"I want to know," said Billy.
So Charlie told Billy everything: from the moment he heard the wind sighing out of the painting, to the appearance of Runner Bean in Badlock. Billy shuffled and gasped; he pulled his hood up and hunched himself down, as though he were trying to block out Charlie's words yet was desperate to hear more. When Charlie described how he had escaped from the painting with Claerwen's help, Billy gave a sigh of relief and said, "That's alright, then. But you'd better not go near that painting again, Charlie."
"It's not all right," said Charlie. "I couldn't get Runner Bean out. He's stuck in that awful place, and none of us knows how to..."
"Can you see him?" asked Billy.
"Yes. It's horrible. He's howling."
"Maybe I can, kind of, connect with him," Billy suggested.
Charlie hesitated. "It might be dangerous for you, Billy."
Billy was silent for a while. He swung his legs and looked through the great arch to where distant figures could be seen running over the field. "Benjamin must be upset," he said.
"He is," Charlie admitted. "I don't think he'll talk to me until I've rescued his dog."
Billy looked thoughtful. "I can still come home with you, Charlie, can't I? Even if I don't look at the painting?"
"Of course you can."
As they left the ruins, Charlie's moth fluttered out of his pocket and settled on his shoulder.
"We'll be OK if your moth's with us," Billy said with a grin.
Charlie didn't reply. Claerwen had saved him from Badlock, but she hadn't managed to do the same for Runner Bean.
When the sound of the horn blew across the grounds, the boys began to run back to the school. Neither of them saw Dagbert Endless moving out of the trees, close to the castle entrance.
Charlie's trumpet lesson always finished early. Sehor Alvaro now taught all the brass band students and was generally very successful. He was young and cheerful, with an interesting mustache and smiling, almond-shaped eyes. In Sehor Alvaro's opinion, Charlie could have played the trumpet tolerably well, if he put his mind to it. But the boy with riotous hair seemed unable to concentrate.
Today Charlie was happy to be released ten minutes before lunch.
"Do you think it eez possible you spare some time to practice this week?" asked Sehor Alvaro pleasantly.
"Urn, yes, sir," said Charlie, who was already wondering how he could get a moment alone with Cook.
"Gracias," called Sehor Alvaro as Charlie pounded down the hallway.
Finding Cook was not as difficult as Charlie had imagined. She was sitting at one of the tables in the blue cafeteria, having a cup of tea with a white-haired, robust-looking man: Dr. Saltweather.
"A bit early for lunch, aren't we, Charlie Bone?" Dr. Saltweather remarked. "Shouldn't you still be in class?"
"Sehor Alvaro let me go; I hadn't practiced enough," Charlie confessed.
Dr. Saltweather sighed. He was head of music and felt responsible for Charlie's lack of progress. Charlie's father was the cathedral organist and a brilliant musician, but Charlie seemed to have inherited none of his father's talent. Dr. Saltweather was aware of Charlie's extraordinary endowment, however, and had a certain amount of sympathy for the boy.
"I wanted to ask Cook about Mr. Onimous," said Charlie.
"Mr. Onimous?" Cook's rosy face took on an anxious look. "He's not too well, Charlie. He's in the hospital.
Concussion. Poor Mrs. Onimous is beside herself."
"And... and the animals?" asked Charlie.
"Well, the Flames can look after themselves," Cook said confidently, "and you can tell Billy that his rat is quite safe. He's with Mrs. Kettle."
"And the boa?" said Charlie.
"Same place, Charlie. The Kettle Shop."
Dr. Saltweather stood up and pushed in his chair. "I hear the Pets' Cafe has been closed," he said.
Cook nodded. "My poor friends. Councillor Loom was responsible."
"That's terrible." Dr. Saltweather strode toward the door. "Something must be done about it," he boomed.
The music teacher's commanding tone gave Charlie a surge of hope. "D'you think Dr. Saltweather can do something about the cafe?" he asked Cook.
"He'll certainly try. But he'll be up against some pretty powerful people, and I wouldn't like him to put himself in danger." Cook carried the two mugs to the counter and Charlie followed with the teapot and two empty plates. "There are certain people in this city who've been just waiting to finish off the Pets' Cafe." Cook went on, "They don't like you children meeting up on the weekend and hatching plots."
