He was a dark mage, just like his father had been.
He was a scholar too, although who knew where that had come from. Not that kharakter was really something that people inherited. Not usually. But it was uncanny just how like his father Maximilian was. He had the same eyes. The same jawline. But he was kind where his father had been cruel. That was the big difference, of course.
Odile looked at the recipe her neighbour Dill Hammer had given her for the meal they had shared last night. It was simpler than she’d thought it would be.
Maximilian, being a mage scholar, should really have been spending all his time in his bedroom thinking of dark things and finding new ways to travel to the Underworld (Odile knew all about those trips, too, and had asked her friend Calico Quinn to keep half an eye on her Neophyte son when he was there). But Maximilian had been popping over to Dill Hammer’s bungalow quite a lot lately to talk about the Diberi, and conspiracy theories, and the best ways to cook quinoa. It made sense that Maximilian liked quinoa – his taste in food had been very odd since he’d epiphanised – and so last night Odile and Maximilian had gone to Dill’s and eaten what became a feast of strangeness: a warm winter salad with chicory, kale (which Dill Hammer had actually massaged) and blood oranges, alongside tempeh burgers with kimchi and miso. Desert had been a special fermented pudding that Dill Hammer had been tending in his cellar for weeks.
It was all a bit suspicious.
Odile knew almost everything about her son, except this. Why on earth would a mage scholar who wore black and listened to Beethoven all the time want to hang out with a fusty old hedgewitch with a whole shelf devoted to books on identifying mushrooms? Mind you, mushrooms could be sort of magey too. Maybe that was it. And Dill was nice. He and Odile had been friends for years.
‘Maximilian!’
He emerged from his bedroom in black jeans and a black jumper as usual, with that strange silver vial around his neck. Maximilian was wearing his Spectacles of Knowledge regularly again, which was a good sign. The spectacles at least were likely to be sensible. He had his school rucksack with him too. He was stuffing into it a big notepad and the pencil case that contained his fountain pen, three pencils and a selection of black onyx and haematite crystals that Odile hadn’t been able to help noticing last time she’d cleaned out her son’s room. The haematite was for scholars. But the black onyx was a mage’s stone.
‘Remind me what you’re doing at the university again,’ said Odile.
‘Helping Effie’s dad set up his stall.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be at the university next week as well, instead of school?’ Odile frowned. ‘Is it next week or the one after? I honestly can’t keep up with everything you do. I remember the good old days when school was just simple. You went to one place, learned something and then came home . . .’
‘It’s next week,’ said Maximilian. ‘I brought a letter home. I’m going to be in the Creative Writing Department.’
‘And is Effie’s dad paying you for helping him today?’
‘No. He’s letting us use the library as a reward.’
‘The University Library?’
‘Of course. What other library is there?’
‘It’s just . . .’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it is a bit dangerous in there. I mean, I take it you’ll be going to Special Collections. You will be careful?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
What was it about mothers? Odile Underwood knew – or, in some cases, rightly suspected – that Maximilian had recently braved, among other things, poisonous spiders, an evil bookseller, a houseful of existentialist faeries, a dream doctor in the Underworld and – perhaps worst of all – the experience of learning to ride a horse. But she was still worried about him spending Saturday afternoon in a library.
‘Bunting?’ repeated Orwell Bookend. The face he made when he said this was the same one he pulled when he walked into a room just after baby Luna had been changed. It was as if he was being completely enveloped in the heady smell of fresh poo.
‘Bunting?’ he said again.
‘And balloons,’ said the student helper.
‘Balloons?’ said Orwell. The way he said ‘balloons’ suggested a much larger quantity of much smellier poo. ‘I’m not having balloons on my stall. Balloons, for heaven’s sake! Absolutely not. This is a serious university faculty. We explore language, meaning and great literature in a dignified way. This isn’t a blooming children’s party.’
‘They’re having bunting and balloons outside on the gates all week long,’ explained the student helper. ‘To make people feel welcome during the Winter Fair.’
