And he needed to keep what he was doing a secret.
‘You do a lot of hexercise,’ commented Monsieur Valentin. ‘You seem like a tough boy, no? I wonder what you are doing, then, in a bookshop. Although I see you ’ave already removed all the major volumes that deal with war.’
It was true. Wolf had been digging through Leonard Levar’s extensive collection of books on Napoleon, as well as reading Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, and anything else with the word ‘war’ in the title, and anything with pictures of battles on the front. He’d read the Bhagavad Gita, How to Use Your Enemies and the Tao Te Ching.
‘And a lot of philosophy. What a strange boy you must be. I still think there is something hodd about you being ’ere, but I will hoverlook this for now, as long as you don’t mind me taking a few books. You can tell your huncle that I will return them as halways.’
‘OK,’ said Wolf.
He wasn’t going to argue. He needed somewhere safe for Natasha to live, once he found her, and since he’d lost the flat this would have to do. It was awkward, though, having Monsieur Valentin prowling around. Wolf would have to find some subtle way of stopping it happening. Perhaps using advice from Machiavelli or another great strategist. Leonard Levar’s Antiquarian Bookshop was a very useful resource, and Wolf wasn’t going to give it up in a hurry. It had a connected phone that sometimes worked, and an ancient computer on which Wolf could call up BBS pages, although nowadays these usually crashed after about ten seconds. But he’d found some useful numbers to call about Natasha.
There was also a good supply of paper, envelopes and stamps for writing to Official Records in London. Wolf had also found an extremely ancient microfiche system and various collections of plastic slides, many of which were creepy but fascinating, with titles like ‘Records of Lost Children’ and ‘Missing Orphans of the North’.
It turned out that lots of children went missing every year, and Leonard Levar had taken an unhealthily detailed interest in many of them. There were examples of children lost at sea, children lost on the moors, children lost in Quirin Forest, children who had been kidnapped by strangers or (more commonly) deranged family members, and a small but significant number of children who’d never returned from the Blessed Bartolo entrance exam.
The one thing all the missing children had in common was that someone had actually gone to the trouble to report their disappearance. No one had reported Natasha missing. But she had definitely gone. Wolf had been in touch with every school in the district, and not one of them had a Natasha Reed. Only one of them even had a Natasha, and she was the wrong age. Wolf’s mother must have taken her a long way away. But why? And where?
‘’Ere you go,’ said Monsieur Valentin, returning from the back of the shop. He dropped a large, well-thumbed paperback on the desk. ‘This will get your tough little brain going. You can thank me later.’
The book was called The Answer. It was not unfamiliar. Wolf had seen it before in the Military Strategy section. It frightened him in some way, although it was impossible to say what this was. He’d read much more frightening-looking books, after all. He’d even dipped into the massive books he used as weights, and they were both terrifying in their own ways.
Monsieur Valentin was holding three dusty hardbacks. Wolf couldn’t quite see what they were, but one seemed to be called Preventing Apocalypse, and another was called something like Home Remedies for a Malfunctioning Crystal Ball. But perhaps Wolf had read it wrong. It had been upside down, after all.
The door tinkled and Monsieur Valentin was gone. Only a slight smell of onions and kittens remained.
Wolf blew out most of the candle-lamps and found a book of hard Sudoku puzzles to take to bed with him. Great warriors needed to train their minds, too. And he found Sudoku strangely comforting.
4
After she had eaten the last of the macarons, Effie followed Clothilde into the street. The saxophone still played above them, the musician seemingly lost in bar after bar of the smoothest jazz. The sun shone, but didn’t feel too hot. A man came out of one of the shops with several small dragons on his arm. They clucked and hooted and whistled. Their eyes were all silver or gold.
‘Flying dragon?’ he said to Effie. ‘I got a rare albino here if you want it.’
Effie gulped. Imagine actually owning a flying dragon! But they were probably very expensive. And not something she could easily take back to the Realworld with her either.
