DRAGONNE'S EG
MARY BROWN
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book 
are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely 
coincidental.
Copyright (c) 1999 by Mary Brown
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions 
thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
ISBN: 0-671-57810-3
Cover art by Bob Eggleton
First printing, June 1999
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH
Printed in the United States of America
This is for you,
Sam,
with my special love!
Acknowledgments
My thanks as usual to my husband Peter, whose patience appears to increase as 
mine decreases!
Thanks also for the support of the "Baen Family" always there if needed.
Last, but not least, as a reward for his persistent interest, I shall dedicate 
this book to Sam,
my own "Beau Thai". . . .
DRAGONS HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR
The unicorn-like creature heard the roar from where he lay in the mid-morning 
shadows among the bonsai trees. Ky-Lin sprang upright, thinking for a moment 
that the Blue Mountain had erupted again, but recognised immediately that the 
noise came from the harsh, cacophonous voices of the dragons. They were clearly 
upset.
He did a quick transformation, desk-ornament size to pony size and trotted along 
in the afternoon heat, his hooves throwing up little puffs of dust.
As he neared the Blue Mountain, he heard a sudden clatter of leathery wings 
above. Claws seized his shoulders and he was borne upwards into the air with a 
whoosh! and a sinking lurch in his stomach. He saw the plain beneath him 
disappear with alarming speed.
One of the dragons had pounced on him and was carrying him higher and higher 
towards the northeast, but to what purpose? Was he to be dropped from a great 
height, to be smashed to smithereens? Made into a snack for the dragons' dinner? 
But perhaps they had something less violent in mind.
The next moment they started to drop like stones. Beneath them the black maw of 
the mountain rose up with frightening speed: a dark blot, an inky puddle, an 
ebony lake—the mouth of Hell itself!
The dragon braked sharply at the last moment, then did a neat landing in the 
middle of a circle of six scaly others, dropping Ky-Lin unceremoniously to the 
ground.
All the dragons were hissing. They were not amused. . . .
BAEN BOOKS by MARY BROWN
The Unlikely Ones
Pigs Don't Fly
Master of Many Treasures
Strange Deliverance
Dragonne's Eg
BOOK ONE
  "Where there's a Will there's a Way"
  —William Hazlitt
Chapter One
Birthday Girl
"Please, Miss! Ern's 'avin' a fit again . . ."
Birthdays shouldn't be like this, I thought savagely as I squeezed along the 
narrow row between the desks to where Ernest was jerking uncontrollably. I held 
him tight for a moment, glad to see that he hadn't bitten his tongue; as his 
spasms lessened and he started to snore I scooped him up in my arms and carried 
him out of the class, down the corridor and into the kitchen, where there was a 
pallet in a corner for emergencies. I stripped off his soiled pants, chucked 
them into a bucket and rinsed them out, my nose wrinkling as I draped them over 
a fireguard to dry.
Ellen turned from the stove, where she was stirring the soup.
" 'Im again? Just cover 'im up, I'll keep an eye on 'im." The smell of the soup 
made my mouth water. On the table the bread was already sliced. Ellen saw my 
face.
"All counted out, miss—but come 'ere . . ." She took a knob of crust from the 
side and dipped it into the soup. "Careful, it's 'ot!"
And absolutely delicious. I crammed it into my mouth all at once, in danger of 
choking.
"Thanks, Ellen. Only an hour to go . . ."
"Thank God it's Sat'day!"
"Amen to that!"
As I made my way back to the classroom, making sure no crumbs would betray my 
scrounging and wiping my mouth on one of my second-best handkerchiefs, one used 
to mop up childish tears, snot or blood from cuts and grazes, I reflected that I 
should have a full two hours extra this afternoon to celebrate my twenty-first 
birthday.
School was from eight in the morning till six at night, Mondays to Friday, but 
on Saturday we broke two hours earlier. Fine in summer, but in winter it made 
little difference, the nights closing in early. Just two hours longer shut away 
in my room, a smoky little fire in the grate; just two more hours mending or 
trimming or studying. Once a week I would call at the local lending library, but 
I read so fast and so voraciously that I had to ration my pleasure to an hour a 
day. One penny a week was all I could afford, this being the going rate for 
borrowing.
I preferred to save a penny or two here and there and browse through one of the 
second-hand bookshops. This way I had built up my own little library: by now I 
had some of the novels of Mr. Dickens, Miss Austen, the Misses Brontë, Mrs. 
Gaskell and Mr. Thackeray, a Treasury of Poetry, the collected Histories of Mr. 
Shakespeare andThe Commonplace Cook . This latter I could not really put to the 
test, as the fire in my room would only hold one pan at best and cooking in 
one's room was discouraged, but if some day I had a home of my own I should, 
theoretically, have knowledge enough to produce good, nourishing meals.
In the meantime I, like pupils and teachers alike at the Reverend Ezekiel 
Moffat's Charity School, lived on just that: the posthumous generosity of our 
founder. Founded sixty years ago in the early 1820s, the worthy minister had 
envisaged saving the souls of London's poorest children with his four "R's": 
Religion, Reading, 'Riting and 'Rithmetic. His daughters, who now ran the 
school, had added another "R": Refreshments.
For many of these children of the streets the food they received at school was 
their only sustenance. On arrival each child was given a slice of bread and 
dripping and a drink of milk and water. At lunchtime there was a bowl of Ellen's 
soup and another slice of bread and at hometime a slice of bread and scrape and 
another drink of milk and water. We teachers shared the same diet, which made 
the twenty-six pounds a year we received go a little further. It meant I only 
had to buy supper during the week, and could spoil myself on Saturday nights and 
Sundays.
Still, ten shillings a week didn't go far. Four shillings a week for rent, plus 
a penny for hot water. One penny a day for the emptying of my slop bucket. This 
last was definitely worth it, not having to tramp down two flights of stairs to 
use the revolting, fly-infested privy in the backyard. That made five shillings 
and four-pence. Three-pence for laundry, a penny for the library, which left 
four shillings and four-pence for everything else, which included clothes, 
coals, sewing materials and ribbons, soap and, of course, food.
At present I was managing to save one shilling a week towards the cost of 
material for a winter dress and new boots, and another shilling went into the 
Co-operative Bank. Then there was the collection at church on Sundays and a 
penny for the Missionary Fund, which left me two-pence a night for a meat pie or 
a couple of sausages. This week I had bought wool to knit mittens and a muffler 
for the winter, but I had the princely sum of nine-pence left with which to 
indulge myself tomorrow.
In the fine weather I would make a packed lunch and take it out into one of the 
parks, but when it was wet or cold on Saturday nights I would visit the butcher 
for a couple of chops, then the greengrocer for potatoes and some apples or an 
orange, plus a loaf from the baker and perhaps a chunk of cheese from the 
grocer. Saturday night was cheapest too, as all was closed for the Sabbath, and 
the later you went, the better the bargain.

Back in the classroom my pupils were in disarray. Obviously those who could had 
scratched their versions of "Cat, Rat, Mat, Hat, Sat" onto their slates, and 
were now teasing one another, throwing things or fast asleep. I hurried over, 
apologising to Miss Hardacre and Miss Hepzibah Moffat for the possible 
disruption of their Middle and Senior classes, clapped my hands for order, 
tapped a few heads with my ruler and hurriedly wiped the blackboard with a damp 
cloth and substituted "Dog, Log, Hog, Bog, Fog" for the earlier words. I then 
moved down the aisle, praising where I could, as blame was no use with these 
deprived children.
Some of them were patently ineducable, others would never get further than 
adding the simplest of numbers and writing their own names, but there were 
exceptions, like Jude and June, half-caste brother and sister who held the 
glimmerings of something better. These two now presented me with "The Cat sat on 
the Mat" and "The Cat in the Hat" respectively. Next term I would recommend them 
to Miss Hardcastle's Middle Class, who were now monotonously reciting their 
seven times table.
Having all three classes in the same room was difficult at the best of times, 
but usually two were either writing or listening so we teachers didn't have the 
added strain of shouting above each other.
Of course there were always more girls than boys. As soon as they were old 
enough the latter were out on the streets for their parents, thieving, running 
errands or, if they were lucky, 'prenticed out to coal merchants, chimney 
sweeps, dockers, lightermen or costers. The girls, if they were presentable, 
usually ended up on the streets at puberty or helping out in laundries or 
cookshops. We did have some successes: some of the children had been properly 
placed, boys to printing presses and the retail trade, even one to the Christian 
Church; the girls out as milliners, seamstresses, nursery governesses or placed 
in respectable households. But these alas, were few and far between.
I had been here in London for three years now. My parents had died within a week 
of each other of a low fever while I was still at boarding school. We had never 
been well-off—it was said my mother had married beneath her to a humble 
watch-maker and repairer—but they hadn't stinted on my education, more than they 
could have afforded; but once all debts had been paid and most of the furniture 
sold from our rented cottage, I found all I had was enough to keep myself for 
six months, a few sticks of furniture and fond memories of a pretty, merry 
mother who was a hopeless housewife, and a gentle, retiring father who waited 
for work rather than seeking it out.
So, Miss Sophronisbe Lee would have to find a situation, fast, but for an 
unattached girl of nineteen with no special skills and only the recommendation 
of her headmistress to back her applications it wasn't easy. At first I was 
picky, answering only those advertisements that appealed to me, but as time 
passed I grew more desperate as most of my applications were either unanswered 
or were curt rejections, the general consensus being that I was both too young 
and too inexperienced.
So I no longer applied to those advertisements for a "genteel children's 
governess," or "Lady F. requires experienced ladies-maid," rather was I driven 
to replying to seekers of companions for the elderly, or housekeeper in a "large 
and boisterous household." These came to nothing as well, if you discount an 
interview I actually undertook with hope concerning a "disabled gentleman" 
requiring a young lady for reading aloud, writing letters and other "light 
duties." Unfortunately he was not too disabled to chase me all over his study 
and he made it very clear what the "light duties" would entail. . . .
This went on for nearly three months until I had almost decided to apply for a 
straightforward domestic post, when I had an unexpected bonus. One of our 
neighbours had paid a visit to an aunt in London, and brought back a morning 
paper which contained ten suitable posts. Although the paper was a few days old 
I answered all the advertisements eagerly, then sat back and waited. And waited.
Of the ten, four never answered, and I had five replies turning me down, but the 
last letter was different. This was from the headmistress of a Charity School 
offering a teaching post. "Young person, male or female, to teach class of five- 
to eight-year-olds in poor district. Wages: twenty-six pounds per year. Some 
food supplied. Only serious and dedicated applicants need apply." Her 
advertisement had been last on my list because of the low wage, but somehow the 
tone of the letter I received fired me with an uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
"I note that your qualifications are more than adequate for our Junior Class, 
but you must realise that the possession of knowledge is not, in itself, the 
only requirement in a good teacher. It also involves patience, a liking for your 
pupils and, above all, the art of communication. 
"You are young, but that cannot be held against you: you will not have had time 
to form bad habits or hard opinions. I note from your headmistress's 
recommendation that you have a mind of your own and are not afraid to express 
your views: I prefer this attitude to that of a milksop-miss. 
"If you decide to take the post you must be prepared to live in an insalubrious 
district and deal with children who are poor, ill-clad, unwashed and often 
apathetic. The position is not an easy one, but it might well prove rewarding if 
you manage to improve the lot of only one of these deprived children." 
So, my youth and inexperience didn't matter! Even my assertiveness was accepted 
as a sort of virtue. Was I patient? I thought so. Could I like the unlikeable? 
Probably—after all, children were children the world over. Could I communicate? 
Definitely!
And so, a fortnight later, the remaining sticks of furniture sold, apart from my 
father's comfortable wing-chair, my mother's writing desk and embroidered 
footstool and a mantel-clock that I had had in my bedroom since I was a child, I 
took the stage to London and a new life.
And here I still was, nearly three years later.
Perhaps if I had had the faintest idea of just how tough those years were to be 
I would not have come, but, perversely, I was glad I had. Financially I was 
badly off; I lived in squalid conditions and probably didn't eat enough healthy 
food, and the teaching was mind-blowingly monotonous and unrewarding. It seemed 
my nostrils were always full of the smell of unwashed bodies, urine, chalk, 
smoke and fog.
Against all those was the plus of living in London itself. It was a wondrous, 
vibrant city, full of museums, galleries, ancient monuments, theatres, parks and 
beautiful churches, all of which fed the hunger for beauty and learning which I 
hadn't realised had lain dormant in me for so long. The fantastic wonders of the 
Crystal Palace, the military bands, the Palace with its changing of the guard, 
the gaily dressed people, the shops crammed with goodies—
Of course there was the other side as well. London was like a beautifully 
dressed woman with dirty underwear. Horrendous slums, depraved and deprived 
lower-classes, running sewers, a pall of choking smoke most of the year; the 
blind, the crippled, the lame begging on every street corner and the prisons 
full of debtors, thieves and worse.
But these three years had toughened me. I was now far more self-reliant, 
realising just how sheltered, pampered and protected I had been as a child. Now 
I believed I knew far better how to extract the best from the simplest of 
pleasures. I also realised how our little school shone out like a bunch of 
bright weeds against the dull poverty around us.
Only one in ten of our little charges really benefitted from the education we 
offered, but at least they were off the streets, were fed, warm and, if 
necessary, clothed. Miss Moffat and her sister were adept at visiting some of 
the better neighbourhoods, especially if a child in the household had died, and 
begging for charitable cast-offs. Most of the bereaved were only too glad to be 
rid of unpleasant reminders. Otherwise we took advantage of any scraps of cloth 
we managed to gather and cobbled together what we could. Every Christmas and 
Easter each child was presented with a bright new penny, (birthdays being out 
because few of the children knew their birthdate), and at the New Year there was 
a bag of sweet biscuits.
The headmistress and her sister were as unalike in appearance as could be. Miss 
Moffat was tall, slim and severe-looking; Miss Hepzibah was small, round, wore 
wire-rimmed glasses, and sighed a great deal: Ellen told me she had been 
disappointed in love. There was one other member of their household: Madeleine, 
a remarkably quiet and composed young lady of about nineteen who filled in as a 
teacher when necessary, and was apparently adopted by the Misses Moffat as a 
baby. When I expressed to Ellen my admiration for their generosity, she shrugged 
her shoulders.
"There's some as would say they didn't have much choice," she said, and left me 
to work it out for myself. I guessed Madeleine must be at least a distant 
relation, for she bore a remarkable resemblance to a younger Miss Hepzibah. . . 
.
* * *
There was a bustle at the back of the classroom and every childish head turned 
to where Ellen was carrying in the cauldron of lunchtime soup. She was followed 
by Madeleine with a tray of bread and a bundle of spoons. Next came the enamel 
bowls and a bucket of soapy water and a rag, for every child had its face and 
hands washed before eating. I slipped out to the kitchen to check on little 
epileptic Ernest, and found him already seated at the kitchen table with soup 
and bread. On the way back I passed Miss Moffat, who gave me a nod before 
striking the brass gong outside the classroom to signal luncheon, a sound 
quickly drowned by the scrapes of chairs and stools, excited squeals and the 
rush of feet as the children formed into class lines. As usual there was much 
pushing and shoving, seeming that every second without food was 
life-threatening, but the routine was well established, and as soon as Miss 
Moffat entered the room and called for order she gained it within a half-minute.
Madeleine wiped hands and faces, I handed out bowl and spoon, Ellen ladled out 
into the former and Miss Hepzibah and Miss Hardcastle doled out the bread. The 
children went back to their desks to eat, before returning their bowls, having 
their hands and faces wiped clean again and escaping to the yard at the back for 
a half-hour, to play tag, leapfrog, Fairy Footsteps or Hopscotch and visit the 
privy.
Then, and only then did we teachers repair to the kitchen to eat our luncheon 
and toast our toes, with the added bonus of a cup of hot, strong tea to follow. 
This was also the time when we discussed any especial problems with the 
children; those who needed extra clothes, who appeared to be sickening for 
something or who showed signs of maltreatment or abuse.
This half-hour always whizzed by, and today the children were even more 
difficult to control, but this was usual on a Saturday. My class were supposed 
to be doing the simplest of simple arithmetic, but even the effort of adding one 
and one together seemed beyond them, let alone two and two. At least three of 
them were fast asleep, heads on desks, and the rest of them were either yawning 
or wanting to pick a fight.
The classroom seemed to be getting darker and darker, although it was only the 
first of October. Glancing up at the long windows, so high up they had to be 
opened (rarely) and shut by a hooked pole, my heart sank. So far autumn had been 
bright and fairly sunny, but now the first yellow wraiths of fog were rubbing 
against the grubby panes. It seemed I shouldn't be spending my afternoon 
tomorrow after church strolling in the park. At least I had a good book to read: 
I had re-borrowed Miss Anne Brontë'sAgnes Grey from the library. A failed 
governess maybe, but in the end she had gained her man.
Of course I had to enjoy her final success vicariously, for I had never had even 
the sniff of a proper suitor. One couldn't count the boisterous schoolboy who 
had tried to steal a kiss on my fourteenth birthday, nor yet the young curate 
with the sticky-out ears who was always begging me to come and see his 
pressed-flower collection. In London the pattern had been the same. I 
discouraged the approach of strangers, and the only man of my acquaintance had 
been the student on the floor above at my lodgings. According to my landlady he 
originated from Dublin, in Ireland, and he certainly had the gift of the charm 
and volubility of his race, and he insisted on writing me reams of doggerel 
which he shoved under my door nearly every day. I ignored his knockings—no 
visitors after six o'clock, no gentlemen in ladies' rooms and vice versa—and 
either returned the "poems" the same way they had come or, if I was feeling 
particularly vicious, they were useful for laying the fire.
But this was not the limit of his attentions. Although he never did nor said 
anything improper, and hardly spoke at all except for the conventional greeting 
now and again, he seemed to shadow me everywhere. He peered over my shoulder at 
the baker's, the grocer's shop and the butcher's; he was in the seat behind me 
at church; he checked on my choice in the library; he was behind me in the park, 
at museums and galleries, and he even peered through the railings when I was 
ushering the children in and out.
Then, after some three months he disappeared, owing my landlady for the last two 
. . .
I jerked awake. Goodness, I was succumbing like my pupils to a Saturday 
afternoon lethargy! I looked around to see what had disturbed me and saw that 
the door to Miss Moffat's private apartment was open, and Miss Moffat was 
beckoning Toby (one of our successes: it was he, the youngest member of our 
laundress's family, who usually escorted me home) from his place in the top 
class. Of course everyone stopped whatever they were doing to listen to the 
exchange, although the actual words were inaudible.
I tapped my ruler on the desk. "Come, children: anyone who has finished please 
bring your slate to me . . ."
I looked up. Twelve- or thirteen-year-old Toby was threading his way through the 
desks, heading straight for me! What could he possibly want? What dread rule had 
I broken that the headmistress needed to see me urgently at three o'clock on a 
foggy Saturday afternoon?
"Miss Sophy?"
My throat was suddenly dry and I swallowed convulsively. "Yes, Toby?"
"Miss Moffat asks that you 'tend her in her office, most partickler. Seems 
there's a gennulman to see you . . ."

