“Together?”
Her voice was fading, the constant music starting to play out of tune. The Library said nothing but held out her hand. Emily’s mom’s front legs touched back down on the floor, but her lips were still peeled back from her teeth, and her dad held the sword ready to strike.
The Nocturne, a pale woman again, in the tatters of her dress, reached out to the Library. She hesitated then … grabbed her by the wrist, not the hand. Her eyes flared, midnight blue.
“No. I will have it all or no one will. I will not be CONTAINED!”
The Library tried to pull back, Emily’s mom reared up, and her dad shot forward swinging his blade. The Nocturne threw her head back and shrieked. It was the loudest noise in history, it contained every note ever sung, and the primal music of rockslides, howling storms, and cracking ice floes. It filled the room and their heads until it was unbearable. Her dad was flung away, her mom crashed to the ground, and the Library slumped to her knees, her light fading. Emily curled up in a ball, hedgehog-style, and held the Hog close to her face. She would have sworn she was going to go mad or die, then the Hog wriggled and her ears popped, and the music was quieter than it had been. Still awful, but just about bearable.
When it finally stopped, she uncurled. Every face of the clock had cracked. Her mom and dad lay unmoving, his hand flung out toward her, his sword guttering out next to him. The Nocturne stood over the Library where she knelt swaying on the floor, her hair streaked with white again, and with eyes as lost as they had been when Emily first met her.
“I was always stronger, sister. You should have remembered.” The Nocturne turned to Emily and lurched as she did. Her hair was now gray all over, her face pinched and drawn, all beauty fled. Whatever she had just done had cost her dearly.
“Still with us? You’re made of stern stuff. Give me what I desire, and I might let you live.”
Emily levered herself up off the floor, and her hand found the cool silver of the box inside her jacket.
“If I do, you’ve got to let everyone go.”
The Nocturne snarled.
“We’ve bargained this already, and you’ve broken your half. I’ll do as I please.”
“All right, all right, what if I put the pennies on the pendulum for you? Will you let them go then?” She inched closer to the blue-draped figure.
“Interesting. We can barter it perhaps. But first, hand me the prize.”
“Not unless you agree.”
“No!” The words came in a moan, from the Library, whose legs wouldn’t work to hold her up. “She doesn’t understand. It’s the end of everything.”
Emily bit the inside of her lip and took another small step toward the Nocturne. She held the box out, and the piercing blue gaze followed it.
“Agreed?”
“Not agreed. No more warnings. Return them.” The pallid face was made a skull by jade light and flickering shadows.
“You want them? Then here you go.”
She was close enough. She snapped the box open and flicked the loose coins all over the Nocturne. The thirty coins hit her straight in the face, chest, and body, and slid down the front of the remains of her dress. Not a single one slipped off, instead they all lodged where they fell—in her hair, against her skin, inside the tattered fabric. It was remarkably unlucky considering.
The Nocturne’s blue eyes widened, and she shrieked as though the pennies were white-hot. This time her shriek sounded human and scared. She began to claw at herself, hopping up and down on one foot, scratching at her chest, and digging down the front of her dress. It was a pretty good impression of a mad, self-grooming monkey and Emily had to laugh. The Nocturne snarled.
“You will pay for—”
She didn’t finish her sentence as, in rapid succession, she stepped through a previously unnoticed rotten floorboard up to her knee, and then stumbled straight into the path of a loose spring that picked that very second to snap off from the clockwork and ricochet right into her face. As she clawed at it, one of the quarter bells, smaller than Big Ben but still bigger than a car, unexpectedly rusted through and smashed down on top of her, crushing her through the floor with a squeak and a bong. What rotten luck.
“Blimey,” said Emily.
From below came a series of bangs, clangs, screams, and bursts of very loud music of all different types. It suggested a series of terribly unfortunate events befalling one person, one after another. Although it all sounded awfully painful, it was difficult for Emily not to smile. There was a final, awful throbbing note of music, then an out-of-tune howl that ended in the flat, clapping sound of air rushing in to fill an empty space. A waft of acrid black smoke drifted up through the hole in the floor.
The last note of night music had been played. The Nocturne was finished.
