Mister

Monday

To Anna and Thomas, and to all my family and friends.

Table of Contents

Mister Monday

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Grim Tuesday

About the Author

The Keys to the Kingdom series

Copyright

About the Publisher

MISTER MONDAY

A flash of light suddenly distracted Arthur from his slow, counted breaths. It hit the corner of his eye and he swung around to see what it was. For a moment he thought he was blacking out again and was falling over and looking up at the sun. Then, through half-shut eyes, he realised that whatever the blinding light was, it was on the ground and very close.

In fact, it was moving, gliding across the grass towards him, the light losing its brilliance as it drew nearer. Arthur watched in stunned amazement as a dark outline became visible within the light. Then the light faded completely, to reveal a weirdly dressed man in a very strange sort of wheelchair being pushed across the grass by an equally odd-looking attendant.

PROLOGUE

They had tried to destroy the Will, but that proved to be beyond their power. So they broke it, in two ways. It was broken physically, torn apart, with the fragments of heavy parchment scattered across both space and time. It was broken in spirit because not one clause of it had been fulfilled.

If the treacherous Trustees had their way, no clause of the Will would ever be executed. To make sure of this, all seven fragments of the Will had been hidden with great care.

The first and least of the fragments was fused inside a single clear crystal, harder than diamond. Then the crystal was encased in a box of unbreakable glass. The box was locked inside a cage of silver and malachite, and the cage was fixed in place on the surface of a dead sun at the very end of Time.

Around the cage, twelve metal Sentinels stood guard, each taking post upon one of the numbers of a clock face that had been carved with permanent light in the dark matter of the defunct star.

The Sentinels had been specially created as guardians of the fragment. They were vaguely human in appearance, though twice as tall, and their skins were luminous steel. Quick and flexible as cats, they had no hands, but single blades sprang from each wrist. Each Sentinel was responsible for the space between its own hour and the next, and their leader ruled them from the position between twelve and one.

The metal Sentinels were overseen by a carefully chosen corps of Inspectors, lesser beings who would not dare question the breakers of the Will. Once every hundred years one of these Inspectors would appear to make sure that all was well and that the fragment was safely locked away.

In recent aeons, the Inspectors had become lax, rarely doing more than appear, squint at the cage, box and crystal, salute the Sentinels, and disappear again. The Sentinels, who had spent ten thousand years in faithful service marching between the chapters of the clock, did not approve of this slipshod attention to duty. But it was not in their nature to complain, nor was there any means to do so. They could raise the alarm if necessary, but no more than that.

The Sentinels had seen many Inspectors come and go. No one else had ever visited. No one had tried to steal or rescue the fragment of the Will. In short, nothing had happened for all of that ten thousand years.

Then, on a day that was no different from any of the more than three and a half million days that had gone before, an Inspector arrived who took his duties more seriously. He arrived normally enough, simply appearing outside the clock face, his hat askew from the transfer, his official warrant clutched firmly in one hand so the bright gold seal was clearly visible. The Sentinels twitched at the arrival and their blades shivered in anticipation. The warrant and the seal were only half of the permission required to be there. There was always a chance the watchwords delivered by the previous Inspector would not be uttered and the Sentinels’ blades would at last see blurring, slicing action.

Of course, the Sentinels were required to allow the Inspector a minute’s grace. It was not unknown for a transfer between both time and space to briefly addle the wits of anyone, immortal or otherwise.

This Inspector did seem a bit the worse for wear. He wore a fairly standard human shape, that of a middle-aged man of rapidly thickening girth. This human body was clad in a blue frock coat, shiny at the elbows and ink-stained on the right cuff. His white shirt was not really very white, and the badly tied green necktie did not adequately disguise the fact that his collar had come adrift. His top hat had seen much service and was both squashed and leaning to the left. When he raised it to acknowledge the Sentinels, a sandwich wrapped in newspaper fell out. He caught it and slipped it into an inside pocket of his coat before speaking the watchwords.

“Incense, sulphur and rue, I am an Inspector, honest and true,” he recited carefully, holding up the warrant again to show the seal.

The Twelve O’Clock Sentinel swivelled in place in answer to the watchwords and the seal. It crossed its blades with a knife-sharpening noise that made the Inspector tremble and waved a salute in the air.

“Approach, Inspector,” intoned the Sentinel. That was half of everything it ever said.

The Inspector nodded and cautiously stepped from the transfer plate to the curdled darkness of the dead star. He had taken the precaution of wearing Immaterial Boots (disguised as carpet slippers) to counteract the warping nature of the dead star’s dark matter, though his superior had assured him that the warrant and the seal would be sufficient protection. He paused to pick up the transfer plate because it was a personal favourite, a large serving plate of delicate bone china with a fruit pattern, rather than the more usual disc of burnished electrum. It was a risk using a china plate because it could be easily broken, but it looked nice and that was important to the Inspector.

Even the Inspectors were not allowed to pass the inner rim of the clock face, where the feet of the numerals were bordered by a golden line. So this Inspector gingerly trod past the Twelve O’Clock Sentinel and stopped short of the line. The silver cage looked as solid as it should, and the glass box was quite intact and beautifully transparent. He could easily see the crystal inside, just where it was supposed to be.

“All, ah, seems to be in order,” he muttered. Relieved, he took a small box out of his coat pocket, flicked it open, and with a practised movement transferred a small pinch of snuff to his right nostril. It was a new snuff, a present from a higher authority.

“All, ahhh, ahhh, in order,” he repeated, then let out an enormous sneeze that rocked his whole body and for a moment threatened to overbalance him over the gold line. The Sentinels leaped and twisted from their regular positions, and the Twelve O’Clock Sentinel’s blades came whisking down within an inch of the Inspector’s face as he desperately windmilled his arms to regain his balance.

Finally he managed it, and teetered back on the right side of the line.

“Awfully sorry, terrible habit!” he squeaked as he thrust his snuff box securely away. “I’m an Inspector, remember. Here’s the warrant! Look at the seal!”

The Sentinels subsided into their usual pacing. The Twelve O’Clock Sentinel’s arms went back to its sides, the blades no longer threatening.

The Inspector took out a huge patched handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his face. But as he wiped the sweat away, he thought he saw something move across the surface of the clock face. Something small and thin and dark. When he blinked and removed his handkerchief, he couldn’t see anything.

“I don’t suppose there is anything to report?” he asked nervously. He hadn’t been an Inspector long. A decade short of four centuries, and he was only an Inspector of the Fourth Order. He’d been a Third Back Hall Porter for most of his career, almost since the Beginning of Time. Before that—

“Nothing to report,” said the Twelve O’Clock Sentinel, using up the rest of its standard vocabulary.

The Inspector politely tipped his hat to the Sentinel, but he was concerned. He could feel something here. Something not quite right. But the penalty for a false alarm was too horrible to contemplate. He might be demoted back to being a Hall Porter or, even worse, be made corporeal – stripped of his powers and memory and sent somewhere in the Secondary Realms as a living, breathing baby.

Of course, the penalty for missing something important was even worse. He might be made corporeal for that, but it would not be as anything even vaguely human, or on a world where there was intelligent life. And even that was not the worst that could happen. There were far more terrible fates, but he refused to contemplate them.

The Inspector looked across at the cage, the glass box and the crystal. Then he got a pair of opera glasses out of an inner pocket and looked through those. He could still see nothing out of order. Surely, he told himself, the Sentinels would know if something had gone amiss?

He stepped back outside the clock face and cleared his throat.

“All in order, well done, you Sentinels,” he said. “The watchwords for the next Inspector will be ‘Thistle, palm, oak and yew, I’m an Inspector, honest and true.’ Got that? – excellent – well, I’ll be off.”

The Twelve O’Clock Sentinel saluted. The Inspector doffed his hat once more, swivelled on one heel and set down his transfer plate, chanting the words that would take him to the House. According to regulations, he was supposed to go via the Office of Unusual Activities on the forty-fifteenth floor and report, but he was unsettled and wanted to get straight back to the twenty-tenth floor, his own comfortable study, and a nice cup of tea.

“From dead star’s gloom to bright lamp’s light, back to my rooms and away from night!”

Before he could step on the plate, something small, skinny and very black shot across the golden line, between the legs of the Twelve O’Clock Sentinel, across the Inspector’s left Immaterial Boot and on to the plate. The blue and green fruit glazed on the plate flashed and the plate, black streak and all, vanished in a puff of rather rubbery and nasty-smelling smoke.

“Alarm! Alarm!” cried the Sentinels, leaving the clock face to swarm around the vanished plate, their blades snickering in all directions as the sound of twelve impossibly loud alarm clocks rang and rang from somewhere inside their metal bodies. The Inspector shrank down before the Sentinels and started to chew on the corner of his handkerchief and sob. He knew what that black streak was. He had recognised it in a flash of terror as it sped past.

It was a line of handwritten text. The text from the fragment that was supposedly still fused in crystal, locked in the unbreakable box, inside the silver and malachite cage, glued to the surface of a dead sun and guarded by metal Sentinels.

Only now none of those things was true.

One of the fragments of the Will had escaped – and it was all his fault.

Even worse, it had touched him, striking his flesh straight through the Immaterial Boot. So he knew what it said, and he was not allowed to know. Even more shockingly, the Will had recalled him to his real duty. For the first time in millennia he was conscious of just how badly things had gone wrong.

“Into the trust of my good Monday, I place the administration of the Lower House,” the Inspector whispered. “Until such a time as the Heir or the Heir’s representatives call upon Monday to relinquish any such offices, properties, rights and appurtenances as Monday holds in trust.”

The Sentinels did not understand him, or perhaps they could not even hear him over the clamouring of their internal alarms. They had spread out, uselessly searching the surface of the dead star, beams of intense light streaming from their eyes into the darkness. The star was not large – no more than a thousand yards in diameter – but the fragment was long gone. The Inspector knew it would already have left his rooms and got into the House proper.

“I have to get back,” the Inspector said to himself. “The Will will need help. Transfer plate’s gone, so it will have to be the long way.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a grimy and bedraggled pair of wings that were almost as tall as he was. The Inspector hadn’t used them for a very long time and was surprised at the state they were in. The feathers were all yellow and askew and the pinions didn’t look at all reliable. He clipped them into place on his back and took a few tentative flaps to make sure they still worked.

Distracted by his wings, the Inspector didn’t notice a sudden flash of light upon the surface of the clock, or the two figures who appeared with that flash. They wore human shapes too, as was the fashion in the House. But these two were taller, thinner and more handsome. They had on neat black frock coats over crisp white shirts with high-pointed collars and very neat neckties of sombre red, a shade lighter than their dark silk waistcoats. Their top hats were sleekly black, and they carried ornate ebony sticks topped with silver knobs.

