treatments to old fairies!”
“Nonsense, he loves it—don’t you, Mr. Bates?”
“Yes, madam,” the husband droned.
Dahlia raised her head. “Go across the hall into the dining room, you two, and have something to eat. I’m giving Iris and Lorna a makeover.”
The two boys went across the hall to a comfortable, red-painted dining room, where a long, polished tablewas crowded with a feast of bacon, eggs, sausages, fried onions, toast, muffins, jam and croissants.
“Cool!” said Pindar, sitting down and loading his plate with sausages. “Ms. Pease-Blossom’s really good at food.”
“Dahlia’s good at everything,” Tom said. “Lorna can’t do magic food, but she’s a lot nicer than my other two godmothers. She doesn’t enslave mortals, for a start. Fairies don’t think much of mortals, do they?”
“Well—no, to be honest.” Pindar reached out for a muffin. “We make a lot of jokes about how thick mortals are, and all the silly stuff they believe in. Like gravity.”
“Gravity! Of course we believe in gravity!”
“It’s only half the story,” Pindar said. “What mortals know as gravity is actually caused by the existence of the Realm. It wraps the whole earth like a big invisible duvet. Without us, you’d all float away into space.”
“But—but—the atmosphere … Oh, never mind.” Tom decided to forget about this as quickly as possible. If he ever managed to get to his middle school in the mortal world, he didn’t fancy telling his science teacher that gravity was caused by fairies.
“Isaac Newton was a demisprite,” Pindar said. “My tutor told me about him—in secret, because we’re not meant to know about them. You’re the first demisprite I’ve ever met. What’s your special thing?”
“My—what?”
“You demisprites usually have something you’re very good at. You know—like Mozart with his music, Shakespeare with his writing—Stalin with his murdering.”
“Oh. I’m good at math, I suppose.”
Pindar dolloped strawberry jam on his muffin. “I wish I could find something I was really good at.”
“You must be good at something,” Tom said. “My mum says everyone in the world has a talent for something—even if it’s only burping the alphabet, like my friend Charlie.”
“The whole alphabet? That’s pretty good for a mortal.”
“Tom—” Lorna put her head round the door. Her face, still slathered with cream, was deadly serious. “You’d better take a look at the fairy news. You’ll need to brace yourself. It’s not good.”
Tom felt sick. “Is it Dad? Have they—have they killed him?”
“No, he’s alive and well, but they’ve caught him—there was a massive raid on Hopping Hill last night. Come and read it for yourself.”
Dad wasn’t dead. Tom took a deep breath and felt less horrible. He wasn’t dead, that was the main thing. In the drawing room Iris and Dahlia (still in their towels and face cream) bent anxiously over the jeweled laptop. MILLY’S KILLER CAUGHT! screamed the headline.
The hunt for JONAS HARDING, illegal breeder and killer of Milly Falconer, ended dramatically last night when police carried out a surprise raid on Hopping Hill. Harding, found hiding with a colony of bats, will face a public trial next week
.
Half the screen was taken up with a photograph of a bat, its claws bound together with a pair of tiny handcuffs.
“He doesn’t look well,” Iris said, shaking her head.
“Don’t frighten the boy,” said Lorna. “Nobody looks their best when they’re disguised as a bat.”
It was incredibly strange that this handcuffed bat was Dad. “What’ll they do to him? Where have they taken him?”
“They’ll take him to the Falconer Fortress,” Pindar said. “It’s the highest-security prison in the Realm.”
“They won’t torture him, will they?”
“Not with so many people watching,” Dahlia said briskly. “This is a high-profile case, darling—the eyes of the fairy world are upon
“Nonsense, he loves it—don’t you, Mr. Bates?”
“Yes, madam,” the husband droned.
Dahlia raised her head. “Go across the hall into the dining room, you two, and have something to eat. I’m giving Iris and Lorna a makeover.”
The two boys went across the hall to a comfortable, red-painted dining room, where a long, polished tablewas crowded with a feast of bacon, eggs, sausages, fried onions, toast, muffins, jam and croissants.
“Cool!” said Pindar, sitting down and loading his plate with sausages. “Ms. Pease-Blossom’s really good at food.”
“Dahlia’s good at everything,” Tom said. “Lorna can’t do magic food, but she’s a lot nicer than my other two godmothers. She doesn’t enslave mortals, for a start. Fairies don’t think much of mortals, do they?”
“Well—no, to be honest.” Pindar reached out for a muffin. “We make a lot of jokes about how thick mortals are, and all the silly stuff they believe in. Like gravity.”
“Gravity! Of course we believe in gravity!”
“It’s only half the story,” Pindar said. “What mortals know as gravity is actually caused by the existence of the Realm. It wraps the whole earth like a big invisible duvet. Without us, you’d all float away into space.”
“But—but—the atmosphere … Oh, never mind.” Tom decided to forget about this as quickly as possible. If he ever managed to get to his middle school in the mortal world, he didn’t fancy telling his science teacher that gravity was caused by fairies.
“Isaac Newton was a demisprite,” Pindar said. “My tutor told me about him—in secret, because we’re not meant to know about them. You’re the first demisprite I’ve ever met. What’s your special thing?”
“My—what?”
“You demisprites usually have something you’re very good at. You know—like Mozart with his music, Shakespeare with his writing—Stalin with his murdering.”
“Oh. I’m good at math, I suppose.”
Pindar dolloped strawberry jam on his muffin. “I wish I could find something I was really good at.”
“You must be good at something,” Tom said. “My mum says everyone in the world has a talent for something—even if it’s only burping the alphabet, like my friend Charlie.”
“The whole alphabet? That’s pretty good for a mortal.”
“Tom—” Lorna put her head round the door. Her face, still slathered with cream, was deadly serious. “You’d better take a look at the fairy news. You’ll need to brace yourself. It’s not good.”
Tom felt sick. “Is it Dad? Have they—have they killed him?”
“No, he’s alive and well, but they’ve caught him—there was a massive raid on Hopping Hill last night. Come and read it for yourself.”
Dad wasn’t dead. Tom took a deep breath and felt less horrible. He wasn’t dead, that was the main thing. In the drawing room Iris and Dahlia (still in their towels and face cream) bent anxiously over the jeweled laptop. MILLY’S KILLER CAUGHT! screamed the headline.
The hunt for JONAS HARDING, illegal breeder and killer of Milly Falconer, ended dramatically last night when police carried out a surprise raid on Hopping Hill. Harding, found hiding with a colony of bats, will face a public trial next week
.
Half the screen was taken up with a photograph of a bat, its claws bound together with a pair of tiny handcuffs.
“He doesn’t look well,” Iris said, shaking her head.
“Don’t frighten the boy,” said Lorna. “Nobody looks their best when they’re disguised as a bat.”
It was incredibly strange that this handcuffed bat was Dad. “What’ll they do to him? Where have they taken him?”
“They’ll take him to the Falconer Fortress,” Pindar said. “It’s the highest-security prison in the Realm.”
“They won’t torture him, will they?”
“Not with so many people watching,” Dahlia said briskly. “This is a high-profile case, darling—the eyes of the fairy world are upon
Similar Books
