ruddy faces as usual. Mrs Mayor, who was forever at her toilette, lining lips, pinning curls and dusting powder on her nose, painted a fresh red smile on her mouth and rolled her eyes mysteriously.

‘Time for your lesson,’ she teased and escorted them to a room they had not visited before.

Studio Samba was a fully equipped dance studio—a surprise from Mr Mayor for his Voluptuous Muse on their last anniversary. There was nothing Mrs Mayor loved more than to dance and she often told the story that had it not been for an equestrian accident she had suffered as a girl, resulting in arthritic feet, she would undoubtedly have pursued a career in ballet. The fact that she was several feet too short and many pounds too heavy ever to be a professional dancer was conveniently omitted from the conversation. Having tragically missed her calling, Mrs Mayor had to content herself with dance as a favourite pastime.

Studio Samba was a long rectangular room with a varnished floor and wall-to-wall turntables. From the ceiling hung strobe lights and a mirror ball. Against a ballet barre stood a long and lean gentleman wearing a look of utter disdain.

‘Marcel!’ Mrs Mayor sang, air-kissing both his cheeks. ‘Here are my little cherubs and there is no time to lose. We shall be back to collect them in two hours and by then we expect experts!’

Marcel bowed deeply. This sent his lustrous mop of black curls flopping into his eyes and with a flamboyant gesture he swept them back. ‘You vill not be dizappointed,’ he said in a guttural European accent. ‘Zey are like two big sponges ready to abzorb.’

Mrs Mayor gazed at him with such admiration you’d have thought Adonis himself was standing before her. In actual fact, Marcel, with his too-tight leather pants, ruffled shirt and tap-dancing shoes, more accurately resembled an actor from the silent movie era. His moustache had been waxed into a coil at each end and his thick sideburns reached almost to his chin. He stared at the children with such hostile curiosity they might have been Martians.

‘Ze art of danze is about dizipline and conzentration. Without zeez, you can do nuzing. Obzerve!’ He did a flying leap and pirouetted in the air.

The children were aghast at Marcel’s ambitions for them and did not think he would handle the disappointment well. Ernest had two left feet and Milli two right ones.

‘This is going to be a dizaster!’ said Ernest.

‘Silenze! Converzation interferes with conzentration. Now, who vould like to go firzt?’

‘Ooh, me!’ Mrs Mayor piped up. ‘Pick me.’

‘Come now, mon petit chat,’ Marcel crooned, ‘ze two of us vill light up ze floor later. It is time for ze little ones.’ He gave Mrs Mayor a brisk twirl, and when he released her she twirled right out the door and Marcel shut it firmly behind her.

He clapped his hands, a lively foxtrot rang out and the children were thrust into position. Although Milli craned her neck, she could not see where the music was coming from.

‘Right foot, left foot, spin!’ bellowed Marcel.

Ernest, who had practised dancing in the privacy of his own bedroom back in Bauble Lane, was only slightly more graceful than Milli who stepped on his feet so many times he stopped counting. At one point, they both twirled simultaneously and ended up a messy tangle of limbs on the floor. The children could not help laughing at their clumsiness but Marcel threw his arms up in despair.

‘Enough!’ he hollered. ‘Zis is horrendous. Never again is I vanting to see anyzing like zis. You muzt show me some vim. Obzerve!’

He did a split in mid-air, landed like a cat and began to frog-leap around Studio Samba. He boogied, he jived, he pulled ballet moves, he stood on his head, and as a climax he lay on his back and kicked his legs in the air like a dying fly.

For the next few hours, the children were compelled to remain in Studio Samba under the tutelage of Marcel. They learned waltzes (which they found rather embarrassing), tap (which everybody thinks looks easy until they try it), and the salsa (which they decided the human body was not designed to perform). At one stage, while they were dancing the tango, Milli wondered what it would be like to dance with Leo. Immediately she blocked the thought. But little did Milli know that Ernest, who stood opposite her trying to control his feet, was thinking very similar thoughts about a girl called Nettle.

Marcel finally flopped down from sheer exhaustion, the spring gone from both his step and his moustache. He hated to see anyone corrupting the fine art of dance and Milli and Ernest had made a mockery of it.

‘I canz do no more,’ he said upon the return of the Mayors, ‘I am a teacher, not a magizian.’

‘Let’s hope dancing isn’t part of your surprise then,’ Mr Mayor joked, elbowing the children in the ribs.

‘Surprise?’ Milli said, having forgotten their agreement.

‘The one for the Hocus Pocus Ball. Our guests are expecting great things from the two of you.’

‘Of course.’ Milli forced a smile. ‘Our surprise is coming along wonderfully.’

When they finally closed the nursery door behind them, Milli and Ernest had a hundred thoughts whirring through their heads. What sort of surprise should they prepare for the Hocus Pocus Ball? How would they manage to sneak away from Hog House without being seen? Was the Great Guzzle some sort of feast for buffoons? How were they to get safely through the Taboo Territories? The map marked the way across the infamous Lurid Lagoon, but that wasn’t much help seeing as they didn’t know where the Lurid Lagoon was!

Little did they know that one of their questions would be answered that very night.

‘We have a map of the Taboo Territories,’ Milli explained, showing Rosie and Leo what the flamingo had sketched. She and Ernest were sitting cross-legged on a pile of rough sacks in the dungeon. ‘Only problem is, we don’t know how to get there.’

Rosie looked thoughtful as she finished painting a row of shooting stars on a lantern and set it aside to dry. For the past week, the prisoners had been permitted to give up their backbreaking labour to make decorations for the Hocus Pocus Ball. Milli suspected it was a welcome change.

‘The only clue the parchment gave us was “Follow the Slop”,’ Ernest added. ‘Whatever that is supposed to mean.’

Leo looked up sharply from carving a face in a pumpkin. ‘The Slop? You mean the river that flows through the Mayors’ property and all the way down to the Lurid Lagoon?’

The children considered this a moment. It had not occurred to them that all the while the Shreckal Caverns were only an afternoon’s row away from Hog House.

‘What happens when we get there?’ Ernest asked. ‘We arrive at the lagoon and then what? We can’t swim across it, and I’m guessing the Mayors will be a tad suspicious if we ask them for a boat.’

‘Well,’ Rosie looked grave, ‘there’s only one way to find out.’

When the Hog clocks struck midnight, Milli and Ernest tiptoed down to the dungeons to collect Leo. No one knew the grounds of Hog House better than Leo who had been working outdoors his entire time there. If Gristle heard the clatter of the elevator down to the basement floor, he chose to ignore it.

Armed with a lantern to light their way, Leo guided the children out a back entrance, past the orchards and down the sloping banks of what they now knew to be the River Slop. Despite the voluminous cloaks they had hastily wrapped around themselves, the chill of the night air bit straight through them. The climate inside Hog House was always set to a pleasant temperature and they had forgotten that nature was one thing the Mayors could not control. Leo, too, shivered against the wind in his ragged trousers and patchwork vest. His clothes were much too small for him as they were the exact same garments he’d had on three years ago when the grey car came to collect him.

A fine rain fell as the three made their way tentatively down the bank, their feet catching on loose stones and their shoes slipping on the wet grass. After trudging for almost an hour, they came to a little curved bridge (the type without handrails). Its wood was rotting and the river gurgled threateningly beneath it. But it was the only way across.

In a few short steps they were over the bridge. The wood did not give way, nobody fell into the water below and they went on their merry way. Alas, this is not an accurate account of what really happened that eventful evening. Their trip over the bridge would have been straightforward, had it not been for the giant moth which decided to burrow itself in the folds of Ernest’s pyjamas just as he was following Milli and Leo across the rickety bridge. Either of the other two would have simply flicked the bug from their clothing, or at least waited until they were over the bridge before panicking. Ernest, being Ernest, did nothing of the kind. He leapt around like a madman (he would have made Marcel proud), flailing his arms and clawing at his clothes. In his efforts to dislodge the moth, he lost his footing, fell with a plop into the river and was immediately swept away by the current.

‘Quick!’ Leo shouted. They abandoned their path and crashed through the shrubs by the riverbank. The trees grew so close together that at times they had to squeeze past them sideways. They ran like they had never run before to rescue Ernest before the Slop carried him away for good. Milli and Leo finally arrived, breathless, in a clearing, scratched and battered all over. Ernest was nowhere to be seen.

Milli’s heart was thumping in her chest. Where had the river taken her best friend? She remembered the day the Flesh Gobbler had pierced her arm. If it weren’t for Ernest she would be dead!

Leo ran along the riverbank, watching like a hawk for the slightest movement. An enormous vine hung over the water; it seemed to grow from the sky and had neither beginning nor end. Its tangles were so thick that any view of the other side was obscured completely. For a moment Milli thought she saw something, but it was only a shoe floating lonesomely downstream. Ernest’s shoe! Milli felt the tears well up in her eyes.

‘Arghhhh!’ There came a shout above the roaring rush of water. Then, writhing like a fish, came Ernest!

Milli and Leo waded in to try and catch him, but he rocketed past…and became trapped in the vine suspended over the River Slop. It had caught him like a net. Milli and Leo were so pleased that at first they forgot about helping him down and simply smiled in relief.

‘Is the moth gone?’ Ernest asked meekly once he could feel solid ground beneath him.

‘You pebble brain!’ Milli shouted, clobbering him over the head. ‘You could have been killed.’

‘I’m sorry I scared you,’ Ernest said humbly. ‘Thanks for saving me.’

Leo offered Ernest his hand and hauled him to his feet. ‘I know a way you could repay us,’ he said, looking at them both with a peculiar expression in his green eyes.

‘How?’

‘You could lend me your pocket knife.’

Leo deftly sliced a peep hole through the vine and beckoned Milli and Ernest to look at what lay on the other side. Before them stretched a vast expanse of water tinged an inky red: the Lurid Lagoon. Instead of rippling, gushing or raging like ordinary bodies of water do, this one was breathing! It moved up and down like a sinister red blanket. The sounds of the night seemed to have dissolved and all that could be heard was the water’s rhythmic breathing.

A fleet of gaudy gondolas was moored along the bank, waiting for the night of the Hocus Pocus Ball at the end of which they would transport the guests in the direction of the Shreckal Caverns. The gondolas were approximately eleven metres in length, with sterns made of decorative iron and curved bows in the shape of swans’ heads. The seats were lined with velvet, and some of the gondolas had removable wooden canopies to use as refuge in bad weather.

One craft loomed above the rest. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky above it, casting threatening shadows across its deck. It was painted gold and its bow was carved in the shape of a snarling boar. A single throne sat in the centre of the deck, its upholstery blood red. There was no doubting this vessel belonged to Lord Aldor.

CHAPTER TWELVE
The Notorious Nine

Nettle lay sprawled on Milli’s chariot bed, engrossed in a photo of Rosco Ruffian. He was featured on the latest cover of Black Creed, her favourite magazine, which had been smuggled in for her by spies. Ernest had his nose buried in a book entitled Bug Beautiful, determined to prove to Nettle (who had received a graphic account of the episode from Milli) that the moth incident was a gross exaggeration. Milli was taking out her frustration on a Rubik’s Cube that was already on its last legs. Ernest was convinced she would be better off with a punching bag.

‘We still don’t know anything!’ Milli moaned. ‘At this rate we’ll never get home.’

Nettle tossed her magazine to the floor and tried to be optimistic. ‘We know more than we did.’

‘But the most important piece of the puzzle is missing! Why is this ball taking place and what is the Great Guzzle?’

Not having an answer to offer for either of these questions, Nettle got up to retrieve her magazine. Ernest, coming across a picture of a particularly fearsome-looking spider (the kind that would not run away if you bashed and chased it with a broomstick), screamed and hurled his book across the room.

‘What I don’t understand,’ he said, hastily composing himself, ‘is why this thing they call the Great Guzzle is being held at the Shreckal Caverns. I mean, what’s there? What’s the big attraction? It’s only a bunch of caves.’

‘We don’t really know what’s there as no one’s travelled to the caverns and back again to tell us,’ Milli said, sounding exasperated. ‘Don’t forget it’s part of the Taboo Territories.’

‘Have you ever thought they might be forbidden for a reason?’ Nettle suggested. ‘Maybe there is something valuable hidden there, something Lord Aldor doesn’t want anyone to know about.’

Nettle had barely finished speaking when something unexpected happened. A freak gust of wind blew the nursery windows wide open. It was so forceful the children were almost knocked off their feet. Glass rattled in the windowpanes, books toppled from their shelves, toys skidded across the floor and duvets were lifted clean off the beds. Milli, Nettle and Ernest huddled together on the spinning carousel, anchored by tightly clutching the reins of a horse whilst their clothes and hair clung to them like second skins. More than once during the duration of this onslaught, the children had an inkling of what it must be like to be inside a washing machine during its spin cycle.

When the supernatural wind subsided and the carousel slowed to a halt, they knew at once that what had happened was no coincidence. Above the solemn silence that had fallen over the room, they could hear a faint and far-off wailing. Although muffled, there was no doubting the distinct sound of voices; voices so forlorn it made them feel like weeping. It was a sound they each associated with being lost, alone and without hope.

Milli was the first to move and she struggled from her chariot bed followed by an equally dishevelled Nettle and Ernest.

‘What just happened?’ Nettle asked in a voice they had never heard sound so shaky.

‘Someone out there was trying to tell us something,’ Ernest whispered, as if they might still be present, silent and unseen. ‘Someone or something was listening.’

‘The shadows?’ Milli murmured.

When Lord Aldor returned to Hog House the next afternoon, he was not alone. Accompanying him was a flamboyant procession of some nine guests. These individuals were not at all how Milli had imagined Aldor’s entourage to look. The group that accompanied him were like a cluster of assorted fairytale baddies come to life.