“Where do you think you’re going, Inspector?” asked the taller of the two new arrivals.

The Inspector turned in shock, and his wings drooped still further.

“To report, sir!” he said weakly. “As you can see. To… to my immediate superiors… and to… to Monday’s Dawn, or even Mister Monday, if he wants…”

“Mister Monday will know soon enough,” said the tall gentleman. “You know who we are?”

The Inspector shook his head. They were very high up in the Firm, that was obvious from their clothes and the power he could sense. But he didn’t know them, either by name or by rank.

“Are you from the sixty-hundredth floor? Mister Monday’s executive office?”

The taller gentleman smiled and drew a paper from his waistcoat pocket. It unfolded itself as he held it up, and the seal upon it shone so brightly that the Inspector had to shield his face with his arm and duck his head.

“As you see, we serve a higher Master than Monday,” said the gentleman. “You will come with us.”

The Inspector gulped and shambled forward. One of the gentlemen swiftly pulled on a pair of snowy white gloves and snapped off the Inspector’s wings. They shrank till they were no larger than a dove’s wings and he put them in a buff envelope that came from nowhere. He sealed this shut with a sizzling press of his thumb. Then he handed the envelope to the Inspector. The word EVIDENCE appeared on it as the Inspector clutched it to his chest and cast nervous glances at his escorts.

Working together, the two gentlemen drew a doorway in the air with their sticks. When they’d finished, the space shimmered for a moment and then solidified into an elevator doorway, with a sliding metal grille and a bronze call button. One of the gentlemen pressed the button and an elevator car suddenly appeared out of nowhere behind the grille.

“I’m not authorised to go in an executive elevator, not up past Records by any means, stair or lift or weirdway,” gabbled the Inspector. “And I’m definitely not… not authorised to go down below the Inking Cellars.”

The two gentlemen pushed back the grille and gestured for the Inspector to step into the elevator. It was lined with dark green velvet and one entire wall was covered in small bronze buttons.

“We’re not going down, are we?” asked the Inspector in a small voice.

The taller gentleman smiled, a cold smile that did not reach his eyes. He reached up and his arm clicked horribly as it stretched, growing an extra couple of yards so he could press a button on the very top right-hand side of the lift.

“There?” asked the Inspector, awed in spite of his fear. He could feel the Will’s influence working away inside of him, but he knew there was no hope of trying to help it now. The words that had got away would have to fend for themselves. “All the way to the top?”

“Yes,” said the two gentlemen in unison as they clanged shut the metal grille.

CHAPTER ONE

It was Arthur Penhaligon’s first day at his new school and it was not going well. Having to start two weeks after everyone else was bad enough, but it was even worse than that. Arthur was totally and utterly new to the school. His family had just moved to the town, so he knew absolutely no one and he had none of the local knowledge that would make life easier.

Like the fact the seventh grade had a cross-country run every Monday just before lunch. Today. And it was compulsory, unless special arrangements had been made by a student’s parents. In advance.

Arthur tried to explain to the gym teacher that he’d only just recovered from a series of very serious asthma attacks and had in fact been in the hospital only a few weeks ago. Besides that, he was wearing the stupid school uniform of grey trousers with a white shirt and tie, and leather shoes. He couldn’t run in those clothes.

For some reason – perhaps the forty other kids shouting and chasing one another around – only the second part of Arthur’s complaint got through to the teacher, Mister Weightman.

“Listen, kid, the rule is everybody runs, in whatever you’re wearing!” snapped the teacher. “Unless you’re ill.”

“I am ill!” protested Arthur, but his words were lost as someone screamed and suddenly two girls were pulling each other’s hair and trying to kick shins, and Weightman was yelling at them and blowing his whistle.

“Settle down! Susan, let go of Tanya right now! OK, you know the course. Down the right side of the oval, through the park, around the statue, back through the park and down the other side of the oval. First three back get to go to lunch early, the last three get to sweep the gym. Line up – I said line up, don’t gaggle about. Get back, Rick. Ready? On my whistle.”

No, I’m not ready, thought Arthur. But he didn’t want to stand out any more by complaining further or simply not going. He was already an outsider here, a loner in the making, and he didn’t want to be. He was an optimist. He could handle the run.

Arthur gazed across the oval at the dense forest beyond, which was obviously meant to be a park. It looked more like a jungle. Anything could happen in there. He could take a rest. He could make it that far, no problem, he told himself.

Just for insurance, Arthur felt in his pocket for his inhaler, closing his fingers around the cool, comforting metal and plastic. He didn’t want to use it, didn’t want to be dependent on the medication. But he’d ended up in the hospital last time because he’d refused to use the inhaler until it was too late, and he’d promised his parents he wouldn’t do that again.

Weightman blew his whistle, a long blast that was answered in many different ways. A group of the biggest, roughest-looking boys sprang out like shotgun pellets, hitting one another and shouting as they accelerated away. A bunch of athletic girls, taller and more long-legged than any boys at their current age, streamed past them a few seconds later, their noses in the air at the vulgar antics of the monkeys they were forced to share a class with.

Smaller groups of boys or girls – never mixed – followed with varying degrees of enthusiasm. After them came the unathletic and noncommitted and those too hip to run anywhere, though Arthur wasn’t particularly sure which category they each belonged to.

Arthur found himself running because he didn’t have the courage to walk. He knew he wouldn’t be mistaken for someone too cool to participate. Besides, Mister Weightman was already jogging backwards so he could face the walkers and berate them.

“Your nonparticipation has been noted,” bellowed Weightman. “You will fail this class if you do not pick up your feet!”

Arthur looked over his shoulder to see if that had any result. One kid broke into a shambling run, but the rest of the walkers ignored the teacher. Weightman spun around in disgust and built up speed. He overtook Arthur and the middle group of runners and rapidly closed the gap on the serious athletes at the front. Arthur could already tell he was the kind of gym teacher who liked to beat the kids in a race. Probably because he couldn’t win against other adult runners, Arthur thought sourly.

For three or maybe even four minutes after Weightman sped away, Arthur kept up with the last group of actual runners, well ahead of the walkers. But as he had feared, he found it harder and harder to get a full breath into his lungs. They just wouldn’t expand, as if they were already full of something and couldn’t let any air in. Without the oxygen he needed, Arthur got slower and slower, falling back until he was barely in front of the walkers. His breathing became shallower and shallower and the world narrowed around him, until all he could think about was trying to get a decent breath and keep putting one foot approximately in front of the other.

Then, without any conscious intention, Arthur found that his legs weren’t moving and he was staring up at the sky. He was lying on his back on the grass. Dimly, he realised he must have blacked out and fallen over.

“Hey, are you taking a break or is there a problem?” someone asked. Arthur tried to say that he was OK, though some other part of his brain was going off like a fire engine siren, screaming that he was definitely not OK. But no words came out of his mouth, only a short, rasping wheeze.

Inhaler! Inhaler! Inhaler! said the screaming siren part of his brain. Arthur followed its direction, fumbling in his pocket for the metal cylinder with its plastic mouthpiece. He tried to raise it to his mouth, but when his hand arrived it was empty. He’d dropped the inhaler.

Then someone else pushed the mouthpiece between his lips and a cool mist suddenly filled his mouth and throat.

“How many puffs?” asked the voice.

Three, thought Arthur. That would get him breathing, at least enough to stay alive. Though he’d probably be back in the hospital again, and another week or two convalescing at home.

“How many puffs?”

Arthur realised he hadn’t answered. Weakly, he held out three fingers and was rewarded by two more clouds of medicine. It was already beginning to work. His shallow, wheezing breaths were actually getting some air into his lungs and, in turn, some oxygen into his blood and to his brain.

The closed in, confused world he’d been experiencing started to open out again, like scenery unfolded on a stage. Instead of just the blue sky rimmed with darkness, he saw a couple of kids crouched near him. They were two of the walkers, the ones who refused to run. A girl and a boy, both defiantly not in school uniform or gym gear, wearing black jeans, T-shirts featuring bands Arthur didn’t know, and sunglasses. They were either super-hip and ultra-cool, or the exact opposite. Arthur was too new to the school and the whole town to know.

The girl had short dyed hair that was so blonde it was almost white. The boy had long, dyed-black hair. Despite this, they looked kind of the same. It took Arthur’s confused mind a second to work out that they had to be twins, or at least brother and sister. Maybe one had to repeat a grade.

“Ed, call 999,” instructed the girl. She was the one who had given Arthur the inhaler.

“The Octopus confiscated my phone,” replied the boy. Ed.

“OK, you run back to the gym,” said the girl. “I’ll go after Weightman.”

“What for?” asked Ed. “Shouldn’t you stay?”

“Nope, nothing we can do except get help,” said the girl. “Weightman’s got a phone. He’s probably already on his way back. You just lie here and keep breathing.”

The last words were directed at Arthur. He nodded feebly and waved his hand, telling them to go. Now that his brain was at least partially functioning again, he was terribly embarrassed. First day at a new school and he hadn’t even made it to lunch time. It would be even worse coming back. He would be seen as a total loser and, after a month of the new term, would have no chance of easily catching up or making any friends.

At least I’m alive, Arthur told himself. He had to be grateful for that. He still couldn’t get a proper breath, and he was incredibly weak, but he managed to prop himself up on one elbow and look around.

The two black-clad kids were showing that they could run when they wanted to. Arthur watched the girl sprint through the gaggle of walkers like a crow dive-bombing a flock of sparrows, and vanish into the tree line of the park. Looking the other way, Arthur saw Ed was about to disappear around the high, blank brick wall of the gym, which blocked the rest of the school from view.

Help would be coming soon. Arthur willed himself to be calm. He forced himself up to a sitting position and concentrated on taking slow breaths, as deep as he could manage. With a bit of luck he would stay conscious. The main thing was not to panic. He’d been here before, and he’d come through. He had the inhaler in his hand. He’d just stay quiet and still, keeping panic and fear securely locked away.

A flash of light suddenly distracted Arthur from his slow, counted breaths. It hit the corner of his eye and he swung around to see what it was. For a moment he thought he was blacking out again and was falling over and looking up at the sun. Then, through half-shut eyes, he realised that whatever the blinding light was, it was on the ground and very close.

In fact, it was moving, gliding across the grass towards him, the light losing its brilliance as it drew nearer. Arthur watched in stunned amazement as a dark outline became visible within the light. Then the light faded completely, to reveal a weirdly dressed man in a very strange sort of wheelchair being pushed across the grass by an equally odd-looking attendant.