Chapter Two
The Bequest
How often do the most innocent among us imagine themselves guilty! During that 
long walk from my desk, through the crowded classroom and down the corridor to 
Miss Moffat's study-cum-sitting-room I felt I was experiencing all the terrors 
of Mr. Sidney Carton on his way to the guillotine, the voices of the children, 
the chant of the mob—
Yet what could I have done? My thoughts rushed around like a rat in a maze, 
seeking some explanation and finding none. And who was the gentleman who wanted 
to see me? Was he from the police? Had someone I knew done something dreadful? 
Could it be a forgotten creditor of Papa's?
I could feel my heart beginning to race, my whole body to tremble, and it was 
only when I raised my hand to knock on Miss Moffat's door that I remembered to 
discard the half-sleeves I wore to protect me from chalk-dust and pat my hair 
into some sort of order, though as I had inherited Mama's unruly curls it was 
merely a case of tucking them hastily into my snood.
I could no longer put it off; whatever lay on the other side of that door I 
would face with my head held high—so high, I fact, that when I knocked briskly 
and walked in, not waiting for an answer, I remembered too late the tatty rug 
that lay just inside the door, a trip-trap for the unwary.
Miss Moffat rose from behind her desk. "Watch where you put your feet, child! 
And please straighten your collar."
I rose from my knees, smoothing down my skirt, cursing under my breath at my 
clumsiness.
"Sit here, beside me."
It wasn't only the chill in the room that had me clasping my hands tightly in my 
lap—there was a perfectly adequate fireplace, but to Miss Moffat winter only 
began with the first snows—no, it wasn't the cold, it was the figure lurking in 
the shadows whose face I couldn't see that had me trembling.
Miss Moffat addressed the shadow. "Please be seated, Mr. Swallow," indicating 
the Windsor chair across from her. She turned to me. "This gentleman is from the 
firm of Goldstone, Crutch and Swallow of Lincoln's Inn. He has a legal matter to 
discuss with you." She half-rose from her chair. "If you wish I shall leave you 
to—"
"Oh, no, please!" I clutched unthinkingly at her sleeve. "I should much prefer 
you to stay." This although the ogre of the shadow proved to be only a slight, 
middle-aged man with a bald head and half-glasses. He sat down, laid a bundle of 
papers on the desk and cleared his throat.
"This is she?"
Miss Moffat leaned back in her chair, patting my arm reassuringly. "Yes."
He coughed, rearranged his papers. "Well, Miss Laye—"
"Lee," I corrected automatically.
"Of course, of course . . . Miss Lee. I am here to reveal some of the terms of 
our client's Last Will and Testament. I say `some,' because a part is left for 
you to discover." He shuffled the papers again. "I must say it has taken some 
time for us to discover your whereabouts, as the private detective who was hired 
to trace you is—was—behind bars. A matter of a small debt which we were obliged 
to disburse, as the gentleman was a trifle obdurate in the matter of your 
address until we had—ah!—freed him."
Client? Will? Private detective? Prison? It sounded as though I was caught up in 
some travesty of a novel, a combination of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Conan Doyle. Miss 
Moffat saw my bewilderment and patted my arm.
"Mr. Swallow," she said. "You have me a trifle confused and, I believe, Miss Lee 
even more. Do we have a name for this client of yours whose Will you are 
executing?"
The solicitor looked faintly astonished. "Of course. I assumed—that is I 
believed—that Miss Lee would know of whom I spoke."
"No," I said. "I'm sorry, but I haven't the faintest idea."
He smiled, but it was a thin smile. "Perhaps I had better begin again. . . ." He 
extracted a document from the heap in front of him. "I have here the Death 
Certificate of one Algernon Charteris Lyle, the eminent archaeologist, who died 
some six weeks ago and is buried in the local village church . . ." He looked at 
me expectantly.
I shook my head. "I know no-one of that name."
His eyebrows shot up. "Mr. Lyle of Hightop Hall in Dorset? I speak of your 
uncle, Miss Lee!"
My uncle? But I hadn't got an uncle. I said so. "I'm sure my father . . ." I 
faltered. Wasn't Lyle my mother's maiden name? I was sure now that I had seen it 
on my parents' wedding certificate, which I kept with other important papers. 
But my mother had never mentioned that she had a brother, never talked about her 
family at all. I searched my memory; hadn't she once handed Papa the newspaper, 
remarking: "Read that article, my dear: it seems our Algy is making quite a name 
for himself . . ." Papa had said: "Not enough to seek out his relations," and 
Mama had said quietly: "You know how they felt about us—" but Papa had 
interrupted: "Not in front of the child, dearest . . ." and that had been that.
"Was he my mother's brother?" I ventured.
"Exactly!" He rubbed his hands together, as if I had got ten out of ten in some 
obscure test. "I gather your mother's family were not without some standing in 
the county of Dorset, but when their only daughter ran off to marry a humble 
clock-repairer—" he contrived to make it sound a profession slightly lower than 
that of refuse-collector "—they cut her off without a penny and broke off all 
further communication."
"I'm sure she didn't mind!" I said hotly. "My parents were devoted to one other! 
We didn't have much money but we were a very happy family. And Papa wasn't just 
a clock-repairer: he was a qualified watch-maker, with letters after his name!"
"He was also, I believe," said Mr. Swallow, "of Eastern origin?"
I was silent. I saw Miss Moffat glance sharply at me and then look away.
"My father's true name was Henry Li," I said at last, spelling it out. "His 
mother was French, his father Eurasian. His parents settled in Switzerland after 
they married, and that is where my father learned his skills. When his parents 
died he decided to try his luck in England, where he changed his name to Lee by 
deed-poll." I turned to Miss Moffat. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Perhaps I should have 
told you. It wasn't a deliberate omission, I've grown up with the knowledge all 
my life."
"It would have made no difference," she said firmly. "It must be interesting to 
consist of so many cultures. For myself, I have always had an interest in the 
East . . ." She recalled herself, to glare at Mr. Swallow. "But I do not see 
what this line of questioning has to do with the matter in hand."
"I apologise for any embarrassment," he said. "But I believe it to have 
relevance. During their lifetimes, Mr. Lyle's parents forbade him to communicate 
with his sister, for this very reason. It seems they were somewhat . . ." He 
hesitated.
"Prejudiced," supplied Miss Moffat.
"Precisely. While they were alive our client respected their wishes, but with 
their deaths he made enquiries and was satisfied that your parents were 
reasonably well off and happy with the birth of a daughter. He purchased Hightop 
Hall the better to house the many artifacts he brought back from his travels and 
these were added to over the next few years as his activities were extended." He 
coughed, and shuffled the papers again before continuing.
"Unfortunately he contracted malarial fever at one stage, and once at home 
recuperating suffered a mild heart attack, which gave him cause to re-assess his 
future. He decided to leave your mother a small legacy, but when he tried to 
contact her he found both your parents were dead, Miss Lee, and that you had 
moved to London, address unknown. He commissioned us to search for you, but we 
had no success." He sniffed and glanced around the rather shabby little room. 
"Obviously we were looking in the wrong places.
"As his health worsened he decided to take matters into his own hands and 
advertised for a private detective, payment on results. In this he had greater 
success, as the young man was quite enterprising. He has a very—persuasive—way 
with him, and once he had ascertained from one of your former neighbours that 
you had applied for various posts from a particular newspaper, and the 
approximate date thereof, it did not take him long to narrow down the search. To 
cut a long story short, he not only found you, but furnished your uncle with 
such precise details of your looks, character, likes, dislikes and situation, 
that he immediately added a codicil to his Will." He extracted a paper from the 
heap. "I must say we found it a trifle unusual . . ."
Unusual? The whole matter was unbelievable from my point of view. During the 
last half-hour not only had I found—and lost—a forgotten relative, it appeared I 
had also been left a legacy! I could not mourn a man I had never known, but I 
could be grateful that he had tried, at the last, to make up for the prejudices 
of his parents. Mama would have been comforted to know that her "Algy" had 
thought about her at the end, and that he had also considered his niece. I 
wanted to know what my uncle had looked like, his manner, but now was not the 
time for questions: Mr. Swallow was still talking.
" . . . insofar as it is incomplete. I am not in possession of the full facts, 
as I believe your uncle has left you a choice. There is a letter awaiting your 
perusal at Hightop Hall, and I have moneys here for you to travel there and read 
the same. So far, his instructions to us are clear. So is the fact that he has 
left you the contents of a small, locked cabinet in what was his study. I have 
the key here." He handed it to me. "All the rest of his artifacts have been left 
to various museums, his books, writings and manuscripts to his Cambridge 
college." He paused and cleared his throat again. "Although his housekeeper and 
her husband have been left a small legacy, I cannot promise you that you will 
have much money as your lot. During his last years he lived on his capital and 
the house and grounds grew more and more neglected, although the Hall itself has 
not suffered any structural decay.
"So, do not expect to live in luxury. I suggest you keep your present post for 
the time being, travel to Dorset to see what is in your uncle's letter, then 
decide what to do next. You will give her permission to take the trip, Miss 
Moffat?"
"Gladly. The child has taken no holidays since she has been with us, except for 
the usual weeks at Christmas and Easter, and of course her post will remain 
open." She said all this, but she knew the real reason I had taken no leave was 
because (a) I needed the food and (b) I had nowhere to go. She turned to me. 
"Take all the time you need. Your wages will still be paid, and Madeleine will 
cover for you."
"Then when will you be ready to travel, Miss Lee?"
I thought rapidly—everything was happening so quickly. Still, the sooner the 
better. I glanced at Miss Moffat. "Monday?"
She nodded.
Mr. Swallow shuffled his papers together for the last time. "In that case I will 
have one of our staff down there to meet you and help out if necessary. We shall 
reserve a seat on the train and arrange for a carriage for the last part of your 
journey. Our representative will reside at the local inn and you may do the 
same, or stay at the Hall if you prefer. I will telegraph the housekeeper to 
expect you. All costs will be borne by your uncle's estate.
"If you would call at our offices in Lincoln's Inn at nine-thirty on Monday 
morning—number 22A—we shall have all ready for you."
We shook hands—his were clammy and cold—and Miss Moffat escorted him out. 
Through the open door I could hear the clatter of nailed boots as the last of 
the children made their way home, and the noises from the kitchen as Ellen 
cleared all away for the weekend. Through the net curtains behind the desk I 
could see the fog thickening.
I glanced at my fob-watch: five minutes past four. An hour and five minutes and 
my life could have changed completely.
I leant back in my chair. It had all happened too quickly for me to grasp the 
implications. Sure, I knew what I had to do next, how and when, but it just 
didn't add up to anything concrete. My mind and body were still attuned to a 
Saturday at the school; time now I went home, did some shopping on the way, 
picked up my laundry, lighted my fire, collected my hot water and had a wash, 
ate my supper, did some mending and then relaxed with my library book before 
undressing and going to bed. Tomorrow, Sunday, my best dress and church. Perhaps 
a walk in the afternoon, a visit to one of the parks, a halfpenny ride on one of 
the open-top horse-drawn trams . . .
I realised I was trying to push my new knowledge away, instead of both accepting 
it and trying to make sense of it. The fact was, I was afraid. So far there had 
been so few changes in my life—going away to school, the death of my parents, 
finding this post in London—that I was ill-equipped to deal with sudden advances 
or retractions. It was only now that I was beginning to realise what a rut I had 
got myself into in the last three years; well, here was a situation I had been 
forced into and I felt the first stirrings of anticipation. Perhaps this was the 
beginning of something new and exciting—
There was a knock on the door and Ellen brought in a tray of tea.
"Miss Moffat said as 'ow you'd missed your bread and jam you might like to join 
'er in a cuppa. She'll be back in a minute, just locking up." She hesitated in 
the doorway. "She said as 'ow you're off on Monday to look at your uncle's place 
and might not be back. Just like to say as 'ow we'd miss you. And if you ever 
need a cook, I'll be there like a shot." She slipped out the door, then poked 
her head round it again. "Young Ern 'as gone off with 'is sister, but master 
Toby says as 'e'll wait in the kitchen to see you 'ome . . ."
Dear Toby! Like the rest of my laundress's children, he was not certain which of 
his various "uncles" was his father, but he was no worse for that, being one of 
our most promising pupils, determined to better himself. Realising that my 
lodgings were within a stone's-throw of the laundry, he had offered to show me a 
quicker way home.
This had opened my eyes to the darker side of the city. Narrow alleys with 
houses leaning crazily in all directions, gutters running with ordure, shouts, 
screams and rantings from behind open doors with no hinges; windows nailed up 
with sacking; beggars with no hands, no legs, no eyes. Rats as big as cats 
scuttling in and out of the heaps of refuse, some of which latter came alive as 
we passed, gnawed fingers grabbing for my skirts, Toby's ankles. We crept 
through the filth of courtyards where dogs prowled and snarled and fought and 
copulated and half-naked children played listlessly with rags and pieces of 
string. We passed low taverns, stinking of sour beer and wine and the sweet 
decay of vomited gin, men and women staggering out, their faces bloated and 
blotched, swaying and falling into the gutters. We went by the painted women, 
some not even yet women, but boys and girls no older than Toby himself. Lines of 
people waited for the pawnbroker to open for the evening so they could "pop" 
their few possessions from one week to the other. Flies fastened on our hands 
and faces, greedily seeking salt; we stepped aside for the rag-and-bone man with 
his cart: rags for paper, bones for glue, bottles for reuse. The night-soil 
people never came here and slops thrown from the windows stained the 
house-fronts and caked the cobbles.
The sights, the sounds, the smells, all combined with the thick, murky air, 
revolted me: it was like a walk through Hell. But Toby walked through it all 
with the assurance born of familiarity. With him I was safe. He knew the streets 
and many of the people, warning off the urchins who would have crept up behind 
me to snatch at my reticule, bonnet or even cloak. I saw that he carried a small 
sharp knife, besides the short, weighted stick stuck in his belt. After that 
first time I never wanted to tread that way once more, but he persuaded me every 
now and again. I never came to any harm, and gradually he introduced me to his 
especial friends: the old-clothes dealer, Simeon, whose face reminded me of the 
illustrations of Fagin in "Oliver Twist"; Pegleg Pete, a crippled ex-sailor, who 
hawked matches; Old Nell, who had a houseful of felines, spending whatever she 
earned with the cat's-meat man; Sal, a prostitute whose moneys kept not only 
herself but her three young siblings and an invalid mother and my favourite, 
little Em, a crippled child with the sweetest singing voice I had ever heard.
This night, with the fog closing in, we would go by the longer route. I decided 
that supper would be a celebration, not only for my birthday but also for my 
uncle's legacy, whatever that might be, and that I would invite Toby to share it 
with me.
Miss Moffat came back and shut the jingling bunch of keys away in her desk.
"Well, that's that for a couple of days," she said briskly. "Pour the tea, 
child, while I wind the clock. It only needs attention once a week, and Saturday 
is as good a day as any other . . ."
I poured out the way Mama had taught me: milk first, the first cup for the 
guest, second for the host, in case the tea grew too strong. This was never a 
problem with Miss Moffat's tea; Ellen brewed it as she liked it, pale and 
straw-coloured. I picked up the tongs and added the rare pleasure of two lumps 
of sugar to mine. The headmistress drew the drugget curtains, turned up the 
lamp, accepted her cup and saucer and took a couple of sips before seating 
herself in the chair next to mine.
"Well, this afternoon was a surprise, wasn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid it hasn't quite sunk in yet."
"No more it will child, until you find yourself on that train on Monday 
morning."
"I've never travelled on a train . . ."
"Then you have both a treat and an experience in store! I well remember the 
first time I travelled so . . . The speed! Why, we must have reached at least 
thirty miles per hour! The worst things were the smoke and smuts and the 
hardness of the seats . . . Make sure you visit the Ladies Room at the station 
before you board the train: there is nothing worse than travelling in 
discomfort. Try and find yourself a `Ladies Only' carriage: you will be safe 
from tobacco smoke and any unwelcome attentions."
"But surely, ma'am, no gentleman would venture to light a pipe or cigar in front 
of a lady without first requesting permission?"
She sniffed. "Once upon a time, yes, but times are changing, and not for the 
better." She leant over and squeezed my knee. "Besides, if you are in a `Ladies 
Only' you will feel less inhibited when you unwrap your sandwiches or pie."
I was becoming more and more bewildered. "I shall need to take food with me?"
She nodded. "It would be wise. You will probably have just a crust for your 
breakfast, then you will have to walk to Lincoln's Inn. From there I presume 
they will provide transport to the station, but you will have to wait for the 
train. It is possible, I believe, to obtain a cup of tea there, but you will 
still have a long journey ahead. I cannot see you arriving at your final 
destination much before the middle of the afternoon, and who knows then what 
comforts, or lack of them, will await you? You would not wish to arrive in a 
distressed or fainting condition, would you?"
"N—no," I said. "Thank you for your advice, ma'am. I shall certainly take some 
refreshments with me. May I pour you some more tea?"
"Thank you. And please help yourself. I think we should try Ellen's seed-cake as 
well . . ."
Another cup of tea and two slices of cake later I felt far more relaxed. As I 
put down my empty cup and saucer she leant forward once more and squeezed my 
knee again, quite hard this time. "Have you given thought to what you will do in 
the future?"
"I suppose—I suppose it all depends on what is in my uncle's letter." I 
faltered, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden.
She released her hold. "Of course. But if you find only a small amount is 
involved—will you consider returning here?"
"Of course," I reassured her. "In spite of everything, I have still enjoyed my 
time here. And I should miss the children sorely—"
"And us?"
I puzzled. "I don't know Miss Hardacre very well, but Ellen is a dear! Miss 
Hepzibah and Miss Madeleine are always very pleasant and you have shown me every 
consideration—"
Suddenly she stood up and loomed over me, her shadow huge on the wall, then she 
bent forward and cupped my face in her hands. "I should have realised where you 
got those eyes from," I thought she said, but couldn't be sure, because the 
blood was beating so strongly in my ears. She bent closer: she smelt of stale 
powder. Without any warning she kissed me full on the lips, as my mother might 
have done, but this wasn't a motherly kiss.
I pulled my head away and stumbled to my feet, knocking over my chair. When I 
had righted it and turned back, hoping my cheeks were not as flushed as they 
felt, Miss Moffat had her back to me, fiddling with something on the 
mantelpiece. Her back was very straight, but I noticed that the hand I could see 
was trembling. Her voice, however, was as firm as ever.
"Ask Ellen to collect the tea-tray, will you?"

