Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock (Children of the Red King, Book 7) by Jenny Nimmo Page A
Authors: Jenny Nimmo
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jars of seaweed and nightshade, and the sheaves of yellowing paper covered in beautiful looping script. Manfred had hoped they might be put to use sealing the crack in the Mirror of Amoret, but there was nothing in Bertram Bloor's notes about the fixing of mirrors. He was more concerned with creation, with resurrection and revival.
Manfred locked the door of his ancestor's carved oak cabinet and slipped the key into his pocket. Returning to his desk, he began to study the moth in her glass jar. "I have you now, moth, wand, whatever you are."
The moth appeared to be fading. Its silvered wings had lost their sparkle, its soft head looked crumpled.
"Dead," Manfred pronounced. "But we can still use you."
A small sound came from the glass. A tiny clink. Manfred sat back. Half-closing his eyes, he scanned the jar for a fracture, a minute flaw. He was about to look closer when, with a deafening crack, the jar burst apart. A dozen gleaming shards flew straight at the window. The thick pieces shattered the pane and glass fell in a shower, onto the cobblestones outside.
The bed of white muslin lay empty on Manfred's desk. The moth had gone.
CHAPTER 7
AN EVIL WIND
Charlie heard a voice screaming in the courtyard below the dormitory. Leaping out of bed, he ran to the window. There were already several boys pressed up against the pane.
"It's the talents master," said an excited first year.
"Look at all the glass," another boy observed.
"Someone's thrown a brick through the window," said Bragger Braine, a large second year.
"Idiot," muttered Dagbert. "The glass would be on the inside, not the outside, if that had happened."
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" twittered Rupe Small, Bragger Braine's devoted slave.
A glistening quilt of broken glass lay across the courtyard. Manfred moved slowly around it, kicking the glass with his toe, then squatting down and poking the fragments with a pencil. "Weedon!" he shouted again. "Come here, this minute!"
The headmaster, Dr. Bloor, opened one of the windows above Manfred's study. "What on earth's going on?" he shouted.
"Look!" screamed Manfred, getting to his feet. "Look at all this!" He threw out an arm, indicating the broken glass.
"How did it happen?" demanded his father.
Charlie saw Manfred hesitate. Whatever it was that had caused the accident, it was going to remain Manfred's secret, for the time being. "How should I know!" he shouted, his voice taking on a hysterical note.
"I suppose it was one of your experiments," said Dr. Bloor.
"It was NOT!" shrieked Manfred. "Where's Weedon?"
"He's tidying my study. Where else should he be?" Dr. Bloor suddenly caught sight of the faces in the dormitory window. "Get back to bed!" he bellowed. "Or you'll all get detention."
There was a frantic scramble away from the window.
Twelve boys bounced back onto their beds and drew the covers over their heads. They waited for Matron to storm in, but tonight she had other things on her mind.
Claerwen lay hidden in the rotting leaves between two flat cobblestones. She made herself as small as she could while Weedon swept up the glass fragments that covered her. He groaned with fatigue as he bent and brushed the tiny shards into his dustpan.
"Put it all in here, Weedon." Manfred held out a clear plastic bag.
"Wot you gonner do with it?" asked Weedon. "Make one of them installation art things?"
"Never mind," snapped Manfred, who was doing his own bit of sweeping. "And let me know if you see anything unusual."
"Wot sort of unusual?"
"Oh, you know," Manfred said impatiently. "Anything that isn't glass: a fly maybe, or a moth."
"Ah!" grunted Weedon. "Now I get it."
The janitor continued to sweep for another half hour, but the temperature was falling fast, and soon the cobblestones began to sparkle with frost.
"It's no good, Mr. Manfred," Weedon grumbled. "I can't tell glass from frost. I'm giving up." He poured his final haul into the plastic bag and went through a door into the
Manfred locked the door of his ancestor's carved oak cabinet and slipped the key into his pocket. Returning to his desk, he began to study the moth in her glass jar. "I have you now, moth, wand, whatever you are."
The moth appeared to be fading. Its silvered wings had lost their sparkle, its soft head looked crumpled.
"Dead," Manfred pronounced. "But we can still use you."
A small sound came from the glass. A tiny clink. Manfred sat back. Half-closing his eyes, he scanned the jar for a fracture, a minute flaw. He was about to look closer when, with a deafening crack, the jar burst apart. A dozen gleaming shards flew straight at the window. The thick pieces shattered the pane and glass fell in a shower, onto the cobblestones outside.
The bed of white muslin lay empty on Manfred's desk. The moth had gone.
CHAPTER 7
AN EVIL WIND
Charlie heard a voice screaming in the courtyard below the dormitory. Leaping out of bed, he ran to the window. There were already several boys pressed up against the pane.
"It's the talents master," said an excited first year.
"Look at all the glass," another boy observed.
"Someone's thrown a brick through the window," said Bragger Braine, a large second year.
"Idiot," muttered Dagbert. "The glass would be on the inside, not the outside, if that had happened."
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" twittered Rupe Small, Bragger Braine's devoted slave.
A glistening quilt of broken glass lay across the courtyard. Manfred moved slowly around it, kicking the glass with his toe, then squatting down and poking the fragments with a pencil. "Weedon!" he shouted again. "Come here, this minute!"
The headmaster, Dr. Bloor, opened one of the windows above Manfred's study. "What on earth's going on?" he shouted.
"Look!" screamed Manfred, getting to his feet. "Look at all this!" He threw out an arm, indicating the broken glass.
"How did it happen?" demanded his father.
Charlie saw Manfred hesitate. Whatever it was that had caused the accident, it was going to remain Manfred's secret, for the time being. "How should I know!" he shouted, his voice taking on a hysterical note.
"I suppose it was one of your experiments," said Dr. Bloor.
"It was NOT!" shrieked Manfred. "Where's Weedon?"
"He's tidying my study. Where else should he be?" Dr. Bloor suddenly caught sight of the faces in the dormitory window. "Get back to bed!" he bellowed. "Or you'll all get detention."
There was a frantic scramble away from the window.
Twelve boys bounced back onto their beds and drew the covers over their heads. They waited for Matron to storm in, but tonight she had other things on her mind.
Claerwen lay hidden in the rotting leaves between two flat cobblestones. She made herself as small as she could while Weedon swept up the glass fragments that covered her. He groaned with fatigue as he bent and brushed the tiny shards into his dustpan.
"Put it all in here, Weedon." Manfred held out a clear plastic bag.
"Wot you gonner do with it?" asked Weedon. "Make one of them installation art things?"
"Never mind," snapped Manfred, who was doing his own bit of sweeping. "And let me know if you see anything unusual."
"Wot sort of unusual?"
"Oh, you know," Manfred said impatiently. "Anything that isn't glass: a fly maybe, or a moth."
"Ah!" grunted Weedon. "Now I get it."
The janitor continued to sweep for another half hour, but the temperature was falling fast, and soon the cobblestones began to sparkle with frost.
"It's no good, Mr. Manfred," Weedon grumbled. "I can't tell glass from frost. I'm giving up." He poured his final haul into the plastic bag and went through a door into the
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