When the hunting horn called them in for the last lesson, Charlie wasn’t sure what to do. Dr. Bloor had given him a task. He would have to risk getting detention from the other teachers if he was to continue his search for Skarpo.
He decided to inspect the dormitories. There were twenty-five of these, scattered over three floors, and Charlie had only searched ten before the dinner bell rang. What should he do now? Surely he wasn’t expected to miss his dinner. He began the long journey from the third floor down to the dining hall. As he approached the hall he could hear raised voices. He was very late and hoped he hadn’t missed the first course. When he opened the door and stepped inside, the noise was deafening. And then someone shouted, “There he is! It’s all his fault.”
Charlie ducked his head, hoping to look inconspicuous. But everyone was watching him now. Someone had spread the news. Charlie Bone was responsible for frog rain, for darkness, mad bulls, golden bats, and vanishing elephants. Worst of all, he was responsible for tonight’s dinner.
As Charlie slid onto the bench beside Fidelio, he saw a heap of cabbage and a slice of stale-looking bread on his plate. Everyone else had a similar meal.
“What’s this?” Charlie murmured to Fidelio.
“Trouble in the kitchens,” Fidelio explained in a low voice. “We were going to have scrambled eggs, but one of Cook’s assistants found the pantry full of chickens instead of eggs. You can hear them if you listen.”
Charlie could, indeed, hear clucking from behind the door into the kitchen. His heart sank.
After watching Charlie take his place, the rest of the table began to chew their bread and cabbage. There were mutters of disgust and sounds of “Uurgh!” “Yuk!” “Blurgh!” all around Charlie, but Billy Raven, sitting opposite, whispered, “Actually, I don’t mind cabbage.”
And then, from the drama table, Damian Smerk piped, “This food is disgusting. I’d like to stuff my foot down Charlie Bone’s throat.”
“Shut up, fatso,” came Olivia’s voice. “It’s not his fault.”
“It is, you wet cabbage …”
The rest of Damian’s rude remark was drowned by Dorcas Loom’s shout of, “Charlie Bone should be made to eat slugs for the rest of his life.” She followed this with a loud giggle, and several of her cronies at the art table joined in.
In Charlie’s defense, Tancred made a remark that Charlie couldn’t quite hear, but it was evidently so rude that it caused loud gasps of horror and astonishment.
Dr. Bloor stood up and glared down the room. He was about to speak when Tancred’s anger got the better of him. Plates and dishes began to slide across the tables as a violent wind rushed around the dining hall.
Dinners crashed to the floor and members of the staff leaped to their feet in dismay.
“Enough!” roared Dr. Bloor. “Tancred Torsson, CONTROL yourself!”
The headmaster stood at the edge of the dais, his hands behind his back, glowering at Tancred while the stormy boy calmed down and the dinner tables gradually returned to normal. “Now, go get a dustpan and a cloth,” Dr. Bloor shouted at Tancred. “You can clean up the mess you’ve caused.”
“Yes, sir.” Tancred slouched out of the hall, only just managing to keep his green cape under control.
Charlie felt guilty. It was all his fault. Tancred was paying for his terrible carelessness in letting the sorcerer out. He was almost relieved when Dr. Bloor said, “Charlie Bone, stand up.”
Charlie stood, knees shaking slightly, hands clinging to the table.
“You know where you should be, don’t you?” said the headmaster in a steely voice.
“Um, I’m not sure, sir,” said Charlie.
“Searching, boy. Searching!”
“I have been, sir. I can’t find — it — er, him.”
“I’m sure there’s one place where you haven’t looked, isn’t there?” He waited for an answer, but when Charlie failed to give him one, he repeated, “ISN’T THERE?”
In a small shred of a voice, Charlie croaked, “Yes, sir.”
“And where is that?”
“The ruin, sir.”
Every knife and fork was still. Every mouth was motionless. Every eye was on Charlie, and every person in the room felt glad to be themselves and not Charlie Bone.
“Then you’d better get out there, hadn’t you?” Dr. Bloor’s voice was now a menacing hiss.
“Yes, sir.” Charlie took one look at his pile of cabbage and left the dining hall.