Chapter Three
Journeying
I was so busy puzzling over Miss Moffat's uncharacteristic behaviour on the way 
back to my lodgings, that it wasn't until we were nearly there that I realised 
that Toby had hardly uttered a word. Normally he was that delightful mixture of 
child and young adult which comes at the onset of puberty; one moment he would 
be darting ahead, leaping up to pull a leaf from a tree or somersault over some 
railings, the next he would engage me in serious conversation, asking impossible 
questions like "What does the Prime Ministerreally do?" or "Does the Queen wear 
a different pair of shoes every day?" or even "How far is it to the Moon?"
Very often I was stumped for a sensible answer. He was a naturally inquisitive 
child with an affectionate nature, though I sometimes wondered whether this had 
anything to do with the fact that he always managed to coax a sausage or pie 
from me on Saturdays . . . Not ever by direct asking, but the wistful face and 
appreciative thanks always touched my heart.
Being the youngest in the family at home he ran errands and delivered the 
laundry. His two eldest sisters were married and the younger two worked with 
their mother, although one was crippled. Of his brothers, one had run off to sea 
and the other was serving three years for assault. The "Missus" of his mother's 
title was purely a courtesy one. She had a fancy for soldiers and sailors: easy 
come, easy go. This I had learned from Ellen, who was expert at putting two and 
two together.
All the children had been to the Charity School at one time or another, but Toby 
was the only one to have shown any aptitude. He could read and write, although 
the latter was largely phonetic. He wrote as he spoke with all dropped or 
substituted aitches: "Hay" was " 'ay"; "afterwards" was "halfterwoods." His 
arithmetic was exceptionally good, in fact he was way ahead of his teachers, and 
used the abacus with bewildering speed.
But this afternoon there were no questions, no skipping ahead, no jumping the 
piles of leaves that swirled with every passerby. The fog didn't seem to be 
getting any thicker, but the gas-lamps had a smoky nimbus and people loomed up 
in shadowy insubstantiality to disappear again almost immediately, and the cries 
of the street vendors and the rattle of wheels had a muffled quality.
I tried to make conversation, but there was either no response, or he replied in 
monosyllables. As we reached the turn to my lodgings I fumbled in my purse and 
extracted a three-penny bit.
"Here, Toby, this is for my laundry. Don't bother to bring it back for a couple 
of hours, but when you do please tell your mother I would like your company for 
a while as escort. Clean face and hands, please!" I patted him on the head. "And 
please try to look a little less miserable! It's my birthday today . . ."
He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. "Happy birthday, Miss."
The clock of St. Michael and All Angels church nearby struck five. "Well then . 
. . See you about seven. Do you want to borrow my lantern?"
He shook his head and darted away. I made my way up the steps to my lodgings, 
still wondering what had upset him. Once in my room though, I was too busy to 
dwell on a mystery which was probably just a storm in a teacup anyway.
Putting on my apron I lighted the candles, laid the fire, collected yesterday's 
ashes in the coal-scuttle, put two weeks' rent in my pocket and went downstairs 
to find my landlady.
Explaining that I would be away for a few days due to the death of a relative, I 
also added that if I decided to stay longer I would send for the rest of my 
belongings, and arrange for their transportation. To this end I would give her 
two weeks' rent, the second in lieu of notice if I did not return. She was full 
of questions of course, but I pleaded distraction and escaped upstairs with my 
ration of coals and the promise of hot water within the hour.
Once swept, dusted and polished I looked around my little room with an affection 
of sorts I had not known I possessed. After all, it was the only place I could 
call home, and the unknown was always daunting. For three years, not altogether 
easy ones, this place had been my refuge. Over there was the bed with the 
patchwork quilt I slept under; there was the rickety table where I ate my meals; 
there was my mother's desk where I wrote up my diary, there was the window-sill 
where crumbs were placed for the hungry London sparrows and over there was the 
little shelf where my books were placed, next to the hooks for my clothes.
Books! What in the world would I have done without the escape they offered? My 
imagination had soared away from the confines of four walls—into the marshes 
with Hereward, fleeing the destruction at Pompeii, crusading with Ivanhoe, 
tasting the quieter gossip at Cranford, or enjoying the ecclesiastical 
in-fighting at Barchester . . . How often had I wished I had been a part, a real 
part, of the stories I read!
I gave myself a mental shake. After all the adventures I had yearned for, what 
was I doing clinging to a dingy little room, when on Monday my whole life might 
change!
Come on, young woman, I told myself. Today is your birthday, your coming-of-age. 
Tonight you will take Toby out for supper, a treat for you both. In the meantime 
go out and buy something you want—not something you need—find an extravagance.
Three-quarters of an hour later I returned with bread, bacon, pies and two 
oranges for Sunday, and my birthday presents to myself: a bottle of shampoo 
scented with orange-flowers and a bar of soap to match, rare luxuries, and two 
second-hand books: "Our Mutual Friend," by Mr. Dickens, and "Westward Ho!" by 
Mr. Kingsley. I should take them both with me on Monday. I had also bought some 
sprigs of rosemary and lavender to pack amongst my clothes, and had withdrawn 
all my savings. Not that I had any intention of spending them, but they might be 
useful in an emergency. I could always put them back afterwards—afterwhat I 
wasn't quite sure.
My hot water arrived, I had a thorough wash, put on a clean white blouse and 
sponged my dark-blue skirt and cloak and polished my boots. Then I pinned two 
rosettes of white ribbon to my bonnet. Mama had taught me the importance of 
matching the colours of my dress discreetly, without drawing undue attention to 
it. "A lady is not known by her dress but by her manners," was one of her 
favourite sayings.
I peered at myself in the scrap of cracked and blotchy mirror above the 
mantelshelf, holding my candle close, but my face looked mysterious, far away. 
Without conscious thought I tried to focus my eyes, which had apparently 
inspired Miss Moffat to such uncharacteristic behaviour, but they looked exactly 
as they always had to me. Greeny-hazel, with thick black lashes—perhaps it was a 
slight tilt upwards at the outer corners that had intrigued her? Papa's eyes had 
had the same tilt but his eyes had been dark brown.
I shivered of a sudden and slammed the candle down, wax dripping into the 
hearth. Rubbing my mouth I tried to wipe away the memory of that kiss, unasked 
and resented. Would it happen again if I returned to the school? I hoped not: 
there had been something unsettling, wrong about it.
Footsteps on the stairs, stumbling a little in the dark, and a knock on the 
door. I opened it and there was Toby, my escort for the night.
Only he didn't look as if he was going anywhere. Thrusting the bundle of laundry 
into my arms he turned to go, face dirty, hair uncombed.
"Toby! What's the matter?"
"I'm not coming!" Tossing the laundry onto the bed, I seized his arm and drew 
him into the room.
"What do you mean, you're not coming? Won't your mother let you?" I laughed. 
This was incredible! He must know I intended to feed him and he was always 
hungry.
"Just why don't you want to come? Are you ill? I thought we could find somewhere 
pleasant to eat and—"
"AndI thought you were my friend!"
"Of course you are my friend. Why should you think otherwise?"
"Because you're goin' away, that's why! And you're not comin' back neither, only 
you won't admit it. You're not just cel'bratin' your birthday, if that's what it 
is, you're cel'bratin' goin' away! And you didn't even tell me!" He looked as if 
he was about to stamp, throw something or burst into tears, and I didn't want 
him doing any of these.
"Toby! I'm surprised at you. That's one of the reasons we are going out tonight, 
so I can explain, just to you. Instead of waiting to hear what I have to say, 
you've obviously listened to some half-heard story from Ellen, who—"
"I listened! I listened at the door when you were with that lawyer fellow—"
"You shouldn't eavesdrop! It's wicked, and—"
"But that way at least I knows what's goin' on! Didn' hear it from anyone else. 
Straight from the 'orse's mouf."
I thought for a moment. "And did you hear my conversation with Miss Moffat 
later?"
He shook his head. "Saw me in the corridor, she did, an' sent me back to class."
"Then you didn't hear her ask me what I had decided to do in the future, and 
whether I had thought of returning?"
He shook his head again.
"Mr. Swallow said my uncle left very little money, did he not? Well, when Miss 
Moffat asked whether I had thought of returning, I told her it all depended on 
what I found when I went down there, and what was in my uncle's letter. So, 
what's the problem? Come on now, pull yourself together. I shall probably be 
back within the week."
"If'n you say it like that . . . Cross your heart and hope to die?"
I obliged. "Now then, what about that chop-house round the corner?"
"Nah . . ." He shook his head dismissively. "Ma does their linen, and I gets to 
see the food. Cat's meat. Flies all over." He brightened. "Tell you what: I know 
of a place 'bout quarter-mile away. Nothing posh, but the grub's good an' you 
gets value for money. Maggie May's. You game?"
"Maggie's" proved to be an Irish quarter-mile distant: more like a half. The fog 
was thickening, but Toby had the lantern and guided me safely enough, though I 
near jumped out of my skin when a bell clanged at my elbow, but it was only the 
muffin-man, wooden tray on his head, ready to cry out his wares. There were few 
people about, and we passed the chop-house I had suggested with only a small 
sigh of regret from me, for Maggie's sounded much more fun. It was.
We descended steep steps to a basement lit by oil lamps, with a large open 
hearth at the far end. It was warm, smoky, but cosy. Being early to dine, not 
long after seven, there were few tables occupied, these by quiet, 
respectable-looking people. Looking more closely at my surroundings I saw the 
floor was of worn, well-scrubbed red tiles, the walls were distempered white, 
and it would seem that none of the tables or chairs shared a common origin, 
although the former were spread with clean and cheerful red gingham cloths and 
starched napkins.
A small, round woman wearing a large white apron came bustling out from the 
back.
"Why, Master Toby! How nice to see you . . . And you have brought a lady-friend 
with you!" Her black eyes, darting from one to the other, had probably summed us 
up correctly even before Toby introduced me as his teacher, whom he had brought 
here for her birthday treat.
" 'Cos you makes the best 'n' freshest food in Lunnon," he added.
She wiped her hands on her apron. "Well, that's very kind of you, Master Toby. 
We shall have to make sure we live up to your recommendation, shan't we?" She 
led us over to a table in an alcove near the fire, where it was warm enough for 
me to discard bonnet, cloak and gloves. "Now, what can I get for you? My 
standards are up on that blackboard over there: tripe and onions, steak and 
kidney pudding, mutton with caper sauce, rabbit pie, liver and onion sauce, 
stewed eels, and a treat from India, vegetable curry. What do you say?"
"Rabbit pie for me," said Toby, "Though the tripe and onions sounds great . . ."
"Leave it to me," she said and turned to me. "And how about you, miss?" She 
looked at me speculatively. "I can tell you aren't a tripe and onions lady, nor 
yet one for eels . . ." The very thought of either put me right off. "If you 
don't mind waiting a little while, I'm sure I can come up with something to 
suit," and off she whisked back to the kitchen, her large apron spreading like 
the sail of a ship.
Five minutes later a serving-maid brought a bowl of tripe for Toby and some 
toast and paté for me, accompanied by a large jug of lemon-barley water.
"Starters," she announced.
The paté was delicious, with a hint of brandy behind the chicken liver base. My 
first hunger sated, I glanced around the restaurant once more. It was filling up 
nicely; some single gentlemen, married couples, a pair of lovers and at least 
two families. Nobody seemed to mind the mismatched furniture nor the odd 
pairings of cutlery.
Toby followed my gaze, scooping up the last of his sticky, glutinous tripe with 
a slice of bread. "Mostly clerks as come here," he said. "They finishes late, 
and it's a good place to bring the fambly. Mrs. May does the cookin' and her 
daughters wait on. Mr. May works at the docks; good man, but a bit dumb. She's 
the one as keeps them all goin'. Used to work as cook to a titled gent till 'e 
went bankrupt."
But bankrupt her dishes certainly were not. Toby's rabbit stew came with carrots 
and turnips and I was served with a mouthwatering plate of Beef Wellington, the 
pastry light and flaky, the meat pink and tasty, the mushrooms complemented by 
the tender French beans served as my vegetable. We both finished with apple pie 
flavoured with cloves and cinnamon and dressed with a rich custard. It was 
probably the most delicious meal I had had in years, and much cheaper than I had 
expected.
A satisfactory end to a very odd day.

Chapter Four
The Journey
After church the following day I started my packing. There was probably no need 
to parcel everything up, but even if I were to be away only a couple of days, my 
belongings would be safer packed away. So, into my father's old cabin trunk went 
my clothes (what there were of them), the patchwork quilt, spare bonnet, best 
boots and linen. In the tray at the top went writing materials, sewing things, 
books and the gold-rimmed, rose-patterned cup and saucer that had been my 
mother's favourite. I strapped up the trunk and labelled it, then also labelled 
the writing-desk, chair and footstool.
My dirty linen would go to Toby's mother on Monday, for return on Wednesday, and 
I prepared a label for that as well. I would travel in my working clothes, but 
in my travelling valise went clean underwear, night-dress, dressing-gown, 
slippers, washing things, an apron and my best blouse, skirt and jacket, plus 
the two books I had not yet read. It was so heavy by the time I had finished, I 
was glad I would be met at the other end.
I broke off to eat bacon sandwiches for lunch, and later warmed a pie for my 
supper, with an orange with each meal, but the time went so swiftly that it was 
after seven before I asked for hot water, one lot for washing my hair with my 
new shampoo, the other for an all-over wash. It seemed years since I had seen a 
proper bath-tub.
I asked the landlady to call me at six, plenty of time to clear out the grate, 
bundle up the washing, take it to Toby's mother, Mrs. Jugg, buy fresh bread and 
ham for sandwiches, plus a couple of bottles of ginger beer.
I had thought I would spend a sleepless night, worrying about the morrow, the 
future in general, but surprisingly I slept like a top, was ready in plenty of 
time and was five minutes early at the offices of Messrs. Goldstone, Crutch and 
Swallow of 22A, Lincoln's Inn.
Mr. Swallow was waiting for me.
"Ah, Miss—er—Lee. All arrangements have been made. You will catch the ten-thirty 
train from Waterloo, which will arrive at three at Deepling Crossing. There, our 
representative, Mr. Cumberbatch, will have arranged transport to Hightop Hall. 
The caretaker and his wife have been advised of your travel plans, and you will 
stay at the Hall until these matters have been—ah—sorted out satisfactorily. Mr. 
Cumberbatch will stay at a nearby hostelry, to be contacted when you are ready 
for your next move."
He handed me an envelope. "In here you will find your ticket and some travel 
expenses." He shook my hand. "I wish you luck, Miss—er—Lee."
Outside the office, treading through the fallen mulberry leaves, I opened the 
envelope. Inside was a first class ticket for a "Ladies Only" compartment and 
twenty bright shillings. A fortune! There were no cabs in Chancery Lane, so I 
crossed to Kingsway with better luck.
At the station there was over an hour to wait, so I bought a buttered scone and 
a cup of coffee, all the while marvelling at the great glass and stone edifice, 
echoing with the huff and puff of the engines, the shriek of whistles, the 
clatter of the hurrying passengers, the call of the newsboys and the 
announcements, through a megaphone, of arrivals and departures.
The air was thick with that rotten-egg smell that seemed characteristic of steam 
engines, and the ground strewn with debris, amongst which pigeons and sparrows 
rooted for crumbs. I hesitated over buying a newspaper, but decided I had been 
prodigal enough. Besides, I had my books in my valise to read. After checking 
the platform from which my train left, and confirming the time, I retired to the 
Ladies Room, remembering Miss Moffat's advice and visiting the washroom.
In spite of all this the time seemed to be crawling, not helped by the fact that 
I was checking my fob-watch every three minutes, or so it seemed. The 
waiting-room was nearly full; a woman with two grown daughters, a market-lady 
with two baskets of eggs, a severely dressed, thin woman with a satchel full of 
leaflets and another reading from her Bible. Small children ran around, whining 
at the delay, eager to escape and look at the engines.
Eventually, with still twenty minutes to go, I decided to see if my train was at 
the platform. It was, and a helpful guard showed me the way to my compartment 
and indicated my reserved seat, a corner one facing the engine. No-one had 
briefed me as to tipping, but he seemed grateful enough for the penny I offered.
It was all more comfortable and clean than I had expected from Miss Moffat's 
reminiscences, but perhaps she had not travelled first class. My seat was well 
sprung, there was a sunblind at the window and a small upper window that could 
be slid open. I put my valise on the netted shelf above my seat, took off and 
folded my cloak and adjusted my bonnet in the mirror opposite. Then I sat back 
and watched the passengers hurry past my window; all shapes and sizes, men, 
women and children, laden and unladen, purposeful or hesitant, smart or shabby. 
Seeing the numbers, I was glad I had the luxury of a reserved seat.
In the event I was joined only by two nuns and a languid lady with a lorgnette, 
who shut her eyes and apparently dozed off as soon as the train started. The 
sisters meanwhile occupied themselves with their rosaries and reading their 
psalters, so I was not obliged to even open my mouth during the whole journey.
I had thought I would treat myself to a chapter of Mr. Dickens and one of my 
sandwiches, but I was too engrossed in the journey. The speed, the smooth 
motion, except when we passed over points, the ever-opening vistas of town and 
country that flashed past the windows entranced me, punctuated as they were by 
the chuff-chuff of the powerful engine and the diddly-dee, diddly-dee of the 
wheels on the tracks.
Once we had crossed the slow-moving Thames and cleared the smoke-grimed 
tenements of south London we emerged into a world I had almost forgotten: the 
green and pleasant land of rural England. I had not realised how much I had 
missed the fields, trees, streams and cattle that were so much a part of my 
childhood. I found my hands were clenched in my lap and I was filled with 
nostalgia as at one moment we plunged into a cutting with bosky woods stretching 
up on both sides, their leaves turning red, yellow and brown and fluttering down 
in the wake of our passage. Then we would have a straight run through fields 
bisected by neat hedges in which brown and white Herefords grazed or ponies 
galloped away, pretending panic at our passage, their tails held high.
There were long, low farmhouses, sheep dotting their fields; over there they 
were burning the stubble, smoke mushrooming up and drifting away north with the 
breeze; here they were already ploughing, the patient Shires straining against 
their collars as the straight furrows grew behind them.
Sometimes we rode high on an embankment, the sun throwing our shadow like a toy 
train onto the fields on our right. Now and again I would catch a glimpse of a 
stately home, in white or yellow stone, usually set on a knoll and backed by 
carefully cultivated woods. These set me to wondering what my uncle's house was 
like. With a name like Hightop Hall it ought to be grand enough, and at least I 
would be spending a couple of days there in greater luxury, I hoped, than my 
London lodgings.
This was a stopping train, as opposed to an express, and we halted at every 
station, from those that serviced small towns to those that were only to offload 
milk-churns for a farm across the fields. I kept careful count of the number of 
stops, as Mr. Swallow had written in pencil on my ticket that mine was number 
sixteen.
Deepling Crossing, when it came, was just another halt, and I was the only one 
alighting or getting on, and I felt rather lost as I watched the train puff its 
way round the curve and disappear.
I looked about me. The downside platform on which I stood had no exit and was 
backed by fields. Across on the upside however there was what looked like a 
ticket booth, a gate and a lane leading away into the distance—but no sign of 
any transport. I glanced at my watch: the train had been on time, but perhaps 
punctuality in this part of the countryside was more lax. After all, even in 
these advanced times, many people didn't own a timepiece of any kind, in or out 
of the home. Farmworkers relied on light and dark in the passing of the seasons, 
those in towns or villages on the striking of the church clock.
No point in just standing around. I walked to the end of the platform where it 
sloped down, crossing the line carefully in case another locomotive appeared 
suddenly, and walked up to the ticket booth, checking on the way that "Deepling 
Crossing" was clearly painted on the signs on both platforms: right place, right 
time.
I tapped on the closed shutters of the ticket booth, but there was no answer. I 
tapped again, a little louder this time—still no reply. I walked around to the 
back—but there was none! It was just a three-sided shelter, containing a stool, 
a broken clay pipe and two or three ancient ticket stubs: obviously the 
ticket-collector didn't have much call for his services.
I walked over to the wicket gate and peered down the lane: still no sign of 
transport. Well, I could wait a little longer, but after a half-hour pacing the 
platform, I began to feel worried. I decided the best thing to do was have 
something to eat, because I was feeling distinctly hungry. I took the stool out 
of the booth, found a patch of sunshine and sat down to enjoy half my ham and 
chutney sandwiches, washed down by one of my bottles of ginger beer. I could 
have eaten the rest, but thought it wise to keep them for emergencies—like the 
non-appearance of any form of welcoming party.
By the time an hour had passed since the arrival of the train—during which time 
two expresses had roared through the station, one up, one down, causing me to 
shrink back as I was buffeted by their passage, I had decided that enough was 
enough. There was only one way out of the station so I would walk in that 
direction, to meet whoever had been sent out to fetch me.
I returned the stool to the booth, picked up my valise, opened the gate and 
walked out into the lane. I then decided it would be wisest to relieve myself 
before anyone turned up, found a gap in the hedge and a nettle-free patch, a 
lesson I had learned early as a child when running around the fields and lanes, 
too far away from home to seek our bathroom.
Thanking the good Lord that I was wearing my stout boots, kilting up my skirt 
against the dust in the lane and picking up my valise I started off again.
The lane wound and turned on itself, obviously following some long-forgotten 
sheeptrack, and as I walked, changing my increasingly heavy valise from hand to 
hand, the land rose and fell on either side. I passed the entrance to two farms, 
but the houses were so far down the access roads that I didn't dare risk asking 
for directions or aid, in case I missed my intended transport. I passed a couple 
of cottages too, but one was derelict, and the other housed a zany old man who 
apparently had never heard of Hightop Hall.
At last I came to a cross-roads. There was a sign: to the left DORCHESTER 
THIRTY-SIX MILES. To the right just the one word: LONDON. Putting down my 
valise, I stood irresolute. Left, right, straight ahead? I looked at my watch: 
four o'clock, two hours since I had alighted from the train. Spreading my cloak 
out on a grassy bank, I sat down to review the situation. Here I was, apparently 
miles from anywhere, it was October, night would be descending soon, and—
Cartwheels? I stood up and peered across the road to the lane's continuation and 
slowly a cart came into view, the driver and horse looking half-asleep, their 
heads nodding in unison.
Springing to my feet I ran across the road and waved my arms frantically to halt 
the cart. The driver hauled on the reins and the cart came to a stop: "JOS. 
CARTER. CARRIER" I read on the side. Breathlessly I asked if he knew the way to 
Hightop Hall.
He looked at me suspiciously, then nodded. "Yerss."
"Is it that way?" Pointing back the way he had come.
"Yerss."
"How far?"
"Depends . . ."
"On what?"
"Whether you takes the high road or the low road."
"Which is the quickest?"
"High."
"How far that way?"
"Ten mile, give or take."
"Do you know where I could get a lift?"
For the first time he seemed to look at me properly. "You wanting to go there?"
I could have screamed. "Yes, I do. Urgently. It was my uncle's house."
His face brightened. "You be Miss Lee?"
"Yes!"
He scratched his head. "Be you sure? You supposed to be at the station—sent to 
meet you, I was." He scratched his nose this time. "Why bain't you at the 
station?"
I explained, as patiently as I could. "I thought I would be met by a young 
gentleman from London—did he send you instead?"
He nodded.
"Didn't he tell you the time of my train?"
"May have done. But I be a carrier. Old Nan, she wanted that chair delivering 
from her daughter's. Jones wanted them stores early. Got to keep in with the 
regulars . . ." He pursed his lips. "You coming then?"
The cart turned as slowly his conversation had been, and as cautiously. There 
seemed to be no attempt to help me up, so I hoisted my valise aboard and climbed 
into the back via a wheel and a flurry of petticoat. Not that the driver took 
the slightest notice. I settled myself on a pile of dusty sacks and off we went. 
After a few miles we turned off the lane into another, even narrower.
I tapped him on the shoulder. "Is this the high road?"
He shook his head. "The low."
"But I thought you said the other way was shorter!"
"And so 'tis. Horse prefers this way . . ."
After that I gave up, ate the rest of my sandwiches and drank the other bottle 
of ginger beer and even dozed a little as the miles slipped away with the creak 
of wheels and the clop of hooves. Two hours later I woke with a jerk as the cart 
pulled up.
"Are we here?"
"Yerss."
I lowered myself and the valise to the ground. The sky was already glooming over 
and the wind had turned chill.
"That'll be five shillings, miss."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Five shillings to the station and back."
"But you didn't—" I caught myself in time. "Didn't the young gentleman from 
London pay you?"
He shook his head. "Said it was up to you. Said you'd have money."
I had been caught napping, literally. A good job Mr. Swallow had been generous 
with my travelling money. I paid the carrier and he trundled off down the lane.
I turned to survey my temporary lodgings. Open double gates, a small lodge, and 
a weed-infested driveway that led through tumbledown parkland uphill towards—
The most hideous mansion I had ever seen.