The wheelchair was long and narrow, like a bath, and it was made of woven wicker. It had one small wheel at the front and two big ones at the back. All three wheels had metal rims, without rubber tyres, or any sort of tyre, so the wheelchair – or wheel-bath, or bath chair, or whatever it was – sank heavily into the grass.

The man lying back in the bath chair was thin and pale, his skin like tissue paper. He looked quite young, though, no more than twenty, and was very handsome, with even features and blue eyes, though these were hooded, as if he was very tired. He had an odd round hat with a tassel on his blond head and was wearing what looked to Arthur like some sort of kung fu robe, of red silk with blue dragons all over it. He had a tartan blanket over his legs, but his slippers stuck out the end. They were red silk too, and shimmered in the sun with a pattern that Arthur couldn’t quite focus on.

The man who was pushing the chair was even more out of place. Or out of time. He looked somewhat like a butler from an old movie, or Nestor from the Tintin comics, though he was nowhere near as neat. He had on an oversized black coat with ridiculously long tails that almost touched the ground, and his white shirt front was stiff and very solid, as if it was made of plastic. He had knitted half-gloves that were unravelling on his hands, and bits of loose wool hung over his fingers. Arthur noticed with distaste that his fingernails were very long and yellow, as were his teeth. He was much older than the man he pushed, his face lined and pitted with age, his white hair only growing on the back of his head, though it was very long. He had to be at least eighty, but he had no difficulty pushing the bath chair straight towards Arthur.

The two men were talking as they approached. They seemed entirely unaware of Arthur, or uninterested in him.

“I don’t know why I keep you upstairs, Sneezer,” said the man in the bath chair. “Or agree to your ridiculous plans.”

“Now, now, sir,” said the butler-type, who was obviously called Sneezer. Now that they were closer, Arthur noticed that his nose was rather red and had a patchwork of broken blood vessels shining under the skin. “It’s not a plan, but a precaution. We don’t want to be bothered by the Will, do we?”

“I s’pose not,” grumbled the young man. He yawned widely and closed his eyes. “You’re sure that we’ll find someone suitable here?”

“Sure as eggs is eggs,” replied Sneezer. “Surer even, eggs not always being what one might expect. I set the dials myself, to find someone suitably on the edge of infinity. You give him the Key, he dies, you get it back. Another ten thousand years without trouble, and the Will can’t quibble cos you did give up the Key to one in the line of heredity, as it were.”

“It’s very annoying,” said the young man, yawning again. “I’m quite exhausted with all this running around and answering those ridiculous inquiries from up top. How should I know how that bit of the Will got out? I’m not going to write a report, you know. I haven’t the energy. In fact, I really need a nap—”

“Not now, sir, not now,” said Sneezer urgently. He shaded his eyes with one dirty, half-gloved hand and looked around. Strangely, he still seemed unable to see Arthur, though he was right in front of him. “We’re almost there.”

“We are there,” said the young man coldly. He pointed at Arthur as if the boy had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “Is that it?”

Sneezer left the bath chair and advanced on Arthur. His attempt at a smile revealed even more yellow teeth, some of them broken, but all too many of them sharp and doglike.

“Hello, my boy,” he said. “Let’s have a bow for Mister Monday.”

Arthur stared at him. It must be an unknown side effect, he thought. Oxygen deprivation. Hallucinations.

A moment later, he felt a hard bony hand grip his head and bob it forward several times, as Sneezer made him bow to the man in the bath chair. The shock and unpleasantness of the touch made Arthur cough and lose all his hard-won control over his breathing. Now he really was panicking and he couldn’t breathe at all.

“Bring him here,” instructed Mister Monday. With a languid sigh, he leaned over the side of the bath chair as Sneezer dragged Arthur effortlessly over, using only two fingers to pick the boy up by the back of his neck.

“You’re sure this one will die straight away?” Mister Monday asked, reaching out to lift Arthur’s chin and look at his face. Unlike Sneezer, Monday’s hands were clean and his nails trimmed. There was hardly any force in his grip, but Arthur found he couldn’t move at all, as if Mister Monday had pressed a nerve that paralysed his whole body.

Sneezer rummaged in his pocket with one hand, not letting go of Arthur’s neck. He pulled out half a dozen scrunched-up pieces of paper, which hung in the air as if he’d laid them on an invisible desk. He sorted through them quickly, smoothed one out and held it against Arthur’s cheek. The paper shone with a bright blue light and Arthur’s name appeared on it in letters of gold.

“It’s him, no doubt at all,” said Sneezer. He thrust the paper back in his pocket, and all the others went back in as if they were joined together on a thread. “Arthur Penhaligon. Due to drop off the twig any minute. You’d best give him the Key, sir.”

Mister Monday yawned again and let go of Arthur’s chin. Then he slowly reached inside the left sleeve of his silk robe and pulled out a slender metal spike. It looked very much like a thin-bladed knife without a handle. Arthur stared at it, his mind and sight already fuzzy again from lack of oxygen. Somewhere in his head, under that fuzziness, the panicked voice that had told him to use his inhaler was screaming again.

Run away! Run away! Run away!

Though the weird paralysis from Monday’s touch had gone, Sneezer’s grip did not lessen for a moment, and Arthur simply had no strength to break free.

“By the powers vested in me under the arrangements entered into in the blah, blah, blah,” muttered Mister Monday. He spoke too quickly for Arthur to make out what he was saying. He didn’t slow down until he reached the final few words. “And so let the Will be done.”

As he finished, Monday thrust out with the blade. At the same time, Sneezer let Arthur go and the boy fell back on the grass. Monday laughed wearily and dropped the blade into Arthur’s open hand. Instantly, Sneezer made Arthur wrap his fingers around it, pushing so hard that the metal bit into his skin. With the pain came another sudden shock. Arthur found that he could breathe. It was as if a catch had been turned at the top of his lungs, unlocking them to let air in.

“And the other,” said Sneezer urgently. “He has to have it all.”

Monday peered across at his servant and frowned. He also started to yawn, but quashed it, taking an angry swipe across his own face.

“You’re very keen for the Key to leave my possession, even if only for a few minutes,” said Monday. He’d been about to take something else out of his other sleeve, but now he hesitated. “And to give me boiled brandy and water. Too much boiled brandy and water. Perhaps, in my weariness, I have not given this matter quite the thought…”

“If the Will finds you, and you have not given the Key to a suitable Heir—”

“If the Will finds me,” mused Monday. “What of it? If the reports be true, only a few lines have escaped their durance. I wonder how much power they hold?”

“It would be safer not to put it to the test,” said Sneezer, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Anxiety obviously made his nose run.

“With the complete Key in his possession, the boy might live,” observed Monday. For the first time he sat up straight in his bath chair and the sleepy look was gone from his eyes. “Besides, Sneezer, it seems odd to me that you of all my servants should have come up with this plan.”

“How so, sir?” asked Sneezer. He tried to smile ingratiatingly, but the effect was repulsive.

“Because generally you’re an idiot!” shouted Monday in a rage. He flicked a finger and an unseen force struck Sneezer and Arthur, sending them tumbling roughly across the grass. “Whose game are you playing here, Sneezer? You’re in league with the Morrow Days, aren’t you? You and that Inspector, and the Will safe as ever? Do you expect to take over my office?”

“No,” said Sneezer. He slowly stood up and began to advance upon the bath chair. With each step, his voice changed, becoming louder and clearer, booming into the distance. Trumpets sounded as he trod, and Arthur saw letters of sharp black ink form upon his skin. The letters danced and joined into lines of type that rushed across Sneezer’s face like living, shining tattoos.

“Into the trust of my good Monday, I place the administration of the Lower House,” said both the type and the booming voice that came out of his mouth, but was not Sneezer’s. “Until—”

Arthur couldn’t believe the languid Monday could move so fast. He drew something from his sleeve, a glittering object which he pointed at Sneezer as he shouted deafening words that sounded like thunderclaps, the vibration of them smashing through the air and shaking the ground where Arthur lay.

There was a flash of light, a concussion that shook the earth and a stifled scream, though Arthur did not know who it came from, Sneezer or Mister Monday.

Arthur shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Monday, bath chair and Sneezer had disappeared, but there was still black type running in a thread through the air, moving too quickly for him to read the words. The letters twirled above Arthur into a spiral, a whirlwind of shiny letters. Something heavy materialised between the lines of type and fell down, striking him sharply on the head.

It was a book, a slim notebook, no bigger than Arthur’s hand. It was bound in green cloth. Arthur absently picked it up and slid it into his shirt pocket. He looked up and around again, but the lines of type were gone. They had slowed down just long enough for him to make out only four words: Heir,Monday and The Will.

Arthur could see Mister Weightman sprinting towards him now, a phone at his ear, and the school nurse running much more slowly from the direction of the gym, a resuscitation kit in her hand. Behind Weightman came the whole of Arthur’s gym class. Even the walkers were running.

Arthur looked at them and would have groaned if he could have forced any air out of his lungs. Not only was he going to die, it would be in front of everybody. They would all be interviewed on TV and say things that sounded sort of nice but really meant they thought he was a stupid loser.

Then he noticed that he could breathe. For a while there his brain had been tripping out from lack of oxygen, with visions and everything, but the inhaler had worked sufficiently well to get him over the worst. He could breathe a bit, and it was worth the pain in his hand—

Arthur looked at that hand. It was still clenched in a fist, with a trickle of blood running out below his little finger. He’d thought he was clutching his inhaler, but he wasn’t. He was holding a weird strip of metal, sharp-pointed on one end with a circular loop on the other. It was heavy and was made of silver with fancy gold inlay, all swirls and curlicues.

Arthur stared at it for a second before he realised what it was. It was the minute hand of some sort of antique clock. It was real and so was the notebook in his pocket. Mister Monday and Sneezer had been there. It wasn’t all an oxygen-deprivation dream.

Weightman and the nurse would be on him in a minute. Arthur looked around wildly, trying to think of somewhere he could hide the clock hand. It would be taken away from him for sure.

There was a patch of discoloured grass a few paces away. Arthur crawled over to it and plunged the minute hand into the earth, until only the hollow circle remained, hidden by some tufts of yellow grass.

As soon as he let the hand go, he felt his chest tighten. That catch had snapped shut again and there was no more air. Arthur rolled over, trying to put some distance between himself and the minute hand. He didn’t want anyone else to find it.

He’d come back to get it as soon as he could, he thought.

If he lived.