"We don't hatch plots," Charlie said indignantly.
"No? Think about it, Charlie. Oh, I know your plots are all for the best reasons, but they don't like it."
"But the Pets' Cafe is a good place, Cook. It's a happy place. Where else can pets meet and enjoy great food? It's not just useful to us; hundreds of people love it."
"You don't have to tell me, Charlie." Cook lifted the lid from a pan of fish stew on the counter and sniffed. "I'd better check the kitchen and see what my lunch ladies are up to."
Charlie stood by the counter, patiently waiting for someone to come and ladle out the stew. Other music students began to arrive and by the time one of the lunch ladies turned up, a long line had formed behind Charlie.
Once he had been served, Charlie went to his favorite table in the corner of the cafeteria. Before long, he was joined by Gabriel, Billy, and Fidelio. The stew was soon gone, and as they lined up for their dessert, Fidelio remarked that Dagbert Endless was missing.
"Probably ate too much fish over the weekend," Gabriel remarked.
Charlie wouldn't have laughed so heartily if he had known what Dagbert was up to. In fact, he wouldn't have laughed at all.
It wasn't until the end of homework that Charlie began to miss his moth. She often disappeared for a few hours; maybe she slept in the folds of a curtain or nestled behind a picture frame. Charlie never knew. But in the evening she would usually flutter onto his arm or his shoulder, as if she were reassuring him that she was near, and then she would fly off again.
This time, Claerwen's absence worried Charlie. As he left the King's room, he asked Billy if he had seen the moth.
"Not since she was on your arm this morning," said Billy.
Gabriel hadn't seen her, nor had Emma.
"She'll turn up," said Lysander. "Probably eating a spider somewhere."
"Or being eaten by a bat," said Tancred.
Lysander dug him in the ribs. "Cut it out, Tanc. Charlie loves that moth."
Dagbert Endless passed them silently. Charlie noticed that he wore a slight smile. Had he been listening to their conversation?
Dagbert didn't go straight to the dormitory, like the others. He slipped down the main staircase and crossed the hall.
Dr. Saltweather chose that moment to leave the staff room. "Where do you think you're going, Dagbert Endless?" he demanded.
"I've got to show the talents master some work," Dagbert said casually.
"Be quick about it, then," said Dr. Saltweather. "It'll be lights-out in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, sir." Dagbert ran down the passage to his classroom. He went to a desk at the back of the room and opened the lid. Inside the desk lay something resembling a fine white handkerchief. Dorcas had done her work well. On Dagbert's instructions, she had gone to the sewing room during lunch and had quickly woven a nice little net. It was made of the finest muslin and fixed to a long bamboo cane, helpfully provided by Weedon. Just to make sure the net would do what Dagbert intended, Dorcas had dipped the muslin in the juice of a rare herb: still-wort. She had never used the herb before and was interested to see if it would work.
It had worked very well. The moth inside the net lay so still it appeared to be dead.
"Did you catch it?" Dorcas peered around the door.
"It was easy," said Dagbert. "I've taken it off the pole. Come and look."
Dorcas crept over to Dagbert's desk.
He picked up the muslin net and laid it across his palms. Inside the net the white moth's wings rose and fell, just once, as though it were taking its last breath.
"It's not dead, then," said Dorcas, disappointment clouding her plump face.
"It will be soon," Dagbert told her. He laid the net on his desk and went to the supply cabinet, where Mr. Carp, the English teacher, kept a thick glass jar.
Dagbert brought the jar over to his desk and eased the opening of the net around the top of the glass. The white moth fell in.
"There," said Dagbert. "Now I'll take it to Manfred."
"You will tell him I helped, won't you?" said Dorcas. "I mean, I did make the net and the poison and everything."
"Of course I'll tell him, Dorc. You're a genius, you know that?"
"Yes, I do." A smile dimpled her cheeks.
Dagbert covered the jar with the muslin and carried it to the door. Dorcas rushed to open it for Dagbert, who sailed through with a muttered "Thanks" and continued across the hall. Dorcas flew ahead of him and opened the small, ancient door that led to the west wing.