In the aftermath of the Battle of Big Ben, as it became known (mainly by Emily), lots of things happened. Emily helped her shaky dad over to where her mom lay flat out on the floor, human again. His hand was warm on Emily’s arm, and his face was still his face, whether it was lit by a flaming sword or not. When they got to her mom, the muffled words of one of her drinking songs were drifting up from under her multicolored mop of hair.
“Mom?”
“What, I’m awake. I’m just going to the shop—Oh!” She sat up, dazed, then grinned. “How ya, loves? All sorted, right?”
“All sorted.” Emily threw herself down and hugged her.
“Ah, I knew it would be. These things usually turn out fine.”
Her dad knelt in close, too, shaking his head as she spoke, and gathering them both into his arms.
“Uh-huh. ‘Famously uncatchable,’ I believe you said?”
“Ah, ye can’t go ’round believing everything I say, ye know. We’re a very unreliable people.” She grinned. “Anyways, didn’t ye manage to get caught, too, Mr. Danger?”
He sighed, but smiled as he did.
“That’s Mr. Dangerous Deliveries to you. I was set upon from behind while trying to rescue you, in fact.”
“Oh, and that’ll be my fault, I suppose—”
He shut her up by kissing her, and Emily didn’t even mind.
Having given the Hog a severe telling-off (“Mr. H. Oggins, you have been very naughty. What were you thinking?”), she kissed his nose and popped him back in her pocket and they all went down to find Tarkus. He was still propped up on the stairs, semiconscious, but okay. Emily made him a daffodil and chip sandwich and sat with him while healing witches were called. He was soon carried down by a squad of the Night Watch, including, to Emily’s astonishment, a tearful-looking Sarge (who proved to Emily’s further surprise to be two feet tall, and made principally of ivy). There was even talk of a promotion.
The Bear had vanished, leaving behind only an enormous dent in the floor.
Of the Nocturne there was no sign, either, apart from a cracked quarter bell, the shreds of a blue dress, and a scattered pile of coins. Emily helped to pick them up and thread them back onto the necklace, but wouldn’t have sworn they were all there. She and her mom both counted them but never got to the same number twice.
“Cursed things,” said her mom. “They’re the devil’s own job to keep hold of.”
“The Nocturne, is she, well, you know …” Emily trailed off. Despite everything, it wasn’t a nice thought.
A deep voice answered her from behind. “Dead? No, you cannot kill my kind that way. We’re more idea than flesh.” The Library drifted into the room. “You have weakened her significantly, but I fear she will be back.”
The Library was fizzing less now after the battle but was again clear-eyed and present.
“Ello, booky. Ye look grand.” Her mom grinned.
The Library raised one perfect black eyebrow but did not comment. She held out a hand to Emily. She really was flippin’ tall.
“I thank you for your gift, Emily Featherhaugh. I have one for you in turn.”
“Cor, is it a medal?”
“It is … a Library
card.”
“Riiiight.”
“Then she ran off with me and my heart.”
They were sitting in the battered living room back at home, drinking hot chocolate as the Hog pottered around the coffee table, nosing for scraps from the sandwich plate. Her mom and dad were giving her “the talk” about their life. Their real life.
“Wait. Mom, you were a horse when you met Dad?”
“It was more complicated than that, darl.”
“You married a horse?”
“Well …”
“Wait, does this mean I’m half horse? Am I, like, a foal, or something? Or a shire?”
“Shire horses are the massive bulky ones. As you saw, your mother is a sleek, well-proportioned animal when she’s a horse.”
“So, I’m a pony. A Shetland pony with no friends.”
“Ah, that’s never true. Ye’ve got the Hog for one, and all his fleas, too. Sure that’s loads of friends.”
“MOM!”
Her mom grinned, pleased with herself, and pantomimed scratching a lot. Emily sighed. Her dad hid a grin as he sipped his tea. He was still quiet now they were home, but Emily was starting to understand that. He had a VERY stressful job.
“So, I’ve been wanting to ask, is the Hog magic or what? Did you send him with me because you knew I might need help?”
“Can I?” Her mom leaned forward to where the Hog chumbled around on the table.
“’Course.”
“I was talking to him.”
Her mom picked the Hog up. She inclined her head with great politeness, took a long look at him, dipped her head once more, and placed him back in Emily’s hand.