There was a chunky bald giant with a golden harp tucked under one arm who was missing both eyebrows and eyelashes. As he walked, he chatted casually to a king troll with green fuzz sprouting from his ears and a crown on his swollen head. The troll could not entirely close his mouth, having suffered a serious stroke due to being outwitted by a family of billygoats a long time ago. A rope of drool hung from his open mouth, making a wet patch on the lapel of his jacket.

Next came the most devastatingly lovely princess you have ever seen. She had doe eyes blue as sapphires and a neck as long as a swan’s. A grey-toothed, big-eared hag scuttled after her, patches of sparse and oily hair clinging to her neck and shoulders. Next came a pirate who was so covered in tattoos you could not tell where they ended and his own skin began. He ambled along hand in hand with a lady dwarf wearing stilettos and carrying a beaded bag. Her beard fell to her navel and she was making a strange honking sound (the sound all dwarfs make when they laugh).

The following member of the troupe was a wolfish man wearing a frilly nightgown and cap. Razor-sharp teeth hung over his lips and he had a hairy nose, as long as a snout, that quivered as he sniffed the air. He was followed by an enchantress with a swirling mass of auburn hair, who whispered softly to a mirror she held in her hand. The children could not hear what the enchantress was saying but she smiled smugly at the mirror’s response. Last of all danced a queer little man no bigger than a cat. He had pointed pixie ears and red ankle boots on his feet. ‘Bet you can’t guess my name!’ he chortled repeatedly as he skipped down the passage.

Although the magicians were all as different as chalk and cheese, the one trait they had in common was that if you saw them in the street you would be unable to resist looking again. Then you would probably nudge your friend walking beside you and tell them to look too. Because each and every one of them looked as if they had stepped right out of your worst nightmare.

In the days that followed, Milli and Ernest found they had an awful lot of time on their hands. The Mayors were so busy entertaining Lord Aldor’s guests that they forgot all about Crumpet and Gumm. Mrs Mayor stuck to the princess like a leech. I do not mean she tried to suck her blood in order to gain nutrients, but she was so taken by the young woman’s beauty that she mimicked her every move. Meanwhile, Mr Mayor devoted much of his time to writing comic scripts that he hoped might form part of the evening’s entertainment on the night of the ball and was very flattered when anyone so much as tittered at one of his quips. Lord Aldor, on the other hand, was treated like a king by one and all. Despite their own airs of self-importance, the ensemble of magicians behaved as if their ultimate ambition in life was the earning of his approval.

The nine magicians were scattered throughout the various bedrooms of Hog House and the children could not help bumping into them. On Mr and Mrs Mayor’s instructions, they were forced to bow or, in Milli’s case, curtsy upon each encounter and enquire if the guests desired anything. Usually all they required were directions, but once the enchantress made a most tedious request and the children found themselves scouring the gardens for one hundred and eight blades of grass whose tips had begun to wilt. This meant they had to wander about bent over double, inspecting each blade until they found those that met this criteria. It may sound like a simple enough task, but the gardeners of Hog House did their job so meticulously that it proved quite a challenge.

Days when there weren’t such chores to occupy them proved interminably long. With little to amuse them and so many areas now barred due to preparations for the ball, the children even resorted to a game of hide-and-seek to while away the hours one stormy afternoon. Milli was on the verge of admitting defeat when she eventually found Ernest comfortably ensconced in front of a dressing table in the nursery, having forgotten all about their game. He immediately shoved a fistful of tubes and tubs into a drawer upon hearing her enter and greeted her with exaggerated enthusiasm. Milli was stunned to discover that Ernest had performed an unsuccessful operation on his hair which now stood upright in stiff peaks not dissimilar to a cockatoo’s crest. Dark shadows ringed his eyes and a wonky scar had been drawn across one cheek with eyeliner. Some kind of bonding agent, (the effects of which Milli could only hope were not permanent) had been used to attach a chain from nostril to earlobe. Finally, one of Mrs Mayor’s floral silk scarves had been wound around his forehead to achieve a piratical effect.

‘What have you been doing?’ Milli jeered.

‘Just experimenting,’ Ernest replied casually.

‘Well, you look ridiculous.’

‘Are you sure I don’t look tough?’ he pleaded.

The night of the Hocus Pocus Ball was drawing closer and it was the topic on everyone’s lips. It seemed the entire household could think of nothing else. Everywhere you went there was chaos. Cooks hurried to the kitchens with hunks of meat slung over their shoulders destined to be stuffed and roasted. The gardeners roamed the grounds, ensuring not a single weed blemished the flowerbeds and each gravel chip of the driveway sat in its place. The maids spent their days preening the Mayors to perfection, while the footmen struggled up ladders to decorate every inch of the ballroom. Everywhere the children went, they found someone polishing doorhandles, dusting curtains or evicting spiders from their cobwebby corners. Everywhere they went they were shooed away for fear of leaving imprints from the sticky fingers children are always assumed to have.

‘Guests will be wanting to tour the house,’ Mrs Mayor told them when the children asked why there was a bevy of maids cleaning keyholes with cotton buds. Mrs Mayor was in her element. She was never happier than when she was shrieking orders, hissing threats and taking down the name of anyone who paused for breath on a furry pink pad.

Milli and Ernest were the only ones dreading the arrival of the big night. The Mayors were becoming more and more frantic about the children’s presentability and asked pointless questions about the surprise they believed to be in store for them.

‘It’s almost ready,’ Milli blathered when asked yet again by a fretful Mrs Mayor. Then she had a brainwave. ‘All under control. We’ll just need a few of those horrid prisoners to help us out if you don’t mind.’

Mrs Mayor frowned. ‘I’m not sure about that, Crumpet. We were planning to keep the prisoners out of sight on the night of the ball. They might alarm the guests and Lord Aldor doesn’t want any disruptions.’

‘Please say yes,’ Milli entreated. ‘With the prisoners’ help, our performance has a much better chance of being…(and here she paused for effect and clasped her hands together)…marvellous!’

Just that one word was enough to get the idea wrapped, packaged and sold to the fat lady with the bouncy blonde curls. ‘Marvellous’ was a word Mrs Mayor had heard the princess using and she now believed it to be the epitome of sophistication. The moment Milli mentioned that the performance was going to be even slightly marvellous, Mrs Mayor made up her mind to grant whatever materials were needed to make it as marvellous as possible. Surely letting the prisoners out of their dungeon for a few measly hours would be a small price to pay if it meant added marvel to the evening. How wonderful, thought Mrs Mayor, if the princess herself found the evening marvellous too. What a coup that would be!

‘Well, all right! So long as you make sure they remain behind the scenes at all times. And we just won’t tell Lord Aldor about it, will we?’

Leo was pleased when Milli told him the news. Although neither of them were sure what good the prisoners’ input would do, they both agreed it was the beginning of an excellent plan. They could be sure of only one thing: they had to get to the Shreckal Caverns on the night of the ball before Lord Aldor did. Even though they did not know what the Great Guzzle entailed, they were almost certain it would prove more than just a relocation of the festivities.

But this was not the only thing on the children’s minds. Despite the plumped cushions and intriguing gadgets, Ernest missed his brothers and sisters. He wondered who was winning the silence games without him, and hoped his younger siblings were staying away from his rock collections. Milli’s thoughts, too, often strayed to her family. How was her father getting on without her? Was he remembering to give Stench his breath-freshening bone every day? Had Dorkus finally accepted that her chances of being zapped by an electrical appliance on the way to the bathroom were a million to one? Both Milli and Ernest tried to brush away their thoughts of home. Instead, they put their heads together with Leo and Rosie and devised a plan, which went as follows.

At the first opportunity Milli and Ernest would excuse themselves from the Hocus Pocus Ball and slip away into the gardens of Hog House. From there, they would follow the River Slop until they reached the tangled vine and the breathing waters of the Lurid Lagoon. They would take one of the gondolas (there were so many that surely no one would notice one missing) and make their way to the Shreckal Caverns where they would await the arrival of Lord Aldor and his atrocious troupe of magicians. There, they would defeat Lord Aldor once and for all and set the shadows free. It was a neat and tidy plan. A foolproof plan.

What the children could not predict was just how strong the spell binding the shadows to the caverns would be. They foresaw victory, but not the terrible perils that lay in wait for them on their journey across the Lurid Lagoon. Even with Milli’s vivid imagination, she could not anticipate the evil behind the ceremony known as the Great Guzzle.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Pampered, Powdered and Primped

It was the evening before the Hocus Pocus Ball. The children had feasted on pheasant cooked in claret, wild mushroom pilaf, stuffed aubergines and sweet potato fritters till they were ready to burst, but retreated to the sanctuary of their room feeling anything but contented. They were despondently discussing how few clues had been unearthed in the last twenty-four hours and wondering when the Mayors might retire for the evening so they could make their way down to the dungeons when Gristle arrived unexpectedly. He announced that The Boss, as he sometimes playfully referred to Mrs Mayor, required their company in the Masquerade Room.

‘What now?’ Milli groaned.

‘Decisions ‘ave to be made,’ was Gristle’s blunt reply.

The number of novelty rooms in Hog House usually never ceased to amaze Milli but tonight she was tired and had concerns of her own to think about. A Mrs Mayor escapade was the last thing she needed and it made her weary just thinking about it. Quite frankly, she did not know whether she would get through it without losing control altogether. Whatever it was that Mrs Mayor had planned.

The Masquerade Room, as it turned out, was simply the dress-ups room, housing a collection of costumes and gowns extensive enough to rival that of a major theatre company. Mrs Mayor wanted to decide on their outfits for the ball. Should be easy enough, the children thought. But on the contrary it proved a long and arduous process.

The Masquerade Room was poorly lit and smelled terribly of mothballs. It was so dusty that Ernest started to sneeze promptly on arrival. Hanging on racks and arranged according to colour were wigs, hats, cloaks and costumes to suit every occasion. Faceless mannequins modelled bridal gowns and there was even a suit of armour that Ernest (once the sneezing had subsided) rather hoped he’d be invited to try. The costumes ranged from a ghoul’s mask for Halloween, with painted blood dripping from its fangs, to a spotted yellow and orange clown’s outfit. Accessories like witches’ noses complete with warts, plastic spectacles and false fingernails and eyelashes were arranged on a glass counter. One wall was devoted entirely to buckles and belts, whilst another held a collection of elaborate Venetian masks so that it felt like dozens of eyes were secretly watching them.

Behind the counter on a stool sat Mrs Mayor filing vermilion fingernails. She had selected several possible costumes for the children, which hung on a separate rack. They were each handed a hanger and gestured towards the dressing room. Behind the curtain, the sudden appearance of the ghoulish Mrs Basilisk made them both jump. Mrs Basilisk, who had been enlisted to assist the children, looked as though she wanted to be there even less than they did. Milli and Ernest tried on each outfit on automatic pilot, too accustomed to Hog House by now to be embarrassed about what they looked like, even though you or I would have been the colour of beetroot juice and praying an earthquake would swallow us alive.

‘Mmmm…’ Mrs Mayor pondered as she scribbled notes on her scented writing pad. ‘No, not convinced. Let’s see another, Basilisk.’

Mrs Basilisk propelled Milli and Ernest out as Egyptian royals.

‘Dramatic…but still not quite right. What about Bo Peep and Humpty Dumpty? Yes, let’s see those on you. I do so love a parade!’

Mrs Mayor finally settled on turning Milli into a ‘ravishing’ butterfly complete with multicoloured wings and antennae. Ernest would attend as an Alpine goatherd in lederhosen, braces and a feathered cap. Mrs Mayor also had the effrontery to ask if he wouldn’t mind yodelling as he made his entrance.

Leaving the yodelling aside, Milli thought Ernest had got off lightly. The costume she was being forced into was a tight cylindrical tube made of whalebone and fluorescent yellow silk. Slips of wispy tulle swirled around the hem like handkerchiefs. Her accessories were a pair of wings covered in pink glitter, striped tights, black net gloves and embroidered gold slippers at least two sizes too small for her. Mrs Mayor completed Ernest’s outfit with the addition of thick orange socks and patent black lace-up boots.

The children’s costumes might have been less humiliating had it not been for the accessories. Mrs Mayor had made a fine art of accessorising. It was a bit like eating dessert at a swish restaurant, where perfectly delicious desserts are often ruined by the addition of glazed fruits, chocolate shavings, marzipan flowers, orange wedges or drizzles of coulis.

It took precisely two hours of modelling until Mrs Mayor was finally satisfied. The children emerged from the Masquerade Room flushed and tired, too tired to think about escape plans and cunning schemes. In fact, at this point they had but one objective in mind—bed. They stumbled their way back to their room whilst their outfits were sent off to be steamed and pressed.

Early the next morning, Milli sat bolt upright in her chariot bed. The sun was creeping like a mist of spun gold between the clouds, and through the nursery window the treetops looked as if they were wearing haloes. Hog House had not yet stirred. Ernest was still snoring peacefully beneath his pastel blue quilt. Milli rubbed her eyes. It is often the case when one wakes up from a deep sleep that it takes several moments to register the events in store for the day to come. For instance, imagine yourself waking up on the morning you are to go on holidays to the seaside. You lie snugly in your warm bed for a moment or two, not sure what has caused this pleasant and bubbly sensation inside you. Then it dawns on you and you remember your trip to the seaside, leap out of bed and try to remember where you last saw your bathing togs.

I am sorry to inform you that in Milli’s case, on this particular morning, she didn’t need a moment or two. She knew only too well what events lay in store for her and was filled with neither a pleasant nor a bubbly sensation. Tonight was the night of the Hocus Pocus Ball!

Milli clambered out of bed and roughly shook Ernest awake.

‘Do you know what day it is?’ she whispered.