"You will tell him, won't you?" begged Dorcas again.
"I said I would," Dagbert replied, stepping into the dark passage behind the door. "Better get to bed, Dorc, or Matron'll come down on you."
"And Manfred will tell Fairy Tilpin about me, won't he?" Dorcas went on. "She'll be so pleased."
"YES!" Dagbert gave the door a backward kick and it slammed in Dorcas's face.
Students seldom went to the west wing. It was home to the Bloor family, and they didn't like staff or children intruding. At the far end of the hall, a dim light could be seen in the room at the base of the music tower. Dagbert made his way toward the light.
The walls on either side of him gave off the damp, earthy smell of old brick, and moss grew in the cracked slate floor.
Halfway down the passage, a bookcase stood in a small recess. Holding the jar tight against his body with his left hand, Dagbert used his right to remove two books from a shelf. He knocked on the bare wood behind them.
"Who is it?" called a voice.
"Dagbert, sir. I've got something to show you."
"Oh, yes," said Manfred in a bored voice.
"A moth."
"A moth?" Manfred sounded more interested now. "You'd better come in."
The bookcase swung back, revealing a small study. Manfred Bloor was sitting behind a desk where green bottles, earthenware jars, rusty tins, and wads of yellowing papers had been set out in groups.
"I hope it's THE moth, Dagbert Endless." Manfred beckoned Dagbert over. "I'm extremely busy, as you can see."
"It is the right moth, sir." Dagbert turned the jar over in his hands and laid it upside down before Manfred. Now the moth's wings were barely distinguishable from the white muslin beneath her.
Manfred peered through the thick glass. "You're sure?"
"See the silver on its wings? I know it's Charlie's. I caught it in the hallway of portraits. Thought it was so clever lying on a bunch of painted white lilies. Thought it wouldn't be seen." Dagbert wrinkled his nose. "Funny-looking person in that portrait."
Manfred gave him an icy look. "The person in that portrait was my great-great-great-grandmother, Donatella, a very brave woman. She was accidentally electrocuted in an experiment."
"Sorry," said Dagbert.
"Did anyone help you to do this?" Manfred tapped the jar.
"No, sir." Dagbert felt Manfred's black eyes boring into his, and he had to steady himself against the desk. "That is - only Dorcas. She made the poisoned net."
"That girl has extraordinary talent," Manfred said with satisfaction. "You can go now, Dagbert." He stood up and pointed to the door.
"About the moth," said Dagbert. "I know you want it so Charlie Bone can't travel safely, but I didn't catch it just for that."
"No?" Manfred looked at the trapped moth.
"No, I want to bargain with it. Tancred Torsson stole my sea urchin, and without it I can't... can't..."
"Drown people?" Manfred suggested.
"Not exactly." Dagbert frowned. "I'm just not myself without all my sea-gold creatures."
"Oh, I can deal with Tancred Torsson," said Manfred. "Don't worry, I'll return the moth when I've studied it a little. But make sure Charlie Bone never gets it." He waved a hand at Dagbert. "Now, off you go, and keep an eye on Charlie."
Charlie was standing in the bathroom, feeling very queasy. He wondered if someone had poisoned him. He clung to the sink while the room spun around him. First one way, then the other.
"You OK, Charlie?"
A voice broke through the buzz in Charlie's head. He turned painfully and saw Fidelio standing by the bathroom door.
"I feel a bit funny," said Charlie. He staggered through the door and Fidelio helped him to his bed.
Dagbert Endless came in and stood staring down at Charlie. "Not feeling well?" he asked.
Charlie looked away from Dagbert's startling sea-colored eyes. He felt his strength leaving him. He was so weak he could barely lift his arm. Vague forms moved through the mist that clouded his vision, and he heard Fidelio say, "Matron, Charlie's sick."
The matron's words came booming close to his ear, a deep, indistinct, underwater sound. "Faking it, are you, Charlie? There's nothing a good night's sleep won't cure."