CHAPTER TWO

Arthur was still in the hospital twenty-four hours after the strange events of Monday morning. He had spent most of that time unconscious and still felt dazed and confused. Though he was breathing reasonably well again, the doctors wanted to keep him in for a few more days because of his history.

Fortunately Arthur’s mother was a very important medical researcher who worked for the government, so not only did the whole family have the best medical insurance, doctors all around the country knew Dr Emily Penhaligon and her work. Arthur always got good treatment and was kept in the hospital even when they made other sicker people leave. He usually felt bad about that later, but when he was actually in the hospital he was too ill to think about it.

Arthur’s father was a musician. He was a very good musician, but not always a very commercially minded one. He wrote brilliant songs and then forgot to do anything with them. He’d been the guitar player in a famous band called The Ratz thirty-five years ago, and sometimes people still recognised him. He’d been called Plague Rat then, but had long since gone back to his original name, Robert “Bob” Penhaligon. He still got a lot of money from his time in The Ratz since he’d written most of the songs, some of which were multiplatinum sellers. They still got played on some radio stations quite a lot and new bands used samples from them, particularly Bob’s guitar parts.

These days, Bob Penhaligon looked after the family and noodled away on one of his three pianos or one of his twelve guitars, while Emily Penhaligon spent more time than she wanted to in her laboratory doing things with DNA and computers that benefited the whole human race but took her away from her own family.

Arthur had six brothers and sisters. The eldest three, two boys and a girl, were from Bob’s liaisons with three different women when he was on tour with The Ratz. The fourth was from Emily’s first marriage. The next two were both Bob and Emily’s.

Then there was Arthur. He was adopted. His birth parents had both been doctors who worked with Emily. They’d died in the last really big influenza epidemic, the one that had finally been controlled by a new anti-flu drug they’d helped to discover – as part of Emily’s team. Arthur had only been a week old when they died. He’d lived through the flu, but he was probably an asthmatic because of it. Besides his parents he had no immediate family, so Emily and Bob had been successful in their application to adopt.

It didn’t worry Arthur that he was adopted. But every now and then he would leaf through the photo album that was almost all he had to remember his birth parents. The other thing was a short video from their wedding, which he found almost unbearable to watch. The influenza plague had killed them only eighteen months later, and even to Arthur they looked ridiculously young. He liked that as he got older he looked more like both his birth parents, in different ways. So they lived on in him.

Arthur had known he was adopted since he was little. Bob and Emily treated all the children the same way, and the children considered themselves all brothers and sisters. They never introduced one another as “half-brother” or “half-sister” and never explained the fact that there were twenty years between the eldest, Erazmuz (born in Bob’s rock music heyday), and the youngest, Arthur. They also didn’t explain the difference in looks, skin colour, or anything else. They were simply all part of the family, even if only the youngest three were still at home.

The four eldest were Erazmuz, who was a major in the army and had children of his own; Staria, a serious theatre actress; Eminor, a musician, who’d changed his name to Patrick; and Suzanne, who was at college. The three at home were Michaeli, who was at a local college; Eric, who was in his last year of high school; and Arthur.

Arthur’s father, Michaeli and Eric had already been to see him the night before, and his mother had popped in early in the morning to check that he was OK. Once she was sure of that, she lectured him about it being better to look like a total loser in everyone’s eyes than to be dead.

Arthur always knew when his mother was approaching because doctors and nurses would appear from all over the place, and by the time she arrived, Emily would be trailing eight or nine white-coated people behind her. Arthur was used to her being a Medical Legend, just as he was used to his father being a Former Musical Legend.

Since all of his family in town had already visited once, Arthur was surprised when two more people came to see him early on Tuesday afternoon. Children his own age. He didn’t recognise them for a second, since they weren’t wearing black. Then he realised who they were. Ed and the girl who had helped him use the inhaler. This time they were in regular school uniform, white shirts, grey trousers, blue ties.

“Hi,” said the girl from the door. “Can we come in?”

“Uh, sure,” mumbled Arthur. What could these two want?

“We didn’t meet properly yesterday,” said the girl. “I’m Leaf.”

“Leith?” asked Arthur. She’d pronounced it strangely.

“No, Leaf, as in from a tree,” said Leaf reluctantly. “Our parents changed their names to reflect their commitment to the environment.”

“Dad calls himself Tree,” said the boy. “I’m supposed to be Branch but I don’t use it. Call me Ed.”

“Right,” said Arthur. “Leaf and Ed. My dad used to be called Plague Rat.”

“No!” exclaimed Leaf and Ed. “You mean from The Ratz?”

“Yeah.” Arthur was surprised. Normally only old people knew the names of the individual members of The Ratz.

“We’re into music,” said Leaf, seeing his surprise. She looked down at her school uniform. “That’s why we were wearing real clothes yesterday. There was a lunch time appearance by Zeus Suit at the mall and we didn’t want to look stupid.”

“But we missed it anyway,” said Ed. “Because of you.”

“Uh, what do you mean?” asked Arthur warily. “I’m really grateful to you guys—”

“It’s OK,” said Leaf. “What Ed means is we missed Zeus Suit because we had something more important to do after we… I mean I… saw those two weird guys and the wheelchair thing.”

“Wheelchair thing? Weird guys?” Arthur repeated. He’d managed to convince himself that he’d flipped out and imagined everything, though he hadn’t wanted to put it to the test by checking his school shirt pocket for the notebook. The shirt was hanging up in the closet.

“Yeah, really weird,” said Leaf. “I saw them appear in a flash of light and they disappeared the same way, just before we got back to you. It was mighty strange, but nobody else blinked an eye. I reckon it’s because I’ve got second sight from our great-great-grandmother. She was an Irish witch.”

“She was Irish, anyway,” said Ed. “I didn’t see what Leaf said she saw. But we went back to have a look around later. We’d only been there five minutes when these guys came out of the park and started saying, ‘Go away. Go away’. They were plenty weird.”

“Kind of dog-faced, with jowly cheeks and mean-looking little eyes, like bloodhounds,” interrupted Leaf. “And they had really foul breath and all they could say was ‘Go away’.”

“Yeah, and they kept sniffing. I saw one of them get down on the ground and sniff it as we were walking away. There were lots of them – at least a dozen – wearing kind of… Charlie Chaplin suits and bowler hats. Weird and scary, so we took off and I reported them to the office for trespassing on the school grounds, and the Octopus came out to check. Only he couldn’t see them, though we still could, and I got a week’s detention for ‘wasting valuable time’.”

“I only got three days’ detention,” said Leaf.

“The Octopus?” asked Arthur weakly.

“Assistant Principal Doyle. ‘The Octopus’ because he likes to confiscate stuff.”

“So what’s going on, Arthur?” asked Leaf. “Who were those two guys?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur, shaking his head in mystification. “I… I thought it was all a hallucination.”

“Maybe it was,” offered Ed. “Only both of you had it.”

Leaf punched him hard on the arm. Ed winced. Definitely brother and sister, thought Arthur.

“Of course, that doesn’t explain why the Octopus couldn’t see the guys with the bowler hats,” Ed added quickly, rubbing his arm. “Unless all three of us were affected by something like a gas or weird pollen.”

“If it wasn’t a hallucination, then there will be a small notebook in my shirt,” Arthur said. “Hanging up in the closet.”

Leaf quickly opened the closet, then hesitated.

“Go on,” said Arthur. “I only wore the shirt for a couple of hours and I hardly ran in it.”

“I wasn’t worried about the smell,” said Leaf. She reached in and felt the pocket. “It’s just that if there is a notebook, then I did see something, and those dog-faced guys were scary, even in daylight with Ed there—”

She stopped talking and withdrew her hand. The notebook was in it, held tightly. Arthur noticed she had black nail polish on, with red streaks. Just like his father used to wear years ago in The Ratz.

“It feels strange,” Leaf whispered as she handed the book to Arthur. “Kind of electric. Tingly.”

“What does it say on the cover?” asked Ed.

“I don’t know,” replied Leaf. There were symbols on the cover, but they didn’t make sense. She didn’t seem able to focus on them somehow. At the same time, she felt a strong urge to give the notebook to Arthur. “Here, it’s yours.”

“Actually, it fell out of the sky,” said Arthur as he took it. “Or kind of out of a whirlwind made out of lines of letters… type… swirling in the air.”

He looked at the notebook. It had hard covers, bound in green cloth that reminded him of old library books. There was some type embossed on the cover. Golden letters that slowly swam into focus and rearranged themselves. Arthur blinked a couple of times as the letters climbed over one another and shoved others out of the way to make room so the words would be spelled properly.

“It says A Compleat Atlas of the House and Immediate Environs,” Arthur read aloud. “The letters all moved around.”

“Hi-tech,” said Ed, but he didn’t sound very convinced, or convincing.

“Magic,” said Leaf, very matter of fact.

“Open it up.” Arthur tried to open the book, but the covers wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t as if they were stuck together. He could see the pages rippling a bit between the covers like they were free, but he simply couldn’t open the book. Even when he applied so much force that he would have ripped the covers off any normal book.

The sudden effort made him cough, and then it was hard to get his breath back. He could feel another asthma attack coming on, that sudden tightening of the lungs. The monitor that was checking the oxygen level in his blood began to beep, and there was the sudden sound of a nurse’s hurrying footsteps in the corridor outside.

“Uh-oh, I guess that our set’s over,” said Leaf.

“Did you see if the dog-faced men found anything?” Arthur wheezed hurriedly. “A piece of metal?”

“Like what?”

“The minute hand of a clock,” Arthur gasped out. “Silver, with gold inlay.”

Ed and Leaf both shook their heads.

“All right, visiting time is over,” said the nurse as she hurried over. “We can’t get Master Penhaligon overexcited.”

Arthur grimaced at being called Master Penhaligon. Ed and Leaf mirrored his reaction and Leaf made a gagging sound.

“OK, Arthur,” said the nurse, who was no fool. “Sorry about that. I was on the children’s ward all morning. Now get going, you two.”

“We didn’t see anything like you mentioned,” Ed said. “And the dog-fay… the dogs were gone this morning. But the whole oval had been dug up and then the turf replaced. They did a good job; you couldn’t tell from a distance. I couldn’t believe they did it so quickly.”

“The whole oval?” asked Arthur. That didn’t make sense. He’d buried the clock hand somewhere in the middle. Surely as soon as they found it they’d stop digging? Or were they just covering up what they were doing?

“Out!” said the nurse. “I have to give Arthur an injection.”

“All of it,” confirmed Leaf from the door. “We’ll come back and see you later!”

“Tomorrow,” said the nurse firmly.