‘Wednesday?’ he suggested groggily.

‘No, Saturday! Remember what’s happening tonight?’

‘We’re going fishing?’ Ernest gurgled joyfully. It generally took him a good twenty minutes to wake up in the mornings, so he had not yet registered the full import of Milli’s question. She decided to leave him to his last few minutes of peace and get their provisions ready. Milli wasn’t sure exactly what provisions were necessary for such a quest as they were about to embark upon but she was far too restless to go back to bed. She took a leather pouch from around the neck of a large white teddy bear in a sailor’s uniform. ‘I need it more than you do,’ she assured the bear, who seemed to look at her accusingly through glassy black eyes.

It was not an easy task deciding what to take on a mission to set the shadows of Drabville free and release the townsfolk from a life of mindless routine. Eventually, Milli decided on a few essentials. First, she put in the secret scent from Gristle’s phial in case the need should arise to unfasten any doors. Then came the map of the Lurid Lagoon that the flamingo had helpfully replicated using his superior secretarial skills. Last of all, Ernest’s ebony pocket knife was added, along with a handful of Fudge Chews should their energy need replenishing during the journey. The stronger her feeling of foreboding grew, the more busily Milli worked. She quickly drew the strings of the pouch together and placed Ernest’s slippers beside his bed. But it was no use. No matter how busily she worked, the sense of foreboding had settled around her like a fog.

When Ernest awoke properly, Milli exhibited the collected items. Nodding earnestly, Ernest put on his slippers, pleased to find them in so convenient a position.

‘Get dressed,’ Milli instructed. ‘If we go quickly we’ll make it to the dungeons before anybody wakes up.’

Alas, they managed nothing of the sort. Ernest was in the middle of dressing when the nursery door opened and the children were commandeered by one very over-excited Mrs Mayor. Highly embarrassed at his state of undress, Ernest tried to dive out of sight behind a doll’s house. But Mrs Mayor, with her freshly made-up face and crisp, new outfit, was having nothing of it. The children were amazed at how little rest she seemed to need. Although, Ernest couldn’t help noticing that her eyeliner was a little more askew than usual and she had lipstick on her teeth indicating that both had been rather hurriedly applied in her haste to get the day’s proceedings started.

‘Right!’ Mrs Mayor seized the startled children by locking arms with them and pushed them in the direction of separate bathrooms, which were already submerged in a haze of steam.

Milli was horrified to find a mute Mrs Basilisk waiting for her yet again. Mrs Basilisk’s usual form of communication was to glare at you stonily until you worked out what it was she wanted you to do. As she was holding a scrubbing brush on this occasion, as well as standing beside a trolley bearing a frightening assortment of loofahs and sweet-smelling lotions, her intentions were crystal clear. There were creams to remove dead skin cells, creams to stimulate growth of new cells, creams to even skin tone, creams to buff and resurface and creams to polish. As she succumbed to Mrs Basilik’s ministrations, Milli felt as if she were an item of furniture.

The children had faces as sorry as lost puppies by the time they were bundled into giant bathrobes and plonked down to dry. The water in the tubs had been so thick with product that it felt like sitting in a bath of soup. If you have ever spent two hours soaking like a potato in a soupy bath, then you will sympathise with Milli and Ernest. If you haven’t, then you ought to be very, very grateful. But bathing was only the beginning.

Into the room strode six maids. Why six, you may be wondering. Why not one, or, if absolutely necessary, two? But, you see, Mrs Mayor was of the firm opinion that there are three major regions of the human body: the upper, the middle and the lower. (A bit like the kingdoms of ancient Egypt before they were unified under the rule of a pharaoh whose name I cannot remember.) In Mrs Mayor’s view, all three of these regions required specific and individual attention, which is why poor Milli and Ernest found themselves having to endure the attention of not one but three maids each.

At ten o’clock the Tress Brigade arrived. This was a team of Mrs Mayor’s personal hairdressers and they wore khaki dungarees, bandanas and shiny boots. They literally charged into the nursery wheeling black trolleys laden with giant brushes and turbo dryers.

It was around this time that the children exchanged significant glances. Translated, their expressions quite clearly said that they would rather be living in a cardboard box floating upon a jellyfish-infested sea than put up with such fussing a second longer. They had endured enough prodding and poking and tugging and tweaking to last a lifetime. But it wasn’t over yet.

Do not be naive enough to think that more can be done with a girl’s tresses than with a boy’s. Each and every one of Ernest’s naturally bouncy curls was ironed flat with a monster appliance with two ceramic faces that, when plugged in, gave off a scorching heat. As for Milli, she was not at all impressed to have her wild mane twisted into little coils, knotted on top of her head and adorned with bright, multicoloured baubles. When she moved her head, the baubles jiggled with an irritating tinkle. Just when Milli was positive she could look no worse, the hairdresser pulled two locks free and stiffened them with styling product so they stood upright like a pair of antlers.

Mrs Mayor stood back to admire the handiwork she had orchestrated and was pleased. ‘Don’t you both look marvellous!’ she cried, dabbing at her eyes with a hanky as they were wet with emotion.

Milli and Ernest breathed a sigh of relief. Thank pumpkins the ordeal had come to an end.

It was mid-afternoon when Mrs Mayor finally left the children in peace and went to prepare herself for the ball. Milli and Ernest looked at the clock, then at one another, in despair. There were only three hours left before the Hocus Pocus Ball!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Into Thin Air

Milli was in a panic. Time was running out. ‘They’re expecting great things!’ she shouted, wringing her hands. ‘What in blazes do they mean by that?’

The children had spent the last hour in the dank dungeons deliberating over possible ideas for their surprise for the Hocus Pocus Ball. So far they had come up with three paltry suggestions.

The first was an egg and spoon race, which banked on the off chance that the magicians had never seen one and might be entertained by splattered yolk. It could hardly be defined as marvellous.

The second was performing a jive taught to them by Marcel, but this had no novelty value whatsoever and, although it might delight Mrs Mayor, the children knew that voyaging to the Shreckal Caverns would be a great deal more difficult with fractured limbs.

The third option was a poignant recitation of some of Ernest’s verse. Not only did this mean they were growing desperate but it relied on Ernest being able to write poignant verse at short notice. All three plans were dicey to say the least, and they were ashamed at their lack of imagination, which they could only attribute to this new life of excess they were living.

‘Calm down,’ Leo soothed when Milli’s voice grew so shrill it squeaked like an out of tune clarinet. ‘We’ll come up with something; we always do.’

An uncomfortable silence followed as everyone tried to think creatively. This, as we know, is near impossible to achieve when you try, although some teachers I have encountered seem to think creativity can be turned on like a tap.

They tried summarising their dilemma in the hope that articulating it might inspire their combined brainpower to kick in.

‘We are to prepare a surprise.’

‘A marvellous surprise.’

‘To be unveiled this evening.’

‘At the Hocus Pocus Ball.’

‘In front of all the guests!’

‘Who are expecting something magical.’

‘Not to mention marvellous!’

‘All right.’ Rosie called a halt to the growing disquiet. Out of them all, she seemed the least concerned. ‘What have you got so far?’

‘So far…well, so far we’re still in the early planning stages,’ Milli said.

‘You’ve got zip, right?’

‘Right,’ Milli and Ernest replied meekly. Up until now they had avoided the issue hoping it would be forgotten amidst the chaos of preparations. They had only just come to terms with the realisation that they would have to deliver or not attend the ball at all.

Rosie considered their dilemma. It was sizeable, but not large enough to cause them any serious difficulty. She placed a finger in each corner of her mouth, pulled her lips taut and let out an earpiercing whistle. Almost immediately, a respectful hush spread through the dungeons. Rosie had decided an appeal to the prisoners was what was needed. After all, people deprived of freedom often make a best friend of imagination.

‘These children need our help,’ she said. ‘Tonight they are going to voyage across the Lurid Lagoon where they will make their way to the infamous Shreckal Caverns.’

Murmurs of dissent rippled through the crowd of prisoners.

‘It’s preposterous,’ shouted a former Drabvillian barber.

‘Ludicrous!’ someone else seconded.

‘The fate of Drabville in the hands of children?’ scoffed a once chubby-cheeked pastry chef.

‘Tonight is our night of freedom—I can feel it in my bones!’ piped up a former milkman in more hopeful tones.

‘Someone ought to give that Aldor and his cronies a good kick in the pants!’ yelled a vocal elderly matron, whirling her walking stick above her head.

Rosie raised her hands and waited calmly for the clamour to subside.

‘Milli and Ernest will face grave danger tonight,’ she said. ‘They will have to show immense courage. They may not succeed, but at least they are prepared to try. They are our only hope—unless any one of you has a better idea?’ Here she paused dramatically to invite responses. None were forthcoming. ‘If they do succeed, we shall be forever indebted to them. They deserve our support.’

There was a respectful murmur among the prisoners as they considered the implications of Rosie’s words. All except Ernest, who had really registered nothing beyond the word danger. No one knew what lay within the rocky chambers of the Shreckal Caverns, but they had all heard stories. Stories to make your hair stand on end and your skin crawl. No one would voluntarily have swapped places with Milli or Ernest. The children must have nerves of steel to venture there alone.

‘However,’ Rosie went on, ‘before their plan can be put into action, the guests are expecting a show. Let’s make sure they get one!’

A loud cheer ensued, followed by animated discussion as many ideas were proffered, debated…and rejected. Everybody seemed to have an opinion on the matter, but no opinions materialised into an actual plan.

Milli and Ernest were feeling demoralised by the time the bickering crowd parted to allow old Mr Mulberry to shuffle through. He bent to whisper in Rosie’s ear and her grim face broke slowly into a smile.

‘Get your wands ready,’ Rosie declared. ‘We’re going to make these children disappear!’

A Vanishing Closet requires a number of tools essential to the craft of carpentry, including timber planks, a full box of nails and several hammers and saws. Captivated by the idea of such a performance, Mrs Mayor liberally granted Milli and Ernest all the materials on the list they presented her with. In addition to this, the prisoners had the materials left over from the making of decorations for the ball at their disposal. A Vanishing Closet is not hard to build. It is the actual vanishing that poses the bigger problem. The children were well aware that not being trained magicians, they would have to use other and perhaps more devious means of vanishing.

Progress was rapid. The prisoners pounced upon the toolbox when it arrived with so much gusto you’d have thought it was a tasty roast pork. They were fired up now, driven by the prospect of imminent freedom—which, up until now, they had not believed to be attainable. If truth be told, they did not believe it now either, but the idea had taken root and there is nothing like a mission, realistic or not, to build teamwork.

Milli and Ernest helped out wherever they could. They both remembered the time they had accidentally stumbled upon a children’s book in the Drabville library that was different from all the others. This one did not have a pristine cover but an old and frayed one. It was about a Pompom and Tassle Circus, and a great magician, Whombus Whimsical the Third, who shut himself up in a box and instructed his apprentice to lock and padlock the door. After an incantation followed by an explosion of blue sparks, the box was re-opened and Whombus Whimsical was nowhere to be seen. The story went on to offer the reader a series of clues to find the disappeared magician, until Whombus Whimsical the Third was finally discovered disguised as a trapeze artist walking the tightrope. When the children had tried to borrow the book, Miss Linear, the head librarian, had looked aghast and promptly confiscated it, all the while looking around to see if anyone else had noticed. Muttering something about a ‘slip-up’ Miss Linear had then directed them to a more suitable volume about a brother and sister who lose their kitten only to find it again in a tree. Milli and Ernest had never quite forgotten Whombus Whimsical the Third. Like good old Whombus, they too would vanish from the Hocus Pocus Ball and slip away right under Lord Aldor’s nose.

Such was the productivity of the prisoners that the Vanishing Closet was complete in what seemed no time at all. It was two metres high and rather crooked in construction but the prisoners could not have been prouder of their efforts. To add a festive air, the closet was festooned with yellow curtains and decorated with shimmering stars and tinsel. It had also been fitted with castors so that it could be easily wheeled into the ballroom. It promised all things magical. Best of all, the closet had a false back that could be slid open when it was time for Milli and Ernest to slip away.

The buoyant mood was interrupted when a question was asked that nobody had the answer to. ‘How exactly will the children leave the ballroom without being spotted?’

Milli was deflated for only a moment before a brilliant idea struck her.

‘Feathers and frills,’ she cried, much to everyone’s astonishment. ‘Back in a moment!’

When Milli returned five minutes later, her face was flushed with excitement and she was carrying a bundle of coloured cloaks and top hats ransacked from the Masquerade Room. ‘Ready to disappear, Gumm?’ she asked. ‘Into thin air.’

The Mayors were dressed as Ancient Greek deities when they came to collect the children. Mrs Mayor’s hair had been styled into a beehive of curls and a gold-leaf headdress adorned her forehead. She wore a long tunic, a wide belt of beaten brass and a pair of leather sandals that criss-crossed up to her knees. She had tied the sandals a little too tightly and they were already cutting off her circulation. Mr Mayor was wearing nothing but a loincloth, winged sandals and a plumed helmet in his attempt to impersonate an ancient warrior. Unfortunately for him, the loincloth looked more like a nappy and the helmet kept obstructing his vision so that he knocked into things.

‘Better get moving, my Olympian Star,’ Mr Mayor crooned, putting an arm around Mrs Mayor’s shoulder.

‘Ready when you are, my burly warrior,’ a smitten Mrs Mayor replied.

The children grimaced and followed the Mayors down to the ballroom.