The bright, sunny day had turned dull and damp, and Charlie shivered as he ran toward the castle ruin. It was one thing to go into the castle with a friend, in daylight. It was quite another to go alone when dusk was approaching.
The tall red walls were half-buried in the woods, and when Charlie stepped through the great arched entrance, he paused to catch his breath and to make a decision. He was in a paved courtyard facing five stone arches, each one a different entrance into the castle. Which one to choose? Charlie eventually made for the middle arch because he knew where it led.
He stepped into a dark passage where small creatures scurried around his feet and wet, slimy things moved under his fingers as he put out a hand to steady himself. At last he emerged into the light, and crossing yet another courtyard, he descended a flight of stone steps into a glade ringed by broken statues. In the center of the glade stood a large stone tomb and, climbing onto its mossy lid, Charlie stood up and listened.
He hoped that from this position he would hear any unusual creaks or rustles that might give away Skarpo’s position. But it was hopeless. Sounds came from all directions: the stirring of leaves and rubble, the sighing of the wind, and the continuous patter and scrabble of tiny feet.
Charlie jumped down from the tomb and walked through the ring of statues to a gap in the wall behind them. He waded through brambles and nettles, he stumbled over fallen walls, and tumbled down hidden steps, and then he began to call. “Skarpo! Skarpo! Are you there? Please, please tell me. I’ll do anything for you if you help me now.” Charlie realized this was a bit rash, but he was desperate.
Shadows moved across the walls, trees murmured, and birds scattered, shrieking into the wind.
Charlie looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. Homework was over. His friends would all be in bed. Dr. Bloor hadn’t told him when to come back. Was he expected to stay in the ruin all night?
“No way,” Charlie muttered to himself. He knew what sometimes stalked the ruins after dark: a boy who wasn’t a boy, Asa Pike on four feet, furred and fanged, his eyes glowing a wild yellow, his spiteful snicker turned to a snarl. A running, hunting, deadly beast.
Charlie began to retrace his steps. Plunging through the undergrowth he reached the ring of statues quicker than he had hoped. He was about to cross the glade when he saw a movement on the courtyard above him. Charlie shrank into the bushes behind a statue. In the dying rays of the sun he saw something that made his flesh creep. A woman was standing at the top of the steps, an ancient woman in a long white dress, gray-faced, her flesh lined like a spider’s web, her white hair hanging in thin strands over her bony shoulders.
“Yolanda,” breathed Charlie. “Belle.”
He wished he hadn’t seen her. And he wished he hadn’t seen the gray beast crouching in her shadow.
The woman’s eyes narrowed; she seemed to be looking straight at Charlie, and then she walked away. As she moved, the beast followed, close at her heels, like a dog. Only it wasn’t dog, or a wolf, or a hyena. It was a gray thing with a crooked back; a long, drooping tail; yellow eyes; and a snout like a boar.
Charlie closed his eyes and held his breath. They’re the same, he thought. Asa and Belle. Both shape-shifters. No wonder Asa can’t keep away from her.
It was dark when he felt safe enough to come out of his hiding place. Even so, he crept every inch of the way. But once he was beyond the castle walls, he tore across the grass and flung himself through the garden door, tumbling onto the flagstones of the hall, as if he’d been poleax
ed.
The building was silent. Charlie dragged himself up to his dormitory and fell onto his bed.
“Any luck?” Fidelio whispered sleepily.
“No,” murmured Charlie. He thought, dismally, of the punishment awaiting him. There was no question, now, that he would be punished. How could he possibly find Skarpo before nine o’clock? He thought he was too worried to sleep, but exhaustion overcame him as soon as he closed his eyes.
When he woke up, he thought he’d been having a nightmare. It was still dark and, at the other end of the dormitory, Billy Raven seemed to be muttering to himself. There was an awful smell in the room.
Damian Smerk moaned, “Billy Raven, get that lousy dog out of here. It stinks to high heaven.”
More muttering. A pattering of claws across the floor, and then the door banged shut.
Charlie closed his eyes again, but all at once a voice beside his ear whispered, “Charlie? Charlie, are you awake?”