Chapter Five
Hightop Hall
It looked as though three different houses had been welded into one.
In the centre was what must have been a perfectly pleasant Queen Anne 
three-storey home. Red brick, with a grey slate roof, it was approached by a 
shallow set of steps leading to double doors. Two large windows on either side 
of the door indicated perhaps a withdrawing room and dining room, and behind 
these would be morning room, study, music room and, attached at the back, the 
kitchens and dairies. Above, on the first floor, were slightly smaller windows, 
bedrooms, I guessed, and dressing rooms. Above these were eight dormer windows, 
like surprised eyebrows, which would be for the servants. So far, so good.
But look to the right and the whole aspect changed. Sir Walter Scott would 
probably have approved of the grey stone castle, complete with towers, turrets 
and battlements, that was attached to the main building. Not on the grand scale 
maybe, but nonetheless this modern copy was utterly incongruous among its older 
settings. There was even a round tower. . . .
If that was not bad enough, then glance to the left. On the other side of the 
main building was what looked like a white stone Regency town-house, whose front 
door was approached by a pillared portico like a temple. Again, on its own it 
would not have been out of place, but the two-storey building, pleasant enough 
of itself, only served to accentuate the horrendous amalgam of the whole.
I stopped first at the lodge, of course, but the shutters were down and there 
was no answer.
My heart sank, nevertheless I trudged up the long drive, hoping against hope 
that it would be better inside. But the windows gazed back at me blankly, and on 
either side what must have once been attractive parkland was full of tall grass, 
rank weeds and neglected trees. The only sign of life anywhere was a thin plume 
of smoke rising from one of the chimneys on what I had already mentally 
christened "The Temple."
At last, cold, out of breath, I stood in front of the doors of the main house. 
There were door-knockers of greeny-tinged brass lion's heads, and a bell-pull to 
the right. I hesitated, then knocked first. No answer. I knocked again and used 
the bell-pull for good measure. Still no reply. Then I noticed, stuffed into the 
left-hand lion's mouth, a scrap of paper. Pulling it free, I studied it by the 
failing light.
"Miss Lee," it read. "Please go to the other door on the left." That must be the 
front door to the Temple. Well, at least someone was expecting me!
Picking up my valise I scurried across the front of the main house, my bonnet 
flapping in a sudden quixotic wind. It felt like rain, too.
Arriving at the other door I was grateful of the shelter of the portico as I 
searched for a knocker, but there was none, so I thumped on the door with my 
gloved hand. I waited a moment and thumped again, and less than a minute later I 
heard bolts being withdrawn and the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged 
couple carrying candles.
"Miss Lee? Come in, come in, you must be perished!" The woman drew me in, 
relieved me of my valise, which she handed to her husband, then preceded me down 
an unlit corridor towards an open door at the end. "You are late: we were 
expecting you much earlier."
I explained as best I could, and the woman tut-tutted. "You were picked up by 
that lazy, good-for-nothing Josiah? I'm surprised the lad from London chose him 
. . . But of course he has been finding the cider at the inn a trifle heady, so 
I hear. Sooner he gets back to where he came from the better!
"Now, miss, if you don't mind the kitchen I can have you warm and fed in a 
trice. If you wish to wash up, here's a candle, and it's the second door on the 
left out the back."
I recognised the euphemism, and was glad to relieve myself and wash the grime 
from hands and face. Returning to a roaring fire, I found my bonnet, cloak and 
gloves put away neatly.
"Thank you, Mrs . . . Er?"
"Early. They calls us Early and Late, Bill and me, 'cos I was Lattey before we 
was wed." She obviously expected me to laugh, so I did. "Now, miss, here's a mug 
of mulled ale. Do set yourself down by the fire and I'll have something for you 
to eat in a minute."
Mrs. Early bustled about, laying a place at the scrubbed pine table, lighting a 
couple of oil lamps and stirring the contents of various pots and pans, while 
her husband brought in more wood to replenish the fire, till I had to draw back 
my chair to avoid getting scorched. He filled a copper with water—which I 
guessed would be for washing—smiling and nodding all the while, but speaking 
only in monosyllables.
As people they were physically alike; medium height, round and rosy-cheeked with 
smooth dark hair. Their only real difference, apart from being opposite sexes of 
course, was the volubility of the one and the taciturnity of the other.
I liked them both immediately, and never had cause to change my mind.
I sat down to a simple but tasty repast: julienne soup, cottage pie and peas and 
blackberry tart and cream. As I ate the housekeeper bombarded me with questions 
about London: was it as big as they said, the largest city in the world? How 
many people lived there? Was the weather any different? (She had heard about the 
fogs). Did lots of titled people live there? Did they eat different food? What 
did the river Thames look like?
I answered as best I could, but once I had finished my meal I was caught out by 
a half-stifled yawn. She noticed at once.
"Well now, my poor dear, here's me rattling on and you must be fair wore out! I 
thought as how you might like a warm bath before you goes to bed, so Mr. Early 
will carry up some hot water while I shows you where everything is." She lit two 
candles and handed me one. "There's more in the bedroom and a fire lit too. Now, 
if you'll just follow me?"
Leading me up a flight of stairs that curved onto a landing above, she opened 
the second door on the left. "This whole part of the Hall was once the nursery 
wing, but when your uncle bought the place he decided to use it as the guest 
wing, being small and easy kept up and warm." She moved into the room and lit 
candles on the mantelshelf, above a cheerful little fire, and on the bedside 
table. "Had some peculiar ideas your uncle did; liked nothing better than to 
sleep in a blanket outside on the hill: said it reminded him of abroad. No 
wonder he was always getting the shivers!"
I wanted to ask her more about him, but she was still rattling on.
"Your bed has been warmed, but I'll put in another stone. I'll draw the 
curtains—there'll be rain before morning, Mr. Early says." She suited the 
actions to the words, then opened a commodious wardrobe. "This is for your 
clothes. Hangers on one side, shelves on the other." As if by magic her husband 
arrived with my valise, although I thought my poor possessions would be lost in 
that piece of furniture. "There's your dressing table. Bath, commode, wash-bowl 
and hot-water jug are next door, first on the left." She bustled about, turning 
down the bed, putting more wood on the fire. "Will a call at eight in the 
morning suit? I'll see there's hot water for you next door.
"Now, don't you worry about a thing. Sounds as though Mr. Early has filled up 
the bath. If you want us, we're downstairs, left off the kitchen. Tomorrow I'll 
show you the rest of the premises."
"My uncle left a letter—"
"Everything's in the study across the landing, which used to be the day-nursery. 
Best leave it till morning when you're refreshed. I'll show you then. Now, 
anything else you need?"
After they had gone I unpacked my valise, put away my belongings and ventured 
into the bathroom next door, where I found a large, enamelled bath half-full of 
hot water, plus two jugs of cold, towels and soap.
Shedding my clothes I climbed in gratefully to soap and soak, until I felt my 
eyes closing.
Back in the bedroom I set my mantel-clock above the fireplace where I could see 
it; this was one of the things I couldn't have left behind, even for a couple of 
days. It had been a gift from Papa for my fifth birthday and was set with 
miniatures of my parents in the stand.
I drew back the curtains and pulled up the sash window; outside it was raining 
softly and the air was full of the sweet smell of wet earth and decaying leaves. 
The fire had sunk to a red glow. I blew out the candles and groped my way back 
to the high double bed and climbed into the starched linen sheets smelling of 
lavender. My toes found the renewed and wrapped stone hot-water bottle; I 
remembered, just in time, to say my prayers, and fell asleep before I could form 
another thought. . . .

I was awoken by the curtains being drawn back on a sunny morning.
"I left you for an extra half-hour as you were sleeping so sweetly," said Mrs. 
Early. "I see you're like your uncle in preferring an open window. . . . Hot 
water's ready next door. I took the liberty of laying up in the kitchen as it's 
warmer, but if you prefer to eat alone I can bring you something to the study 
next door?"
I assured her that the kitchen was fine. Had I really slept for twelve hours? It 
must have been the first time in memory.
"Afterwards I thought you might like to take a walk around the grounds with Mr. 
Early, and I could take you round the rest of the Hall before lunch, then you 
could have the afternoon to yourself, to see what your uncle left you . . ."
It all sounded fine to me, and as any dissent would probably have prompted Mrs. 
Early to further vociferous efforts, I agreed readily enough.
Breakfast was oatmeal with cream and sugar—how long it was since I had had 
porridge!—bacon and mushrooms, toast and marmalade and a pot of strong tea.
Afterwards I donned boots, cloak, bonnet and gloves and prepared to follow Mr. 
Early around my uncle's demesne. He started at the back door to the Temple, 
which led out to a cobbled yard. To the left were greenhouses and a 
well-cultivated kitchen-garden, and beyond that a stand of firs and pines, 
sloping down towards the road, to what must be the western end of the property. 
Good for both firewood and carpentry.
Turning towards the back of the main part of the house, I noted that there were 
still onions, broccoli, cabbages, sprouts—these waiting for the first 
frosts—carrots, turnips and swedes ready to be harvested in the kitchen garden. 
Beyond was an orchard, blessed with apple, plum and cherry trees.
At the back of the main house were the stables, empty except for a pony for the 
all-purpose trap, but a score of chickens pecked among the cobbles, and a 
half-dozen ducks doused their beaks in the pond at the rear. Farther on was a 
herb-garden, still cultivated, and the remains of what had been an ornamental 
garden surrounded by a neglected box-hedge, where tangles of late-blooming roses 
rioted amongst dead-headed phlox, delphiniums, oriental poppies and michaelmas 
daisies.
Behind the Castle part of the property was what once had been a shrubbery, and 
sprawling bushes of rosemary, sage and lavender. It should have been sad amongst 
all that neglect, but it wasn't. Nothing was actually dying away, all was still 
living and lusty. The soil was obviously fertile, and I longed to be amongst the 
most neglected: pull up the weeds, prune the roses, trim the shrubs. . . .
With goats and sheep to crop the grass,which would mean milk and cheese, this 
place could be almost self-supporting. A couple of bee-hives, perhaps, some 
pigsties and a stretch of potatoes—
Mrs. Early came out to call us into luncheon, mutton and caper sauce, with a 
milk pudding to follow. It had taken longer than I had expected, that 
exploration of the grounds, and I hadn't yet seen the interior of the rest of 
the house. Time seemed to whiz by, far faster than it had in the metropolis.
After luncheon Mrs. Early suggested that she show me over the rest of the Hall 
while it was still light enough to dispense with candles. The full tour took two 
hours.
We started in the Temple: across from my bedroom was the study, and farther down 
the corridor two more guest rooms. Downstairs, apart from the kitchen and Mr. 
and Mrs. Early's rooms, there was a sitting-room, dining-room and morning-room. 
A nice, comfortable home for a couple with two children . . .
The rest was very different.
The main house was very much as I had imagined: withdrawing-room, dining-room, 
morning-room, library, music-room and a small ball-room on the ground floor, 
plus the outhouse kitchen and dairies. There was also a cellar with empty 
wine-racks. On the first floor six bedrooms, two dressing-rooms, two bathrooms, 
and in the attics accommodation for a staff of at least twelve. A large house 
for a large family fond of entertaining.
As for the "Castle"—small, odd-shaped rooms, unexpected steps and stairs, low 
ceilings, slit windows, a superb view from the battlements and a baronial hall 
that could have seated a hundred, complete with a minstrel's gallery! Children 
would love it; their imaginations would run riot, and scrambling up and down 
inconvenient turret stairs would be an added bonus. A perfect place for a 
school, I thought. Or an orphanage . . .
The houses, apart from the Temple, were sparsely furnished. A few tables and 
chairs, including a vast table in the "baronial hall" to seat at least sixty, 
and a couple of dozen decrepit beds, wardrobes and dressers.
"Nothing left of any value," said Mrs. Early. "All the good linen, pots and 
pans, carpets and rugs, china and cutlery went to where you is staying now. The 
curtains in the rest of the place fell to shreds, and he sold the silver and 
gilt. Said he didn't need it no more."
I think the most incongruous items in the whole of the main house and the Castle 
were the artifacts, labelled and wrapped, that were still waiting to be 
collected. In the hall of the main house were row upon row of Greek statues, 
Roman mosaics, Egyptian mummies, Sumerian stone friezes, European arms and 
armour, Mayan idols, French tapestries, German carvings, Italian glass, Celtic 
crosses, Russian icons, coins from around the world, and the housekeeper assured 
me that this was only the remnants of my uncle's collection, still waiting to be 
collected. In the bookless (sad!) library were scrolls, manuscripts and stacks 
of papers. Everything was neatly labelled.
"He wanted everything to be catalogued," said the housekeeper. "Right down to 
the smallest item. Although he collected all his life, and took great pleasure 
in his collections, spending hours just looking at a statue or a piece of 
writing, after he became ill for the first time he had a change of heart. He 
said things like what he had collected weren't just for one man, they should be 
shared by everyone. That's why he sent a lot of the stuff back to where it came 
from, if they had museums and things to put them in. Rest goes to museums and 
libraries here. This lot is the last waiting to be collected.
"You seen enough, miss?"
I had, indeed! My feet ached, my head buzzed and I felt as though I had spent 
three days in one of the London museums without a way out. How could anyone have 
spent most of his life collecting avenues of stones, miles of statuary, piles of 
papers and heaps of coins? I would be glad when they were all gone and the house 
was empty again. At least my uncle had had the sense to realise that history 
belonged to everyone—but then I realised that thinking like this I was treating 
the place as my own, not as something that would probably be sold under my nose.
Back again at the Temple, Mrs. Early ushered me upstairs to the room my uncle 
had used as his study in his last few years. A large, square room facing 
southwest, with blue Chinese-patterned wallpaper and a Chinese carpet to match. 
To the right a bright fire burned in the grate and opposite the door a long, 
now-darkening window looked out on pastureland and the pine wood. Immediately to 
the left was a long, low map-chest; on the left wall was a curio cabinet, the 
one I presumed my uncle had left me. The centre of the room was filled with a 
pine table about six feet square with two chairs, and over by the fireplace was 
what looked like a comfortable Windsor rocker, with cushions whose colour 
matched the curtains, a burgundy that contrasted pleasantly with the blue and 
white of the wallpaper and carpet. An empty bookshelf occupied the left-hand 
side of the fireplace.
On the mantelpiece was a large manila envelope . . .
"Why don't you slip out of that skirt and blouse and put on your dressing-gown?" 
suggested the housekeeper. "I'll wash the blouse and iron it in the morning, and 
sponge the skirt at the same time. It's heavy with the dirt from outside and the 
dust in, I can see that. I'll bring you a tray of tea, and you can have your 
supper up here later. That way you can have the evening in peace to read your 
uncle's letter."
A half-hour later, two cups of tea, muffins, egg-and-cress sandwiches and 
fruitcake eaten and drunk, I took down the envelope from the mantelpiece, 
snuggled up in the rocker, opened the seal and started to read my uncle's 
letter.

Chapter Six
My Uncle's Letter
At first it was difficult to follow the crabbed, small hand that 
helter-skeltered across the pages, but I took it slowly and methodically, 
realising that my uncle had probably written it during his last illness.
"My dear Niece," he had written. "It is one of my regrets that we shall never 
meet, although I have the advantage of knowing a little of what you look like, 
and also have an idea of your disposition."
Out from the letter fell a small pencil sketch. No way was it me—I thought I 
recognised a copy of a soap advertisement that graced the hoardings in London, 
but the girl had my curly hair, large eyes (even to the tilt) and wide mouth.
"As far as I can see, you have inherited your mother's hair, short nose and 
mouth; the rest must come from your father. I have had nothing but good reports 
of you. My solicitors wasted six months trying to discover your whereabouts and 
I had almost given up hope, when I saw an advertisement by a fellow calling 
himself the head of a Lost-and-Found Bureau. I had him visit me here and was 
both surprised at his youth and charmed by his manner, which was obviously his 
intention.
"However I decided to give him a try, though payment was to be by results only—I 
have often found this is efficacious, especially when hiring porters, guides 
etc. abroad. To cut a long story short, the young man found you through a 
combination of common sense and good luck far sooner than I had hoped. During 
this time I suffered another heart attack and realising that the next would be 
the last, I paid him for finding you and suggested another payment for sending 
me a detailed report as to your character, disposition and interests.
"You must forgive this second-hand snooping, but I felt there was such a short 
time left to decide exactly how to dispose of what little there is left. I 
learnt of your poorly paid post, your earnest endeavours with the children and 
your especial care of a young boy called Toby Jugg—why do parents not think 
harder before they burden their children with names that will invite derision? I 
say nothing of the name you were burdened with, you notice! I was told of your 
scrimping and saving, your regular attendance at church; I was also given a list 
of your reading matter, and the museums, concerts and galleries you attended. 
All of these I thoroughly approved of—even down to your regular feeding of the 
sparrows on your window-sill!"
I put down the letter in bewilderment. How on earth could this person he hired 
have found out all this—even down to the sparrows? I got up to stretch my legs 
and to both pull the curtains and light the oil lamp on the table; candles, 
unless right at one's elbow, are not ideal for reading. It must have been 
difficult for Miss Austen and the Misses Brontë, I reflected. I put a couple 
more logs on the fire, and the pine spat and crackled cheerily.
I moved over to the table to continue reading.
"I am of the opinion that you have inherited the courage and love of life that 
characterised my dear sister and also the patience and attention to detail that 
must have contributed to your father's success as a watch-maker, and probably 
both a compassion and love of learning that has nothing to do with either.
"But I digress. This letter was meant to explain why I have been so dilatory in 
contacting my only surviving relative. Let it be said here and now that I was 
weak not to stand up to my parents, and initially it was pure escapism that made 
me choose a life abroad, but gradually I became absorbed in exploration, and 
discovered a real affinity for the objects I excavated, so much so, in fact, 
that collecting rapidly became an obsession that took over my life, even after 
the hold my parents had over me was loosed by their death.Mea culpa!  
"It was only after my bout of malaria, which recurs even now, and the first 
heart attack and consequent enforced convalescence, that I began to see how 
selfish my life has become. Of course some of my work has been worthwhile, 
especially the research, but a great deal has been downright stealing, the theft 
of historical objects that rightfully belong in their countries of origin. So I 
determined to return the majority of the artifacts from whence they came, but 
where this was either unwise or impracticable, I would leave them to museums 
here, so that they might be enjoyed by all. Research material and papers go to 
my old college, in the hope that they may inspire future students to follow my 
profession, albeit with a greater sense of responsibility.
"Part of my regret, as far as you are concerned, is that all that travel and 
acquiring of artifacts have left me with very little money, and during these 
last few years I have been living on my capital. My solicitors inform me that 
once the last artifacts have been shipped, funeral expenses paid, an annuity 
(which they richly deserve) left to Mr. and Mrs. Early and their own charges 
disbursed—avoid solicitors like the plague, Niece, if you can: they will bleed 
you dry!—there would be only the Hall and less than five hundred pounds left. 
And if they say `less,' then that is exactly what they mean.
"And now I come to the nub of the matter. There remains in my estate four or 
five hundred pounds and the Hall. I offer you a choice. You may either take the 
money and walk away to, I hope, a better life, in which case the solicitors have 
instructions to sell the Hall to endow an archaeology scholarship at Cambridge, 
or you may inherit the Hall and do with it what you please. In this case the 
moneys awaiting will be used for you to undertake an expedition very dear to my 
heart, which I am now too old and ill to contemplate. This latter choice will 
not be easy, but I am convinced that if any woman can do it, you can. If you 
decide to take the money I shall not blame you, but give it to you with my 
blessing. If that is your decision, inform the solicitors and it is yours at 
once. However if the other alternative has any appeal please read—carefully—the 
rest of this letter . . ."
I sat back in my chair. Four or five hundred pounds was a fortune! I could give 
up work, rent a small cottage and even afford a cleaner. . . . Or, if I went 
back to work, I could buy some decent clothes and find a better position. 
Whichever way, the money would last for a long, long time—at least ten years. I 
found I was smiling with relief and pleasure; how very kind of my uncle!
But he had mentioned an alternative: something about an expedition? Although I 
was sure I had made up my mind, I owed it to him to at least read on.
"Ah, I see you are either not satisfied with a little security, or else are 
filled with a natural curiosity in that you continue with this letter. Good. I 
should tell you that I hate to leave any matter unfinished, and there is one 
problem I have been unable to solve during my lifetime. If I may beg your 
indulgence to explain further?
"I visited many out-of-the-way places in my journeys, but it was on a routine 
stopover in Venice that my curiosity led me to visit a local auction, the 
contents of a crumbling palazzo that was being pulled down to make way for a 
more modern building. There was little to attract my attention, except for a box 
of miscellaneous items, amongst which was a rather fine blue glass vase. I 
already possessed one, so bid for the box, paying less than a tenth than I 
thought it worth.
"I caught the transport I was awaiting, leaving the unopened box in store, and 
almost forgot to retrieve it when I returned some three months later, and did 
not fully examine it until some year later, when I finally returned here. The 
blue Etruscan vase joined its sister—they are some of the few items I kept: you 
will find them in the morning-room downstairs. Most of the rest of the items I 
threw out as chipped, broken or worthlessly modern, but right at the bottom I 
found a package wrapped in an old cloak. It contained a round object like a 
small cannon-ball, a crumbling bundle of manuscript, an ivory figurine of some 
age and a twisted piece of horn.
"At first I could see no connecton between the disparate objects, but a closer 
scrutiny revealed that around the round object was wrapped a piece of material 
which read: `This be Dragonnes Eg.' Of course I treated this statement with the 
scholarly contempt it deserved, but by now I was intrigued enough to examine the 
manuscript more closely. I found it was written in a kind of mediaeval 
shorthand, but once I had cracked the code I found it contained the remnants of 
an interesting tale. Remnants only, alas, because many of the pages were 
wormeaten or had fallen into dust, or the poor ink used had faded beyond 
deciphering.
"That part I could translate contained the story of a brave young woman who 
undertook some sort of pilgrimage, firstly to find a husband, and then trace her 
lover, who, according to the story, was a dragon-man. According to the narrative 
she covered many hundreds of miles in her searching and the story is unfinished. 
I dismissed it as pure fiction at first, but when I had finished the 
translation, with its sorceries and magics, talking animals, shape-changing and 
flying pigs, I found many of the details as to places—a desert I recognise, 
towns that still exist miles from anywhere, rivers and mountains that are 
readily identifiable—so convincing that the writer must at least have visited 
these places.
"A couple of scraps of map accompanied the manuscript, and these I have redrawn. 
My translation together with these and what remains of the original are locked 
away in the cabinet to which you have the key."
I glanced across at the cabinet; the key was in my reticule and I was dying to 
open it and take a look, but I would see what else my uncle had to say first.
"I could not immediately see any connection between the four objects in the 
bundle, but then I recalled mention of an `Eg'—the product of a liaison between 
the heroine and her dragon-lover—being stolen. There was also mention of a 
`Unicorn's ring' and a shape-changing creature called `Ky-Lin,' a mythical 
creature from the Buddhist religion.
"Once I realised, however, that whoever had collected these articles believed in 
their being kept together because of their relevance, I examined them more 
closely. I weighed and measured the so-called `Eg'—typical mediaeval phonetic 
spelling—then attempted to break it open or crack it, but it resisted all my 
efforts. One thing I did notice was that it was not as cold as stone. It seemed 
to hold the same warmth as of that fossilised resin, amber. The little ivory 
figure is exquisitely carved, obviously Chinese, but shows no sign of the "life" 
attributed to it in the manuscript. As for the twist of horn, presumably meant 
to represent the so-called `Unicorn's Ring,' it would fit none of my fingers nor 
those of Mr. and Mrs. Early.
"So I put this puzzle to one side for two or three years, occupied as I was with 
other matters. When I returned to it, of a mind to retain the manuscript and the 
figurine and dispense with the stone and the twist of horn, I made a startling 
discovery. On picking up the stone it felt heavier and larger than previously. 
Unwilling to trust my senses, I checked both weight and size against my earlier 
notes, and indeed, if I had calculated correctly initially, the stone was not 
only four ounces heavier, it was also two inches larger!
"Now I am not a superstitious man, any more than other scientists, but here was 
something strange. I was due to travel to the Valley of the Kings, a journey I 
could not delay, but as soon as I returned I again weighed and measured the 
stone, to find it had gained another couple of ounces and another inch in 
diameter. This time there was no mistake, no miscalculation, which I had rather 
hoped for as a rational explanation. And it was still relativelywarm. . . .
"I wonder if you can have any idea of the turmoil this discovery threw me into! 
Here was I, a dry-as-dust scientist without an ounce of imagination, forced to 
re-evaluate all my previous theories as to the state of the universe! At first I 
clung desperately to the theory that what I held was merely some large reptile 
egg, of a species as yet unknown, but yet was not a dragon a reptile? Was there 
some truth in the manuscript? Were the times so different then that what we now 
dismiss as sorcery and magic did exist? I am no longer sure of just how true 
scientific facts are: all I am sure of is that something mighty strange is going 
on. I have left a list of measurements of the egg—or stone, who knows?—in the 
cabinet, together with the measuring instruments, and I'm willing to wager you 
will find an increase.
"Explain it I cannot, except that I do now believe that the object will not get 
any rest or fulfilment until it is returned to the place from whence it was 
stolen. Perhaps it will hatch out into something so incredible that our modern, 
nineteenth-century minds cannot encompass it.
"If I were still alive and well I would make this my last expedition, but, as 
you will realise as you read this, I am not. I would ask that you, my niece, 
might undertake this task. An arduous and tall order, I agree, but as I said 
before, I cannot bear unfinished business. If you do decide in favour of this 
suggestion, then the moneys you may receive as a lump sum will have to be used 
for travelling expenses, especially as someone from the solicitors' office would 
have to accompany you, and I would wish the young `detective' who found you to 
travel with you as well, as extra protection.
"I have another, more quixotic, condition: that this expedition must be 
completed within a calendar year. So, my dear niece, you have a choice: either 
accept what little moneys I have left, or embark on an adventure you may never 
forget. It is up to you, but before you decide I would ask that you read my 
transcripts, look at the maps and examine the contents of the cabinet. Also 
remember that if you do succeed you will receive Hightop Hall, to do with as you 
will. Hideous, I agree, but it would make a good school or orphanage . . ."
Strange . . . exactly what I had thought.
"When you have read the transcript, then read the last pages of this letter—"
There was a tap on the door.
"Suppertime, Miss Lee," said Mrs. Early. "Hope I'm not intruding—goodness me, 
you've near let out the fire!" Rapidly she laid the table from a tray she had 
brought with her, then poked and coaxed and replenished the fire till it was 
once more a cheerful blaze. "I'll be up with the soup in a moment—"
"Don't go, Mrs. Early." I hesitated. "Tell me—you knew my uncle for—how long?"
"Thirty-five year," she answered promptly. "Not to know him as we did when he 
moved here, but I went as under-housemaid to his parents when I was thirteen, 
and have been with the family, as it were, ever since. Mr. Early was gardener's 
boy when I first met him, and—"
I tried to stem the flood. "What I really wanted to know was what he was like as 
a person—"
"Just you wait one moment . . ." She clattered away down the stairs to reappear 
with a magazine, which she opened at a well-thumbed page.
"See this? It were a sketch some artist did for a posh magazine, and it's him to 
a T!"
I must confess I had expected a tall, burly man, with probably a full beard, but 
the reality was quite different. He had been clean-shaven and balding. In the 
drawing he looked nervous and had his hands clasped behind his back. The man I 
was looking at was unused to the niceties of social life and preferred objects 
to people. No, not preferred: felt more comfortable with. A lonely man . . .
"Would you say my uncle was an imaginative man?" I asked, handing back the 
magazine. She looked puzzled. "I mean, was he easily persuaded into believing 
superstitious tales, for instance?"
She shook her head vigorously. "Quite the opposite, miss! Very sceptical, he 
was. Never took nothing for granted. Always weighing and measuring and labelling 
things. Liked everything just so, he did." She paused. "Only time I ever saw him 
upset was over something in that cabinet; something about measurements that 
weren't as they should be. Even had us trying to put some old bit of horn on our 
fingers to prove something or other, but it didn't work." She paused again. 
"Come to think of it, it was that time he asked us if we believed in magic. 
Strange, coming from him . . ."
"And what did you say?"
"Said of course we didn't; after all, that's what he wanted us to say. Not true, 
of course; anyone who lives on or near the land knows all about witches and 
such, though he never noticed the hag-stones as are hung near the back doors, 
nor that the nearest trees are rowans . . . Still, him being so generous and 
all, couldn't destroy his beliefs. Why, if I was to tell you that Mr. Early and 
I were courting for twenty years before he asked us here, and that he not only 
attended the wedding but gave us the gift of a full twenty pounds to set 
ourselves up with, well then you'll know that—"
There was another knock on the door and Mr. Early came in with some more wood. 
He nodded to me and spoke briefly to his wife. "Tatties is done," he said.
This signalled the end of Mrs. Early's reminiscences, and the appearance of 
supper: tomato soup, cutlets, roast parsnips and potatoes and a helping of local 
cheese and biscuits to follow. When she came up to clear away the dishes she 
brought me a hot toddy, and asked if her husband should bring up my bathing 
water in a couple of hours. I looked at my watch: eight-thirty.
"That'd be fine, thank you." A couple of hours should be long enough to read my 
uncle's transcript, but I must admit it was with a rapidly beating heart that I 
fetched the key to the cabinet from my reticule and fitted it in the lock.
It turned easily and the door swung open. There were two blue-velvet lined 
shelves. Picking up the lamp from the table, I peered inside. On the top shelf 
was a bundle of papers in a leather folder, a small curiously carved creature 
and a twist of horn. The lower shelf held a box of hard, dry vellum, some 
measuring instruments and a large, round object that glinted in the lamplight.
This must be the fabled "Dragonnes Eg" that had so perplexed my uncle. I touched 
it gently—as he had said, it wasn't cold like stone. I wanted to pick it up, 
test its weight, but decided that first I would read the transcript, so I took 
the folder back to the table, turned up the lamp, put another log on the fire 
and settled down to read.
As my uncle had said, it was an intriguing story. As I sipped my toddy, redolent 
with cloves and cinnamon, I followed the adventures of a girl called Summer who 
left home when she was orphaned to find a husband, but it seemed she found 
everything but; it pictured her with a magic ring, which enabled her to 
understand the speech of animals, but it didn't stop her from ambush, ghosts, 
starvation and a flying pig. Much of the story was missing apparently, but my 
uncle had tried to make her journey clear through mediaeval France, then a 
series of petty kingdoms. The first part ended with reference to a "dragon 
lover."
There was more in the second part of the narrative. Apparently the girl decided 
to pursue her missing dragon lover, accompanied by her dog, also mentioned in 
the earlier narrative. She travelled many miles towards a fabled Blue Mountain, 
where she hoped to find her lover. On the way (this bit wasn't quite clear) she 
produced a small dragon's egg. She found her lover, but the egg was stolen at 
the last moment by Ricardus, one of her companions, only to be returned on his 
death to a merchant in Venice who had inherited Summer's memoirs. What happened 
to her afterwards wasn't clear either.
I sat back in my chair.
Of course the whole thing was ridiculous! Dragon lovers, flying pigs, talking 
dogs . . . And yet while I was reading it I had almost been persuaded that it 
was true. I shivered, and noticed the fire was nearly out. I could hear Mr. 
Early clumping upstairs with the first of my hot water. Hastily I returned the 
transcript to the cabinet and locked it. Time enough to examine the other 
objects tomorrow, when daylight would show everything in its true light, I 
hoped. In the meantime I looked forward to a good night's sleep . . .
Which I didn't get.
All night long I tossed and turned, dreaming of dragons: tiny ones scurrying 
about the carpet, medium ones stalking the corridors of the Hall and large ones 
landing on the roof—
And all of them crying with one voice: "Bring us back our egg!"