Many of the guests had gathered in the marble foyer, nibbling hors-d’oeuvres of fried zucchini-flowers and listening to a band of gypsy fiddlers while waiting for the great doors of the ballroom to admit them. Their peppery scent combined with alcohol and cigars lingered in the foyer when the Mayors and the children arrived. Inside the ballroom, no expense had been spared on decorations. With its lofty ceilings, white columns and parquetry dance floor, the ballroom was, without a doubt, the most opulent of the rooms the children had visited. It was full of velvet-upholstered chairs and sofas and marble pedestals holding elaborate floral arrangements. From the ceiling hung a colossal crystal chandelier glittering with the light of a hundred candles.

As the official party made its entrance, hundreds of eyes fixed upon them, not all of them human, mind you! The Notorious Nine may have seemed odd to the children, but they were indistinguishable now amongst this medley of guests. An angelic-looking young woman with two rabbit ears sidled up to take a closer look at the Mayors’ new descendants. All the characters from a deck of cards had come as a group and moved around en masse. A freakishly tall chap with the keys of a piano for fingers was openly flirting with a woman whose hair appeared to be made of violin strings. Standing next to a family of brownies was a strapping lad in Elizabethan garb who would have looked quite princely had it not been for the two walrus tusks protruding from his nostrils. A knobbly-fingered gnome carried a tray of toadstools and, if Milli wasn’t mistaken, there was Gristle, dressed as a cave man and daintily sipping a Martini. He raised his glass in an unexpected show of friendliness when the children caught his eye.

Most of the guests did not require costumes to set them apart. There were creatures with wings, creatures with fur, creatures with fangs and creatures with eyes as pink as the champagne bubbling from the fountain in the foyer. The ballroom was a jumble and tumble of blinding colour. There wasn’t a grey or beige garment in sight.

When a red-robed Lord Aldor materialised sitting in the chandelier, there was a collective intake of breath. He proceeded to float slowly downwards onto a stage at the rear of the ballroom. The simplicity of his costume made him all the more terrifying. He wore his usual sweeping red cape coupled with a white theatrical mask with an exaggeratedly long nose, the kind of mask that would make seasoned travellers immediately think of Venice and the Carnivale. Behind the mask, little of his face could be seen save a pair of smouldering eyes. When Lord Aldor raised his arms the lights dimmed dramatically. When he waved his pinkie, the chandelier retracted and its crystal fragments dispersed to form a star-studded night sky where the ceiling had been. When he tugged on his earlobe, the walls of the ballroom became glass through which the amazed guests could watch comets trailing cosmic dust whizzing past their very noses.

Expectation hung in the air. A hush fell over the crowd as they acknowledged that something momentous was about to happen.

With narrowed eyes, Lord Aldor cast a devious glance across the awed spectators and raised his arms majestically.

‘Let the magic begin!’

Part III
The Reunion

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Hocus Pocus Ball

The ballroom erupted into life. Fire-breathers spouted flames and jugglers’ balls filled the air. The nymphs began to dance, their gossamer gowns fluttering around them. Clowns glided around on unicycles, pulling silver coins from behind the ears of startled guests and rewarding their good humour with limerick-reciting balloons. Acrobats wearing skin-tight suits formed human pyramids towering almost to the ceiling. The man with the piano keys as fingers and his lady friend with the violin hair joined others with various musical instruments for body parts and formed an ensemble. They struck up a jig just as a little genie sitting cross-legged on a tiny square of carpet came whizzing through the air towards Milli, forcing her to duck to avoid a collision.

It was hard to take anything in because everything was happening at once. Trolleys piled high with such epicurean gems as battered chicken feet and calamari-filled calzone (which is Italian for folded pizza) were wheeled in by the maids. The only thing Milli and Ernest recognised were the mini Honeylik Seed breadsticks, and even these had been baked in the shape of question marks as if they too wanted to add to the evening’s air of intrigue.

It was a measure of how overwhelming everything was that Ernest felt quite relieved when Mrs Mayor came rushing towards them. She was accompanied by a severe-looking woman in a newsprint suit and chunky heels. Her hair was coiled at the nape of her neck and she wore a pair of glasses with garish red frames. Behind her scuttled junior photographer Bud Snapper. Snapper was a shark-eyed ferret of a boy with an unsightly case of acne and buck teeth. He bustled through the throng, eyes darting in the hope of catching anything newsworthy.

‘Crumpet and Gumm!’ Mrs Mayor beckoned to them. ‘There is someone in particular I’d like you to meet. This is Miss Pandora Scoop, renowned gossip columnist for the Talisman Times.’ Mrs Mayor placed particular emphasis on Pandora’s position in order to drive home the point to anyone within earshot of just how well-connected she was. Pandora offered the children ink-stained digits to shake. ‘Her fingers are the tools of her trade,’ Mrs Mayor added, nodding sagely. Unsure of what this was supposed to mean, the children simply nodded in return.

Pandora draped an arm casually around their shoulders. ‘Time for a chat?’ she purred.

Pandora Scoop steered them through the crowd to a secluded corner of the ballroom. ‘So,’ she began cosily, whipping a pad from her blazer pocket as if it were a weapon, ‘how does it feel to be raised like royalty? Do you feel overcome by this generosity? Are you flabbergasted and flummoxed by such kindness?’ Pandora began busily jotting notes even before the children could begin to formulate a reply. Her fingers were indeed the tools of her trade: ink flowed freely from her nails as from the nib of a pen whenever Pandora had something of importance to record.

‘Actually,’ Ernest informed her, ‘we were kidnapped.’

‘Kidnapped!’ Pandora gasped, frantically scribbling. ‘Your families didn’t want you to have better lives? They tried to kidnap you from Hog House and drag you back to the life of obscurity into which you were born? They must have rocks in their heads! Or was it that they couldn’t handle their children living a life to which they might never aspire?’ Tears began to glisten in the corners of Pandora’s eyes. ‘What a tragic tale.’

Satisfied that her photograph was taken from her ‘good side’ and that she would make it onto the front page of the Talisman Times, Mrs Mayor allowed herself to be distracted by other acquaintances.

‘Come along, children,’ she said, and tugged at them, becoming slightly more gentle when she saw Bud Snapper continue his maniacal clicking.

It was around this time that Milli and Ernest realised Mrs Mayor had told them a fib. She had said, ‘I’d like you to meet someone.’ What she ought to have said was, ‘There are several dozen people I would like you to meet.’ The children were introduced to Helga and Helena Fleabottom, the fortune-telling sisters whose heads were as spherical and translucent as crystal balls; Serena Decanter, an enchantress who claimed to be able to put people to sleep using just her voice, or, in difficult cases, using just her voice and a slurp of tomato soup; Artie Gingerdough, most of whose features were edible; and Gloria Munchmite who could change the colour and shape of her eyes and tongue with a simple incantation. Ernest cowered behind Mrs Mayor at the sight of Miss Munchmite’s ordinary pink tongue suddenly turning mossy green and forking at the tip.

Against her better judgement, Milli exchanged pleasantries with a small bald gentleman who introduced himself as Mr Pongo. True to his name, Mr Pongo could transform himself to smell like any of the world’s greatest pongs, both pleasant and objectionable. Milli was glad that for the short time she spoke to him Mr Pongo gave off the inviting odour of freshly brewed coffee, although later in the evening, she smelled the more offensive odour of broccoli soup for which she suspected Mr Pongo was responsible.

A commotion on the stage finally drew Mrs Mayor’s attention away from introductions. The diamanté-studded curtains were beginning to part. The Magic Show was about to begin!

‘Are you even listening to me?’ Ernest demanded. Milli was so entranced by the rainbow bubbles being blown by the river sprites on the stage that she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

‘What’s wrong?’ she grumbled.

Ernest waved the typed program in her face. ‘Third item of the evening,’ he read aloud, ‘A Marvellous Surprise, by Buttercup Crumpet and Mozart Bluegumm. We’re up next!’

They pushed their way to the front of the ballroom and disappeared backstage. Amongst the trolls warming up their voices with blow torches, and a group of witches rehearsing a skit in which they entice and deceive a power-hungry Scottish king, stood the prisoners. They were disguised in robes and top hats ransacked from the Masquerade Room and were gathered around the Vanishing Closet trying hard not to look out of place.

Thunderous applause rippled through the ballroom. Before Milli and Ernest could say ‘Hocus Pocus’, the curtains had rolled open and they were staring into a blinding white spotlight. Hundreds of expectant faces stared back at them. Mrs Mayor had pushed her way to the front of the crowd and was gnawing at her fingernails in anxiety, while Mr Mayor cheered them on. The party on the stage remained silent. Everything relied on this performance and now, facing the audience, their plan seemed so far-fetched and certainly bound to come unstuck. What had possessed them to think that something so childish could work? But there was no turning back now.

The Master of Ceremonies, Frank Fanfare, dressed in a canary yellow suit and bow tie, was already introducing them.

‘Our third item of the evening is a surprise for our gracious hosts, prepared by their newly acquired and precocious offspring, Crumpet and Gumm. These children are about to vanish before your very eyes! Ladies and gentlemen, let me assure you that the closet you see before you is no ordinary box. It possesses magical powers! Powers able to transport its occupants to other dimensions before returning them to a location right here in this ballroom. It will be up to you to locate them on their return. Clues as to their whereabouts will appear throughout the evening, so be watchful. The first to find the children will be richly rewarded!’

There was a buzz at the mention of a reward and, not wanting to waste valuable time, some of the guests already began looking around for early clues.

A glamorously attired Nettle stepped onto the stage. Dressed as a showgirl and looking a far cry from her usual grubby self, she made a big production of opening the Vanishing Closet and ushering Milli and Ernest inside. The crowd fell silent as the prisoners began a primitive drum beat.

The children joined hands and stepped tentatively inside. With the closet door safely bolted behind them, Milli and Ernest fumbled around in the darkness for their cloaks, which would soon allow them to pass unnoticed through the crowd. They were lying in a heap on the floor and putting them on in such confined quarters proved no easy feat. The children wriggled and collided, nearly sending the whole construction toppling to the ground. Fortunately, the audience, being made up of quite impressionable characters, seemed to think this was all part of the proceedings. The prisoners started up a chant in gibberish and surrounded the Vanishing Closet. This was the children’s cue.

Milli and Ernest slid open the box’s false back and slipped out. With their backs pressed against the closet, they were out of view of the audience. Nimble and invisible as cat burglars, they darted from their hiding place and joined the twirling mass of capes and top hats circling the closet that had been created as a diversion. Disguised as part of the dance, Milli and Ernest saw Nettle reveal the empty Vanishing Closet. The audience gasped in wonder. Mrs Mayor dabbed at her nose with a lacy hanky, overcome by the emotion of it all. Only Lord Aldor did not look entertained; his eyes darted suspiciously about the room for signs of anything amiss. Finding nothing, his usual implacable and bored expression returned.

With low bows, the caped dancers whirled their way off the stage, wheeling the Vanishing Closet with them. The audience turned their attention to the next item on the program. This happened to be an Indian snake charmer who could not only lure his cobra to rear out of its basket but also entice it to twist itself into a number of geometric shapes.

A minor hiccup in the lumbering form of Gristle was waiting for the children backstage. He was clutching a giant teddy bear. Milli recognised it immediately as the one from their nursery whose pouch she had absconded with. Gristle lurched as he held it out to her. Milli looked from him to the bear and back again in bemusement, trying to work out what in the world the florid-faced Gristle was doing.

‘Bravo,’ he slurred, a little unsteady from one too many martinis. He waved the bear around, insisting Milli take it. She soon worked out it was easier to accept the offering than argue with him. Giving them a gruff smile, Gristle flung his club over one shoulder and clomped away to find another drink.

The revelry behind them, the children found themselves in the sudden stillness of a moonlit night. The full moon in the velvet sky seemed to be collaborating with them as the grounds were awash with light. They found the others waiting for them and, with their cloaks wrapped tight, they followed the meandering banks of the River Slop. Nothing but the occasional rustling of grass beneath their feet or the chirping of a lone cricket could be heard. When they finally reached the Lurid Lagoon it lay shimmering under the stars like a glassy mouth waiting to swallow them up. There was not a second to waste. Kneeling, they untied and heaved the nearest gondola into the red water, surprised at how heavy it was. The oars lay tucked neatly under its bow. Milli passed one to Ernest as he climbed in.

‘You will be careful?’ Rosie entreated, handing them the pouch with their provisions.

‘Of course,’ Milli replied, sounding more confident than she actually felt. ‘We’ll be there and back in no time.’

‘I know you can do this,’ Rosie whispered.

The seriousness of the mission they were about to embark upon, coupled with the fact that they might not see their friends again, lent a gravity to their parting. If someone had told Milli a few months ago that the prudent and sensible Ernest would soon be her fellow adventurer on a journey from which they may never return, she would have thought they were barmy. But now here was Ernest sitting beside her and, for the first time, looking surprisingly composed.

‘Although you can do this,’ Leo added, ‘we are not going to let you do it alone. Nettle and I are coming with you!’

It was as plain as bread and butter from the defiant jut of Leo’s chin that there would be no deterring him. But Milli and Ernest didn’t want to; in fact, they could hardly hide their relief. Milli looked at Rosie, hoping she might also join them and made room for her in the gondola. But Rosie, sorry to disappoint them, shook her head.

‘One of us has got to stay behind to help the others,’ she said. ‘I will be of more use here. They’ll need someone to guide them once all this is over. Besides, there is no person better equipped than Leo to get you safely across these waters.’

The gondola rocked gently on the water, seeming almost eager to get moving. The children said their farewells, then Ernest and Leo used the oars to propel them away from the shore. The four children exchanged sombre looks as the little boat glided off. The adventure Milli had always claimed to want was about to begin, only she wasn’t so full of bravado right now.

Rosie’s figure on the banks of the Lurid Lagoon was beginning to shrink, but before the boat was completely out of earshot she cupped her hands around her mouth.