‘Or how about a nice cake, luvvie?’ offered a woman with black curly hair, coming out of the cake shop. ‘I got the softest, densest, most delicious chocolate cake you’ve ever had, with a fresh cashew cream filling. Or maybe you’d like an iced bun? A fourflower horn? Oh, what about a nice big slice of flan Parisien? Made it just this morning, I did, with silken cloudcurd and fresh vanilla. Bright blessings to you anyway, child.’
‘Are you interested in kharakter studies?’ asked a stout man coming out from another shop. ‘You must be, as you’re an interpreter. Oh yes, I can tell from the caduceus in your hair. I’ve got a very wide selection of books and charts on kharakter, art and shade in my basement. Any of them is yours if you want it . . .’
Effie looked around her. One shop was full of silver and turquoise jewellery. Another sold dark wooden violins. Another sold fountain pens. A dark little basement shop sold strange-looking pamphlets and a bright boutique sold capes in holographic colours. One shop was full of aventurine, bloodstone, onyx and every other kind of gemstone. Lexy would love it here, Effie thought. Something flapped past Effie’s head. Another flying dragon. And then a little pack of white fluffy kittens ran down the narrow cobbled street. No; they weren’t kittens. They were an animal Effie had never seen before.
Clothilde had said something to Effie, but she hadn’t been listening properly. Something about going upstairs to see the saxophonist perhaps? She’d gone, anyway. Before Effie knew it, she had accepted a box containing two fourflower horns and a slice of flan Parisien, as well as a brand new copy of The Repertory of Kharakter, Art & Shade, three notebooks, a silver bracelet with turquoise charms hanging from it (a dragon, a cat and a moon) and, finally, a new fountain pen.
‘Did you lose your pen?’ said Clothilde, coming out of a door to the side of the bookshop just as Effie thanked the shopkeeper again.
‘No,’ said Effie. ‘Of course not.’ She felt bad suddenly, because Clothilde had got her a lovely fountain pen not long ago. ‘I liked this one, though, and they always say you can’t have too many pens. And everything is free here, after all.’ It was true. No one had asked for any money. And each shopkeeper had seemed very pleased when Effie had chosen something to take from them. She’d very nearly ended up with a dragon as well.
Clothilde frowned, which was unusual for her.
‘Well, don’t get so many things that you can’t carry them home,’ she said. ‘And be careful. You don’t have as much lifeforce as we do. When I said “hit the shops” I meant a little more gently. Most people only take one thing home with them from a shopping trip like this. One special thing that they really need, and don’t already have.’
Before Effie had a chance to ask her what she meant about lifeforce, the little door opened and the saxophonist came out. He was holding a striped box with its lid off. He had a single white flower growing out of his top lip, and his eyes were a deep shade of green, one that Effie had never seen before. He was definitely a man, but seemed quite feminine. Effie realised it was because he was wearing electric blue eyeshadow and black eye-liner. And his ears! His ears had fur on them! But they were also studded with many tiny diamonds. He was a like a man-woman-cat.
‘These are so beautiful,’ he said to Clothilde, taking a pair of hand-knitted red woollen socks from inside the box. ‘Thank you.’
Clothilde often knitted in front of the fire in the evenings, creating long soft scarves or complex-looking socks using four needles at once.
‘Well, thank you for the music,’ said Clothilde. ‘We all enjoy it so much.�
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‘Not that you come to hear it very often,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Clothilde, sighing.
‘And who’s your friend?’ said the man, looking at Effie.
‘Oh, sorry!’ said Clothilde. ‘This is my cousin Effie. And Effie, this is Bo.’
‘From the island, I see,’ said Bo. ‘How exotic.’
The way he said this wasn’t entirely friendly, although he gave Effie a big smile afterwards. Effie already knew that some Otherworld people were very suspicious of her world, which they always referred to as ‘the island’. They called their own world the mainland.
‘She’s not a typical islander, I promise,’ said Clothilde.
‘What does she make?’ said Bo. ‘What do you do?’ he asked Effie.
Effie didn’t quite understand, so she simply said, ‘Oh, I’m still at school,’ which didn’t seem to answer his question at all.