‘Welcome? Hmmm. But do balloons really make people feel welcome?’ said Orwell. ‘Has there been a study? Are there facts and figures? Surely they just have a cheapening, mind-numbing, distracting effect. Oh, for goodness’ sake!’
While he’d been in discussion with the student helper, Effie and Raven had tacked up two rows of cheerful bunting above the Faculty of Linguistics stall, and Maximilian had blown up a number of yellow and purple balloons. They were doing an excellent job. There were several reasons for this. One was that they were very helpful and nice children. Another was that they too hated bunting and balloons and wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. They wanted to be alone in the library to talk privately and look at magical, forbidden books.
Effie, Raven and Maximilian needed to chat particularly urgently about something peculiar they’d just seen. Laurel Wilde, who had recently joined the university’s Creative Writing Department, and Dora Wright, who had once taught at the Tusitala School for the Gifted, Troubled and Strange, but who now also taught here at the university, had been in the dimly lit corridor just beyond the Great Hall, laughing and joking with Terrence Deer-Hart – the children’s author who, of course, had been in league with Skylurian Midzhar, and who had been involved in the kidnappings of both Laurel Wilde and Raven Wilde. What on earth was going on?
Not only that: Dora Wright seemed to have undergone a complete transformation. The children hadn’t seen her since September, when she’d won a short story competition and then been captured by the Diberi. She’d then been made to work in a factory creating cheap fiction that was destined to be read, pulped and then sort of boiled down into tainted lifeforce for the Diberi to use in their evil schemes.
Back in September, Dora Wright had been a normal teacher who wore unflattering long skirts and flowery tops with sensible shoes and baggy tights. Now she was resplendent in a black chiffon gown with a lurid stormy-purple feather boa. She had dyed her hair a sort of pinky-blue colour and somehow made it much, much bigger. It no longer flopped at either side of her head like the pelt of a dead creature, but rose alarmingly towards the heavens like a cat that had taken fright at something. Her eyelids were heavy with sky-blue eyeshadow. Particles from her perfume were currently heading into outer space. There were bits of glitter in constant orbit around her.
‘What do you think happened to Miss Wright?’ said Maximilian, attaching another yellow balloon to the end of the pump.
‘She does look very different,’ said Effie. ‘Quite nice, though. I mean, you definitely wouldn’t lose her in a crowd. But more importantly, why was she talking to Terrence Deer-Hart? I didn’t think they knew each other.’
‘I suppose they’re colleagues now,’ said Maximilian. ‘And they’ll be our teachers next week.’
‘My mum says that they’ve all forgiven Terrence Deer-Hart because he was actually under Skylurian Midzhar’s spell when he kidnapped us,’ said Raven. ‘And she says that Miss Wright looks like that because of all the romance novels she’s written. All her characters dress like that. Eventually all writers grow into their characters, according to my mum.’
‘So is your mum going to become a child magician, in that case?’ said Maximilian, blowing up another balloon and then passing it to Raven to be tied.
‘She does wear a lot of capes, I suppose,’ said Raven. ‘And she spends her spare time doing ballet, horse-riding and eating chocolate. In some ways she is actually a lot more like people our age than people her age. And she believes in magic now, after what happened with Skylurian. I think she might even have epiphanised. So who knows?’
After Raven and Laurel had been kidnapped by the Diberi they’d become much closer for a while. But just lately Laurel Wilde had started going out in the evenings and either leaving Raven alone, or with one of the poets, playwrights or librettists who seemed constantly to hang around the house. Laurel’s current favourite was Torben from the Borders, who wore pyjamas all day, ate black garlic sandwiches and used a lot of swear-words in his poetry.
‘What are you children nattering about?’ said Orwell. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for idle chit-chat later. Come on – I want to finish before the others do.’
Effie pulled another string of bunting out of the old carrier bag that had been brought by the student helper. It felt quite nice being back in her normal world again, chatting with her friends. And as long as she didn’t think at all about her last trip to the Otherworld, then everything was fine.