Chapter Seven
More Revelations and
a Visitor
I had asked Mrs. Early to call me at eight-thirty, and at a quarter to nine I 
was seated in the kitchen, gritty-eyed and pale of face, tackling kippers and 
toast. It was a big pot of Assam tea which finally pulled me round, that and a 
brisk walk as far as the orchard, where I finished off with a Cox's Orange 
Pippin.
Back to the study, where a fire was already blazing. Once again I opened the 
cabinet; first I looked in the box where what remained of the original 
manuscripts were housed, taking care not to handle the pages too harshly—even as 
I looked they seemed that they were crumbling away before my eyes. It was a 
miracle they had lasted this long, anyway. If my uncle were right, some six or 
seven hundred years!
I put my uncle's letter and his transcript on the table and looked at them 
again, paying attention now to his footnotes, where he had identified various 
towns and places, and glancing at the maps he had drawn to interpret, as far as 
he could, the route the girl Summer had taken.
It looked an awful muddle, with a lot of guesswork thrown in. . . .
Now for the egg—or whatever it was. I had forgotten to pack my shawl, but I went 
and fetched my cloak, so it wouldn't roll around the table. I made it a kind of 
nest, then went to take it out of the cabinet. It was far heavier than I had 
imagined. I had never seen a round egg before, though I understood the ostrich 
and most reptiles preferred this shape, but as far as I knew those were all 
white in colour, whereas this one was definitely a greyish colour with a 
metallic sheen and little sparkly bits that caught the light.
Back to the cabinet to get the measuring calipers and the scales, with the 
measurements my uncle had already made, some dozen in all. Luckily the basin for 
the scales was round, so the egg wouldn't tip. I looked at the last figures my 
uncle had quoted for weight and width and decided to work from those. Not that I 
expected any increase in either, but at least it would set my mind at rest. 
Dragon's egg, indeed! First the weighing . . .
Some ten minutes later I sat back in my chair, my hands trembling. Somehow, in 
the six months since my uncle had last recorded his findings the 
what-ever-it-was had gained a full seven ounces in weight and an inch in width!
What was this—thisthing that sat on the table in front of me? I found I was 
pacing around the room, my arms wrapped tightly around my chest. How could 
something like that grow larger by the month? Nay, the day, the hour, the 
minute? My heart was pounding, my mind racing. Perhaps the scales and the 
calipers were wrongly set, perhaps my uncle's figures were fictional, perhaps I 
was hallucinating, perhaps . . .
But I ran out of perhapses, which were getting more ridiculous by the moment, 
and calmed down a little, just enough to decide to examine the other objects in 
the cabinet. Forget about the Thing for a while.
First I lifted out the yellowing ivory figurine and examined it closely. It was 
obviously meant to represent some sort of mythical being, for it contained 
elements of more than one creature. A horse or deer, buffalo, fish? For sure it 
had never walked the earth in that guise! But then, hundreds of years ago, who 
could have imagined an elephant, giraffe or kangaroo? But no, this was 
definitely from the imagination.
Next I went back to the cabinet for the scrap of material that was supposed to 
be from the horn of a unicorn, another mythical beast. An insignificant scrap it 
was too, almost transparent in its triple curl. I put it down next to the Thing 
and the little figure. Now I had all the pieces of my uncle's puzzle together 
with the story they were supposed to come from, but what to make of it all?
I touched the "Eg" again and noted its warmth, I turned the figure this way and 
that; I picked up the ring once more—
There was a sudden knock on the door, I started, and the ring I was holding in 
my left hand slipped out of my fingers and dropped over the middle finger of my 
right. Mrs. Early came in, looking flustered and wiping floury hands on her 
apron.
"You've a visitor, miss! It's that young gentleman"—she said the word as if it 
were a bad taste in her mouth—"from London as is staying at the Lamb and Flag in 
the village. The one from your uncle's solicitors . . . D'you mind if I bring 
him up? There's no fire lighted downstairs, 'cept in the kitchen."
I was about to say that would be fine, when said young gentleman appeared in the 
doorway behind her, followed by an angry-looking Mr. Early.
"Wouldn't wait," he said tersely.
"It's all right, Mr. Early," I said. "Come in, Mr . . . ?"
"Cumberbatch, Claude Cumberbatch. Junior clerk in the offices of Goldstone, 
Crutch and Swallow of Lincoln's Inn." He presented me with a card. "And you must 
be Miss Sophronisbe Lee." Without a by-your-leave he dropped into the chair 
opposite mine and gazed around the room. "Servant's quarters?"
"Not exactly, Mr. Cumberbatch." I tried to control my temper: he was probably 
younger than I was. "I find it most congenial . . ." His expression indicated 
that it wasn't the sort of place he expected to be received in. "And now that 
you have finally found me . . ." I paused to let that sink in; after all I had 
arrived two days ago and had not had so much as a message. " . . . may I offer 
you some refreshment? A cup of tea, perhaps?"
"Oh, I think something more lively than that, miss! Tea is for old biddies. 
Let's see, does this establishment boast a bottle or two of sweet sherry?"
I shook my head, just in time to see Mrs. Early nodding hers. I glanced at my 
watch. "I feel that eleven in the morning is a trifle early for spirituous 
liquors—"
"Oh, maybe for school-mistresses, but for us men of the world . . ."
I glanced at Mrs. Early: perhaps she had something in mind. From her smug 
expression I realised she had.
"Perhaps the young gentleman would like to give me his opinion on some rather 
strong turnip and ginger wine we have been saving for special guests? With some 
salted biscuits, of course . . ." It must be poisonous! "And you Miss Lee? 
China, or Russian with lemon?"
"China if you don't mind. And a couple of your sweet cakes, please."
While she was gone Mr. Cumberbatch—what a mouthful, I thought—got up and 
wandered round the room, peering through the window, poking the fire, gazing 
into the cabinet, setting the rocking chair tipping back and forth, fingering 
the velvet of the curtains. He then sat down again and poked the Eg with his 
finger, setting it into a dangerous wobble.
"Be careful!" I said sharply. "I don't want it to roll off!"
"No problem, miss!" He reached out his hand for the ivory figurine, but I was 
there before him. Somehow I didn't wish him to touch it; I was glad I had the 
twist of horn on my finger temporarily—he would probably have snapped it in 
half.
I studied him as he sat in his chair, cracking his bony knuckles. He was 
probably in his late teens or early twenties, thin almost to the point of 
emaciation, with a pasty complexion and straight fair hair, rather greasy, worn 
long down to his collar. He had pale blue eyes, a large Roman nose, a lot of 
teeth and a rather weak chin. In fact his facial structure was that of someone 
you might see in one of thePunch cartoons as representing the last scion of a 
degenerate aristocracy. His voice would have betrayed him, however: it held 
decided echoes of the East End of London.
He was dressed in the latest fashion of high collar, tight jacket with checked 
waistcoat, baggy trousers and pointed shoes and even wore a pair of the hideous 
yellow gloves that were all the rage, but his linen wasn't the freshest and from 
where I sat I could smell the scent of the tavern: greasy food, stale ale, 
whisky and tobacco. Indeed right at that moment he extracted a leather pouch 
from his pocket, pulled out a cheroot and lit it with a vesta, which he threw 
at, and missed, the fireplace. I rose immediately and opened the window then 
crossed to his side, took the cheroot from his fingers, and tossed it on the 
fire.
"You didn't say you didn't want me to smoke! Cost me four pence—"
"And you didn't ask!"
Luckily for us both Mrs. Early knocked with a tray of tea and little sponge 
cakes for me, and a jug and large wineglass plus a plate of salted biscuits for 
our guest. "Let me know if you want anything else, miss . . ."
What she really meant was that it was unorthodox for me to receive a gentleman 
in my rooms, but that she would be handy (probably just outside the door), ready 
to rush in and defend my honour . . . I hadn't the slightest doubt that that 
would be unnecessary.
Claude Cumberbatch filled his glass to the brim and took a long draught. There 
was a peculiar expression on his face when he put the glass down, and he took a 
hasty mouthful of biscuits.
I was letting my tea brew. "To your liking, Mr. Cumberbatch?"
"Er . . . Very unusual. I've never tasted anything quite like it . . . 
Home-made, I venture to guess?"
"Certainly. Not for the faint-hearted, I agree, but excellent for warding off 
the chills of inclement weather. It is, of course, a man's drink. Another glass? 
Do help yourself." I poured out a cup of tea and sipped it.
"Was there some especial reason you wished to see me, or is this just a social 
call?"
"Huh? Oh, yes." He fumbled in his pocket. "Got—got a 'munication from the firm 
s'morning." He was already slurring his words, to my delight. That wine must be 
strong! He slurped another draught. "Want to know when—when you're ready to go 
back—back to Lunnon . . ."
"Who said I wished to return to London?"
"Well, you must: no—no-one in their ses-, sesnes, would want to live in the 
w-wilds . . ."
"I do have a choice, Mr. Cumberbatch."
He finally produced the letter, all crumpled, and waved it at me with a shaking 
hand. "It says—Mr. Swallow says—as the most 'venient train would be 
twelve-fifteen on Friday, or ten-thirty Sat'day. Take a trap from the inn . . ."
"Sure you wouldn't prefer the carrier?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm from my 
voice, but he didn't notice.
"Oh, no, far too s-slow. Never get there . . ."
"Does Mr. Swallow say anything else?" From where I sat the letter looked at 
least two pages long.
"No, no, no . . . Just some 'structions for me. Private . . ."
He filled his glass from the jug, draining it down to the last drop. "Goo' stuff 
this . . ."
"I'm sure it is," I agreed, "Now, as to the letter of Mr. Swallow's—"
But he wasn't listening; in fact he wasn't hearing anything at all. His head was 
down on the table, his hands hanging loose to the floor and he was snoring 
heartily. I rose to fetch Mr. Early to dispose of him, but decided that Mr. 
Swallow's letter came first. As I scanned the first few lines it occurred to me 
with a certain surprise that even a few days ago I wouldn't have dreamed of 
reading someone else's correspondence. But things had changed dramatically, and 
this concerned me and my future life, so blow the conventions!
The letter read as follows: "Mr. Cumberbatch, as our representative I ask that 
you visit Miss Lee, enquire as to her health and well-being, and assure her that 
if there is anything we can do to facilitate her enquiries, to let us know. I do 
not expect her to be precipitate in her decision, as I judge her to be careful 
in her considerations. Please inform her that her employer, Miss Moffat, is 
happy for her to take as much leave as she wishes. If for any reason, she wishes 
to visit London before she has made up her mind, please inform her of the times 
of the trains, buy her a ticket, and escort her to the station. Please assure 
her of our best attention at all times."It was signed in an indecipherable 
squiggle.
So much for being expected to accept my uncle's offer of cash and return to 
London the day after tomorrow! Just because Claude Cumberbatch couldn't stand 
the countryside, I was supposed to fall in with his plans and return him to 
London!
I stuffed the letter back in his pocket and went downstairs to find Mr. and Mrs. 
Early, suggesting they dump him just outside the gates to the Hall, but Mr. 
Early harnessed the pony to the trap, saying he would deposit him with the 
landlord of the Lamb and Flag.
"Punishment enough with the head he'll have on him," he said, in a rare burst of 
confidence and volubility. "Yon's strong stuff."
Mrs. Early arranged that, not to waste the journey, he could bring back various 
items she was short of: sugar, flour and oil. "And you'll be needing a new 
yard-broom and a bag of nails," she reminded him.
When they had gone she suggested that I take a closer look at the rooms in our 
part of the house. "There's some nice bits and pieces, and they'll all be yours 
if you decide to take on your uncle's dare."
"Dare?"
"Well, it's like that, isn't it? He did talk to me a bit, you know. About that 
Egg-thing. Wanted it to go back to where he thought it belonged. I expect it 
worried him because it didn't fit in with all his theories; men like him always 
like things neat and tidy." She paused. "You don't have to say, miss, but I 
reckon as how he's given you a choice: take what money's left and the Hall's 
sold, or try and take the thing back to Chiney, or wherever, and get the Hall 
when you gets back."
I didn't deny it. "Put like that it isn't much of a choice, is it?" I said with 
a smile.
"I agree, but not the way you think. I reckon it depends on the person. Were I 
your age now, knowing what I know, I wouldn't hesitate. But thirty years ago I 
would have chosen different. Then I was just an under-housemaid, glad for a roof 
over my head, reasonable food, a small wage and a day off a month. If then 
someone had suggested I give it all up and travel abroad—me, who hadn't been 
farther than twenty miles from here in my life—and get my own cottage if and 
when I returned, I'd have turned it down flat. I'd have taken the money."
She looked at me shrewdly. "Circumstances is different, but the situations much 
the same, I'd say. As I said, depends on the person concerned . . . Now, shall 
we take a look at the rest of this place properly?"
The remainder of the floor I was on consisted of bedrooms, adequately if 
sparsely furnished with beds, wardrobes, chests of drawers and dressing tables, 
with bright rugs on the polished floors; a large window at the end of the 
corridor gave a good light.
Downstairs it was different. The fanlight above the front door threw bars of 
sunshine across the black-and-white tiled floor and a couple of small sidetables 
were bright with vases of autumn leaves. The first door on the left revealed a 
pleasant dining-room, mainly in blue, down to the seascape over the sideboard 
and the Passion-Flower patterned crockery and china candlesticks. "Your uncle 
said all the furniture in here were by a man called Chippendale," ventured Mrs. 
Early. "He preferred it to the modern stuff." So did I.
The next room on the left was the morning-room. Here the emphasis was on the 
colour green with a couple of touches of dark blue—I noted the Etruscan vases on 
the mantel. The room was still full of the morning sunshine, with its two tall 
windows facing southeast; two small sofas, half-a-dozen chairs, a gaming-table, 
two pretty landscapes and plenty of room for a writing-desk like my mother's.
Across the corridor was the withdrawing-room, this in rose and green. Longer 
than the other two rooms, it had a fireplace at either end. One half was 
obviously meant for cosy relaxation by the fire, with sofas and occasional 
tables, and the other for perhaps cards or even dancing, for there was a piano 
and two card tables with chairs. On the walls were a dozen gold-framed prints of 
those deliciously scented French roses, and over both the fireplaces, in 
rose-veined marble, were large, ornamental Italian gilt-framed mirrors, which 
made the room seem even larger than it was.
The last room was smaller than the others, but was fully shelved, except that on 
one wall hung a huge oilcloth map of the world, pierced by a multitude of 
coloured mapping pins.
"This is where your uncle kept his books and manuscripts," said Mrs. Early. 
"That map on the wall showed all the places he'd been. In his last illness he 
had a pallet bed brought in here, because he found the stairs difficult. Liked 
to lie and look at the map, he did." And the map should be kept right there, I 
thought, a fitting memorial. But it would be nice to fill the bookshelves once 
again, and my father's wing-chair would do well beside the fire . . .
There was no carpeting in here, apart from a Persian rug by the fireplace, and 
the polished wood flooring was echoed in colour by the table, leather-seated 
chairs, curtains and copper candlesticks.
"Did he die in here?" I asked, noting that the pallet had been removed.
"Oh, no. He died outside, up on Bracken Hill. He would have wanted it that way. 
Mr. Early found him up there, one day when he missed luncheon. All peaceful he 
looked, like he'd fallen asleep on a pleasant dream," and her eyes filled with 
tears, which she mopped with her apron.
I was most impressed with the arrangements at the Temple: as I had thought 
before, it would be ideal for a small family—but I must stop mentally furnishing 
it with my own bits and pieces, I told myself, because I most certainly would 
not be staying!
As soon as Mr. Early returned we had luncheon—toad-in-the-hole, minted peas and 
gravy, with apple crumble and custard to follow—and as it was a sunny afternoon 
I took another walk around the grounds, kicking up the piles of leaves like a 
child in a park, the scent of a bonfire Mr. Early was tending tickling my 
nostrils with its evocative scent.
After tea I did some necessary darning, only noticing as I finished that I was 
still wearing the ring. I tried to pull it off, but it wouldn't budge. I even 
used soap, but it stayed just where it was, on the middle finger of my right 
hand. Actually I didn't mind it being there at all; it felt warm and 
comfortable. It would have been nice if it had been gold, or contained a 
precious stone, but I had never had a ring before and was pleased to see that if 
I looked closely there were little sparkles of colour in it, rather like an 
opal.
I had supper with Mr. and Mrs. Early in the kitchen, and went upstairs again 
determined to make a "Pros" and "Cons" list so that I would be absolutely 
certain I had made the right decision to take the money my uncle had offered, 
rather than attempting that ridiculous expedition, but I got no further than the 
headings on a sheet of paper before I found myself yawning prodigiously.
Country air was very enervating, I decided, as I put the Eg, figurine and 
transcript in the cabinet, locked it but left the key there. I asked for hot 
water and a half-hour later was tucked up in bed with one of Mrs. Early's hot 
toddys. I read the first chapter ofWestward Ho! but couldn't keep my eyes open 
any longer. Blowing out the candles I laid my head on the pillow and slept 
dreamlessly.
Called at eight-thirty, refreshed and hungry, I ate my breakfast hurriedly then 
went upstairs, determined to concentrate on my listings. I got out the Eg and 
placed it on the cloak once more, then reached inside the cabinet for the ivory 
figurine—
It wasn't there!