Arthur waved goodbye, his mind racing. He hardly paid attention as the nurse instructed him to roll over, lifted his ridiculous hospital gown and swabbed the area she was about to inject.

Mister Monday and Sneezer. Who could they possibly be? From what they’d said, the minute hand was part of some Key that Mister Monday had given to Arthur in the expectation that he would die. Then Monday would take it back. And the whole plan had been set up by Sneezer, but there was some double-cross involved. At the end, Sneezer was under the power of something else. Those glowing words. The same ones that had given him the notebook. The Compleat Atlas that he couldn’t open, so it didn’t really matter how “compleat” it was.

Arthur had taken the minute hand – he would call it a Key, he decided – and he hadn’t died. So whatever it was, he felt as if he still owned it. Though the dog-faced men in the bowler hats probably worked for Mister Monday. If they’d dug up the whole oval, then they would have found the Key for sure and taken it back to him.

Maybe that would be the end of the whole mystery, but Arthur didn’t think so. He felt a deep certainty that something was only just beginning. He’d been given the Key and the Atlas for a reason, and he would find out what it was. Everyone in his family said that he was too curious about everything. This was the biggest thing he’d ever encountered to be curious about.

I’ll get the Key back, for starters, he thought fiercely, thrusting his hands under his pillow as the prick of the needle brought him back to the immediate reality.

As he felt the injection going in, Arthur stretched out his fingers – and touched something cold and metallic. For an instant, he thought it was the bed frame. But the shape and feel were completely different. Then Arthur realised what it was.

The minute hand. The Key. It definitely hadn’t been there only a few minutes before. Arthur always put his hands under the pillow when he lay down. Perhaps it materialised when Leaf handed him the Atlas? Like the magical objects in stories that followed their owners around?

Only in the stories, most things like that were cursed, and you couldn’t get rid of them even if you wanted to…

“Stay still,” commanded the nurse. “It’s not like you to flinch, Arthur.”

CHAPTER THREE

Arthur went home on Friday afternoon, with the Key and the Atlas securely wrapped up in a shirt inside a plastic bag. For some reason Ed and Leaf never returned to the hospital. Arthur had thought of trying to call them, but since he didn’t know their last name, that had proved impossible. He’d even asked Nurse Thomas if she knew who they were. But she didn’t, and the hospital had got busier and busier through the week. Arthur figured that he’d see them Monday at school.

His father picked him up and drove him home, humming a tune under his breath as they cruised through the streets. Arthur looked out idly, but his thoughts, as they had been the whole week, were on the Key, the Atlas and Mister Monday.

They were almost home when Arthur saw something that snapped him straight out of his reverie. They were coming down the second-to-last hill before their street when he saw it. Down in the valley ahead, occupying a whole block, was an enormous, ancient-looking house. A huge building made of stone, odd-shaped bricks of different sizes, and ancient timbers of many kinds and colours. It looked as if it had been extended and added to without thought or care, using many different styles of architecture. It had arches, aqueducts and apses; bartizans, belfries and buttresses; chimneys, crenellations and cupolas; galleries and gargoyles; pillars and portcullises; terraces and turrets.

It looked totally out of place, dropped into the middle of what was otherwise a modern suburb.

There was a reason for that, Arthur knew.

That huge, crazy-looking house had not been there when he left for school last Monday.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing. “What?” asked Bob. He slowed down and peered through the windshield.

“That place! It’s huge and it… it wasn’t there before!”

“Where?” Bob scanned the houses he saw. “They all look pretty much the same to me. Sizewise, that is. That’s why we went a bit further out. I mean if you’re going to have a garden, you’ve got to have a real garden, right? Oh, you mean the one with the Jeep out front. I think they painted the garage door. That’s why it looks different.”

Arthur nodded dumbly. It was clear that his father couldn’t see the enormous, castle-like building that they were driving towards. Bob could only see the houses that used to be there.

Or maybe they are still there, Arthur thought, and I’m seeing into another dimension or something. He would have thought he was going insane, but he had the Atlas and the Key, and his conversation with Ed and Leaf to fall back on.

As they went past, Arthur noticed that the house (or House, as he felt it should be called) had a wall around it. A slick, marble-faced wall about ten feet high, that looked smooth and very difficult to climb. There was no visible gate, at least on the side they drove along.

Arthur’s own new home was only another mile or so, on the far side of the next hill. It was in a transition area between the suburbs and the country. The Penhaligons had a very big block, most of which was a fairly out-of-control garden. Bob said he loved gardening, but what he really loved was thinking and planning things to do with the garden, not actually doing them. He and Emily had bought the land and established the garden several years before, but had only decided to build a house and move quite recently.

Their house was brand-new, notionally finished a few months before. There were still plumbers and electricians coming back every few weeks to fine-tune various bits and pieces. It had been designed by a famous architect and was on four levels, cut into the hill. The bottom level was the biggest, with garage, workshop, Bob’s studio and Emily’s home office. The next level was all living spaces and kitchen. The next was bedrooms and bathrooms: Bob and Emily’s and two guest rooms. The top level was the smallest and had bedrooms for Michaeli, Eric and Arthur, and one bathroom that they either fought over or were locked out of and had to go downstairs.

No one was home when Arthur and his father returned. A screen on the refrigerator door in the kitchen had the latest posts and e-mails from the various members of the family. Emily was held up at the lab, Michaeli was simply “out” and would be back “later”, and Eric was playing in a basketball game.

“Do you want to go out for dinner? Just the two of us?” asked Bob. He was humming again, a sure sign of imminent song composition. It was a sacrifice for him to offer to go out when it was obvious he was itching to get at a keyboard or a guitar.

“No thanks, Dad,” said Arthur. He really wanted to be alone so he could check out the Key and the Atlas. “I’ll grab a snack later, if that’s OK. I might just check out my room. Make sure the others didn’t trash it while I was gone.”

They both knew that was just Arthur being kind and letting Bob go and work on his song. But that was also OK with both of them.

“I’ll be in the studio, then,” said Bob. “Buzz me if you need anything. You’ve got your inhaler?”

Arthur nodded.

“We might get a pizza later,” Bob called out as he headed down the stairs. “Don’t tell Mum.”

Arthur went up to his own room, taking the stairs slowly. He was breathing fine, but was weak after five days of lying around in the hospital. Even a few flights of stairs was hard work.

After locking the door in case his older siblings returned, Arthur put the Atlas and the Key on the bed. Then, without knowing why, he turned off the light.

Moonlight shone through the open window, but it was quite dark. It would have been darker, but both the Key and the Atlas glowed with a strange blue light that shimmered like water. Arthur picked them up, the Key in his left hand and the Atlas in his right.

Without any effort on his part, the Atlas flipped open. Arthur was so surprised he dropped it back on the bed. It stayed open, and Arthur watched in amazement as it grew, becoming longer and wider, until it was about the same size as his pillow.

The open pages were blank for a moment, then lines began to appear, as if an invisible artist was hard at work. The lines were strong and sure, appearing faster and faster as Arthur stared. It only took a few seconds before he realised he was looking at a picture of the House he had seen. A picture so well drawn that it was almost like a photograph.

Next to the picture a handwritten note appeared:

The House: An Exterior Aspect as Manifested in Many Secondary Realms.

Then another few words appeared, written much smaller. Arthur craned forward as the writing appeared, with an arrow that pointed to an inked-in square on the outer wall.

“Monday Postern,” Arthur read aloud. “What’s a postern?”

There was a dictionary on the bookshelf above his desk. Arthur pulled it out, while keeping an eye on the Atlas in case it did something else interesting.

It did. Arthur had to put the Key down to get the dictionary out, as it was too jammed in with other books. As soon as he dropped the Key on the desk, the Atlas slammed shut, scaring the life out of him. In less than a second, it had also shrunk back to its pocket notebook size.

So you need to have the Key to open the Atlas, thought Arthur. He left the Key where it was and looked up postern in the dictionary.

postern n. 1. a back door or gate. 2. any lesser or private entrance.

So there was Monday’s gate in the otherwise seamless wall. Arthur put the dictionary back and thought about it. The picture of the House and the indication of an entrance was clearly an invitation of sorts. Someone… or something… wanted him to go into the House. But could he trust the Atlas? Arthur was pretty certain that Mister Monday and Sneezer were enemies, or – at the very least – not friends. He wasn’t sure about the whirling type, the words in the air that had taken over Sneezer and then given him the Atlas. He supposed those words had given him the Key too, or at least had tricked Mister Monday into doing it. But what was their… its purpose?

There was only one way to find out. He would take a look at the House as soon as he could, either tomorrow or on Sunday, and try to get in through Monday’s Postern. Depending on what he saw there, he’d tell Ed and Leaf and get their help. They would probably be able to see the place, he thought. After all, they’d seen the dog-faced searchers when the assistant principal couldn’t.

In the meantime, he would hide the Key and the Atlas in the best hiding spot he knew. In the belly of the life-size ceramic Komodo dragon that sat on the rooftop balcony just above his bedroom. The dragon – a huge lizard really – was hollow, but its mouth wasn’t open enough for anyone with hands larger than Arthur’s to reach inside.

No sooner was this mission accomplished than his mother came home, immediately transforming the place from a quiet retreat into a family home. After checking on Arthur, she insisted that Bob emerge from his studio so the three of them could have dinner together. Emily was happy and relaxed, because Arthur was OK and because for the first time in ages she was not working frantically to develop a vaccine or cure for some new influenza strain. Winter was coming, but it looked to be a reasonably quiet one from the point of view of sickness.

Arthur’s plan to go look at the House failed its first test when he was not allowed out of his own house.

“You have to take it easy,” his mother instructed him. “Reading, television or the PC, that’s it. At least for the next few days. We’ll take another look at the situation next week.”

Arthur frowned, but he knew better than to argue. It was going to drive him crazy thinking about the House just waiting there, but he knew he had no choice. If he sneaked out now, he would be grounded for a month. Or a whole year.

“I know it’s hard not doing anything active,” Emily said as she gave him a hug. “But it’s only for a while. Give yourself a chance to get stronger. I think a day at school will be tough enough for you on Monday.”

Forbidden to do anything useful, the weekend dragged for Arthur. His two elder siblings were busy with their usual mysterious activities, Bob was still composing, and Emily was called back to work to check out some strange admissions at the local hospitals. She was regularly called whenever there was a rise in patients exhibiting unusual symptoms. Arthur always felt tremendous relief when she came home and said it wasn’t serious. Losing his birth parents as he had, Arthur was acutely aware of the potential tragedy in every report of a new flu strain or potential virus outbreak.