Effie sighed. The problem was that it was impossible not to think about it. If only it hadn’t happened at all. Effie wished so much that she could go back in time and do everything differently. But what would she really change? Should she have lied when Dr Wiseacre had questioned her? She climbed onto the stepladder and tacked up the bunting. The sooner this could be done, and the sooner she could get to the library, the better. There must be something more she could find out about the Otherworld.
Effie tried not to glance at Tabitha Quinn, who had been giving her evil glares from the Department of Subterranean Geography stand for the last half an hour. She was there with her mother, Professor Quinn. Effie had been hoping she might bump into Leander, Tabitha’s older brother – who was much nicer, and who was an interpreter just like Effie – but so far only Tabitha had turned up to help. She was ridiculously attired in a deep-purple silk flapper dress which was covered in crystals, and she had a string of pearls around her neck. On her feet she wore white high-heeled Mary Janes. It was how all the junior girls at Blessed Bartolo’s dressed at the moment.
Last time Effie had seen Tabitha had been on the fateful night of the Sterran Guandré. Because of Tabitha, Effie had lost her valuable calling card that took her directly to Truelove House. Afterwards, Tabitha claimed she’d been put under a spell by the powerful Diberi Skylurian Midzhar, but Effie wasn’t completely convinced. And she had no idea why Tabitha would still have it in for her. Effie had also beaten Tabitha at tennis once, but surely she would have forgotten that by now?
Several minutes later – by now the minutes were feeling more like hours – Effie was so focused on untangling an ancient-looking string of bunting – and not looking at Tabitha – that she hardly noticed that a broad, big-haired man was suddenly looming over her. Lexy was standing next to him with a strange expression on her face.
‘This is Effie Truelove,’ Lexy was saying.
‘Aha!’ boomed the man. ‘Yes, I’d been hoping to meet the famous young Truelove girl. Hello!’
Orwell Bookend looked up from his own tangle of bunting. He appeared finally to have given in about the decorations, though he didn’t seem very happy about it.
‘Another Truelove perhaps?’ said Jupiter Peacock to Orwell, stepping forward and holding out his hand.
‘No,’ said Orwell sourly. ‘Who are you?’
‘Professor Jupiter Peacock. Call me JP.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Orwell, brightening as he always did when he realised he was talking to a famous person, especially one who could influence one of his promotions. He took JP’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. ‘I’m Dr Orwell Bookend, Dean of the Faculty of Linguistics. And you’ve translated that, er, book . . . I hear it’s doing rather well . . . And of course you’re giving the Midwinter Lecture on Monday. We’re all looking forward to it very much.’
Jupiter Peacock reached into his brown briefcase and pulled out a thin hardback book with a purple cloth cover and gold lettering.
‘Here,’ he said, giving it to Effie. ‘A family copy. For you and your, er . . .’
‘He’s my dad,’ said Effie. ‘We’ve just got different names.’
‘For you and your father then.’ JP smiled widely without showing any of his teeth. He looked a bit like a balloon that had been blown up a little too much – like all the ones Maximilian had just done.
‘Thanks,’ said Effie, putting the book down on the trestle table alongside some torn bunting. She wasn’t really that interested in having a ‘family copy’ of some book translated by a visiting professor whom her father wanted to impress. But whatever.
Now someone else approached their table. She was extremely thin and dressed entirely in black lace, except for her platform boots, which were white, and her fur cape, which was pale grey.
‘JP,’ she said, drawing out the letters for much too long in her very deep Russian-sounding voice. ‘There you are.’ She rolled her Rs unnervingly. ‘The others are waiting for you in the seminar room. Gotthard is very excited to see you again. Don’t keep him waiting.’
Orwell Bookend held out his hand.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You must be Lady Tchainsaw. I’ve read all your poems.’
This was, of course, a lie. Orwell never read poetry, if he could help it. But Lady Tchainsaw was also quite famous and had recently joined the university’s Creative Writing Department. It was always good to get in with the creative writers. Not only were they the most famous members of the university, but everyone knew they had the most fun.