Chapter Eight
Pros and Cons
I couldn't believe it! It couldn't just disappear like that! Frantically I 
searched the cabinet again: the manuscript in its box, the transcript, the 
egg—they were all there, and the ring was on my finger. Could I have left it on 
the mantelpiece, the shelves, the table or one of the chairs? I knew I hadn't, 
yet I searched the whole room methodically and even went into my bedroom in case 
I had left it in there.
Mrs. Early had lived up to her name and the study had been swept and dusted, 
yesterday's ashes removed, a bright fire was burning and the wood-basket had 
been replenished. The cabinet had been locked, but I had left the key there. Was 
it possible the housekeeper had removed the figurine for cleaning? It seemed 
extremely unlikely, but I must ask—
Could there have been a stranger in the house? I remembered young Cumberbatch's 
visit: could he have . . . ? But no, I distinctly remembered refusing to let him 
touch it. And I was still convinced that I had put it away last night, safe and 
sound.
I crossed to the door, but as I opened it I heard a faint rustling noise behind 
me. I stopped, listened. There it came again. I looked back across the room—no, 
it must have been the fire crackling, a log falling . . . I heard it again, and 
for one wild moment thought I saw a corner of the curtains twitch, as though a 
mouse had run behind it. Or a rat . . . It twitched again—that did it! I didn't 
mind mice, but rats (and cockroaches) were right off my list of tolerances.
I raced downstairs and flung open the kitchen door.
"Mrs. Early! Mrs. Early . . ." She was kneading dough on the marble slab. "Do we 
have rats in the house? And have you seen that little ivory figurine? It's gone 
missing. I just thought . . . you might . . ." I sat down heavily at the kitchen 
table, my heart pounding. "And have there been any strangers in the house? I 
mean, in this part of the Hall? Or could they have got in from another part?" I 
was trembling.
She smacked her hands together to rid them of the flour, rinsed them in a bowl 
of water on the side, then wiped them on a cloth. "Now, Miss Lee dear, just 
start again, tell me what's the matter . . ."
So I tried to be coherent and rational. I explained how I had found the figurine 
was missing, and as I had left the key in the lock overnight, wondered if she or 
her husband had removed it for cleaning? She shook her head. I asked, had anyone 
else been in this part of the house? Again she shook her head. I explained that 
I thought I had seen the curtains move, but everything I said made the whole 
thing sound sillier and sillier. I sounded like a hysterical female of the worst 
kind.
But she didn't laugh at me. Instead she opened a cupboard and put a glass of 
sweet sherry in my hand.
"Now, sip this down, Miss Lee, and calm yourself. . . . We neither of us ever 
touched nothing of your uncle's, unless he asked us particular. That answers 
your first question. As to others in the Hall, the only strangers, apart from 
that lawyer fellow yesterday, have been those packing up and removing the 
artifacts, and then we always keep the door from the Hall through to here 
locked, as it is today, as is the front door. Back doors bolted at night, 
otherwise there's always one of us in the kitchen. That's number two. As for 
rats or mice or anything else like that, I pride myself there's nothing in this 
part of the house like that."
I sipped the sherry, already feeling better. "Sorry, Mrs. Early, but it was a 
bit of a shock to find it missing."
"Not to worry. Howsomever, we'll take a besom up there and if there's anything 
or anyone as shouldn't be, they'll get short shrift. As for the ivory, it's 
probably fallen down behind something . . ."
Once upstairs she attacked the curtains, but there was nothing there. She turned 
to the cabinet. "Now show me exactly where you put it."
I pointed to the top shelf, but I saw it even before she did. Not on the top 
shelf but the bottom, next to the manuscript. And I knew, Iknew I had searched 
that shelf!
"Why, there it is!" She picked it up and handed it to me. Even as I took it in 
my hand I knew it had changed. It was surely nearly twice as large as before. 
"You must have misplaced it." She smiled at me. "Well, all's well that ends 
well, that's what I say! Luncheon at the usual time?"

I sat at the table in the study. On the table was the Eg, the ring was on my 
finger, the ivory in my hands, and I was looking at each in turn.
Here was a mediaeval round-shaped object, warm to the touch, that kept on 
growing; a ring that wouldn't come off, reputedly part of a mythical Unicorn's 
headgear, and an ivory figurine that disappeared and then reappeared, larger 
than before. And all this was somehow tied in with my uncle's wish that I return 
this egg to wherever it was supposed to belong. Against all this was the 
attractive alternative of taking whatever money was left and abandoning all 
these strange objects to their fate.
All except the ring: it still wouldn't budge. . . . And yet I liked the feeling 
if it on my finger. I would have preferred to find out what the egg contained, 
although I didn't want a baby dragon deposited in my lap, and the ivory looked 
friendly. . . .
I had never been abroad and there would probably never be another chance, unless 
I settled down and took a post as a governess who took children to a place like 
Brittany for the summer, or perhaps worked for a family who wanted a chaperone 
for their daughter at a German spa.
Stop daydreaming, I told myself severely: you're not likely to do better than 
the Charity School, although with the extra money you could live far more 
comfortably.
Right. Pros and Cons. I drew out a sheet of paper, took ink and a pen. I made 
two headings: Plan A, take the money; Plan B, take the Eg back. Then I 
subdivided each into two sections, for and against.
I started with Plan A. Immediate money, which would either keep me a lady of 
leisure for a few years, or supplement any income I received for longer. Either 
way, freedom from penury for a while. So much for the pros. I turned to the 
second column and tried to be fair. How long would the money last? Would it be 
so little, after all, that I would have to go on working, whether I wished to or 
no? What if I became ill or crippled? Then came a line which seemed to write 
itself: Did I really want the rest of my life to be so dull, predictable, 
plainboring ? I looked down at what I had written: was my life dull and boring? 
It certainly wasn't now.
I thought back on my life at the Charity School. Life had been ruled by the 
seasons, although the same lessons came round time and time again. Only the 
children had been different, but not much. Different faces, different names, but 
the same poverty, apathy and hunger, the latter not for knowledge, only Ellen's 
soup.
I did love London, however. Apart from the museums, galleries, parks, libraries, 
concerts, churches and buildings, there was the teeming life and the magical way 
everything changed with the seasons. Spring, with its hope; crocuses springing 
through the grass in the parks, the glorious scent of violets and narcissi in 
the baskets of the flower-sellers, the first house-martins swooping over the 
rooftops and the urgent chirp of nesting sparrows—in such a season it was 
torture to be shut up in school all day. Then came summer with roses falling 
over the railings of the houses and the welcome warmth; but summer could also be 
over-hot, dusty and sticky, with the smell of sewage and rotting food 
percolating even to the schoolroom—in such a season it was torture to be shut up 
with the smells all day. Autumn was crisp and colourful with falling leaves, the 
scent of bonfires and blowy skies. On those days I longed to escape the confines 
of the school: torture to be shut in all day. Winter could be cold, foggy, with 
frost and snow, but still there was the comfort of a warm fire, the taste of 
roast chestnuts from the corner vendor and the lights and celebrations of 
Christmas. In such a season it was torture to be shut in all day. . . .
I couldn't remember thinking like this before. I don't believe I had ever 
analysed my feelings in this fashion—perhaps deliberately. Maybe I had been 
afraid of admitting to myself what I really felt like, because I couldn't change 
my situation, so would have to accept it without whining to myself that I wanted 
something different. Of course my work was worthwhile, and I knew I did it to 
the best of my ability, but I now knew it wasn't the only thing in the world.
Had I always been so fond of my freedom? I had loathed the restrictions of my 
boarding-school, though I had submitted in order to please my parents. At home I 
had been happy enough, although I was always escaping to the woods and fields, 
or into other worlds with my books. Our village, Ditchling in Sussex, was pretty 
and friendly enough, but sometimes I had stood at the crossroads and watched the 
Brighton express coach go thundering past, or its counterpart stop at the inn to 
let its caped and crinolined passengers alight for refreshments before the 
continuation of their journey to London, I had often wished I could just jump 
aboard and leave everything behind, to glimpse what lay over the hill. . . .
All this had nothing whatsoever to do with the lists I was trying to draw up, I 
told myself. A little boredom and frustration are common in every life. 
Security, and perhaps to be needed, that was what mattered. I looked at my 
watch: time for luncheon.
Afterwards I decided to walk off a little of the pork, stuffing and applesauce 
by strolling the couple of miles or so to the village. The first building I came 
across was the Church of the Good Shepherd, where I ventured in to pray for 
guidance and leave an offering in the box near the door. The church was 
obviously old, and owed much to the trade in wool, judging from the carvings in 
wood and stone. There were some pretty stained-glass windows, all reflecting 
Christ's life as the Good Shepherd.
The village itself held little to speak of: the Lamb and Flag, a butcher's, 
chemist, grocer, and green grocer, ironmonger's, general store and forge. I 
bought some black darning wool for my stockings at the store, but was careful to 
scurry past the inn with my bonnet pulled forward, as I had no wish to encounter 
Mr.Cumberbatch.
I dawdled on my way back to the Hall, collecting brightly coloured sprays of 
berries to put in the study, so the sky was already darkening as I reached the 
driveway, but I noticed that Mr. or Mrs. Early had hung a lantern by the front 
door of the Temple to light my way: it was almost like coming home.

I drank a late cup of tea in the kitchen, put my berries in a glass vase, went 
upstairs and placed them on the mantel, then settled down with my list of pros 
and cons. I had put a sheet of paper with Plan A on it aside as completed, but 
as I glanced at it I noted that I must have added something I didn't remember to 
the "cons" side. "How can I find true fulfilment if I stay at home?" I must have 
written it, because it was in my handwriting—but it wasn't my style.
I decided not to worry any further about it, but to concentrate on the pros and 
cons of Plan B, the expedition and the chance of inheriting Hightop Hall. I 
picked up my pen, wiped it with the pen-wiper, dipped it in the ink-pot and 
hesitated, then under "pros" I wrote: "Foreign Travel." After another two 
minutes: "I like the place." Another minute: "It was what my uncle really 
wanted," and lastly: "It would make a pleasant school or orphanage."
Unfortunately the "cons" column was far easier to complete. Never been abroad 
before, didn't know where to start or whether the money would last out, women 
just didn't go on expeditions, I would have to suffer the proximity of two 
people I didn't know, I only had a year in which to do it . . . Besides which 
there weren't any such things as dragons or unicorns, so what was the point? I 
finished with what I should probably have started with: even if I succeeded, I 
wouldn't have enough money to keep up the Hall. It would have to be sold; a 
pity, but there it was.
I sighed and laid down my pen. There, it was easy enough to make a decision if 
one was logical and systematic about it. Better safe than sorry.
It was now Thursday evening—I had been here three full days!—and I decided I 
would write a letter to the solicitors later tonight and get Mr. Early to 
deliver it to Mr. Cumberbatch tomorrow. If a reply was received in time, I could 
travel back to London on Saturday, otherwise it would have to wait until Monday. 
I hoped so: I rather fancied a few more days being cossetted in what was, to me, 
the lap of luxury.
I wondered what would happen to the Eg? I had already decided to take the ivory 
with me—it would look nice on my mother's writing-desk, and the ring seemed to 
be a fixture. I would throw away the original manuscript, but keep the 
transcript and read it again one day, for fun. The Eg? Perhaps I could take it 
down to the beach at Brighton, where my parents had taken me as a child, and 
roll it down the pebbles into the sea. Or I supposed I could give it away—but 
who would want something that looked like a cannon-ball, was warm to the touch, 
and kept on growing?
I decided I would have supper in the kitchen with the Earlys, so I could quiz 
them about their memories of my mother, but I wouldn't tell them of my decision 
to take the money until tomorrow or the next day.
They both remembered my mother as a harum-scarum, pretty girl with a mind of her 
own, easily bored and with no mind to her lessons. Apparently my maternal 
grandfather was much like my uncle, a recluse, and it was my maternal 
grandmother who ruled the roost. She was fond of entertaining, was highhanded 
with the servants, a stickler for routine and a strict disciplinarian with her 
children, which didn't suit my mother.
"First chance she got, she was off," said Mrs. Early.
"You mean—when she met my father?"
Mrs. Early nodded. "He came to the house two, three times to do a routine check 
on the clocks. There must have been—oh, twenty or more in those days. The usual 
clock-minder fell ill, and your father happened by chance in town at just the 
right time. Nice young man. Only saw him twice, quiet and respectful. But your 
mother fell for him head over heels, she did. He stopped at an inn nearby, and 
turns out later she let herself out of the house several times and met Mr. Lee 
outside.
"Your grandmother was fit to turn purple when she found out and shut your mum up 
in her bedroom, and kept the key under her pillow. This went on for three weeks, 
and all the staff were real sorry for the poor lass. Your father was dismissed 
on the spot and she tried to persuade your grandad to put a whip across his 
shoulders. Luckily for your father your grandad believed it was six of one and a 
half-dozen of the other. Perhaps he knew his daughter better than most gave him 
credit for . . .
"And then one day your mother disappeared."
"Disappeared?" This was all news to me. My parents had never discussed their 
earlier life in front of me. They were absorbed in each other, so in love, even 
after all those years, that even I felt sometimes excluded.
"Yes, disappeared as though she had never been! Your gran paid her a visit 
before breakfast, to give her her usual lecture, unlocked with the only key, and 
found her daughter gone! You can imagine the state she was in! Everyone was 
questioned, but had she not had the only key I think she would have dismissed us 
all. Then she got a note from your mother, signed in her married name of Lee. 
Not that we would have known about it but that she screwed up the letter and 
threw it away, and one of us, er—found it."
"What did she say? How did she escape?" I was on the edge of my seat.
"Seems the two young lovers were more resourceful than we thought. Your mother 
knew that your gran would blame everyone but herself, so she explained how it 
was done. She had torn a petticoat into strips and attached it to some ribbons, 
so she could lower it out of her window at night and exchange letters with her 
lover, your father. He told her what to do: save some candlewax and keep it 
soft, and when your gran came in to lecture, take a quick impression of the key, 
which she always left on a side-table. She lowered the wax out of the window, 
your father had a key made and hey presto! They were away!"
I leant back in my chair. My parents had been so inventive, so daring. But it 
was difficult to think of them as a pair of star-crossed lovers.
Was I lacking in their initiative, I wondered as I went upstairs again? Surely 
not, I thought as I replenished the fire, just because I had chosen security 
over speculation. I must write to Mr. Swallow at once before I was tempted to 
change my mind.
I took a fresh sheet of paper and dated it. "For the attention of Mr. Swallow," 
I wrote. "Dear Sir," but then I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. 
The ivory figurine had gone missing again!
I looked under the table, back in the cabinet, on the shelves, behind the 
curtains but it wasn't there. I sat down again at the table. What in the world 
was happening? I glanced at the papers on which I had written my pros and cons 
and suddenly was on my feet, my hand to my mouth.
On the sheet of Plan B where there had been a long list of cons, there was now a 
mess of spilled ink. On the left, against the few pros, had been added a couple 
of lines in flowing capitals: "YOU WILL HAVE HELP, YOU KNOW."