“Nah. Never seen him before in me life. He’s just a hedgepig. Although …” She leaned in to look at him again and smiled. “… a very handsome and wise one.”
The Hog made a contented little piggly grunt and shuffled his spines. Emily narrowed her eyes at the pair of them.
“But …”
“Nope, just a hedgepig.” Her mom stood up. “Don’t forget I’m going to teach ye how to turn into a hound later this week. Keep Friday night free.” She then vanished off to her studio, as if that was an acceptable way to finish a conversation. Emily brought the Hog up, nose to nose, and gave him a long, hard look.
“Just a hedgepig, huh?”
The Hog scratched vigorously at his side (Emily was sure she saw something jump away from the spot) then turned around once in her palm, settled down, and began to snore.
“Hmmmm.”
And there within the clock, rolled out of sight by pure bad luck, sits one coin that wasn’t there before, rocking between two cogs, not far from the balancing beam that holds the world in order. It gleams silver and black, and glows a little in the dark.
It rubs, just a touch, inside the most carefully measured device in all of the worlds, and for every second its malign presence is there, the clock comes a tiny, infinitesimal bit closer to ticking again. Frozen time becomes a fraction of a heartbeat longer every day (for those whose hearts still beat), and somewhere the Nocturne sits, listening to a music only she can hear, and she smiles.
Soon. Soon.
From Trindles:
For almost a decade, Benjamin Read has been writing me stories. For this, and a great many other things, I am deeply thankful. Creating this world together has been our biggest adventure yet and I cannot wait for the next one (I’ll pack the crisp sarnies, you bring the biscuits).
My heartfelt love and appreciation goes to my husband and best friend, Chris Wildgoose. Without his bottomless supply of love, support, snacks, laughs, and excellent company, I would surely go bonkers. Thank you, thank you.
I no doubt owe a debt of gratitude to a childhood full of Mom’s drawings and Dad’s made-up fairy tales (with groan-worthy, puntastic titles). A very many thank-yous to them and my tribe of friends and family for their enthusiastic cheerleading.
From Read:
So many thank-yous owed, almost as many as words in the book …
To Rachel, who was there when it started, listened to midnight mutterings, and, most importantly, generously shared the original hogspiration who still lives in my pocket. Hog hoggity hog. (I’m totally keeping him.)
To my parents, whose endless support means the world (and especially for my dad who consistently brought luridly covered paperbacks home for an avid reader when I was wee).
To my blessed support network of friends and colleagues—Rose, Sam, Big, Zoë, Matt & Jess—who put up with my endless pencil-chewing distraction, and keep the world running around (and despite) me.
But most of all to Laura—dear friend, fellow traveler, first and ideal reader, and persistent partner-in-literary-crime—for whom many of the tales are written and without whom I would doubtless be rocking in a den made of unfinished manuscripts. May we color in between each other’s lines forever more.
And from Trindles & Read, thanks to the Chickens:
To Rachel L, for helping to find the story’s focus; to Elinor, for bringing it to children around the world; and to Rachel H, Myers, Jazz, and everyone else for bringing it all together.
Most of all, of course, thanks to Barry, the most excellently hatted publisher of all—for listening to a burbling extemporary rant about midnight magic from a hyperactive, hand-waving author and somehow seeing a whole world in there. Thanks for trusting us. You are the hedgehog in our publishing pocket and we will always be grateful.
Benjamin Read tells stories, whether they’re novels, comics, or films. He has written the multi-award-nominated graphic novel series Porcelain and a host of other comics, including Briar, Butterfly Gate, True Grit, and Super 8. He is one of the founding members of the Improper Books comics studio and is fueled by tea.
Laura Trinder is a creator of stories and illustrations. She’s one half of the creative duo Trindles & Read and cofounder of the indie comics studio Improper Books. She was a bookseller for eleven years and will give you book recommendations, whether or not you asked for them.
Copyright © 2019, 2020 by Benjamin Read and Laura Trinder
All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, CHICKEN HOUSE, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First edition, March 2020
Jacket art © 2020 by Jim Tierney
Jacket design by Christopher Stengel
e-ISBN 978-1-338-56911-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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The Midnight Hour Page 18