The light went out. Charlie lay in the darkness while familiar images tumbled into his head: a knight in a green cloak, a stone troll, and a furious gray sea. But the leopards were absent and so was the knight with red feathers streaming from his silver helmet. And all that remained of the boat was the tip of its mast, sinking slowly into a heaving sea. And then Charlie saw Claerwen, lying in a glass tomb, while the silver sparkle drained from her white wings. With all that remained of his strength, Charlie raised himself onto his elbows and cried, "CLAERWEN!"
Every sleeping boy in the dormitory was now wide awake. Others, who had not yet fallen asleep, began to shout out.
"Shut up!"
"What's he going on about?"
"He's off his rocker!"
One of the first years sniveled, "What's the matter with him?" Someone else burst into tears.
"Calm down, everyone," said Fidelio.
"Charlie's just had a nightmare. It can happen to anyone. Are you OK now, Charlie?"
Charlie sat up. The buzzing in his head had gone. The dizziness had passed. He felt almost like his old self again. "Yes, I'm OK, thanks. I feel great, actually."
Manfred Bloor had put away his great-great-greatgrandfather's tins of desiccated snails, his bottles of aspen oil and monkey tears, his jars of seaweed and nightshade, and the sheaves of yellowing paper covered in beautiful looping script. Manfred had hoped they might be put to use sealing the crack in the Mirror of Amoret, but there was nothing in Bertram Bloor's notes about the fixing of mirrors. He was more concerned with creation, with resurrection and revival.
Manfred locked the door of his ancestor's carved oak cabinet and slipped the key into his pocket. Returning to his desk, he began to study the moth in her glass jar. "I have you now, moth, wand, whatever you are."
The moth appeared to be fading. Its silvered wings had lost their sparkle, its soft head looked crumpled.
"Dead," Manfred pronounced. "But we can still use you."
A small sound came from the glass. A tiny clink. Manfred sat back. Half-closing his eyes, he scanned the jar for a fracture, a minute flaw. He was about to look closer when, with a deafening crack, the jar burst apart. A dozen gleaming shards flew straight at the window. The thick pieces shattered the pane and glass fell in a shower, onto the cobblestones outside.
The bed of white muslin lay empty on Manfred's desk. The moth had gone.
CHAPTER 7
AN EVIL WIND
Charlie heard a voice screaming in the courtyard below the dormitory. Leaping out of bed, he ran to the window. There were already several boys pressed up against the pane.
"It's the talents master," said an excited fi
rst year.
"Look at all the glass," another boy observed.
"Someone's thrown a brick through the window," said Bragger Braine, a large second year.
"Idiot," muttered Dagbert. "The glass would be on the inside, not the outside, if that had happened."
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" twittered Rupe Small, Bragger Braine's devoted slave.
A glistening quilt of broken glass lay across the courtyard. Manfred moved slowly around it, kicking the glass with his toe, then squatting down and poking the fragments with a pencil. "Weedon!" he shouted again. "Come here, this minute!"
The headmaster, Dr. Bloor, opened one of the windows above Manfred's study. "What on earth's going on?" he shouted.
"Look!" screamed Manfred, getting to his feet. "Look at all this!" He threw out an arm, indicating the broken glass.
"How did it happen?" demanded his father.
Charlie saw Manfred hesitate. Whatever it was that had caused the accident, it was going to remain Manfred's secret, for the time being. "How should I know!" he shouted, his voice taking on a hysterical note.
"I suppose it was one of your experiments," said Dr. Bloor.
"It was NOT!" shrieked Manfred. "Where's Weedon?"
"He's tidying my study. Where else should he be?" Dr. Bloor suddenly caught sight of the faces in the dormitory window. "Get back to bed!" he bellowed. "Or you'll all get detention."
There was a frantic scramble away from the window.
Twelve boys bounced back onto their beds and drew the covers over their heads. They waited for Matron to storm in, but tonight she had other things on her mind.
Claerwen lay hidden in the rotting leaves between two flat cobblestones. She made herself as small as she could while Weedon swept up the glass fragments that covered her. He groaned with fatigue as he bent and brushed the tiny shards into his dustpan.
"Put it all in here, Weedon." Manfred held out a clear plastic bag.
"Wot you gonner do with it?" asked Weedon. "Make one of them installation art things?"
"Never mind," snapped Manfred, who was doing his own bit of sweeping. "And let me know if you see anything unusual."