Chapter Nine
Ky-Lin
I didn't scream. I didn't faint. I didn't panic.
I could have done all three quite easily; why didn't I? Perhaps because I was 
too frozen with shock, perhaps because a curious calm seemed to be descending 
around me, which appeared to emanate from the ring on my finger. I looked at it. 
It was more sparkly than ever and seemed to be throbbing a little, in time with 
my heartbeat. Then I looked again at the mess of spilled ink and those alien 
words in an alien hand and I suppose at that stage I wasn't really surprised to 
see that they were fading even as I watched, and now were gone.
Even three days ago I would have been utterly fazed by all this, but I felt my 
whole life was changing by the minute and that shortly I shouldn't be surprised 
if someone told me that the earth was flat and the moon was made of green 
cheese. Perhaps that is why I found myself talking to something that couldn't 
possibly be there.
"All right," I said. "Fun's over. Come out, come out, wherever you are . . ." It 
was like being back at the Charity School again, looking for some child who had 
hidden rather than return home.
There was a pause, a log settled on the fire; I went and put on another, and 
returned to the table.
"I'm going to close my eyes," I said, "And count to ten, slowly. When I open 
them again I expect everything to be back to normal. If so, I won't take any 
more action. But if it isn't, and there's a coach or train tomorrow, then you 
won't see me for dust."
"That would be a great pity," said a tiny but perfectly clear voice, (in my 
head, of course), "after all the trouble we took in getting you here in the 
first place."
I closed my eyes, and kept them firmly shut. Of course! I told myself, there's a 
perfectly simple explanation to all this. You had a good supper of chicken and 
stuffing, stayed on to hear Mrs. Early's reminiscences of your parents and fell 
asleep as soon as you started your letter to the solicitors. You are dreaming 
now, but in about half an hour Mr. Early will be bringing up your hot water and 
Mrs. Early your toddy. You can go on dreaming until then, so why not enjoy it? 
See what happens. Play along. People this room with elves and fairies. Let 
yourself go. Pretend this is a palace and you the princess. Fly out of the 
window—no,not a good idea, what if you were sleep-walking?
"I'm going to start counting now," I said. "One, two—"
"Buckle your shoe . . ."
My eyes snapped open, then I closed them as quickly. If it came to playing 
games, then I could play with the best.
"Three—"
"What will you see?"
"Four—"
"Knock on the door."
"Five, six—"
Silence. Then: "Do you really want things as they were?"
"Of course! Have you any better suggestion?"
"Yes," came the tiny voice. "Open your eyes and see things as they could be."
I considered, my eyes still shut. "No. Four, five—"
"Look alive! You've already said that . . . Just try. It can't hurt. Stop 
counting and open your eyes."
"I'll open my eyes when I've finished counting, and not before."
"And you want your dull, lonely, cramped, circumspect life to continue as it 
was?"
My eyes flew open. "It wasn't—isn't—dull and circumspect! Who are you to judge, 
anyway?" I shut my eyes again. "Five—"
"You've said that."
"Right!" I was getting distinctly annoyed. "Six, seven, eight—"
"It could be too late . . ."
"Rubbish! Nine—"
"Rise and shine!"
"Ten!" I opened my eyes, expecting to see everything as it had been before I 
started dreaming. Some dreams you can control, make them turn out the way you 
wish, and at first sight this looked like one of those, but, unfortunately, it 
held one or two surprises. The ring pulsed on my finger, the Eg glowed in the 
lamplight, and the pros and cons lists were as they had been originally. And 
there, in the middle of the table was the missing ivory figure—
Only it wasn't. It was neither ivory nor a carving. It was alive! There might 
have been a superficial resemblance to the original figurine but itwasonly 
superficial.
About the size of a clenched fist—my fists were clenched right at this moment—it 
had the body and hide of a deer, the hooves of a horse, antennae flicking back 
and forth on either side of its mouth, a mini-horn in the centre of its forehead 
and a long and sumptuous buffalo's tail, with a large plume at the tip, almost 
as big as itself. This was now waving back and forth like the tail of an annoyed 
cat.
But it was the colour that was the most arresting.
Legs and tail were dark grey, it had a bright yellow belly, the antennae were 
pink and the hide on its back bore various shades of blue, purple, brown and 
rose. The plume of its tail was the brightest of all: crimson, green and gold.
"Who on earth are you?"
The creature regarded me with bright, brown eyes. "I am a Ky-Lin."
The name sounded familiar, though for a moment I couldn't place it. "What's a 
Kiling?"
"Lin. Ky-Lin." He nodded. "I am in the transcript your uncle made. I am a 
mythical creature, if you prefer it that way. My Master is the Prince 
Siddhartha, whom men call Buddha, and I come from China. When my Master graced 
the earth with his presence he had a group of my brethren as his companions, his 
disciples, his bodyguard. We were trained by him to respect life in any form, 
right down to the ant in the grass, the grass itself. We were taught never to 
injure or kill anything living, however insignificant it might seem to be . . ." 
He broke off and coughed delicately. "Might I trouble you for a bite to eat? My 
throat is rather dry after all these years . . ."
What did you give a creature like this in your dreams? I glanced around wildly. 
"I'm afraid I only have—er, ink or water in that vase. Or a bit of—candle?"
The creature shook its head. "Not really sustaining . . . Now if you would lift 
me up onto the mantel—no, better still, if you would bring the vase down onto 
the table, then I can break my fast."
I went over to the mantel and fetched the vase containing the sprays of berries 
and watched, fascinated, as the creature chewed the pulp from the hips, haws and 
blackberries as if they were manna from heaven, though I noticed he spat out the 
seeds tidily onto the piece of paper I had intended writing to the solicitors 
on.
He saw my look. "I am leaving the seeds so that you may sow them in the garden 
tomorrow, to make other plants."
If he imagined I was going to—but he obviously did. Better humour him. "But of 
course. Would you kindly tell me what you are doing here, after all these 
years?" Thousands, if he really had anything to do with the Buddha.
The creature hesitated for a second. "There is always one bad apple in the 
barrel. My companions attained Nirvana, but I wasn't good enough. I was careless 
and broke some of the rules: truth was, I liked the world and wanted to stay in 
it. My Master gave me a chance to expiate my sins by helping a young girl called 
Summer to attain her Quest. After that I thought to have rest, but received a 
message that my task wasn't done. You could call it a piece of unfinished 
business, I suppose: Summer's egg must be returned to the dragons." He put his 
head on one side. "And you are the person to do it."
"Rubbish! I'm not the only person in the world! What you need is an experienced 
traveller, someone like my uncle was—"
"What we need is you!"
"Whyme ? And who's `we'?"
" `We' is me, the Egg and the Ring." He pushed the rejected seeds into a neat 
pile, fluffed out the plume on his tail and sat down on his haunches. "If you 
had a little patience, I'll tell you how we all fit in. Firstly, I accompanied 
young Summer to the place this is destined to go, so I know the way—"
"But that washundreds of years ago!" I was glad to note that, although this was 
all a dream, I was answering logically.
"Years, your years, mean nothing to such as we. We are all some centuries old."
"But why does the Eg have to go back right now, after all this time?"
"Because, after lying dormant for many, many years, it has started to grow, and 
this means it will soon be ready to hatch. If you have read your uncle's 
transcript you will know that this egg is the product of a liason between Summer 
and her dragon-lover, and that she and Jasper, for that was his name, took the 
egg to the Blue Mountain, where the remnants of the dragons live, to trade it 
for a promise that Jasper might retain his human shape during Summer's lifetime. 
As you also know, it all went disastrously wrong when the egg was stolen at the 
crucial moment. Summer lost her life, together with that of her lover, or so I 
believe, and the dragons lost their egg. If they know where it is, and that it 
is about to hatch, then they will come to find it, and that cannot be allowed to 
happen . . .
"Er . . . Could you possibly tip the vase a little? I find that talking after 
all this time is thirsty business . . . Thank you."
"You say you know the way, but there are maps . . ."
"I can grow larger, large enough to carry burdens on my back. I speak all the 
tongues known to man, and eat and drink very little. I also know the places to 
avoid, the dangers one might come across."
"In that case," I said frivolously, "you and I and the Eg could set off 
tomorrow, and you could carry us there and bring me back in a week or so!"
He shook his head. "It would take far longer than that . . ." Didn't he have a 
sense of humour? "Besides, you forget we have to take someone from the 
solicitor's to ensure fair play, and that young detective as well."
"And if they took one look at you," I said, "either large or small, they would 
swear off spirituous liquors forever and refuse to go anyway!"
"Not necessarily. I can change in a few seconds—or at least I will be able to 
after a little more practice; more than a few years in any one shape and one 
grows somewhat stiff."
"Have some more berries," I suggested.
"Not at the moment, thank you. I have had an elegant sufficiency."
"This size-changing—is that how you disappeared yesterday?"
"Of course. When I opened the cabinet—metal-bending is one of the things one 
learns early on—I found difficulty in the latter stages of the change. That is 
when I had to whisk behind the curtain and you found me resembling a rat. So, 
regress again and back to the cabinet."
"But I looked all over for you!"
"Down and around, yes, but not up. I was on the ceiling."
"Oh." There was no answer to that. I went back to the beginning again. "But why 
especially me? I know my uncle had this bee in his bonnet, but—"
"Because you are the Chosen One: the Ring-Bearer." He sounded as though that 
explained everything.
"This? This tatty bit of horn?" I held up my finger.
He looked scandalised. "That's not just a `tatty bit of horn,' as you call it! 
That is a precious sliver from the horn of a fabulous Unicorn, who lived over a 
thousand years ago, and sacrificed his immortality for a love you couldn't hope 
to comprehend! He left behind the Ring to future generations to use for the good 
of the world. It has been passed down from generation to generation. Summer used 
it on her travels, and when she had no further use for it she left it in my 
safe-keeping. And the next wearer is you."
"But anyone could wear it—"
"Your uncle couldn't, neither could the housekeeper or her husband. The Ring 
chooses its own wearer. If you don't believe me, try and take it off."
"I can't. It seems stuck."
"Exactly!"
"What do you mean?"
The Ky-Lin sighed. "As I intimated, the Ring only fits those it has chosen. You 
could offer it to anyone in the world, of any race, colour or creed, large or 
small, male or female, fat or thin, young or old, and the Ring would still 
discriminate. I have no idea why it chooses whom it does, but it selects that 
person who is most fitted for the task to be undertaken. And it has special 
properties, you know."
"Such as?"
"It can warn you of danger. It can calm you down, make you think logically. It 
conserves your energy, keeps you young. Most and best of all, it allows you to 
communicate with the animal world. And if you weren't wearing it now, you 
wouldn't understand me."
I looked at it with more respect. I believed what he said—one did in dreams. 
Magic ring . . . "Does it do anything else? Can I have three wishes, for 
instance?"
He looked disgusted. "You're not being serious!"
"Oh, I am! This is the best dream I've had inages!" 
He bounced over the table towards me. "You'renotdreaming! Listen to me. 
Everything points to you being the one to return the Eg. Your uncle bought us 
all at auction, in a lot I had taken care to be included in. Although he wasn't 
the one we looked for, he translated the manuscript and realised we should all 
be kept together.He couldn't solve the problem, but something told him you 
could."
"But he didn't even know me! How could he expect me to do what he could not?"
"I don't know. Perhaps because he knew and admired your mother's—his 
sister's—spirit of adventure. Perhaps because he knew your father must have had 
special qualities to keep her happy all those years. Perhaps because he liked 
what he heard when he had you investigated." He hesitated. "Perhaps just because 
you were family . . ."
Footsteps on the stairs, the clank of a bucket. Mr. Early bringing up my hot 
water. I gathered the papers on the table together, the sheet with the seeds on 
top, turned up the lamp, put away the pen and ink. In came Mrs. Early with my 
hot drink. She glanced at the table.
"Been busy, miss?"
I was awake again, and yawning. "I think I dropped off for a while," I said. I 
picked up the Eg and the ivory and put them back in the cabinet, locking them in 
and putting the key in my pocket.

The following morning I checked the study before I went down to breakfast. Mrs. 
Early had cleaned, dusted and laid the fire, but everything else was as I had 
left it. Even as I checked, I had allowed myself to acknowledge that I had 
almost been persuaded by that dream last evening to believe I had held a 
converation with a small creature with a colourful tail called a Ky-Lin, and 
that I wore a magic ring that allowed me to talk to animals . . . How 
ridiculous! I looked for the seeds, but they had gone, of course.
I decided to try out the ring on the kitchen cat, a fat, lazy creature who spent 
most of its time by the fire. "Good morning, cat! How are you this morning? 
Caught any mice lately?"
The cat stared hard at me, as well it might, then stomped off, its tail 
twitching irritably. So much for magic rings, I thought triumphantly. So much 
for dreams . . .
"Anything special to do today, miss?"
I shook my head. "Nothing planned, Mrs. Early." I peered out of the window. 
"Looks like a nice day; I might go for a walk, to clear my mind."
"Good idea, miss. Nothing like fresh air, your uncle used to say. They are 
coming for the rest of the statues and papers today, so I've got two girls from 
the village to give everything a good scrub now the place will be empty. Would 
you mind cold cuts for luncheon?"
"That'd be fine . . . Tell you what: I could take out a picnic, like I used to 
do in London. Some sandwiches and lemonade, perhaps."
"No sooner said than done, miss! I'll have a basket ready for you."
I went upstairs to change into my serviceable boots, to hitch up my skirts some 
two inches higher and collect my cloak. No need for bonnet or gloves, as the sun 
was shining and there was little wind. I decided I would explore the pine wood 
and search for mushrooms in the pasture behind the Hall. I would takeWestward 
Ho! with me and read of the further adventures of Amyas Merion. I would have a 
day in which I worried about nothing, put letters and decisions to one side. I 
would just be holidaying . . .
Picking up my book and giving it a hug in anticipation of the pleasure it would 
bring, I crossed over to the study, just to make sure everything was as it 
should be before I left for the day. Downstairs I could hear Mrs. Early giving 
instructions to the village girls, with much clanking of buckets; Mr. Early had 
gone out to the orchard earlier to prune the cherry trees, and no-one, apart 
from Mrs. Early's cleaning, had been upstairs, not even the cat, which made it 
all the more frustrating to find that someone—or something—had ripped all my 
papers to pieces; pros and cons, the start of the letter to the solicitors. Torn 
them all into bite-sized pieces and scattered them on the neatly laid fire, and 
that since breakfast!
Running back into my bedroom and snatching the key from from my reticule, I went 
back into the study and opened the cabinet. Inside all was as it should be, but 
I was so angry that I picked out both the Eg and the ivory and dumped them on 
the table, shouting: "I've had enough of all this! You're mine to dispose of as 
I will, and that is exactly what I am going to do!"
And with that I picked them both up again and, wrapping them in my cloak, 
stormed down to the empty kitchen, snatched up the picnic basket and set off 
past the kitchen-garden and orchard, feet stamping so hard on the path that I 
saw Mr. Early suspend action with the pruning-shears and scratch his head in 
puzzlement.
I set off to climb towards the back of the wood, but before long I was hot and 
sticky, so I transferred the ivory and the Eg, which seemed to weigh a ton, into 
the corner of the picnic basket, taking care not to squash the sandwiches.
The wood was stifling. Inches of dead pine-needles hindered my feet, red 
squirrels dashed the branches overhead, chattering angrily at my intrusion, and 
the trees only offered intermittent shade from the bars of suddenly hot sunshine 
that struck down on my bare head, so that I felt sick with heat.
At last I broke through into the open, and I saw ahead of me to the right a 
bracken and gorse-covered hillock. It could have been part of the grounds of the 
Hall or not, but at that stage I didn't care. I climbed a stile, ripping my 
skirt as I did so, struggled a few yards up the hill and then sat down, 
exhausted. The head-high bracken, with its fusty-dusty smell and autumn russet 
dress almost met over my head and golden gorse was still a-buzz with bees . . .
I lay back and closed my eyes. "Kissing's out of fashion, when the gorse is out 
of bloom," I recited sleepily, relaxing at last, with only the hum of insects 
and the plaintive cry of a curlew to disturb my rest.
I don't know how long I slept, but when I looked at my watch it was a quarter to 
midday, and for a moment I felt disoriented. Then I remembered where I was and 
what I had to do. Struggling to my feet I hitched up my skirts into my belt, 
picked up the basket and started to climb the hill again, hampered by the 
strands of bracken. At last I reached an outcrop of rock near the top, which I 
though would serve my purpose.
I undid the straps to the picnic basket and there was the Eg, glinting in the 
sunshine. I hesitated for only a moment, then picked it up, still marvelling at 
its weight and warmth, and then deliberately let it tumble from my hands down 
the hill, where it cut a momentary swathe through the bracken before the reddish 
stems closed behind its path. Something stabbed at my right hand, but I ignored 
the sting—a mosquito, perhaps, or more likely a midge, this high up.
"Goodbye and good riddance!" I called out after the vanished Eg. "Hatch your 
dragon out here if you feel like it! I'm not travelling half round the world 
just for you . . ." A flock of pigeons flew overhead, probably from some 
stubbled field, the clap-clap of their wings disturbing the air with a momentary 
chill.
I paused for a moment, then picked the ivory figurine from the basket. "And as 
for you . . . !" But words failed me. "Just disappear from my life, that's all!" 
and with all my strength I hurled it away, till it disappeared into the heart of 
a distant gorse-bush. There was another stab on my right hand. If I climbed 
right to the top of the hill the insects probably wouldn't bother me so much.
Once there I found I was looking down on the back of Hightop Hall. The 
stick-like figure in the kitchen-garden must be Mr. Early, and way down the 
drive I could see two horsedrawn pantechnichons apparently carrying away the 
last of my uncle's artifacts. A plume of smoke rose from the kitchen chimney, 
but that was the only other sign of life. I opened my book, but the sun hurt my 
eyes, and my stomach felt empty, although it was only twelve-fifteen.
I felt better for doing as I had, of course I did, so why did I feel so—so 
empty?
Of course it couldn't be guilt, could it? I had done nothing to feel guilty 
about, had I? Absentmindedly I opened and ate my sandwiches: home-boiled ham 
with mustard, egg and pot-grown cress, late, sweet tomatoes, an apple and a 
slice of plum cake. I finished with a drink of lemonade, but after it all I 
still felt empty, and everything seemed to have tasted the same. I must have 
been sickening for something.
I looked for mushrooms, but only in a desultory fashion, and found none. 
Afterwards I left the basket and my book at the top end of the orchard and 
walked down the drive, turned left and walked until nearly sundown. Once back I 
retrieved the basket and went towards the kitchen door. Two pigeons were cooing 
to one another on a corner of one of the outhouse roofs; they glanced at me as I 
passed.
"C-r-oo-l," said one.
"Th-r-oo them away," said the other. "S-a-a-a-w her . . ."
I dropped the basket onto the cobbles.

Chapter Ten
"Repent Ye . . ."
I heard the tinkle of broken glass as the basket hit the ground, but it scarcely 
registered. I stared up at the pigeons—ordinary grey ones with the sheen of 
green on their necks, dark bands across their wings—as they strutted above my 
head. They nodded to one another, fluffed up their feathers, nothing more.
I stooped to pick up the basket, then it came again.
"Croo-oo-ool," came the soft voice. "Too-oo-oo coo-oo-l for the Eg."
I was trembling violently. Now I was hearing voices! As if in answer the ring on 
my finger started to throb. I looked down at the ring, up at the pigeons, 
remembered a flight of them passing over when I threw away the Eg into the 
bracken. Could it . . . ? No, it couldn't. But the Ky-Lin had said . . .
There was no-one about, no humans anyway. "Right," I said out loud to the birds. 
"If you're so clever, just tell me exactly what I'm supposed to have done?"
"Yooo-oo-oo know," crooned the pigeons. "Yooo-oo-oo knoo-oo-w!"
It was true! Either that or I was mad or dreaming. I pinched myself: no dream. 
And I didn't think I was mad. Then all that fantasy the other night must have 
been true. That little creature that called itself a Ky-Lin must have been 
speaking the truth.
To say that I was devastated was an understatement. I was terrified, 
exhilarated, awed and humbled at one and the same time. Being a logical girl, or 
so I believed, I had accepted fairy tales as just that: pretty fiction. To 
suddenly find that there was another dimension demanded a tremendous leap of 
faith, a conversion into the suspension of disbelief.
I needed to give myself time to think; routine things first. I picked up the 
basket and took it into the kitchen, emptying it carefully on the table. The 
glass tumbler was broken, as was the plate. I wrapped these carefully in the 
sandwich paper and put them on the draining board. Luckily the stone lemonade 
bottle was intact. That, together with the knife used for paring my apple, I 
placed in the sink, and the apple peel on the fire, remembering too late that 
Mr. Early might have used it on his compost-heap.
So far, so good. I was calmer now. Perhaps I should put the kettle on the stove 
and make myself a cup of tea. Mrs. Early should be back soon, and—
The kitchen cat walked past, her tail in the air. "Murderesssss!" she hissed.
I sat down at the kitchen table and burst into tears.