“Uh?” grunted Charlie.
“It’s me, Billy. Blessed was here. He says Cook wants to see you. Now. It’s very urgent.”
At the back of the blue kitchen, there was a broom closet. The contents of this closet — mops, dustpans, brushes, and dusters — hid a low door with a handle that looked like a small wooden peg. A duster hung on it permanently as a disguise. If the handle was turned, however, the door opened into a softly lit corridor.
When Cook came to Bloor’s Academy, she had been given a cold room in the east wing, but she had no intention of staying there. The Bloors had no idea of her true identity; they never imagined that Cook knew more about the ancient building than they did themselves. She had very soon moved into a secret underground apartment they knew nothing about.
How could the Bloors have guessed that Cook had arrived with the sole purpose of helping the children of the Red King? Being endowed herself (another thing the Bloors had no inkling of) Cook had always had a powerful urge to protect children who might suffer for their talents. And she had a strong suspicion that of all the endowed children at Bloor’s Academy, it was Charlie Bone, with his eager and often clumsy attempts to help people, who was most in need of her watchful eye.
Charlie had a tendency to rush at things without thinking them through, and now he had made his most foolish move yet. With Cook’s help he would have to put it right.
Blessed led Charlie as far as the kitchen but would go no farther. He lay in front of the door, with his head resting on his paws. Obviously, he was in the habit of guarding Cook’s quarters at night.
Charlie made his way over to the broom closet. He had been to Cook’s underground rooms twice before but, as far as he knew, Gabriel was the only other person in the school who knew about them, and he had been sworn to secrecy.
Charlie clambered over bottles of polish, cans, brooms, and piles of rags. He turned the handle in the small door and it creaked open. Charlie stepped into the corridor behind it and ran toward a flight of steps. He entered another closet and knocked on a panel at the back.
“Is that you, Charlie Bone?” came Cook’s voice.
“Yes,” said Charlie softly.
“You’d better come in, then.”
Charlie stepped into a low-ceilinged room with worn, comfortable armchairs and darkly glinting wooden furniture. In winter Cook’s stove glowed with bright coals, but today the fire was out and the room had an indoor, summer stuffiness.
One of the armchairs had been turned to face the cold stove and, in the lamplight, Charlie could see a long black shoe and the hem of a dark robe. Someone else was in the room.
Cook put a finger to her lips. “Shhh!”
Charlie tiptoed around the chair and almost jumped out of his skin. There, fast asleep, was Skarpo the sorcerer.
“How did he get here?” whispered Charlie.
“I might ask you the same thing. What have you done, Charlie Bone?”
“It’s not my fault, honestly. I didn’t think it was possible. You see …” Charlie felt slightly embarrassed. “I went into this painting where he was. And he must have come out with me. But I didn’t see him.”
“Tsk! Tsk!” Cook shook her head. “The poor man was in a terrible state when I found him. He was crouching in my broom closet, weeping, begging me to let him go home. He can’t stand it here — the noise, the lights, so many people. He’s terrified.”
“He’s done some pretty terrifying things himself,” said Charlie, forgetting to whisper.
Skarpo’s eyes suddenly flew open. “You!” he cried, glaring at Charlie.
“Yes, me,” said Charlie.
The sorcerer uttered a string of words that were quite unintelligible to Charlie. “What’s he talking about?” he asked Cook.
Cook gave a grim smile. “He speaks in an ancient jargon, but luckily we come from the same part of the world, so I can just understand him. The poor man is asking you to take him home.”
“How can I do that?” said Charlie. “The painting’s at home, and I won’t get out of here till Friday.”
Skarpo, who’d been watching Charlie’s lips, turned to Cook with a frown. In a strange singsong voice, Cook explained Charlie’s problem.
Skarpo groaned.
“I’m already in trouble over this,” said Charlie. “Dr. Bloor guessed it was my fault — all the bells and the frogs and chickens and stuff. I’m dead meat if it doesn’t stop. So you’d better quit putting spells on things or I won’t be around to help you.”
Skarpo scowled and muttered something.