By Sunday morning, Arthur couldn’t resist the temptation to get the Atlas and the Key back out of the Komodo dragon. Once again he held the Key and the Atlas open to the same double-page spread with the picture of the House. Though there were no details and no other writing besides the note about Monday’s Postern, Arthur spent hours looking at it, trying to work out how it was all put together and what it must look like inside.

Finally it was Sunday night. Arthur restored the Key and the Atlas to the lizard’s innards and went to bed early, in the hope that sleep would come and make the time go quickly. But of course it didn’t. Arthur tossed and turned and couldn’t fall asleep. He read most of a book and then simply lay there, thinking.

When he did fall asleep, it wasn’t for long. Something made him wake up. He didn’t know what it was for a second. He turned his head and saw the digital clock, red in the darkness. 12:01.

One minute after midnight, on Monday morning.

There was a noise at his window. A scratching noise, like a tree branch scraping. But there was no tree in the garden tall enough or close enough to reach Arthur’s bedroom window.

Arthur sat up and snapped on the light, his heart suddenly pounding. His breathing began to get more difficult, his breaths shorter.

Control, thought Arthur desperately. Calm. Breathe slowly.

Look at the window.

He looked and jumped back, falling down behind his bed. There was a winged man hanging in the air a few feet from the window and easily fifty feet above the ground. An ugly, squat man with a jowled face like a bloodhound. A dog-faced man. Even his rapidly beating wings, though feathery, looked ugly and unkempt, dirty grey in the light that spilled out from Arthur’s room.

He was wearing a very old-fashioned dark suit and carried a bowler hat in his hand. He was using the crown of the hat to tap on the window.

“Let me in.”

The voice was distorted through the glass, but it was low and husky and full of menace.

“Let me in.”

“No,” whispered Arthur, thoughts of every vampire film he had ever seen flashing through his head. This was no vampire, but it was asking to be let in, so maybe the same principle applied. It couldn’t get in unless it was invited. Though in the films, they normally hypnotised someone to let them in—

The bedroom door opened.

Arthur felt as if his heart had stopped cold in his chest. Someone had been hypnotised already! They would let the dog-faced thing in…

A long forked tongue flickered around the door, tasting the air. Arthur picked up the dictionary, which he’d left by the bed, and raised it above his head.

A scaly head followed the tongue, and a clawed foot. Arthur half lowered the dictionary. It was the ceramic Komodo dragon from the balcony. No longer ceramic, or maybe it still was, but alive and moving swiftly.

Slowly, Arthur climbed back on to the bed and pressed himself against the wall, keeping the dictionary ready to throw. Whose side was the Komodo on?

“Let me in.”

The big lizard hissed and ran forward, shockingly fast, to rear up in front of the window. It opened its mouth and brilliant white light shot out, powerful as a searchlight. The dog-faced man screamed and threw up his arms, his bowler hat flying through the air. Still screaming, he hurtled backwards, wings thrashing, and disappeared in a coiling puff of coal-black smoke.

The lizard shut its mouth with a snap and the intense light disappeared with it. Then the reptile slowly stepped back from the window and ponderously trod to the end of Arthur’s bed, where it stopped and settled into its usual stance. Its skin rippled as if every muscle was suddenly galvanised, then it was still. Totally ceramic once more.

Arthur dropped the dictionary, picked up his inhaler and took several puffs. As he went over to shut his door, he was surprised to find that his legs were trembling and could barely support him. On the way back, he patted the Komodo dragon on the head and briefly considered putting his hand in to check that the Key and the Atlas were still there. But that seemed like something that could best wait for morning.

Back in bed, Arthur looked at the clock again as he pulled up the covers. Surely it was no accident that this had happened first thing on Monday.

It’s going to be an interesting day, he thought. Deliberately he turned away from the window, so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at it, and closed his eyes.

He left the light on.

CHAPTER FOUR

Arthur was not looking forward to school that Monday morning, to a much greater degree than usual. After the events of the early morning he had enjoyed only brief moments of sleep. He’d woken up every hour or so in incipient panic, his breathing ragged, only to find that his light was still on, the night was quiet and there was no trouble. The Komodo dragon stayed immobile at the foot of his bed, and with sunshine filling the room it was hard to believe that the lizard had come alive and beaten back the horrid thing that had flown up to his window.

Arthur wished he could dismiss it as a nightmare, but he knew it had been all too real. The Key and the Atlas were proof of that. He thought about leaving them behind, inside the ceramic lizard, but after breakfast he took them out and put them in his school backpack. Then he checked the garden carefully through the window before running out to join his mother in her car.

In their previous town, Arthur had walked to school. Here, he would eventually ride his bike. But his parents insisted it was too soon for him to exert himself and his mother said she would drive him to school before going to the lab.

Normally Arthur would have made some show of independence, particularly in front of his brother Eric, who he looked up to. Eric was both a basketball and a track star. He’d had no trouble adapting to the new school. He was already on his way to being a stand-out player for the school’s top basketball team. He had his own car, bought with the proceeds of a weekend job as a waiter, but it was assumed that he wouldn’t take Arthur to school in it unless there was a real emergency. Being seen with his much younger brother was bad for his image. Despite saying this, he had intervened at various important stages in Arthur’s life in their old city, putting bullies to flight in the mall or rescuing him after bicycle mishaps.

Arthur was glad to go with his mother that morning. He had a strong suspicion that the bowler-hatted dog-faced men – or manlike creatures – would be waiting at the school. He’d spent quite a few wakeful hours earlier worrying about how he could protect himself against them. It would be particularly difficult if adults couldn’t see them, which seemed possible from what Ed had told him.

The trip to school was uneventful, though once again they passed the bizarre castle-like monstrosity that had replaced several suburban blocks. To test whether his mother could see the House, Arthur commented on its size, but just as with his dad, his mother could only see the normal buildings. Arthur could remember what the area used to look like, but try as he might, no matter how he squinted or suddenly turned his head to look, Arthur could only see the House.

When he looked directly at the House, he found that it was too cluttered, complex and strange to reveal its many details. There were simply too many different styles of architecture, too many odd additions. Arthur got dizzy trying to follow individual pieces of the House and work out how they all fitted together. He would start on a tower and follow it up, only to be distracted by a covered walkway, or a lunette that thrust out of a nearby wall, or some other strange feature.

He also found it very difficult to look at exactly the same place twice. Either the House was constantly changing when he wasn’t looking at it, or the car was going past too quickly and the complexity and density of all the various bits and pieces made it impossible for his eyes to regain their focus on any particular part.

After they passed the House, Arthur was put off guard a bit by the normality of the rest of the drive to school. It seemed just like any other morning, with the usual traffic and pedestrians and children everywhere. There was no sign of anything strange as they drove up the street the school was on. Arthur felt relieved and comforted by just how boringly normal it seemed. The sun was shining; there were people everywhere. Surely nothing could happen now?

But as he stepped out of the car at the front entrance and his mother drove away, he saw five bowler-hatted, black-suited men suddenly rise like lifted string puppets between the cars in the teachers’ parking lot, off to his right. They saw him too and began to move through the ranks of cars towards him. They walked in strange straight lines, changing direction in sudden right angles to avoid pupils and teachers who obviously couldn’t see them.

More of the dog-faces appeared to the left. Arthur saw them issue out of the ground, as dark vapours that in a second solidified into dog-faced, bowler-hatted, black-suited men.

Dog-faces to the left. Dog-faces to the right. But there were none straight ahead. Arthur ran a few steps, his breath caught, and he knew he couldn’t run and risk another asthma attack. He slowed down, his eyes darting across at the two groups of approaching dog-faces, his mind rapidly calculating their speed and direction.

If he walked quickly up the main promenade and the steps, he would still get inside before the dog-faced men caught up with him.

He did walk quickly, ducking around loitering groups of students. For the first time, he was grateful nobody knew him at this school, so no one said, “Wait up, Arthur!” or tried to stop him to talk, which would have happened for sure at his old school.

He made it to the steps. The dog-faces were gaining on him, were only ten or fifteen yards behind, and the steps ahead were crowded, mainly with older students. Arthur couldn’t push through them, so he had to zig and zag and weave his way through, calling out, “Sorry!” and “Excuse me!” as he went.

He was almost at the main doors and what he hoped would be safety beyond when someone grabbed his backpack and brought him to an abrupt halt.

For an instant, Arthur thought the dog-faces had caught him. Then he heard words that reassured him, despite the threatening tone.

“You knock the man, you pay the price!”

The boy who held Arthur’s bag was much bigger, but not really mean-looking. It was hard to look ultra-tough in a school uniform. He even had his tie done up properly. Arthur picked him instantly as a would-be tough guy, not the real thing.

“I’m going to throw up!” he said, holding his hand over his mouth and blowing out his cheeks.

The not-so-tough guy let go of Arthur so quickly that they both staggered apart. Because Arthur was expecting it, he recovered first. He jumped up the next three steps at one go, only a few yards ahead of a swarm of bowler-hatted dog-faces. They were everywhere, like a flock of ravens descending on a piece of meat. Pupils and teachers got out of their way without realising why they were doing so, many of them looking puzzled as they suddenly stopped or stepped sideways or jumped aside, as if they didn’t know what they were doing.

For a second, Arthur thought he wouldn’t make it. The dog-faces were at his heels and he could hear them panting and snorting. He could even smell their breath, just as Leaf had said. It stank of rotten meat, worse than an alley full of rubbish at the back of a restaurant. The smell and the sound of their slathering lent him extra speed. He lunged up the last few steps, collided with the swing doors, and fell through.

He was up again in an instant, ready to run, his breath already shortening, lungs tightening. Fear gripped him, fear that the dog-faces would come through the doors and that he would have an asthma attack and be powerless to resist them.

But the dog-faces didn’t come through the school’s main entrance. Instead they clustered at the doors, pressing their flat faces against the glass panels. They really did look like a cross between bloodhounds and men, Arthur saw, with their little piggy eyes, pushed-in faces, droopy cheeks and lolling tongues that smeared the windows. Kind of like Winston Churchill on a very bad day. Strangely, they had all taken their bowler hats off and were holding them in the crook of their left arms. It didn’t help the look of them, for their hair was uniformly short and brown. Like dog hair.

“Let us in, Arthur,” rasped one, and then another started and there was a horrible cacophony as the words all got mixed up. “Us, In, Let, Arthur, Arthur, Us, Let, Let, Arthur, In, In—”

Arthur blocked his ears and walked away, straight down the central corridor. He concentrated on his breathing, steadying it into a safe rhythm. Slowly, the baying calls from outside receded.