‘Good luck, everyone! Good luck, Little Millipede!’ she called.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Four in a Gondola

A thudding filled Milli’s head and a sudden weight on her chest made it difficult to breathe. For a moment she thought they had been caught in an avalanche before realising the sound was the beating of her own heart.

If you have ever lost something precious (and long resigned yourself to never seeing or holding it again) and then find it unexpectedly returned to you, a gamut of emotions follows. First there is the inevitable sense of elation which restores your faith in all things good. But there is also a fear, a crippling fear that the recovered item may have altered so drastically that you barely recognise it or its previous role in your life. This goes just a little way in explaining what Milli was feeling at this epic moment in her life. But the truth is that her feelings were just too muddled and too powerful to be captured by the written word. Rosie confirmed what Milli had suspected since her arrival at Hog House but never dared hope. The mother she had thought to be dead was alive. Whilst part of her mind grappled with this cataclysmic discovery, Milli was not yet equipped to think about it properly. Instead she found she had to pinch herself very hard to stop from keeling over.

‘Are you all right, Milli?’ a voice said. She did not even register who had spoken but it did force her thoughts back to the present. She looked at her companions clustered around the map. Now was not the time to explain what had just happened—she wouldn’t have found the words, anyway.

Milli felt the rise and fall of the lagoon beneath her. The banks were no longer visible and the water closed in from all directions. Being surrounded by breathing red water was like being inside a living thing, Milli thought. She imagined they were travelling through the belly of a whale.

The night was warm and surprisingly still. The Lurid Lagoon was bathed in pale moonlight, unwinding like a mantle of satin before them. Not a speck of land could be seen on the faint line where the lagoon met the sky.

Milli allowed her mind to drift. She dipped her hand into the water and let it wash through her fingers. The night was so silent. She listened for the hooting of owls, the darting of fish or the snuffling of small animals on the banks or in the trees. But it was as if the whole world had been lulled into a deep sleep and nothing existed but the gondola and the rhythmic breathing of the water. It crossed Milli’s mind that it was too quiet when…THWACK! The gondola was knocked sideways and it lurched unsteadily from side to side.

‘What in the name of sprites?’

Leo’s eyes darted around for their assailant but the water was again as smooth and silent as a polished river stone. Four hearts hammered so loudly that Milli was sure the man in the moon could hear them. But as abruptly as the attack had come it was over.

‘You don’t suppose,’ Ernest whimpered, ‘that sea monsters live in this lagoon?’

‘That wasn’t a sea monster,’ Milli reassured him, trying to swallow her own unease. ‘Besides, it’s gone now.’

WALLOP! Something launched itself at the boat. The children became apprehensive hearing the timbers begin to creak and crack with the impact of the collision. When Milli spun around, she just caught a glimpse of a churning cylinder of water before it disappeared beneath the surface. It suddenly dawned on her how small and insignificant the gondola was compared to the expanse of water that stretched before them and whatever horrors lurked within its depths. They really had been very cavalier about the whole expedition, not even bothering to consider that the Lurid Lagoon might be inhabited.

The water was beginning to bubble and froth, tossing the boat as helplessly as if it were no more than a bottle adrift in a stormy sea.

‘Row!’ Leo shouted. They did, glancing back to see a small circle of the lagoon simmering like water in a pot.

Alas, the first peril did not let the children escape so easily. Just as Nettle was about to announce their safety, a thin antenna of water climbed up from the bottom of the lagoon and reeled around until it was facing four stupefied children. Without warning, the antenna fell away and in its place rose a huge mass of gyrating water, churning as vigorously as a milkshake in a blender.

‘I knew it was a sea serpent!’ Ernest cried over the racket. ‘I shall never speak to you again if we get eaten, Milli!’ But Milli, only too familiar with Ernest’s empty threats to renounce their friendship, had learned not to pay them too much heed.

‘That’s no sea serpent,’ Leo shouted over the noise of the water. ‘That’s a Carnivorous Vortex!’

By the time the children had scrabbled around for the oars they’d dropped in fright, it was too late. The Carnivorous Vortex had given chase and was fast approaching. Ernest could not speak; he was too dumbfounded by the thought of actually being pursued by a whirlpool. Since when were whirlpools living entities? Since when could water feed on flesh?

Milli, on the other hand, was far more interested in bellowing directions left, right and centre. ‘Throw it off course,’ she shouted. ‘Veer left, no right, row backwards! Faster, Ernest!’ But no amount of direction could save them now. The Vortex was almost upon them.

Up close, Milli could see that it had undergone an incredible metamorphosis from whirlpool to human. The faces of Lord Aldor’s Notorious Nine were pushing their way through the water. (I do not mean to say that the magicians were appearing there and then in the middle of the Lurid Lagoon. As we know, they were back at Hog House, feasting, drinking and looking for clues as to the children’s whereabouts. But the whirlpool itself was taking on their form.) In the spinning water the faces merged into one before breaking into a cluster again.

The children were at a loss. If they were sucked into the Carnivorous Vortex, they would finish up as supper and their bones would be spat out for the fish to clean. If a book existed somewhere in the world entitled Vanquishing Vortexes of the Carnivorous Kind, then the children certainly hadn’t read it. Furthermore, they hadn’t a clue as to how to fight water. Of course, you and I know that water is a very tricky element that must be outwitted rather than outrun. Just as when handling difficult adults, confrontation does not usually work. But no one was around to give the children this much-needed advice. They were not to know that a thrashing oar was futile against something of such might and power. But they would soon learn that lesson for themselves.

The watery faces now loomed so close that Milli could make out the anchor tattoos on the pirate’s cheek. Helpless, the four children scrambled into the central wooden cabin designed to protect passengers from inclement weather. Nettle was not quite fast enough. Arms outstretched, she was diving for refuge under a tarpaulin when the churning monster caught hold of her ankle. In a flash she was being dragged towards the foaming red mouth. Nettle struggled and kicked but her efforts were in vain. The Carnivorous Vortex seemed to be enjoying the fight. It was working up an appetite.

Within seconds Leo and Milli were on their feet and using every ounce of strength they had to reclaim Nettle. Ernest, however, stood stock still. His arms and legs felt as heavy as spaghetti carbonara, but Ernest’s mind was not gluggy like carbonara. It was whizzing and buzzing and steaming with ideas for rescuing his damsel in distress. As Milli and Leo battled to keep Nettle from disappearing into the Carnivorous Vortex, Ernest rolled up his sleeves calmly. If the whirlpool wanted Nettle, let it think it could have her! This was his one chance to prove himself and by jingles he was not going to blow it. Ernest thought hard, which is difficult to do when time is limited. He imagined what he would do if that nasty Horace Rugknuckle tried to steal his prized lapis lazuli. Knowing he hadn’t the strength, or the courage, to fight the tank-like Horace, Ernest knew he would take the next best option: trade. No blood or broken bones and everyone satisfied. His eyes scanned the contents of the boat and came to rest on the giant bear offered to them by Gristle.

‘That’s it!’ he shouted, startling even himself.

He took a flying leap across the gondola and seized the bear by its neck. In primitive societies, the ritual of sacrifice is sacred and the sacrifice itself is generally treated with reverence and awe. Ernest hadn’t time for such niceties and simply flung the bear as hard as he could manage into the very throat of the ravenous Carnivorous Vortex. It swallowed noisily (making some very uncouth gulping sounds) and Nettle was plonked unceremoniously back into the gondola.

The Vortex was much too busy dismembering the bear to notice the children now. They rowed fast having been granted this window of opportunity. Looking back, they saw an explosion of white stuffing as nine mouths now fought for the biggest morsel of the child they believed had flown so propitiously into their gullets.

The children rowed so hard they felt as if their muscles would simply give out, and only stopped when the churning Carnivorous Vortex (probably suffering from indigestion by now) was no longer in sight. Nettle, who was not accustomed to needing rescuing, turned suddenly bashful.

‘Thought I was about to become a frittata back there.’

‘Don’t be silly, Nettle. I’d never let that happen,’ Ernest told her truthfully.

‘Thanks, Ernie.’ She leaned forward to put her head on his shoulder and Ernest would happily have gone through the whole ordeal again just to have that single, joyous moment repeated.

They rowed in what they hoped was a northerly direction in silence. Milli spied a thick tree trunk floating on the water and was reminded of Gristle. Without his help, they would never have defeated the first challenge the lagoon had dished out. But what was to come? She had not been naive enough to think their voyage would be easy. She had known it would be arduous, impossible perhaps. Now she knew they would also be risking their lives.

She remembered the map and pulled it out of the pouch, damp but otherwise undamaged. Spreading it out, Leo traced their route with his finger. They were to continue north then veer westerly when they came to a fork in the water. ‘Follow the map and we’ll come face to face with the caverns,’ Milli confirmed noticing as she spoke that they were all suddenly ankle-deep in water. Without allowing them time to pause for breath, the next challenge had already presented itself. Staying afloat! The water in the gondola was rising rapidly.

‘Mother of pearl!’ groaned a gutted Ernest.

‘Know what my old sports coach used to say?’ Leo nudged him gently in the ribs. ‘Go hard or go home.’

‘Great motto,’ Ernest muttered dismally.

Leo ran his hand along the bottom of the boat and found a section of splintered wood where a leak had sprung allowing the waters of the Lurid Lagoon to seep through.

‘We have to stop it!’ Milli cried.

‘First we have to get to it. Start bailing!’ Leo ordered.

‘What with?’

‘Something absorbent. Try your socks, Ernest.’

And so followed a frenzied dunking and wringing of the thick woollen socks Ernest had been wearing. Socks, as it turned out, made very effective sponges and after some effort the crack was exposed.

Milli ransacked the pouch for something that might now serve as a plug, discarding items as she searched. The pouch empty, she looked up to find the two boys and Nettle busily chomping their way through the supply of Fudge Chews she had packed. ‘How can you eat at a time like this?’ she cried.

Leo’s expression of serious concentration did not change and he chomped even louder. When he was finished, he spat the slobbery brown glob into his hand and proudly showed around his toffee putty. Milli was speechless. Spitting food was terrible manners. Leo popped another sweet into his mouth.

‘Don’t you know that Fudge Chews make excellent glue?’ He let the second mass of sticky paste plop into his hand. ‘Watch this.’

Bending down, Leo wedged the softened Fudge Chew into the crack and instantly the trickle of water thinned.

‘Well, fancy that,’ Milli said, and caught the sweet that Leo tossed to her.

Before long all four children were zealously at work, chewing, spitting and plugging. Had you been passing by on a boat of your own, you would have thought them very rude indeed. When all the sweets were chomped and jammed into the crack, Leo rocked back on his heels to admire their work. It wasn’t the most attractive of solutions, but it did the job almost as well as glue itself.

‘You know, when we get home we’re going to make a fortune out of this,’ Ernest announced. ‘A line of edible adhesives is bound to sell like hotcakes!’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Fishy Business

By the time the gondola finally reached the fork they had been searching for, everyone’s hands were red and blistered and their legs had long gone numb. The lagoon divided into two channels neither of which looked particularly welcoming. The right-hand stretch was narrower and a fine veil of mist hung over the water. Here the banks were lushly carpeted with seagrass, hollowed-out in places as though it had been slept in. They also spotted trails of silvery slime, like something left by a giant snail.

On the left, the way was wider, with sharp grey rocks emerging from the water like mammoth teeth. Trees hung low over the lagoon, forming a sort of canopy and blocking out any trace of moonlight. Both paths looked as treacherous as each other.

Nettle unfurled the map to verify that they were to take the path on the right. As the gondola glided through the narrow channel, the jagged cliffs were so close they felt cocooned by them.

No sooner did they enter the channel, a panting sound interspersed with unintelligible chatter travelled through the fog to greet them. Before they could begin to speculate as to its origin, a tribe of sea monkeys appeared on the cliffs and proceeded to follow them. Clambering over rocks, they used their tails as catapults to send little brown pellets raining down on the gondola. Startled but otherwise unharmed, the children rowed faster and eventually left the sea monkeys behind, screaming and jumping in frustration at their departure. Only later, when the raucous jabber was reduced to a faint echo did they realise that the pellets were not loose stones from the cliffs as they had first supposed, but monkey droppings!

Leo took over as gondolier and Milli slumped down flexing her hands in relief. Free of the monkeys’ pranks, they were able to look around them and could see that the indentations in the seagrass cradled speckled oval shapes that could only be eggs. The eggs lay in clumsy circles and were coated in an amber glaze that glowed pale and eerie in the moonlight. None of the children had ever seen eggs this size before. They would have liked to take a closer look, but the coating of cloudy amber film dampened any plans for further investigation. They were also very conscious that they were racing against the clock. In a few hours, the magicians would take their places on the red velvet seats of the shiny gondolas waiting for them back at the River Slop and set off for the caverns.

A stirring in the water drew Milli’s attention. Looking down, she managed to glimpse a pair of eyes, round as saucers, before their owner darted out of sight, leaving only Milli’s own reflection gazing back at her. ‘Ernest!’ she gasped, clutching at him. ‘There was a face in the water!’

But when Ernest leaned over to look for himself the mysterious face had vanished without a trace. Only a few wrinkles rippling on the surface of the lagoon gave any inkling that it had been there at all. Now it was Ernest’s turn to look doubtful and Milli wondered if she really had been imagining things. She was so exhausted from their journey that perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her.

It was just at this moment that they all sniffed an odour hanging in the air. To Ernest it was strangely familiar, although he could not quite put his finger on it.

‘Smell that?’ he said, more to himself than anyone else. Of course they could all smell it and it was growing stronger. ‘Smells a lot like…’ Ernest paused to be absolutely precise, ‘…like my mum’s salmon patties!’