“I think he understands,” said Cook. She heaved a sigh. “I suppose I’d better keep him here until Friday, although I can tell you, I don’t enjoy sharing my quarters with a sorcerer. Imagine! His father sailed over from Italy with Rizzio, who was Mary, Queen of Scots’ great chum.”
“Wasn’t he murdered?” said Charlie.
“Horribly,” said Cook in an undertone. “You’d better pop back to bed now, Charlie, or you’ll never wake up in the morning.”
Charlie was about to leave when a problem occurred to him. “How’s he going to get out of here without being seen?”
“The same way he got in,” said Cook mysteriously. “Good night, Charlie.”
Charlie didn’t trust Skarpo. Next morning he waited for something awful to happen. But no more elephants or frogs arrived. The sky was clear and blue, the sausages remained sausages, and nothing happened to the evening meat loaf.
“Too bad,” muttered Fidelio, the vegetarian.
All through supper, Charlie could feel Dr. Bloor’s cold eyes on him, and he had a feeling that the headmaster was almost disappointed. He had probably enjoyed thinking up some awful punishment for Charlie.
In the King’s room after supper, there was an atmosphere you could cut with a knife, as Grandma Bone would have put it. Charlie heard Zelda whisper, “Bone’s Mayhem Monday,” and Asa gave one of his horrible snorts.
It was a very uncomfortable hour, with Lysander’s drums still throbbing in the background and Tancred’s angry breeze blowing paper off the table. Just to put him in his place, Zelda started moving books and pens out of their owners’ reach. Worst of all was Manfred’s hypnotizing stare, which seemed to be constantly aimed at Charlie.
Belle was watching Charlie, too. But her face wore a spiteful, bitter look. What was she up to? Charlie wondered.
He told no one of his nighttime visit to Cook, but when he, Gabriel, and Fidelio were on their way to bed, Fidelio said, “Come on, Charlie, what’s happened? Did you find the old fellow?”
“Yes,” said Charlie. He looked over his shoulder. There was no one within earshot so he described his meeting with the sorcerer.
His friends stood motionless in the passage and listened with rapt attention.
“So that’s why the bats aren’t gold anymore,” murmured Gabriel.
Matron came striding toward them, shouting, “Why are you three lurking there? Bed. Come on, now.” She clapped her hands aggressively.
To Charlie’s gre
at relief, the rest of the week passed without any more unpleasant or magical incidents. People stopped giving him funny looks and whispering behind his back, and by Friday afternoon most of the school was so occupied with the end-of-semester play, they had forgotten about Charlie Bone’s Mayhem Monday.
Charlie had often wished he could take part in the play. All his friends were involved; if they weren’t acting, they were painting scenery, making costumes, or playing an instrument. Even Billy Raven had been roped in to play an elfish drummer. But Charlie was considered useless when it came to entertainment.
Today, however, Charlie was glad to get out of school while so many of the others had to stay behind for rehearsals. But as the school bus approached Filbert Street, his stomach began to lurch uncomfortably. If Skarpo had managed to get into the house without Grandma Bone seeing him, where would he be? And what would he be doing?
Charlie got off the bus and walked very slowly down Filbert Steet. He was thinking of a bargain he wanted to make with Skarpo. He would agree to take him back into the painting only if he could advise Charlie how to make Ollie Sparks visible again. Surely a sorcerer would know how to do that?
Charlie climbed the steps of number nine and was about to let himself in when the door suddenly opened and there stood Skarpo.
“AAAH!” shrieked Charlie.
The sorcerer gave a black-toothed smile, and Charlie quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching. But no one in the street paid any attention. They were used to the strange goings-on at number nine.
The sorcerer said something that sounded like “Whisht!” and pulled Charlie over the threshold.
“Has anyone seen you?” Charlie whispered. “A woman? An old woman?”
“Nae woman,” said Skarpo. He grabbed Charlie’s arm and dragged him into the kitchen where the painting sat propped against a bowl of fruit on the table. Skarpo nodded at the painting, and said, “Now!”
“Not here,” said Charlie. “Someone might come in. Upstairs.” He pointed at the ceiling.