The Shadow Thief Page 7

  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 B
all. 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 min
d 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.