Although the others had never tasted Mrs Perriclof’s salmon patties, they imagined that this was exactly what they would smell like and suddenly felt very sorry for Ernest. Along with the smell, puddles of congealed liquid like molten metal were now appearing all around them. Ernest dipped his fingers into one. We all know the old adage that curiosity killed the cat and curiosity was not kind to Ernest either. His expression soon turned to one of dismay when he found that the silver slime would not come off and his fingers remained coated. Silver fingers would not have been so hard to live with, but Ernest quickly discovered that it was the iridescent slime giving off the fishy scent. If this was permanent, it could have serious social repercussions.

As Ernest tried in vain to scrub his fingers, Nettle was watching the water eagerly as something sleek and pale glided past them. Milli, too, was completely entranced. Leo pulled them back as the creature came to a sudden halt. It seemed harmless enough, but, as they had already learned, nothing in the Lurid Lagoon could be befriended. The mist cleared and now they could see at least half a dozen smooth rocks all draped in sheets of the silvery gloop. Ernest shuddered and shoved his iridescent fingers deep into his trouser pocket.

The rocks were strewn with long shapes, which from a distance appeared little more than pale outlines. The four adventurers were so engrossed in the sight before them that they did not notice the boat surging forward of its own accord. They were so deep in discussion about what these contours might be that only when they were so close they could have rubbed noses with the rocks, did they realise that the oars lay immobile at their feet. There was no turning back now. They had been seen and the shapes were beginning to move.

The blue-haired creatures rolled over lazily to examine the newcomers, tails gleaming in the lunar light. Iridescent scales shimmered and their ivory skin looked as cold as marble. Their eyes glowed like headlamps in the darkness. Cobalt locks cascaded down bare shoulders, falling as far as tiny waists. The corners of their rosy mouths crinkled as they smiled in greeting. Leo and Nettle knew immediately that they had encountered the Nereids, children of the sea gods and legendary inhabitants of the Lurid Lagoon.

Milli could not help laughing as the Nereids flicked their tails, playfully splashing water towards the gondola. She had often dreamed of riding on such a creature’s back and they were every bit as enchanting as legend described them. Nettle stared at their dainty hands spread flat on the rocks; no bigger than a child’s and as delicate as fine china. Ernest grinned as a blue-eyed Nereid with lashes as long as straws shook a shell from her hair and tossed it to him. Creamy pink ears were just visible under her swirling locks. He wondered why such graceful creatures would choose to live in such a terrible place. But as he couldn’t speak Mermish, there was no way of asking them. Leo was equally spellbound as one Nereid danced across the water, pulled a string of pearls from the lagoon and draped them around his neck. Milli, however, was not impressed with this flirtatious display and glared until the Nereid slunk guiltily away.

The rest of the clan purred contentedly. It was the sort of sound a cat makes after lapping up a saucer of cream. A thin layer of white steam was rising from the rocks. They writhed gleefully and rubbed their scaly bodies against the stone, tails twitching. They basked as if they were lying on the sands of a tropical beach instead of hard stone. Milli splashed a rock face with water and it sizzled.

‘It must be like one big sauna,’ she said in amazement. But nobody heard her. The Nereids were gently caressing the palms of Leo, Nettle and Ernest. They had the sort of feather touch that makes you tingle all over and want nothing but to curl up and sleep.

Before Milli could register that something wasn’t quite right, she felt cold fingers close over her own hand and soon the webbed embrace had her as well. As badly as she wanted to, Milli could not tear herself away from the Nereid’s touch. They were drawing her up onto the steaming rock. How good it would feel to dry herself and rest after the strenuous journey. She was so weary and their skin felt wonderfully cool against her burning, aching arms. The Nereid guided her towards a thick bed of steam. Milli’s eyelids drooped until she could no longer will them to stay open. Sleep was closing in, cloaking her in a dream and enticing her with its soft voice. The others were already gently snoring. Milli sighed under the blanket of woven seagrass that had been placed over her. The melodic lullaby in her ears, she allowed herself to be washed away by the tide of sleep.

Milli had just drifted off when she was woken by a truly terrible stench. She opened her eyes to find herself staring into the puffy face of a particularly malodorous mermaid! When the creature realised that Milli was awake, she recoiled and cast an indignant glance at her companions.

Milli sat bolt upright. She was well and truly alert now. This mermaid was certainly nothing out of a fairytale. For one thing, she was extremely hefty—as wide as a truck with great wobbles of lard that quivered whenever she moved. Her face was swollen, her features bloated and her hair sprang up from her head like a halo of spun wool. She prodded Milli in the chest with one blood-red claw and hissed dangerously. Milli backed away, trying to work out what expression she wore underneath the inch thick layer of powder that caked her face. Despite looking like some sort of grotesque doll with her rouged cheeks, sparkly lips, and huge dark eyes swimming in turquoise dust, this Nereid was clearly in a position of authority. Milli had no time to speculate as to how a Nereid might acquire cosmetics because the claws were already reaching for her.

In a flash, she was up and hauling Ernest to his feet. The commotion woke the others who struggled groggily from under their seagrass blankets. Leo rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, taken aback by the sight of such an unprepossessing new arrival.

In response, Milli jumped from the rock into the waiting gondola below, signalling the others to waste no time in following. They did just that, but Ernest, as usual, lost his footing on the slippery rock and tumbled headfirst into the boat. By now the hissing had struck up again and Milli could feel the power of its spell beginning to dull her senses. But the greedy glint in the fat matron’s eyes kept her on her toes.

In the gondola, they were safely out of the Nereids’ slimy grasp. But there was a bigger problem. The children had nowhere to go! The boat was encircled by rocks. Stopping them from navigating between were the Nereids themselves waiting for the children to fall into their clutches if they tried to pass. They were surrounded.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A Queen Called Griswalda

Hissing wrathfully, the Nereids stretched their webbed hands towards the undulating gondola. Milli gave a sigh of relief when their arms could reach no further. But worse was to follow.

What could possibly be worse, you may be asking. Worse than being trapped in a circle of blue-haired Nereids who want to lull you into a coma? Worse than the stink of fish in your nostrils and nothing but the inky red depths of the Lurid Lagoon beneath you? But you must believe me when I say that worse was to come.

The children should have guessed that the putrid smell was a warning of imminent peril and did not come from something as common as Mrs Perriclof’s salmon patties, which, though unpalatable, were quite harmless. The smell should have alerted them to the fact that the Nereids were not Nereids at all, but hostile beings from a dark kingdom I would have preferred you never found out about. It does pain me to rob you of your innocence, but it would be irresponsible to let you continue believing the world to be a happy place full of daisy-filled meadows and friendly neighbours who borrow cups of sugar. It is much better for you to know that in reality evil does exist, because when you know of something’s existence, you are much better equipped to deal with it. In this instance, the danger came in the form of the puffy-cheeked, fuzzy-haired matron whose lipstick was bleeding into the corners of her mouth. Her name was Griswalda and she was the queen of the Malevolent Mermaids.

Malevolent Mermaids are the most threatening of lagoon species. This is largely because they are what is commonly known as Form Fiddlers. This means they can change their appearance from vulture to unicorn to something as enchanting as a Nereid in a matter of seconds. But when a Malevolent Mermaid gets angry, the rage boils inside her like larva in a volcano. It spreads and infects every inch of her until she is quite unable to prevent her true form from appearing. In this mood, a Malevolent Mermaid cannot maintain the illusional form she has taken on to lure unsuspecting sailors or adventurous children on a rescue mission into her clutches, and it melts away to reveal her true identity. Right now, their prey had eluded them, escaping from under their very noses and the Malevolent Mermaids were livid!

The first thing to alter was their skin—from the ivory of a buttered crumpet to the angry steel-grey of a thundercloud. Then their hair changed. The swishing blue locks fell away into the lagoon, leaving their heads bald and pink before they started sprouting long and slithery bottle-green strips of seaweed that hung about their faces like shreds of oily cloth. Their ears grew large and flapped unattractively and their lips curled into menacing snarls. But the most terrifying thing about the Malevolent Mermaids was their eyes. The laughing, innocent eyes that had so entranced the children, shrank and shrank until they narrowed into two incensed slits, which looked like flashes of lightning in the mermaids’ midnight faces.

With a howl of rage, Griswalda turned to face her subjects. They sank low on the steaming rocks in what can only be described as a sort of mermaid bow. Raising her webbed hands in the air, Griswalda spoke in a sibilant tongue the children could not begin to understand. All they knew was that by the time she had finished, the sinister serpent women looked both more ravenous and pitiless than they had before. Obviously their external beauty had belied rapacious natures.

Instinctively, the four children moved closer together. And rightly so because the mermaids were dispersing. But not dispersing in a pleasant way which would have made the children’s hearts leap. Instead, they dispersed in quite an unpleasant way, which made the children’s hearts sink. They sank so low they could almost feel them beating in their toes. One by one, the mermaids slipped into the red lagoon and moved like eels towards the gondola. Only their slitted eyes were visible above the water. There was nothing the children could do but wait in dread.

When the Malevolent Mermaids reached the boat, their clammy hands extended towards its occupants. Having conducted an extensive study of these vile creatures, I can tell you that not having legs of their own they find it somewhat difficult to fight four-limbed creatures, of whom they are extremely envious. This is why the mermaids did not simply capsize the gondola or drag the children to their watery bedchambers. Instead, they used nasty marine magic.

Leo was the first to fall into their thrall. The moment he looked into their slitted eyes, he was unable to look away. They wove a spell around him, immobilising his limbs. He could not move a muscle! The most he was able to do was shake his head helplessly from side to side. Leo stared into the mermaids’ slitted eyes as transfixed as a child in front of a cartoon show whilst the creatures slowly pulled him from the gondola and into the lagoon.

Milli grabbed him by the arm and tried hauling him away, but he felt as heavy as lead. She cried out to Nettle and Ernest for help, but upon receiving no reply knew the worst had happened. Nettle and Ernest were both bent stiff as boards over the boat’s edge, arms entwined with those of the mermaids, faces frozen in expressions of dismay. Milli tried shouting at them; she poked them and even pulled Ernest’s hair in an effort to break the trance. They did not react and, inch by inch, the mermaids were tugging them to their watery graves.

Milli turned back to Leo in time to see his shoulders disappearing. She stumbled towards him, but before she could reach him tripped over an oar and was instantly seized by a pale, cold hand. Milli had locked eyes with a Malevolent Mermaid!

It felt as if hundreds of invisible ropes were fastening around her and binding her arms and legs to her sides. She tried to scream but her mouth was as dry as a cracker. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Leo’s chin disappearing into the red water. Griswalda was perched on her rock like a beached whale, lustily hoeing into a juicy trout and cackling as she spat the bones back into the lagoon, vastly entertained by the spectacle unfolding before her.

The water was up to Milli’s waist now, so she had to act fast. When she tried to think, all she could envision were great pools of silver slime. She shook her head vigorously, trying to clear her thoughts and make room for a new idea. Instantly, the grasp on her arm loosened and the hissing stopped. Now it was the mermaids’ turn to be transfixed. Their eyes opened as wide as it is possible for slits to open and their mouths pursed into little oohs and aahs of wonder. Ignorant as to what had stopped them in their tracks, Milli repeated the movement and felt the baubles in her hair bouncing. Now the mermaids let go of the other children’s hands too. Her vision blurred, Milli could just make out Leo’s shoulders reappearing out of the lagoon.

Only when all three of her companions lay panting at the bottom of the boat did Milli dare to stop shaking her head. When she did, the mermaids seemed to come to their senses and, with a combined squall, advanced once more towards the gondola. Milli had no choice but to resume shaking. The mermaids stopped dead, their angular faces almost innocent in their surprise. But what was stopping them? Milli was sure she could feel her brain cells clonking together and the jangling of the baubles in her hair was driving her insane. Of course! It was the baubles that had mesmerised the mermaids! If there was anything stronger than their destructive impulses, it was their vanity. Milli knew that capitalising on this was their only hope.

Without a second thought, she wrenched a handful of the little ornaments from her head, ignoring the clumps of hair that accompanied them. She held the baubles tantalisingly out to Griswalda, who seemed to find this offer more enticing than the prospect of another trout. She wobbled off her rock and made her way to the gondola, escorted by several mermaids who held her by the elbows in order to keep their monarch afloat.

Griswalda was definitely impressed. She picked out a blue bauble from Milli’s palm, sniffed it cautiously, rattled it and even tested its solidity between her teeth.

‘One hundred per cent bauble, I swear,’ Milli promised.

‘Do you think she speaks any language other than Mermish?’ asked Nettle. ‘She seems to understand.’ Warily, Milli placed a fuchsia bauble in the shape of a spotted bow into Griswalda’s frizzy hair. The queen plucked a large scale from her tail and used it to admire her reflection. What she saw pleased her.

‘They’re all yours,’ Milli bargained, ‘if you will let us pass.’

If Malevolent Mermaids are renowned for their vanity and greed, in both instances, their queen outdid them all. With a new collection of shiny baubles that both tinkled and reflected the moonlight, Griswalda felt she had cut a good deal. There was only one last thing she wanted and that was the fetching boy with golden hair and muscles like coils. Griswalda’s cheeks turned a plum colour and she batted her eyelashes coyly at Leo.

Milli cleared her throat and found she had to reiterate the offer. ‘You may have these precious baubles in exchange for our freedom.’

Griswalda ignored her and made puppy eyes at Leo.

‘Perhaps if the baubles were a gift from Leo,’ Milli suggested, pushing him forward.