At the end of the corridor, Arthur turned around.

The dog-faces were gone, and once again pupils and staff were pouring through the doors, laughing and talking. The sun was still shining behind them. Everything looked normal.

“What’s with your ears?” asked someone, not unkindly.

Arthur blushed and pulled his fingers out of his ears.

The dog-faces obviously couldn’t get him here. Now he could focus on surviving the usual problems of school, at least till the end of the day. And he could try to find Ed and Leaf. He wanted to tell them what had happened, to see if they could still see the dog-faces. Maybe they could help him work out what to do about it all.

Arthur had expected to see them at the gym in preparation for the cross-country run. He had a note excusing him, but he still had to go and give it to Mister Weightman. First he had to suffer through a whole morning of maths, science and English, all of which he was good at when he wanted to be, but couldn’t focus on today. Then when he went to the gym, making sure to go through the school rather than across the quadrangle, he was surprised to find that the class was only two-thirds the size of the previous week. At least fifteen children were missing, including Ed and Leaf.

Mister Weightman was not pleased to see Arthur. He took the note, read it and handed it back without a word, turning his head away. Arthur stood there, wondering what he was supposed to do if he didn’t go on the run.

“Anyone else got a note?” Weightman called out. “Has some class been held back? Where is everybody?”

“Off sick,” mumbled a kid.

“All of them?” asked Weightman. “It’s not even winter! If this is some sort of prank, there will be serious repercussions.”

“No, sir, they really are ill,” said one of the serious athletes. “A lot of people have got it. Some sort of cold.”

“OK, I believe you, Rick,” said Weightman.

Arthur looked at Rick. He was clearly a clean-cut athletic star. He looked like he could have stepped out of a television advert for toothpaste or running shoes. No wonder Weightman believed him.

Still, it was strange for so many pupils to be off sick at this time of year. Particularly since biannual flu vaccinations had become compulsory five years ago. It was only two months since everyone should have had the shots, which usually offered total protection against serious viruses.

Arthur felt a small familiar fear grow inside him. The fear that had been with him as long as he could remember: that another virus outbreak would take away everyone he loved.

“All right, let’s get started with some warm-up exercises,” Weightman called out. He finally looked at Arthur and summoned him over with a crook of his finger.

“You, Penhaligon, can go and play tiddlywinks or whatever. Just don’t cause any trouble.”

Arthur nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It was bad enough when other kids made fun of him, but at least there was a chance he could get back at them, or make a joke out of it or something. It was much harder to do that with a teacher.

He turned away and started walking out of the gym. Halfway to the door, he heard someone run up behind him and then there was a touch on his arm. He flinched and half crouched, suddenly afraid the dog-faces had got in. But it was only a girl, someone he didn’t know. A girl with bright pink hair.

“You’re Arthur Penhaligon?” she asked over the laughs and giggles from the rest of the class, who’d seen him flinch.

“Yes.”

“Leaf sent me an e-mail to give to you,” she said, handing him a folded piece of paper. Arthur took it, ignoring the catcalls from the boys behind her.

“Ignore those mutants,” the girl said in a loud voice. She smiled and ran back to join her particular clique of tall, bored-looking girls.

Arthur put the paper in his pocket and left the gym, his face burning. He wasn’t sure what made him more embarrassed: getting told to go and play tiddlywinks by Weightman or getting a note from a girl in full view of everyone else.

He took refuge in the library. After explaining to the librarian that he was excused from gym and showing her his note, he took a good look around, then decided to sit at one of the desks on the second floor, next to a window that overlooked the front of the school and the street.

The first thing he did was build some walls on the desk out of large reference books, to make a private cubbyhole. Unless someone came up and looked over his shoulder, nobody would be able to see what he was reading.

Then he took the Key and the Atlas from his bag and laid them down with Leaf’s note on the desk. As he did so, he caught the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked out the window and, as he had more than half expected, there were the dog-faces. Sliding out from between parked cars and trees. Slinking forward to gaze up at his window. They knew exactly where he was.

Arthur had hoped he would feel more secure if he could actually see them. That he would feel braver for having exposed himself at the window. But he didn’t. He shivered as they congregated into a mob, all of them staring wordlessly up at him. So far, none had shown wings like the one that had flown to his window the night before. But perhaps that was only a matter of time.

Forcing himself to look away, he imagined that he was a white mouse tearing its gaze away from a hooded cobra. That having done so, he would be able to escape.

He felt a very strong desire to flee into the deeper parts of the library, to hide between the stacks of comforting books. But that wouldn’t help, he knew. At least here he knew where the dog-faces were. What they were was another question, one of the many Arthur was making into a mental list.

Arthur unfolded the print out of Leaf’s e-mail and read:

To: pinkhead55tepidmail.com

From: raprepteam20biohaz.gov

Hi Allie

This is me, Leaf. can you pass this message on to arthur penhaligon? boy who flaked on the run last Monday? kind of thin + pale, about ed’s height hair like gary krag v. important he gets this. gotta run. thanx

Leaf

hi art

sorry we didn’t c u at hospital. ed got sick tues. nite, and then mum + dad did + aunt mango (not real name). i’m not sick, tho our house is quarantined. many doctors cops all over our place, in biohazard suitz, v. scary pigface. They think new flu and shots DON’T WORK. no one really, really sick yet but when I go near ed or the others I smell the same revolto smell that the DOG_FACED GUYS had like they’re connected, you know but the doctors can’t smell it they’re in suits and neither can ed or parents, tho so much snot coming out that;s no surprise. docs have machine that smells 4 them, and it says e’thing OK when obviously not. no one believes me.

i think the virus from dog-faces I REALLY HOPE you can see them you have to work it out I’M DEPENDING ON YOU.

feds cut off net and phone I think afraid of big panic. this from one of the docs palmtops which I STOLE and they’ll figure it out real soon.

im afraid

CHAPTER FIVE

Arthur stared at the last words for a few seconds: im afraid.

He shivered, folded the print-out and put it back in his pocket. He felt his breathing catch again and concentrated on a steady, slow rhythm. Breathe in slowly, hold it, breathe out slowly. But all the time his mind was racing. This was even worse than he thought.

All the fears he had managed to keep under control were threatening to break free and send him into total panic. The old fear of a new outbreak. And a new fear, of the dog-faces and Mister Monday, and even of the Key itself.

Breathe, thought Arthur. Think it through.

Why had he been given the Key… and the Atlas? Who… or what… were Mister Monday and the dog-faces? Were they really connected to this sudden outbreak of drug-resistant influenza? Was it an outbreak? Maybe only Ed and Leaf’s family was affected…

Arthur looked out the window at the dog-faces again and accidentally touched the Key and the Atlas on the desk. As he did so, he felt a sharp electric shock and the Atlas flipped open with a bang, making him jump like a startled cat. As it had done before, the Atlas grew in size till it filled nearly all the desk space in between his rampart of books.

This time, the Atlas didn’t display a drawing of the House. Instead it rapidly sketched one of the dog-faces, though without the bowler hat, dirty shirt and black, old-fashioned suit. This one was wearing something like a sack, but there was no mistaking the face.

Words appeared next to the picture, written by some unseen hand. The words were in a strange alphabet that Arthur didn’t recognise, let alone have a chance of reading, but as the boy watched he saw that the earlier letters were changing into the normal alphabet and the words were rearranging themselves into English, though the type was still weird and old-fashioned. Every now and then a blot of ink would appear partway through a word, to be hastily wiped away. Then words stopped appearing, and Arthur started to read what was there.

The House was built from Nothing, and its foundations rest upon Nothing. Yet as Nothing is for ever and the House is but eternal, these foundations slowly sink into the Nothing from which the House was wrought, and Nothing so impinges upon the House. In the very deepest cellars, sinks and oubliettes of the House, it is possible to draw upon Nothing and shape it with one’s thought, should such thought be strong enough. Forbidden in custom, if not in law, it is too often essayed by those who should know better, though it is not the high treason of treating with the Nithlings, those self-willed things that occasionally emerge from Nothing, with scant regard for Time or reason.

A typical shaping of Nothing is the Fetcher, as illustrated. A Fetcher is a creature of very low degree, usually fashioned for a particular purpose. Though it is contrary to the Original Law, these creatures are now often employed in menial tasks beyond the House itself, in the Secondary Realms, for they are extremely durable and are less inimical to mortal life than most creatures of Nothing (or indeed those of higher orders from within the House). However, they are constrained by certain strictures, such as an inability to cross thresholds uninvited, and may be easily dispelled by salt or numerous other petty magics.

Perhaps one in a million Fetchers may find or be granted enlightenment beyond its station, and so gain employment in the House. For the most part, when their task is done, they are returned to the primordial Nothing from whence they came.

Fetchers should never be issued with wings or weapons, and must at all times be given clear direction.

Arthur thought again of that hideous face at the window, pressed against the glass, its wings fluttering furiously behind it. Somebody had ignored the advice about not giving Fetchers wings. Arthur would not be surprised if the ones waiting outside had weapons as well, though he didn’t want to think about what kind of weapons they might be given.

Arthur tried to turn the page of the Atlas to see if there was any more information, but the page wouldn’t turn. There were lots of other pages in the book, but they might as well have all been glued into a single mass. Arthur couldn’t even get his fingernail between the leaves of paper.

He gave up and looked out the window again and was surprised to see that the Fetchers had moved in the short space of time he’d been looking at the Atlas. They had formed into a ring on the road and were all looking up. A couple of cars had stopped because of them, but it was obvious the drivers couldn’t really see what was in their way. Arthur could distantly hear one of them shouting, the angry words faint through the double glazing, “Get that heap of junk outta here! I haven’t got all day!”

The Fetchers gazed up at the sky. Arthur looked too but didn’t see anything. Part of him didn’t want to see, because the fear was rising in him.

Don’t look, part of his mind said. If you don’t see trouble, it doesn’t exist.

But it does, thought Arthur, fighting down the fear. Keep breathing slowly. You have to confront your fears. Deal with them.

He kept looking, until an intense white light flashed just above the ring. Arthur shut his eyes and shielded his face. When he looked again, black spots danced everywhere in his vision and it took a few seconds for them to clear.