Clothilde said her goodbyes, and she and Effie walked off down the street. Effie soon became aware that although everyone was friendly and offered her beautiful, free things, quite a lot of people avoided catching her eye. More than once she heard someone whisper something like ‘From the island, you can tell!’ or ‘Islander!’ just after she’d passed. People looked her up and down without even disguising what they were doing. A few of the windows had posters in them calling for ‘Mainland Liberation’, whatever that was.
Soon they came to the fountain where the group of teenage girls was still standing. They all turned to look at Effie. Clearly, no one had ever told them it was rude to stare. Mind you, it was hard for Effie not to stare right back. The girls were so incredibly beautiful. Clothilde got another one of her striped boxes out of her basket and told Effie she’d just be a moment. She walked off to a house beyond the fountain.
‘Hello,’ said Effie to the girls, who were still staring at her.
‘Allora,’ said one girl to another, raising an eyebrow. ‘Un estraneo.’
It was a language that Effie didn’t immediately recognise. Effie was fluent in Rosian, and if she needed to understand any other languages she just had to hold her caduceus. Effie was just reaching into her hair for it when the girl switched to Rosian.
‘Who are you?’ she said to Effie. She had long, straight, blue hair and sharp, thin limbs. Her pointed cat’s ears were white.
‘Effie,’ said Effie.
‘Why are you wearing a gold cloak?’ said a girl with pink curly hair and a flying dragon on her shoulder. This girl was much rounder than the first one. Her body was covered with a layer of the most beautiful pale fur.
‘Um . . .’
‘And aren’t you supposed to die if you come here from the island?’ said the first girl.
‘We’d die instantly if we went to your world, because it’s really horrible and really dangerous and your air is completely toxic to us.’
Slowly, the group gathered around Effie.
‘I don’t like the cloak,’ said the girl with the pink hair.
‘Me neither,’ said a girl with yellow eyes.
‘It’s from thousands of moons ago,’ said the first girl.
‘I see she’s done a lot of shopping,’ said the girl with the blue hair. ‘It’s just like what they say about the island. They’re all so greedy.’
‘They never do anything for anyone else. They just take,’ said the girl with pink hair. The dragon on the girl’s shoulder sort of nodded, as if it agreed with everything she was saying.
Effie felt like crying. Wasn’t everyone in the Otherworld supposed to be nice? But of course she’d hardly been anywhere in the Otherworld and knew barely anything about it. Her headache intensified. And her arms started to ache from carrying all her wonderful free things. She felt like a complete idiot standing there in her gold cloak, unable to put anything down. She wanted to run away. But Effie never ran away.
‘We might be greedy on the island,’ she found herself saying, ‘but at least we don’t all look the same.’
‘You think we look the same?’ said the girl with yellow eyes. ‘How? We’re all completely different.’
‘Yes, do go on,’ said the girl with the blue hair. ‘How? We’re just dying to hear how someone from the island would choose to judge us.’
‘Your cloaks,’ Effie said. ‘They’re all the same colour.’
‘That’s because it’s our school uniform, you jar of cloudcurd,’ said the girl with the dragon.
Somewhere nearby a bell tinkled and the girls turned and left, their long, pastel-coloured hair swishing behind them. Effie realised that she would have loved to have been friends with them, but that was never going to happen now. They all hated her. Effie wondered how to explain to Clothilde what had happened, and how sad she felt, but she didn’t have to.
‘Were they very blunt?’ said Clothilde when she came back. ‘Teenage girls here are encouraged to say exactly what they think without holding anything in. They can be a bit too honest sometimes.’
Effie didn’t say anything.
‘Right,’ said Clothilde. ‘Time for your kharakter analysis. Are you excited?’
Effie nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. She still had an awkward feeling inside from her encounter with the girls, but that faded as she followed Clothilde down a thin cobbled lane and up some stone steps until they reached a large brown wooden door in the wall with pink flowers growing out of a large pot next to it. A tiny brass sign said: Consultations.
‘Do you want me to come in?’ asked Clothilde.
‘Not if you’ve got something else to do,’ said Effie. ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘OK. I’ll be back for you in an hour, then,’ said Clothilde. She squeezed Effie’s hand. ‘Good luck. Oh, and let me look after all these.’ Clothilde took Effie’s shopping from her and arranged it expertly in her basket. Effie felt a lot lighter, suddenly.