This time Griswalda reached out a webbed hand to indicate agreement. Milli passed the baubles to Leo who squirmed and gulped as he hesitantly deposited the little glass objects into the mermaid’s hand. But the queen was not so easily satisfied. She butted her head mischievously against his hand and slurped his fingers with her coarse, cat-like tongue in a display of fondness. If you know anything about mermaids in general, you will recognise this behaviour as fairly typical of creatures who do not have the advantage of a common language and must communicate with strangers through gesture. Griswalda’s behaviour meant only one thing. She wanted a kiss! Feeling anything but seduced by her slippery touch and seaweed breath, Leo backed away. Fortunately, Milli was right behind him and could imagine only too well how Griswalda would respond to rejection. ‘Just get it over with,’ she advised, her previous jealousy evaporating as she watched Leo screw his eyes tightly shut and bend towards Griswalda.

The kiss wasn’t quite as horrible as Leo had imagined. Griswalda’s cheek was rubbery and he was left with the nauseating taste of salmon patties on his lips, but it was all over relatively quickly. With a sassy smile and wave in Leo’s direction, Griswalda retreated towards the rocky beds. The mermaids dispersed too, and this time in a way that did make the children’s hearts leap.

In situations such as these when you have survived being pursued by a Carnivorous Vortex, been randomly fired at with ammunition of monkey droppings and nearly been taken to rot at the bottom of the Lurid Lagoon by Malevolent Mermaids, the only thing you feel like doing is laughing in triumph because you have overcome insurmountable obstacles. The children would have laughed (as indeed they felt like doing) had the sight before them, as they drifted past the mermaids’ island of steaming rocks, not been so heart-stopping. They could hardly speak, let alone laugh.

The Shreckal Caverns rose from the lagoon like a monstrous growth, its outlines blurred by the mist. The bulbous rock formations were much larger in proportion than they had imagined. Black as tar, they seemed to rear out of the red water like wild horses.

The children rowed closer, drawn to the looming entrance like moths to a flame. Once inside, the moonlight was extinguished like a candle and they were swallowed up by the darkness. Everyone shivered as the gondola glided its way through rocky chambers over ten metres in height. With the help of a lantern to light their way, they moved towards a rock plateau where they decided to moor the boat and continue on foot. The air was damp in the caverns and pools of water dotted the floor. The ground on which the children stood was jagged and bumpy. Stalactites hung from the ceiling; some like stone fangs, some like pendulous limbs, and others like the twisted faces of ancient beasts. A dull dripping echoed around the walls but in the dimness they could not see where it was coming from. The Shreckal Caverns were a subterranean prison for the shadows far more dismal than any dungeons of Hog House.

‘How were these formed?’ Nettle marvelled at the life-like shapes formed by the rock.

‘Actually, through the movement of water over time,’ Ernest replied knowledgeably. For once in their entire journey Ernest was comfortable in his surroundings.

‘How do we figure out the way?’ Leo asked. ‘This place is like a rabbit warren.’

‘Easy,’ Milli replied softly. ‘Follow the voices.’

In their astonishment at what lay around them, the children had not noticed the whisperings like a distant echo, so faint they had to strain to hear it. They recognised it as the same woeful sound they had heard that day in the nursery. Suddenly the voices sounded closer and more urgent.

The four set off through the winding Shreckal Caverns, guided by the wailing of the shadows. At times they had to walk in single file, so narrow were the passageways. At other junctures, the rock hung so low they were forced to stoop or crawl to keep moving forward. Ernest had just trodden on Milli’s ankles for the fifth time when they saw a luminance at the end of the dank tunnel.

‘Look!’ Nettle whispered. ‘We must be nearly there.’

They weren’t sure exactly where there was or what they were looking for, but they felt confident that sooner or later they would stumble across another piece of the puzzle. That piece appeared sooner rather than later.

Four anxious faces peered out from behind the shelter of a boulder to discover that they were not alone! They had assumed themselves to be the only ones exploring the Shreckal Caverns until the magicians arrived later. They were grossly mistaken in this assumption. Before them, a platform of smooth stone formed a clearing surrounded by overhanging rocks. Inside one of the rock walls was a deep fissure guarded by a tight circle of the red-robed, wraith-like beings they knew to be the Shadow Keepers. Arms intertwined, they hovered above the ground, forming an impenetrable wall.

Milli’s heart plummeted as she stared at these spectres whose sole purpose was to guard the shadows. They would not eat, they would not sleep. Could they even be destroyed? She exchanged dispirited glances with the others. These beings could not be bribed with baubles or outsmarted by trickery.

The children had not expected to encounter so formidable an adversary as the Shadow Keepers and momentarily lost their nerve—until they saw what lay trapped within the fissure. A mass of dark, whispering shapes darted hopelessly about like birds that mistake the glass of a window for freedom.

‘The shadows,’ Milli whispered, ‘we’ve found them!’

CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Great Guzzle

A series of steps had been chiselled into the ancient stone near where the children crouched. They wound above the circular clearing and continued deep into the caverns. Milli could not repress a smile. There was always a way out or, in this case, up. She motioned to the others and the party began its steep and awkward climb up the crumbling steps. They stopped when they came to a narrow stone outcrop overhanging the clearing. Milli’s stomach lurched as she peered over the edge. There wasn’t so much as a rusty rail to keep them from falling to their deaths. Wriggling cautiously over, she made room for the others. Had you been ill-fated enough to be on the ground, among the Shadow Keepers, all you would have seen when you looked up, were four pale faces, blurred and almost undetectable in the gloom. And there the children waited, on that bumpy stone outcrop, for the Great Guzzle to begin. I am sorry to say, they did not have to wait very long.

Into the clearing waltzed the magicians. It appeared that dessert was to be served at the Shreckal Caverns and a procession of Hog House staff carrying covered baskets and platters followed. The buzz of commotion drifted up to meet the children as they crouched, unseen, above the grim festivity. They watched as the staff busily set up trestle tables, piling them high with impossible desserts. There were pastries adorned with turrets of whipped cream, treacle puddings, sticky date scrolls, mango tarts, jelly bean pâté, marshmallow snowmen, beetleshaped chocolates, croissants laced with crunchy toffee, lemon froth soufflés, and dishes of the most delicate marzipan flowers.

Presently, the chatter died down and Lord Aldor made his entrance. The red light of the lanterns bounced off his chalk white mask as he glided into the clearing. Over the hooded heads of the Shadow Keepers he drifted and came to rest in front of the fissure of eddying shadows. Their cries though faint from captivity, grew more frantic and heart-wrenching upon registering Lord Aldor’s arrival. The magicians cackled and crowded around for a better view. The children, of course, had the best view of all from their vantage point.

‘Welcome, friends, esteemed colleagues and fellow conjurors!’ Lord Aldor’s voice reverberated around the caverns. ‘You are about to witness the making of magical history! For centuries we magicians have been downtrodden and overlooked, considered nothing but poor court jesters, entertainers, pesky street performers. Second class citizens! But no longer! The prized town of Drabville was once home to dozens of artists, inventors, scientists and astronomers. All that knowledge and power is right here at my fingertips.’

Milli gulped. Deep down she had already guessed what Lord Aldor was about to do.

‘Tonight I will swallow the shadow of every miserable Drabvillian!’ A wave of manic shrieks and cheers echoed through the caverns. ‘I will absorb every scrap of talent and power that pitiful town has to offer!’

The magicians were going wild; some perspiring and others salivating with excitement.

‘And then, my friends,’ Lord Aldor’s voice dropped to a low hypnotic hum, ‘we shall rob every city from here to the moon of their shadows and there will be plenty to go round. After tonight, nobody shall ever underestimate the might of magicians again. We shall be omnipotent! I welcome you all to the Great Guzzle!’

A metallic explosion followed as the magicians banged their dessert forks and spoons together, then hurled them into the air to indicate they were of one accord.

Lord Aldor threw back his head, spread his arms wide and laughed mercilessly. Never in their time at Hog House had he seemed so fearsome to the children. The whimpering of the shadows grew louder as they battled to break free of the force-field generated by the Shadow Keepers.

The four children stared at one another in utter dismay. Their worst nightmare had been confirmed.

‘Lord Aldor’s going to swallow who?’ Ernest croaked.

‘The magicians will be omni…what?’ Nettle cried.

‘They’re going to rob where?’ Leo whispered.

‘Not if we can help it,’ Milli declared.

She surveyed the scene below. It was the Shadow Keepers that interested her most. They had not once broken their formation or abandoned their sacred duty, not even to allow Lord Aldor into the circle. A shimmering red light danced around their robes as they hovered in the air, the sparkle of a spell. Milli’s eyes settled on the Shadow Keepers’ claw-like hands, the bones visible through papery skin. They were clasped tightly together. It was this bond that must first be broken.

On ground level, Lord Aldor was looking triumphant. He had plunged his hand into the fissure and now, in his fist a small and fluttering wisp wriggled helplessly. The shadow struggled against its captor, but its tiny form, as flimsy as the tulle on Milli’s dress, was no match for Aldor’s strength. As the shadow writhed, the children could just make out the impression of a face. A face Milli knew only too well. It was her father’s.

Milli was hit by a sudden memory. She was sitting at the kitchen table and Dorkus was sitting under it. The two of them were watching their father cook. Mr Klompet, in a food-splattered apron, held a wooden spoon in one hand and a whisk in the other. Three pots bubbled merrily on the stove and a pear jam sponge had just been popped in the oven to cook. The kitchen was filled with the warm, comforting smell of baking cake. It was a happy memory. How long had it been since any of them had had a happy moment? Too long.

Milli felt a rising anger begin in her toes. It spread like a fungus until her whole body was burning with rage. Keeping one eye on Lord Aldor and the other on the trestle tables (abandoned now the show had begun), Milli edged her way silently down the steps. The others followed close behind. None of the magicians noticed their soundless descent, so engrossed were they in the spectacle unfolding before them.

Lord Aldor laughed viciously as he raised Mr Klompet’s shadow high above his head. With a crack, he dislocated his jaw, which slowly, very slowly, began to drop. I cannot even open my mouth wide enough to fit my fist inside; Lord Aldor’s jaw extended as if it were made of elastic, right down to his chest, the way you and I have only seen happen to cartoon characters. In his left hand he held his chin, and with his right he dangled the shadow threateningly above the elongated pit that was now his mouth. At the exact moment Lord Aldor let the shadow drop, something miraculous happened. Well, it wasn’t really a miracle as there were no saints involved. It was more of an ingenious plan implemented by a team of very angry, underage adventurers. SPLAT! Instead of a mouthful of shadow, Aldor found himself with a mouthful of cherry cream pie!

‘Take that, you big bully!’ a voice cried.

Stunned and affronted, Lord Aldor wiped the whipped cream from his eyes to see four militant children each standing upon their own trestle table armed with several dishes of dessert.

Despite seething inwardly with humiliation, Lord Aldor managed a snigger. ‘You think you can sabotage my lifelong plans with a bit of cream pie?’ he said scornfully.

Milli was about to offer an impertinent reply when an indignant screech echoed through the cave.

‘Crumpet! Gumm! What do you think you are doing? Get down from those tables immediately!’

Mrs Mayor, hands on hips, was glaring furiously at them. The children ignored her.

‘Let the shadows go, Aldor,’ Milli warned, ‘or we’ll—’

‘You’ll what?’ Lord Aldor sneered. ‘Throw puddings at me?’

He gestured towards the tight ring of Shadow Keepers. ‘As long as this formation is strong, the shadows won’t be going anywhere. The Great Guzzle will proceed as planned!’

‘I am warning you, children, there will be serious consequences for this!’ Mrs Mayor threatened uselessly. ‘You will wear plain smocks for a week!’

Lord Aldor raised Mr Klompet’s shadow as if it were a goblet, toasted the children, and for a second time that evening let his mouth stretch beyond acceptable proportions. But Mrs Mayor’s threat had given Milli an idea. Plain smocks—what a relief that would be. Milli could feel the veils of her handkerchief hem fluttering around her ankles, as wispy as one of the stolen shadows themselves.

On impulse, she tore a veil from her outfit and sent it sailing into the air. Automatically, the hooded face of every Shadow Keeper jerked upwards. For a split second nobody moved and Milli felt a sickening rush of fear. If this plan failed, she and her friends would be as good as minced meat. But the Shadow Keepers were fiercely loyal and unwavering in the carrying out of their duties. Their chief responsibility was to guard the shadows. When the fragment of tulle whooshed into the air, the Keepers, mistaking it for a shadow, instantly gave chase!

Lord Aldor roared as, in a flurry of red robes, the Shadow Keepers took to the air. They swooped through the caverns, colliding with one another in pursuit of their prey. The captives, however, remained locked in the rock visible only as flashes through the fissure. This the children had not anticipated. The shadows, having been imprisoned for so long, did not register this opportunity for escape.

‘Go!’ Milli encouraged. ‘You’re free now. You can leave!’

But the shadows remained in the confines of the rock. Through the opening, she could see them spinning in circles.

‘They’re confused!’ Leo shouted. ‘They need help.’

‘What more can we do?’ Milli despaired.

‘Do you still have that phial?’

‘Yes, in the pouch.’

‘It might work. Quickly, before the Shadow Keepers come back!’

Astride on a trestle table, Leo took careful aim. Bending his arm back, he hurled the phial as though it were a javelin. Leo was strong and the blue glass hit its target, smashing into fragments against the stone and releasing its magic contents. There was a loud grinding sound as plates of rock cracked and shifted. With a cascade of crumbling earth and rubble, the fissure opened. This time, the shadows were left in no doubt as to what they must do.

Lord Aldor pounced on them, grabbing wildly at the black forms as alarmed shadows flew from the fissure in all directions. He tried desperately to retrieve them, but the shadows were too quick for him and Aldor was left lunging ineffectually at the air.

With the shadows safe for the time being, the children turned their attention to the magicians.

‘Destroy them! Don’t let them escape!’ Lord Aldor screamed.

The conjurors advanced on the children, who had anticipated this and were not in the least bit concerned.