The empty space in the middle of the ring was no longer empty. A man had appeared there. Or not really a man, since he had huge feathery wings spreading from his shoulders. Arthur kept blinking, trying to focus. The wings were sort of white, but dappled with something dark and unpleasant-looking. Then they folded up behind the apparition’s back and in an instant were gone, leaving only a very handsome, tall man of about thirty. He was dressed in a white shirt with chin-scraping collar points, a red necktie, a gold waistcoat under a bottle-green coat, and tan pantaloons over glossy brown boots – an ensemble that had not been in fashion for more than a hundred and fifty years.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed someone from behind Arthur. “The very spit of how I’ve always imagined Mister Darcy. He must be an actor! I wonder why he’s dressed up like that.”

It was the librarian. Mrs Banber. She’d crept up on Arthur while he wasn’t paying attention.

“And who are those strange men in the black suits?” continued Mrs Banber. “Those faces can’t be real! Are they making a film?”

“You can see the dog-faces?!” exclaimed Arthur. “I mean the Fetchers?”

“Yes…” replied the librarian absently, still staring out the window. “Though now that you mention it, I must be overdue for an eye checkup. My contact lenses don’t seem to be quite right. Those people are rather blurry.”

She turned around and for the first time looked properly at Arthur and his battlements of books.

“Though I can see you all right, young man! What are you doing with all those books? And what is that?”

She pointed at the Atlas.

“Nothing!” exclaimed Arthur. He slammed the Atlas shut and let go of the Key, which was a mistake. The Atlas shrank immediately into its pocketbook size.

“How did it do that?” asked Mrs Banber.

“I can’t explain,” said Arthur rapidly. He didn’t have time for this! The handsome man was walking towards the library, with the Fetchers following. He looked a bit like Mister Monday, though much more energetic, and Arthur wasn’t at all sure that the same strictures that kept the Fetchers from crossing thresholds would apply to him.

“Have you got any salt?” he asked urgently.

“What?” replied Mrs Banber. She was looking out the window again and smoothing her hair. Her eyes had gone unfocused and dreamy. “He’s coming into the library!”

Arthur grabbed the Atlas and the Key and stuffed them into his backpack. They glowed as he put them away, shedding a soft yellow light that momentarily fell on Mrs Banber’s face.

“Don’t tell him I’m here!” he said urgently. “You mustn’t tell him I’m here.”

Either the fear in his voice or that brief light from the Atlas and the Key recaptured Mrs Banber’s attention. She suddenly looked less dreamy.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it,” she snapped. “No one is coming into my library without permission! Go and hide behind the zoology books, Arthur. I’ll deal with this person!”

Arthur needed no invitation. He hurried away from the window, into the maze of library shelves, walking as fast as he dared. He could feel his lungs tightening, losing their flexibility. Stress and fear were already feeding his asthma.

He stopped behind the zoology shelves and crouched down so that he could see through two rows of shelves to the front door, where Mrs Banber stood guard at the front desk. She had a scanner in her hand and was angrily checking in books, the scanner beeping every few seconds as its infrared eye picked up a bar code.

Arthur tried to breathe slowly. Perhaps the handsome man couldn’t come in. If he was waiting out the front, Arthur could escape through the staff entrance he’d seen at the back.

A shadow fell across the door. Arthur’s breath stopped halfway in. For an instant he thought he couldn’t breathe, but it was only a moment of panic. As he got the rest of his breath, the handsome man stopped in front of the door.

He reached out with one white-gloved hand and pushed the door open. For a hopeful moment Arthur thought he couldn’t cross that threshold. Then the man stepped into the library. As he passed the door, the antitheft scanners gave a plaintive beep and the green lights on top went out.

Mrs Banber was out from behind her desk in a flash.

“This is a school library,” she said frostily. “Visitors must report to the front office first.”

“My name is Noon,” said the man. His voice was deep and musical, and he sounded like a famous British actor. Any famous British actor. “I am Private Secretary and Cupbearer to Mister Monday. I am looking for a boy. Ar-tor.”

He had a silver tongue, Arthur saw. Literally silver, shining in his mouth. His words were smooth and shining too. Arthur felt like coming out and saying, “Here I am.”

Mrs Banber obviously felt the same way. Arthur could see her trembling and her hand rose, almost as if it was going to point to where he was hiding. But somehow she forced it back down.

“I… I don’t care,” said Mrs Banber. She seemed smaller and her voice was suddenly weak. “You have… you have to report…”

“Really?” asked Noon. “You can’t allow a few words…”

“No, no,” whispered Mrs Banber.

“A pity,” said Noon. His voice grew colder, authoritarian and threatening. He smiled, but the smile was cruel and did not extend beyond his thin lips. He ran one gloved finger along the top of a display stand and held it up in front of Mrs Banber’s face. The tip of the glove was stained with grey dust.

The librarian stared at the finger as if it were her eye doctor’s flashlight.

“Spring cleaning must be done,” said Noon. He blew on the dust and a little cloud of it fell on Mrs Banber’s face. She blinked once, sneezed twice and fell to the ground.

Arthur stared, horrified, as Noon carefully stepped over the librarian’s body and stalked past the front desk. For a second he thought Mrs Banber was dead, till he saw her trying to get up again.

“Ar-tor,” called Noon softly, his silver tongue flickering. He had stopped just past the desk and was eyeing the shelves with obvious suspicion. “Come out, Ar-tor. I merely want to talk to you.”

“Ar-tor!”

The voice was commanding, and once again Arthur felt the urge to reveal himself, to run out. But he felt a countervailing force from the Key and the Atlas in his backpack. A soothing vibration, like a kitten purring, that reduced the force of Noon’s words. Arthur undid the bag, took the Key in his hand, and slipped the Atlas into his shirt pocket. Both were immensely comforting and Arthur found that he could even breathe more easily.

Noon frowned, a momentary ugliness on that handsome face. Then he reached out with his white-gloved hand and opened a small cupboard that materialised in midair the instant he reached for it. There was a telephone inside. A very old telephone, with a separate earpiece on a cord and a bell-mouth to speak into.

“Mister Monday,” said Noon into the mouthpiece.

Arthur could hear someone muttering on the other end.

“This is official business, you fool,” snapped Noon. “What is your name and number?”

There was more muttering at the other end. Noon frowned again, then slowly and deliberately hung up the earpiece, let it sit for a moment, then took it up again.

“Operator? Mister Monday. Yes, at once. Yes, I know where I’m calling from! This is Monday’s Noon. Thank you.” There was a pause as Mister Monday was connected. “Sir? I have the boy trapped.”

Arthur clearly heard Mister Monday yawn before he replied. His voice not only came out of the earpiece, it echoed around the whole library.

“Have you the Minute Key? It must be brought back to me at once!”

“Not yet, sir,” replied Noon. “The boy is hiding in a… library.”

“I don’t care where he’s hiding!” screamed Monday. “Get the Key!”

“A library, sir,” said Noon patiently. “There is a lot of type. The Will could be here too—”

“The Will! The Will! I am so bored with this talk! Do whatever you have to! You have plenipotentiary powers! Use them!”

“I need that in writing, sir,” said Noon calmly. “The Morrow Days—”

There was a sound that was a cross between a yawn and a snarl, and a tightly bound scroll flew out of the earpiece. Moving so fast that Arthur didn’t see it happen, Noon ducked aside, and as the scroll shot past, he snatched it from the air with his free hand.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, and paused. There was no answer from the other end. Just a long snore.

Noon hung up the phone and carefully closed the cupboard. As the door shut, the phone cupboard dissolved into thin air.

Noon unrolled the scroll and read it. This time, a real smile fleetingly moved across his face and a red light flashed briefly in his eyes.

“This is your last chance to come out,” Noon said conversationally. “I can bring the Fetchers in now. They’ll soon root you out, Ar-tor.”

Arthur didn’t respond. Noon stood there, tapping the scroll against his thigh. Behind him, Mrs Banber pulled herself up on to the desk and picked up the phone handset. Arthur watched them both, panicked, not knowing what he should do. Should he help Mrs Banber? Should he give himself up? Maybe if he gave Noon the Key then they would leave him alone?

Mrs Banber, her hand shaking so much she could hardly hold the phone, started to punch in a number. The keypad beeped and Noon whirled. His wings exploded out behind and above him. Huge, feathery wings that had once been white and lustrous but now were stained with patches of something dark and horrid, something that might even be dried blood.

Noon’s wings cast a dreadful shadow over the librarian as he thrust out his hand and flexed his fingers. A fiery sword appeared in his fist and he struck down at the phone, the flaming blade melting it in an instant, the papers on the desk exploding into flame. Mrs Banber staggered away and collapsed near the front door as smoke billowed to the ceiling.

“Enough!” said Noon. He stalked to the front door, his wings still arched up behind him, and opened it.

“Come in, my Fetchers! Come and find the boy! Come and find Ar-tor!”

CHAPTER SIX

Black smoke rolled across the ceiling. A fire alarm began to clang and clatter outside, followed a second later by the whoop-whoop of the evacuation siren. The Fetchers came into the library with the sound, all in a rush, barking with excitement at being invited past the door.

Noon pointed at the shelves and the Fetchers bounded forward, many of them bent over so they could sniff at the floor, their tongues lolling and flat noses twitching. Sniffing for their prey. Arthur.

But Arthur hadn’t waited. He was already at the back door. It was locked, but there was a release button inside a glass box, plastered with warning signs about alarms and only being used in the event of fire.

There was a fire. Arthur swung his backpack at the box and smashed the glass. It broke into tiny clumps rather than shattering. He reached in with his left hand and punched the button, because he didn’t want to let go of the Key he held tightly in his right hand. Somehow it helped him breathe, and he really needed to breathe properly right now. He could hear the Fetchers behind him, growling and grunting as they raced along the corridors made by the shelves, pausing at each intersection of the Dewey Decimal system to sniff out his path.

Nothing happened after he pressed the button. Arthur’s hand trembled as he punched it again. The button pressed in easily enough, but the door didn’t open. Arthur kicked the door, but it wouldn’t budge. As he kicked it again, a red flame ran around the door frame. The same rich, deep red of Noon’s fiery sword.

“The back door, my Fetchers! Ar-tor attempts the back door!”

Noon’s voice carried through the fire alarm, the siren, and the Fetchers’ barks. Arthur immediately knew that Noon had used his powers to seal the door. But Arthur had his own magic. Or at least he had something that had power, even if he didn’t know what it really was or how to use it.

The Key.

Arthur touched the door with the point of the minute hand and shouted, “Open!” There was a flash of white light, a sudden heat upon his face, then the twin leaves of the door flung open and a new alarm joined the cacophonous wail. Arthur ran out on to the fire stairs and jumped down the first two steps. Then he suddenly stopped, whirled and jumped back. He had to close the doors behind him or the Fetchers would catch him for sure. But he had wasted a precious second – could he do it in time?

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