She slowly pushed the door, which made a small bell ring gently. Inside, the large, cool house smelled very faintly of roses, wood and warm spices. There was a tiled hallway leading to a reception desk. The receptionist smiled at Effie and led her through a courtyard to a consulting room lined with bookshelves and filled with old-looking books. It also had a desk, a chair, and a view out onto the courtyard. Effie watched as a flying dragon stretched its wings on a window ledge.
‘Here’s the test,’ said the receptionist. ‘The consultant will be with you in fifteen minutes. You’re seeing . . .’ She looked at her clipboard. ‘Dr Wiseacre. She’s new. But very good.’
Effie had done this test before, but in quite different circumstances. This version had some extra sections. Of course, there was no doubt about Effie’s kharakter – true hero – and her art – interpreter. She had boons to match those. But the main thing that needed to be decided now was her shade. One of the extra sections had pairs of statements, with instructions asking you to put a cross next to the one that described you best. Effie confidently chose statements like I will always help my friends and I will always fight my enemies.
She finished filling in the paper test and waited for Dr Wiseacre to arrive. On the wall she saw a big chart that looked vaguely familiar. Yes – it was the map of the shades that she’d seen in The Repertory of Kharakter, Art & Shade but had not let herself look at too closely.
The chart had a circle painted on vellum in faded but attractive Otherworld colours, close to the pinks and purples Effie knew from home. It was like a clock face, with the number 12 at the top, and the number 6 at the bottom. By the number twelve were the letters Ph. At two o’clock were the letters Ae. At four o’clock the letters were Ar, at six o’clock the letters were Pr, at eight o’clock there was simply the letter G, which somehow looked bigger and more menacing than the others. Then at ten o’clock was the letter S.
Soon the door opened and Dr Wiseacre came in. She was young and had something about her that reminded Effie of the schoolgirls she’d met before, although her ears were only slightly pointed. Her eyes were very big and very green, and her hair was sh
ort and black. Her eyebrows were finely shaped and pink.
‘Greetings and blessings, young hero,’ said Dr Wiseacre.
‘Greetings and blessings returned,’ said Effie, remembering how to politely greet people in the Otherworld.
Dr Wiseacre picked up the test Effie had completed and looked at it hard, nodding here and there, and then frowning before smiling and then frowning again.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘I just have a few more questions. First of all, can you tell me about your trip to Froghole today? What happened before you came here? Did you speak to anyone or do any shopping, for example?’
Effie told Dr Wiseacre all about her morning.
‘You came here on a flying carpet?’ said Dr Wiseacre, smiling.
‘Yes,’ said Effie. ‘Our maid Bertie made it.’
‘Your maid?’ Dr Wiseacre looked confused, as if she’d never heard the word before. ‘Oh,’ she said eventually, ‘do you mean like a servant?’
‘Yes,’ said Effie. ‘And she made me this cloak as well.’
‘Very nice,’ said Dr Wiseacre, looking Effie up and down. ‘Now tell me something of your life on the island. It sounds like a very fascinating place. I’ve never been. I am not a traveller, sadly, so it would kill me.’
Effie told Dr Wiseacre about her life back home. She couldn’t help making it sound a bit miserable, though, what with her step-mother Cait and her constant diets, and her father Orwell with his long days working at the university. The family virtually lived on takeaway because Cait was always throwing out all the real food. Effie far preferred the Otherworld, and started talking about that, but Dr Wiseacre steered her back to her life on the island.
Effie told Dr Wiseacre about the Tusitala School for the Gifted, Troubled and Strange, with its leaking roof and strange cruel-but-kind teachers. She talked about how she was captain of the Under 13 tennis team, and her friend Wolf was captain of the Under 13 rugby team. As they were both only eleven, this was quite an achievement; but then they did have quite a lot of magical strength to draw on, since Wolf was a warrior and Effie was a hero. Effie told Dr Wiseacre about her other friends – Lexy, the healer, Raven, the witch, and Maximilian, the mage-scholar.
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