She completely ignored him.
‘Come on,’ she said to JP, then turned to leave.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Oh, but before we go you might be interested to know that this is Euphemia Truelove.’
Lady Tchainsaw turned again slowly, like the revolving head of an owl.
‘Euphemia Truelove?’ she said, looking Effie up and down as if Effie were a small shrew that the owl was just about to swoop down on. ‘Hello, darlink.’
‘Er, hello,’ said Effie.
‘Well, see you later, folks,’ said JP cheerfully. ‘Come on,’ he said to Lady Tchainsaw, who was still staring at Effie in an intense and suspicious way.
Effie didn’t notice the title of the book on the trestle table until Jupiter Peacock had followed Lady Tchainsaw down the gloomy corridor in which Laurel Wilde and Dora Wright had just been seen. But when Effie did look at it her heart seemed to fly into space like a rocket before landing with a massive thump back in her chest. GALLOGLASS, it said on the front. That was its title: GALLOGLASS.
It was as if he knew. But how could he?
‘Who exactly was that man?’ said Effie to Lexy.
‘No one,’ said Lexy. ‘A very annoying person.’
‘What’s this about?’ Effie asked her, picking up the book. As well as the gold lettering on the front, its pages had gold edges. Effie’s heart was thumping so hard she felt sure that everyone could hear it.
‘God knows,’ said Lexy, rolling her eyes.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ said Maximilian to Lexy.
Lexy was certainly more gloomy than anyone had ever seen her. She was usually so cheerful. And whenever one of the others was miserable or defeated, it was always Lexy who found the remedy – which usually involved a cup of herbal tea, a freshly charged crystal and an early night. But now she didn’t answer. She just frowned.
Effie opened the book. Inside, the words were arranged in a long column, with an awful lot of footnotes. Every other line seemed to rhyme with the one just before it. It was clearly some sort of poem. Mrs Beathag Hide had once tried, unsuccessfully, to teach her class the names of things that happened in poems. Were these iambic pentameters? Rhyming couplets? Pterodactyls? Effie had no idea.
‘It’s about how being selfish is really great,’
said Lexy. ‘If you’re into that sort of thing.’
‘What?’ said Effie. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah. Apparently galloglass is like a category of person . . . Some people think they’re selfish and horrible, but actually they’re really important and inspiring and wonderful. Apparently.’
Effie had listened to the first part of what Lexy said but missed the sarcasm in the last word. This was a book that said it was a good thing to be a galloglass? Suddenly, Effie wanted to read it, more than she wanted to read anything else. Just then Orwell reached over with one of his big hands and scooped up the book.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll have this.’
‘Dad!’
‘What? Don’t tell me you suddenly want to read poetry? Trust me. This won’t be your sort of thing.’
‘But—’
‘You can read it after me, if you’re that desperate. In the meantime I’m going to mug up on all this galloglass theory so I can ask a very informed question after the lecture. Ha! I’ll show them.’
It was never clear exactly whom Orwell meant when he said ‘them’ in this way. But he looked quite pleased with himself.
‘Right. Didn’t you all want to go to the library?’ asked Orwell.
‘If you’re sure you don’t need us any more, Dr Bookend,’ said Raven.
Orwell took the library key from his pocket.
‘I see we now have almost the full complement of your little friends.’ He looked at Effie, twirling the key in his long fingers. ‘The only one missing is the tough boy. Where’s he today?’
It was a good question. Something else to discuss as soon as Effie and her friends could get some privacy.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied.
‘So we’ll be looking for four bodies down there if you get lost, or if there’s another worldquake, or if everyone simply forgets about you? Not five?’ Orwell Bookend delivered this the way he delivered all his jokes: without any trace of humour. It was clear he did mean this to be funny, though: he didn’t really believe in magic, and especially not magical libraries. And how could something that didn’t exist be dangerous?
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