‘You asked for it,’ Leo muttered under his breath, beginning to enjoy himself now.

Arms piled high with ammunition, the children simply did what children do best and a food fight ensued.

The magicians were completely taken aback! The tattooed pirate (like many others) suddenly found a large mud cake obscuring his view of the targets. It hurtled through the air and hit him fair and square on the side of the head. A pixie discovered a cupcake with strawberry icing fixed to the end of her pointy nose. Eclairs rained down, flying treacle ripped out patches of hair, and jelly beans blinded anyone that got in their way. Leo mashed a vanilla pudding into a witch’s straggly hair and was consequently pursued by her angry gremlin friend, whose wide nostrils ended up stuffed full of custard. Nettle was perched on a rock, lobbing walnut brownies at a cluster of real brownies, who were shaking their fists and didn’t seem to find the irony of the situation at all amusing. Ernest smeared an ogre’s spectacles with hot fudge sauce so that he staggered around blindly before bowling over a good number of guests and causing a pile-up. Milli devoted all of her energy to pelting Lord Aldor, who by now looked more like a wobbling heap of mangled desserts than a menacing villain.

A horde of shrieking fairies (of the hostile variety) sought shelter in crevices, knowing that their wings would be useless if caked with dessert. Several witches growled and dived towards the children, but were bowled over at the last minute by a troupe of fleeing princesses whose ballgowns were far too expensive to be subjected to a food fight. The trolls, being naturally uncontrollable creatures, quickly found themselves caught up in the frenzy. This confused some of the other magicians, who thought the food fight was part of the merriment and happily hurled pies at one another. A dishevelled Mrs Mayor tore around the caverns with boiled sweets in her beehive hair, screaming at the top of her lungs. When Mr Mayor tried to lead her to the safety of a nearby rock, Mrs Mayor bellowed at him in gibberish and accidentally pushed his face into a bowl of mint jelly.

It was not long before the ochre cavern walls were smeared with vibrant caramels, yellow custards and pastel icings. The Shadow Keepers were still up in the air, doggedly tracking the wisp of tulle and Lord Aldor had given up screaming at them to come down. He stood alone before the empty fissure, fists clenched by his sides. Shards of faded red light shimmered in the air—the remains of a broken spell. Lord Aldor’s once blazing eyes had grown black with fury. He dodged a flying pecan flan and watched powerlessly as all around him pandemonium broke loose.

CHAPTER TWENTY
Taking Flight

But Lord Aldor wasn’t completely powerless just yet. He jiggled his pinkie and a net dropped from the ceiling of the Shreckal Caverns, wrapping itself tightly around Milli. The others ran to her assistance but were intercepted before they could go more than a few steps in her direction. The Notorious Nine, their hair and clothes splattered with food, parted deferentially to let Lord Aldor pass. The evil magician made his way towards Milli with arms outstretched and an expression of devilish wrath in his eyes. Even with his mask askew and his robes now an assortment of colours, he was still a terrifying sight.

But the shadows had not forgotten the feisty girl who had set them free. Sensing she was in difficulty, they braced themselves and swooped. By the time Lord Aldor the Illustrious realised what was happening, it was too late. A swarm of murmuring shadows fashioned themselves into a thundercloud and plunged towards him. They whipped around him like a tornado. Amidst the resulting skirmish, the children caught flashes of familiar faces. Was that really Bernardo Bernardini snatching at Lord Aldor’s hair? Could it truly be Mr Trevor Treble tearing at his red cloak in an effort to rip it off? Surely that was not Miss Linear tying the conjuror’s shoelaces together! The other magicians watched on in horror, but made not the slightest move to help their leader.

Finally, encrusted in dessert and bedraggled from the shadows’ onslaught, Lord Aldor could stand it no longer. Furious, and too exhausted to float (for floating requires a good deal of concentrated energy), he fled, tripped over his own feet (thanks to a job well executed by Miss Linear), stopped to kick off his shoes and continued running.

‘Until we meet again, Miss Klompet!’ Lord Aldor panted as he sped past her, a throng of angry wisps hot on his heels. ‘Don’t think you’ve seen the last of the Shadow Thief!’

The band of magicians trooped dolefully after Lord Aldor, through the damp tunnels of the Shreckal Caverns and out onto the rock plateau where they had landed and where the ceremony had begun.

Lord Aldor took a flying leap into the nearest gondola and, seizing an oar began to row furiously. When he reached the sizzling rocks of the Malevolent Mermaids, his boat soared out of the Lurid Lagoon and into the sky. The children watched in astonishment as the gold and black gondola climbed higher and higher, defying gravity until it disappeared into the clouds taking the dishevelled Shadow Thief with it.

Their captor gone, the throng of shadows turned on Lord Aldor’s guests.

It became immediately obvious that concepts like loyalty and teamwork were non-existent in the Conjurors’ Realm, for in one big writhing heap the magicians (abandoned by their leader) scrambled, shoved, bit and scratched their way back to the boats. Many of them fell headlong into the lagoon in their haste to retreat. Others were pushed in by the shadows.

It was no surprise that Mr and Mrs Mayor were among the few who managed to get hold of a gondola, although, with Gristle refusing to assist them, they were stranded without an oarsman. They cowered in the cabin, hoping for the first time in their lives to go unnoticed. But going unnoticed was not something they could easily pull off and they were soon bickering about whose fault it had been to trust such vagrant children. Unluckily for them, their bickering soon alerted the shadows to their whereabouts and they pounced on them. Mrs Mayor was hysterically tearing at her beehive in an effort to remove the wriggling wisps that had burrowed into it when the shadows capsized the boat!

Two wretched heads bobbed out of the water, coughing and spluttering. Mrs Mayor’s mascara ran down her cheeks in rivulets and her soggy beehive hung over her face, obstructing her vision. Although a dancer, she was not a strong swimmer and had to flap her arms like a chicken in order to keep from sinking. Mr Mayor, on the other hand, was kept afloat by his nappy-like loincloth, which had inflated in the water and was helpfully serving as a lifejacket. But he was preoccupied with trying to remove his plumed helmet, which had filled up with water and was stuck fast. They were a sad and comical sight! It was impossible to feel anything but pity for them, despite all the wrongdoings they had committed.

‘You!’ Mrs Mayor gasped and pointed at the children, histrionic and delusional as ever. ‘You rascals! Just wait till we get home. There will be serious repercussions for this errant behaviour. We may be lenient if you throw us a lifejacket!’

Just as she finished this admonishment, the shadows gathered into the shape of a pair of bellows and blew over the Lurid Lagoon, causing a column of water to crash down on Mrs Mayor, conveniently sweeping her and her equally despicable husband out into the expanse of open water where they bobbed like corks.

In a matter of minutes, all that remained of Lord Aldor’s guests were a few vivid items of clothing drifting like wreckage on the lagoon. Some of the magicians had turned themselves into ice statues, but melted when the shadows blew their hot breath over them. Some had liquefied into the slippery slime of the Malevolent Mermaids and were now destined to live out their days as shimmering puddles on the water. Some thought that if they stayed absolutely still they might escape justice, and others drank a morphing potion that transformed them into speckled toads and hopped away to live a carefree existence on a tasty diet of flies. In truth, nobody really cared what became of them.

There was a clicking and a rustling of paper behind the children. They turned to see Pandora Scoop, an éclair sticking out of her bun, scribbling in her notepad with inky fingernails. Bud Snapper’s camera flashed as he recorded the fracas for posterity. This was, after all, the story of the decade.

Pandora’s voice was syrupy sweet as she picked her way undeterred through the debris. ‘Who was the mastermind behind tonight’s debacle? Was it one person or did you all chip in together? The Talisman Times would be most interested in purchasing your story. When can I set up a meeting? Don’t make any decisions without talking to me. Any ideas about what Lord Aldor might do now? You did snap him covered in lemon meringue, didn’t you, Snapper? What about your new parents, children? Will you be rejoining them any time soon?’

‘I heard Aldor say he’d be giving private interviews in the back tunnels after the show,’ Milli fibbed outright.

‘He did?’ Pandora squealed. ‘Well, we mustn’t keep His Excellency waiting, must we? Ready, Snapper?’

Still scribbling, Miss Pandora Scoop marched back into the Shreckal Caverns, already formulating insightful questions to form the basis of a groundbreaking story. Bud Snapper followed her, but only because he was secretly afraid of the dark.

‘Somehow, I don’t think Mrs Mayor’s good side is going to make the front page,’ Leo tittered.

‘Look!’ Ernest cried gleefully.

They all turned to see what could possibly warrant such enthusiasm after the events of the evening. Despite being bruised and shaken and wet and sticky with food fragments, they couldn’t help but smile when they saw what Ernest was pointing to. The cloud of shadows had taken on the form of a giant tick.

‘They’re congratulating us,’ Nettle said.

The shadows scattered briefly before reassembling into the image of an all-too-familiar town.

‘They want to go home,’ Milli whispered.

There was a slight pause as they all wondered what Drabville would be like once the shadows were returned. They felt that, apart from one other, they didn’t really know the townsfolk. After all, their true characters had been buried for so long.

Although excited by the prospect of returning home, the children wearily contemplated the long voyage ahead. Not one of them offered to pick up an oar and row. But the shadows, whose dark feathery forms had altered several times already that evening, fluttered quietly above their heads, merging into one another. They grew longer and wider until, right there on the gondola’s deck, appeared a shadow mast. Some shadows then began to extend forming a tall triangular shape that rippled gently in the breeze. They had built the children a sail.

The journey home was subdued, with each member of the craft lost in thoughts of their own.

Ernest thought about his mother and father. What would they say when he saw them in a few hours? Would they be angry about his absence or glad of his return? He was comforted by the thought of his rock collection and feeling able now to shout as loud as he liked if anyone so much as went near it. It was time to finally put the Perriclof family’s silence games to rest. Ernest even allowed himself to contemplate the possibility of a companion with whom he might share the thrill of expeditions into rocky ravines. They would carry matching backpacks and examine their findings over a cut lunch. Nettle seemed just the kind of girl who would be open to such new and thrilling experiences.

Nettle stared at the rippling red lagoon and wondered what life in Drabville held in store for her. She had so enjoyed being part of the Vanishing Closet routine (especially wearing the spangled outfit) that she thought she might embark on a career in the performing arts, even if this meant starting up the school herself. Drabville, for Nettle, meant a fresh start. She might not have family there, but she had friends who accepted and valued her. She might even consider a change of image.

Leo felt the rush of wind against his skin and felt as anxious as if he were about to run an Olympic sprint. Leo hadn’t seen or spoken to his parents in three whole years! What if they didn’t recognise him? What if they had another boy or girl by now? But deep down Leo knew that parents love their children unconditionally, and underneath his worry was a longing to reunite with them and fill them in on the lost years. He might even get around to returning that long overdue library book.

As for Milli, her thoughts took a more philosophical turn and she found herself ruminating on the nature of change. Watching her companions, she realised how much they had all changed even in the short time they had known each other. But change did not make Milli apprehensive. The big adventure she had always dreamed of had turned out bigger than she had ever imagined, and more adventures awaited her on her return. Of that she had no doubt. She was proud to think she had played a part in restoring the missing piece of Drabville. The shadows were free and the town would never fall victim to the greed of a madman again. Equipped with free thinkers, it would now be able to defend itself and subterfuge would be a thing of the past. Milli could not know this, but in times to come people would speak of this period in Drabvillian history as an aberration, a dark period never to be forgotten. New positions would be created which carried the highest honour. Custodians of Concord would ensure history’s mistakes were not repeated.

Milli closed her eyes and thought about the most important thing she was going back to in Peppercorn Place—a family. A family she was looking forward to getting to know all over again and which would now include a mother. What would life be like with a mother? For the first time she allowed herself the luxury of thinking about this without feeling dizzy. Perhaps with Rosie around something more enduring than safety pins could be used for uniform repairs and Stench might be compelled to take more frequent baths. Would Rosie braid her daughters’ hair and bake cookies like other Drabville mothers? Thinking of Rosie in an apron made Milli smile. Somehow she did not think the domestic arts would provide sufficient challenges for her mother. Mostly, Milli hoped Rosie’s return might allay some of her sister’s fears and discourage her father from going through life as if he were adrift at sea. Instinctively, she looked up at the faces imprinted on the shadow-sail. The shadow of Mr Klompet looked down and winked at his daughter.

As they drew closer to home, the children saw a great many cheering sights. They were both elated and surprised to see a fleet of makeshift rafts carrying the hedgehogs, who were almost obscured under the red military jackets they were wearing. The hedgehogs were also heading home on four legs as nature intended. A movement in the sky caught their attention: their old friend the flamingo secretary was soaring overhead. He seemed to be taking great delight in scattering to the wind shredded files from a briefcase he held in his bill; they rained down like confetti into the gondola. With some luck he was hoping to find a chilled bowl of algae soup and a familiar face at the end of his flight. The secretary, now necktie-free and no longer shedding feathers from stress, gracefully inclined his head in acknowledgement as the gondola passed beneath him.

Soon they could make out the town, which appeared as a twinkling speck in the distance. Milli stared at the lights of Drabville and found herself thinking of the ordered houses with their standard picket fences and identical doorknockers. Soon the town would not recognise itself. Suddenly exhausted, she edged closer to Ernest who put his arm comfortingly around her.

‘I wonder what it will be like now,’ Milli murmured sleepily.

‘Home? Very different, I expect.’

‘I wonder if we’ll ever get bored.’

Ernest looked at Milli a while before answering.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

Their attention was drawn by a sound like flapping wings. They looked up to see the combined faces of the shadows puffing and straining with effort. The sails billowed and swelled, propelling the little craft forward into the dawn. They were moving much faster now. So fast it was almost like flying.