After a lonely evening, trying to read and failing, and a restless and disturbed 
night, I awoke the following morning with stomach pains. Of course I knew what 
it was, the curse of all women, but this time the gripes were worse than usual, 
so much so that I declined breakfast, but once Mrs. Early had found out what was 
the matter she insisted I spend the rest of the day in bed, with hot stone 
bottles, a drop or two of laudanum and a light diet.
"Used to suffer the same way myself, miss, and in those days there was no excuse 
for not carrying on with your jobs. Swore that if I ever met someone the same, 
I'd treat them different."
No point in telling her that this didn't happen every time, that I believed in 
my heart that it was some kind of retribution for my doings of the day before. 
But of course she didn't know the Eg and Ky-Lin were somewhere out on the 
hillside, open to all the vagaries of the weather. Now I really knew what it 
felt like to feel guilty!
And it didn't help that the sermon the following morning appeared to point 
directly at me: "Repent ye, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand . . ."
We went to church in the trap, tying the pony to the rail outside. The church, 
probably Norman in origin, was comfortably full, but to my surprise the 
churchwarden led us to a private pew near the front, which had belonged to my 
uncle. I saw many of the congregation turn to each other and murmur as we took 
our places. I was wearing my best skirt and jacket in navy blue, and had trimmed 
my bonnet with black rosettes and ribbons in deference to the mourning for my 
uncle. Once the service started I was soothed by the familiarity of the words, 
and comforted by the sunlight striking through the stained-glass windows and 
casting patterns of soft reds, greens and blues on the aisles. These did much to 
soften the harshness of the half-hour sermon, which seemed to strike at the root 
of my guilt, and I found myself wriggling uneasily.
Once the service was over, as was the custom, those in the closed pews at the 
front left the church first. Most of the congregation was soberly and sensibly 
dressed, with the odd coloured ribbons or checked jacket, but the party I now 
saw for the first time might have been dressed for a garden party or a wedding. 
As they passed our pew there was no disguising their curiosity. They stared 
quite openly. A middle-aged couple, two somewhat older, two young men, three 
young ladies, followed by probably a ladies' maid and a governess, all looked at 
me as if I were an exhibit in a sideshow.
Only a week ago I would have blushed and lowered my gaze; today as my uncle's 
representative I returned their gaze steadily enough, inclining my head 
infinitesimally in acknowledgement of their interest. Mr. and Mrs. Early and I 
were a were a few paces behind their party as we moved towards the church porch, 
so I was in a perfect position to hear the following exchanges; there was no 
attempt to lower their voices.
Taller of two young men: "Quite a nice-looking gel, wouldn't you say, Mater?"
Mother: "Passable, I suppose, if you like that somewhat sallow complexion. But 
remember, she hasn't two farthings to rub together. From what I heard, her uncle 
left her penniless."
Smaller young man: "Have to sell up, I suppose. There's a nice piece of rough 
shooting at the back."
Older man: "Reasonable stand of timber, too . . ."
Father: "We'll see, we'll see. Shouldn't think she'll quibble over a price."
One of the girls to the others: "My dears, did you see thatawful bonnet? And she 
was wearingboots . . ."
By now I was crimson with both embarrassment and anger, conscious that everyone 
within earshot must have heard. How dared they!
But Mrs. Early was whispering in my ear. "Take no notice, miss. Both families 
made their money in trade, and can't keep staff above a week or so."
But unfortunately that was not the point. They had the money, so believed they 
could behave as they wished. One thing was for certain: if ever I was in a 
position to have any say in the disposal of Hightop Hall, then the very last 
people to be allowed to bid for it would be the people who had behaved so 
condescendingly.
I needed a diversion. "Will you show me where my uncle is buried?"
Mrs. Early led me down a side-path in the churchyard to a secluded spot shaded 
by an ancient yew tree. Here were no urns, vaults, stone angels, crosses with 
wreaths or elaborate railings; just a green mound, the turves beginning to knit 
together, and at their head a curiously shaped slab of stone, rather like a 
broken tooth. It was streaked and striated with green, and could have been 
malachite. On its surface were some deep indentations, which if looked at from a 
certain angle could have formed a cross. Inset in the stone was a small bronze 
plaque bearing my uncle's name and dates of birth and death, nothing more.
Mrs. Early considered it, her head on one side. "I'm getting quite used to it, 
but it looks—looks . . ."
"A bit pagan," I supplied with a wry smile.
"I'm sure that was the word I was looking for," she agreed. "Brought that stone 
back from his travels, he did, many years ago. Set it up against his bedroom 
wall and said: `That's my headstone, Mrs. Early. I expect the vicar will object, 
but that's what I want. You can see it bears the symbol of the cross.' Morbid I 
thought it was, having it there, and I couldn't dust it without a shiver. Looks 
better in the open."
As it was still fine I elected to walk the couple of miles home—strange, "home" 
was now its name in my mind—and I picked sprays of hips and haws and a twist of 
Old Man's Beard to replace those depleted by Ky-Lin two nights ago, and put them 
in a silver-rimmed glass in the centre of the study table, before changing into 
my working-clothes for Sunday lunch.
"Rain later," said Mr. Early, coming in to wash his hands. "Wind's getting up. 
Cold snap coming—more berries'n usual."
I hoped the rain would hold off until I had done what I had to do.
I found I had a good appetite from my walk back, and tucked into a typical 
Sunday luncheon: Brown Windsor Soup, roast beef and horseradish sauce, Yorkshire 
pudding, roast potatoes, gravy, boiled cabbage and carrots, with apple tart to 
follow.
As I climbed upstairs I could hear the wind getting up: I must hurry. Putting on 
my cloak and boots, I decided against a bonnet, "awful" or not—it would probably 
blow away in the wind. I should be gone at least a half-hour, so decided to 
check that the fire in the study was made up before I left.
But this was not the first thing I noticed. To my utter astonishment there, on 
the table, finishing his second rose-hip and fishing out the seeds and laying 
them out in a neat row with his delicate antennae, was Ky-Lin!
"Absolutely delicious!" he said enthusiastically. "How nice of you to think of 
me. Someone threw out the last lot of seeds, but we will save these to plant 
when we go out—"
I rushed forward and picked him up, hugging him fervently. "You came back!"
"Of course. I—"
"You knew I would come and look for you, didn't you?"
"I knew you were very upset—"
"I was all mixed up! I didn't realise that what you had said was the truth—about 
the ring and the Eg. But then I heard . . . How did you get back, anyway?"
"Pigeon Post. This morning . . . Er, do you think I might get down? I'm afraid 
I'm not used to being hugged."
I apologised and set him back on the table. "But how did you get up here?"
"The pigeons dropped me off—literally—in the stable-yard and the cat gave me a 
lift upstairs, carrying me as she would one of her kittens. A little hazardous . 
. ." A tiny forked tongue came out and flicked fastidiously over his hide.
"I was coming to find you before it started raining," I said. "You and the Eg." 
I explained how I had become convinced he had been telling me the truth about 
the ring. "I felt—sort of guilty. I shouldn't have lost my temper. So you 
needn't worry, I'll make sure you and the Eg find a safe haven, wherever and 
whenever."
He looked inordinately pleased. "I was sure you would decide correctly," he 
said. "I must thank you in advance."
I waved away his thanks. "Please don't do that: it may take some time to get you 
both settled."
He nodded. "Then shall we go and pick up the Eg before the weather worsens? I 
know exactly where it is—I watched over it in my larger guise last night."
I tucked him in my cloak till we were away from the hall, then he sat on my 
shoulder as I climbed the hill.
"Exactly how big can you grow?"
He considered. "About pony-size, maximum. Normally I travel round as small as I 
can, and in the most convenient material: ivory, stone, wood, amethyst—I have 
been all those."
I couldn't think of anything to say. If he were to be believed—but why not? 
Everything he had said so far was apparently true.
"Here we are," said Ky-Lin.
I lowered him to the ground and he darted off through the bracken. As I followed 
I noticed he avoided actually touching living growth, just jumping from pebble 
to bare earth to stone. I stooped down and picked up the round Eg and examined 
it as best I could.
"It hasn't come to any harm, has it?" I asked anxiously.
Ky-Lin waved his tail dismissively. "Take more than a roll down a hill and a 
night in the open to harm that. Whatever is in there is well insulated. Your 
uncle tried to break it and crack it with a hammer, but it wasn't hurt."
By the time we reached the orchard the rain had started to fall, and Mr. Early 
was so busy fetching in the last of the wood and Mrs. Early the washing, that 
neither of them noticed that I was carrying something in my cloak, so I had time 
to arrange everything nicely on the table in the study, including paper, pen and 
ink, before Mrs. Early came in with my tray of tea. Even Ky-Lin had reverted to 
his ivory shape, but as soon as she had gone I was witness to a remarkable 
transformation.
First his outline seemed to blur and soften, then expand. For a moment it 
trembled on the brink then suddenly his head, then his body, emerged from its 
covering like a chicken from its egg. Last of all were legs and tail; he was 
having trouble with his right fore-leg however, which initially seemed reluctant 
to grow as long as the others but finally, after an all-over shake, all the 
pieces came together.
"Getting better," he said. "Only twenty-five seconds."
"Would you like a sip of tea, after all that exertion?"
"China?"
"Lapsang Souchong."
"A sip would be nice."
I let it cool in the teaspoon before I offered it to him, then watched as the 
forked tongue, each side working independently, emptied the teaspoon without 
spilling a drop.
"What do you eat and drink at home?" I asked.
"A little rice every now and again, cheese, nuts, windfalls—that sort of thing. 
We Ky-Lins are not allowed to eat flesh or pluck anything that is actually 
growing."
"And can you fly?"
He shook his head. "We leave that to creatures like the dragons, among us 
so-called mythical creatures. They fly, we don't; they eat meat, we don't; they 
collect treasure on earth, we don't; they are aggressive and unforgiving, we are 
not. Different outlook. Different life-style."
He hesitated, then continued. "But I'm afraid I can't tell you much more about 
them than that. I have seen them flying in the distance, usually at night, 
although they normally keep away from human habitation. I think that nowadays 
they are afraid that with all the modern ways you humans have developed for 
killing, they may one day become targets themselves. While once they were 
fearsome enough to terrify whole towns and villages, their shape and brain-size 
hasn't developed from what you would call their `prehistoric' days, whereas you 
humans have changed with the times." He added, "I've never seen one close to, 
nor do I wish to, and I believe their language is incomprehensible."
"Then why . . . ?" I hesitated.
"Did I become involved with the Eg? I thought I had explained. First, it is 
Summer's egg: unfinished business. Secondly, I volunteered. Unofficially, of 
course. Besides, it's an egg, not a dragon—yet." He sat down on his haunches. 
"And now that the explanations are done, hadn't we better get to work? You'll 
need paper, pen and ink."
"What for?"
"To plan our strategy, of course. Better to have it all written down. And then 
there's the letter to your solicitor—"
A step outside, a tap at the door, and Mrs. Early entered, carrying a small 
packet wrapped in oilskin.
"I'm sure I don't know what that young gentleman is about, sending young Jem 
from the inn out in this weather! Like a drowned rat he is, and told he's to 
wait for an answer!"
"What is it?"
"A letter from that Mr. Hamperhutch, the one from the solicitors!"
I opened the letter. "Miss Leigh," it read. "Today is Sunday, and tomorrow will 
begin the second week you have sojourned at Hightop Hall. May I remind you that 
your stay was only intended for you to confirm the acceptance of the moneys left 
by your uncle. My employers await your decision with some impatience, in order 
that they may arrange your return to London. If you will do me the honour of 
inscribing a few lines to the effect of your intent, I shall ensure that the 
letter leaves on the stage in the morning. Your humble servant, Claude 
Cumberbatch."Hmm, a bit more polite than the last. But there was a 
postscript."PS: If you would be kind enough to give the boy, the bearer of this, 
a couple of pence, I should be obliged." 
"The cheek of the man!" I crumpled the note in my hand angrily, then thought for 
a moment. "Mrs. Early, the boy—would you see he dries out by the fire, please? 
And perhaps a glass of your raspberry cordial and a slice of cake . . . Any 
chance of the rain slackening off?"
"Mr. Early says perhaps a half-hour or so, though it'll be back before morning."
"Then I shall write an answer to this immediately!"
As soon as the door closed behind her I drew a sheet of paper towards me, 
grabbed a pen and opened the inkwell, to see out of the corner of my eye what 
had been an ivory figure a few minutes ago, turn once more into a living 
creature.
"Right, Ky-Lin! Just for that young man's impudence I shall stay until Saturday 
at least!"
He looked flabbergasted. "But we can't possibly be ready by then! It'll take at 
least a fortnight longer!"
I turned to him, puzzled. "To do what?"
"To get ready to take the Eg back to China, of course . . ."

Chapter Eleven
Surprise, Surprise!
I paused, pen in hand, not quite sure I had heard correctly. A large blob of ink 
spoiled the first page.
"Whatdid you say?"
"I said we would need more than a week to prepare for the journey."
"Which journey?" But even as I asked, I think I knew the answer. Another, 
smaller drop of ink fell on the paper. The earth and the moon . . .
"The one we were talking about earlier," Ky-Lin explained patiently. "You said 
you were prepared to do your utmost to get the Eg and I back where we belonged. 
Remember?"
I recalled saying something to that effect, but he had interpreted it quite 
differently from my meaning: I had meant him to understand that I would find 
somewhere nice for them to settle down in,not take them all the way back to 
China!
"But I didn't mean—"
"No, of course you didn't realise how much there was to be done. You will have 
to resign your post at the school—that letter can be written tonight, together 
with the one to the solicitors. They will have to arrange for your bits and 
pieces to come down here, and of course find a member of their staff to 
accompany us, to make sure we actually carry out our quest."
"But you don't understand—"
"Of course I do! Anyone in your position would be a little apprehensive about 
the journey. But we'll have a good look at the maps, and don't forget I speak 
most of the languages and can guide you over the last part easily."
"But I haven't said—"
"That you'll need new clothes? That's another thing we must arrange. At this 
time of the year, for the first part of the journey at least, you will need much 
warmer wear. And of course we don't know how soon that mysterious young 
detective your uncle used to find you will take to reach us."
"But—"
"No, of course I will travel incognito, at least until and unless the others 
will accept me. I can travel quite comfortably in one of your pockets. A nice, 
new travelling jacket should have plenty of those for a compass, chocolate and 
Ky-Lins!" And he wagged his tail at his own bit of alliterative nonsense. "Oh, 
and you must get a passport."
I laid down my pen very carefully and sat back in my chair. I had run out of 
buts or, more correctly, knew whatever I said, Ky-Lin would chirp in with some 
enthusiastic idea for the promulgation of the journey.His journey. Not mine.
I knew very well I was being manipulated; I also knew that I had very little 
chance, apart from fleeing into the night and seeking Mr. Cumberbatch's 
unwilling protection, of getting out of this. And even then the mythical 
creature would probably reassemble itself into a pony and come galloping after 
me, or grab the attention of a passing owl and get there before I did.
At the beginning of the afternoon I had been fully determined to go back to 
London, resume my post at the school until I could find something better, invest 
my uncle's money and live a more comfortable life. But there had been my sense 
of guilt, exacerbated by that uncompromising sermon; I had been really happy to 
see Ky-Lin again, to the extent of an uncharacteristic hug; I had been upset by 
the odious conversation I had overheard at church about the proposed disposal of 
the Hall, which I now realised I was very fond of, and the final straw had been 
Claude Cumberbatch's letter.
Crumpling up the spoiled sheet of paper I got up and tossed it onto the fire, 
then crossed to the window, pulled up the sash and leaned out to smell the resin 
from the rain-soaked pines. Crossing back to the table I pulled out a fresh 
sheet of paper, wiped the nib with the pen-wiper and dipped it into the ink.
"Right, Ky-Lin, you win!" I said. "First the letter of resignation. Want to 
dictate?"

An hour later, with both letters written, I realised that this was what I had 
wanted all along: a clean break, a new life, the spice of adventure. I felt 
myself grow stronger and more positive with every line I wrote, as if a weight 
had suddenly lifted from my shoulders. I remembered a game we had played at 
boarding-school: you put your arm straight down against your side, then leant 
against a wall, pressing the arm as hard as you could for three or four minutes, 
then stepping away. Your arm rose into the air of its own volition, like magic.
My spirits were rising, just like that arm, so when Mrs. Early arrived to inform 
me that the rain had stopped and to collect the tea-tray, I was able to greet 
her with the sort of smile I hadn't felt like giving since I arrived.
"I have two letters here, Mrs. Early. Please give the boy this six-pence for his 
trouble." I knew that she would puzzle over the addresses before she handed the 
letters over, so I thought I would anticipate any confusion. "This one is to my 
previous employer, announcing my resignation, and the other is to my solicitors, 
asking them to forward my luggage from my former lodgings and advise me as to 
what arrangements need to be made before we set off."
Her face lighted up, then she frowned. "You're not stopping then, miss?"
"For a while—until we are organised. By the way, sometime in the next week or so 
there will be two gentlemen staying here, the ones who are to accompany us—er, 
me."
"You're going to take that stone ball all the way back to Chiney? Well, I never 
. . . Not that I thought you wouldn't, mind. And then you'll come back here and 
make this place something to be proud of. Heaven be praised!" And she meant it.
"What do we do now?" I asked Ky-Lin, once she had gone.
"We wait," he said, "We wait . . ."

In the meantime there was plenty to do. I sent off for catalogues of men's and 
women's travel-wear, and with Ky-Lin's help picked out stout, high-laced boots, 
thick gloves, leggings (!), a leather cap with ear-flaps, warmer underwear, a 
money-belt, a man's tweed jacket (small size) and a wicked-looking 
"hunting-knife." I didn't dare ask what that was for. From another catalogue we 
picked out a warm blanket, which I sewed up to form a sort of sleeping bag—we 
were going to sleep in the open? And a lightweight haversack.
All these items were, of course, cash on delivery, but I was relieved when Mr. 
Swallow paid us a visit in person on Thursday. I wouldn't have wanted to pay for 
all those items out of my own money.
I was pleased to be able to receive him in the morning-room, with a bright fire 
blazing and a vase of autumn leaves on the games-table. He raised his eyebrows 
at his surroundings, obviously impressed. Mrs. Early brought in sherry and sweet 
biscuits, and as he sipped and nibbled, and confirmed that he didn't need 
accommodation as he had booked into the inn for the night, I could see that he 
was revising his opinion of me.
He produced a folder full of documents, brushing the crumbs from his waistcoat 
as he did so. "I have here your uncle's instructions if you were to choose his 
alternative plan—which action on your part Miss, er, Lee, I must admit, rather 
surprises me—and he confirms that he wishes the expedition outward to be 
completed within one year. The time of your return is immaterial." He managed to 
make the latter sound unlikely.
"On the outward journey I should budget for one pound per day. There are moneys 
for outfitting included. Any moneys not used can be utilised for your—er, 
return." He consulted his papers. "I have contacted a certain—er—Mr. Danny 
Duveen, whom it was your uncle's wish should accompany you. I gather you will be 
able to accommodate him? I believe he is out of funds again."
I nodded. "We have room enough. What about your own representative?"
He seemed faintly embarrassed. "We are having, ah, a little difficulty in 
choosing the right candidate, I am afraid. But I expect to confirm the position 
as soon as possible." He shuffled his papers together. "When he—this 
person—arrives, he will bring the moneys with him, together with a receipt, of 
course, and his luggage. I can also confirm that your own personal belongings 
will be dispatched by train tomorrow and I have arranged for them to be picked 
up at the station and transported here—"
"Not by the village carrier, I hope!"
He raised his eyebrows. "Why, yes. Our Mr. Cumberbatch assures us he is an 
excellent man."
"Excellent, nothing! He is lazy, idle and forgetful! Can't you find somebody 
else? Or at least hold back my possessions until we find alternative transport?"
He shook his head. "Firm arrangements have already been made. The luggage will 
have left your lodgings long before I can contact anyone to stop it. Can you not 
find someone to accompany him and make sure he is on time?"
"What about Mr. Cumberbatch?"
He looked embarrassed again. "He has already returned to London, I'm afraid, as 
his presence here was no longer required."
I thought for a moment. "What time does the train arrive? Is it the same one I 
travelled on?" He nodded. "Wait a moment, please . . ." I went and had a quick 
word with Mr. Early, who seemed glad enough to oblige, then returned to Mr. 
Swallow. "Please ensure that the carrier is here at ten-thirty in the morning. 
Mr. Early, the housekeeper's husband, will accompany him to the station, making 
sure he is on time for the train and that the luggage is properly taken care of. 
Do I have to pay him again?"
"But I understand that Mr. Cumberbatch . . ."
"Then you understood wrong." I rose to my feet. "And now, if there is nothing 
else? Mr. Early will drive you back to the village."
"It has been a pleasure to do business with you, Miss—er—Lee." He stood up to 
shake hands. "I must also say that I would not have believed at our initial 
interview that you would have the determination and will to undertake this task, 
although I know your uncle had great confidence in you."
I was flattered. I had always thought of myself as something of a mouse. True, I 
had tackled the hard work and poverty in London pretty well, but what choice had 
there been? Come to that, what choice had I had here? I thought there had been, 
but what chance did I have against a magic ring, a close-to-hatching dragon's 
egg, and a fast-talking, persuasive, wily little Oriental creature of myth?
"Thank you, Mr. Swallow. I am grateful for your help. If—if our expedition 
proves a success, I presume you will have the papers ready to sign over Hightop 
Hall to me?" Nothing like sounding confident.
"Of course." He bowed. "I look forward to your return, Miss—er—Lee."

That evening Ky-Lin and I pored over the maps I had taken from my uncle's 
map-chest: Europe, Russia, Northern China.
"Is this the way you went with Summer?"
He shook his head. "Our way went further south. She travelled from Venice, 
through Turkey and Arabia into Persia, which is where I picked her up. We then 
used a caravan route through Northern India and Southern China, across the Gobi 
desert, then up the Altai Mountains to there—" He touched the map with his hoof. 
"All modern names, of course. Then, many of them were different, together with 
the boundaries. Of course, then time didn't matter: now it is of the essence. I 
suggest the northern route will be quicker."
"But—at this time of year—won't it be colder?"
"Probably; that's why I suggested the warmer clothes. But if we initially use 
the rivers—Rhine and Danube and across the Black Sea to Georgia and the Caspian, 
then we can cross the Khirgiz Steppes and bypass the Gobi: the Desert of Death 
they called it in those days—it will be cheaper. We can use commercial barges up 
the rivers. The only alternative . . ." He hesitated.
"Yes?"
"The way your uncle would have taken. Straight by ship to India, then north by 
camel-train. It would be quicker and infinitely more comfortable but we couldn't 
afford it."
Then that's out, I thought disconsolately. I looked at the mileage graphs at the 
bottom of each map, measuring them off a thousand miles at a time against my 
thumb joint, and—
"It must be five or six thousand miles!" I gasped.
"Double that," said Ky-Lin. "We're not flying, you know."
Double? That would make it twelve thousand miles! It wasn't possible! I couldn't 
do it! Nobody could . . . The dismay must have shown on my face, for Ky-Lin 
plumed his tail reassuringly.
"Wecan do it. Just about . . . Don't worry, girl. But from now on, until we 
leave, I want you to practice walking in your new boots, with a rucksack 
weighted with stones on your back. If you do that, it will be easier when the 
time comes."
"Walking! I thought you said we were travelling by river!"
"Have you ever found a river that you only had to step across to find another? 
There will be travel between all the waterways and beyond. If we can't find 
wheeled or animal transport, then we walk, and we carry our food and belongings 
with us."
"It's all right for you!" I burst out. "You're going to end up being carried in 
someone's pocket!"
He waved his tail. "When the time comes I shall do my part, I promise you."
"All right! I understand you will translate, guide and advise us, but what about 
the hard slog we shall have?"
He was silent for a moment, then: "Please put me down on the floor near the 
window and stand back . . ."
I did as he asked. For a moment or two nothing happened, then I saw something I 
would not have believed had I not seen it. Turning from mouse-size to rat-size 
was one thing, but what Ky-Lin managed was incredible. His outline became cloudy 
and there was a sort of creaking noise, followed by some popping ones and he 
grew up in size, first one leg and then the other; a thickening of the body, 
enlarging of the head, and finally his tail shot up into the air, the plume 
larger than ever, and his outline became clear and distinct.
I stepped back, suddenly scared. He was now as pony-sized as he had once 
boasted.
"Hey, there, don't be frightened!" His voice was the same, although it had 
deepened in tone. He stepped towards me, and his hooves clicked on the wooden 
floor, the plume of his tail swishing back and forth, creating a current of air 
that brushed me like a caress. "You see? If necessary I can carry burdens as 
great as any human. As I said, if we have to walk then I will do my share."
I opened my mouth to say something, to apologise, when we both heard footsteps 
in the corridor outside: Mrs. Early with my hot toddy!
"Open the window!"
I rushed to do his bidding, there was a hiss like air escaping from a balloon 
and a flurry of curtain and Ky-Lin had disappeared.
Mrs. Early bustled in, setting my hot toddy on the table by the maps. "Been 
plotting your journey, have you? Many's the time I'd see your uncle with not 
only the table but the floor covered with— Why! You've got the window wide open! 
It's raining again and you'll catch your death in that draught! I know your 
uncle was one for fresh air, but enough is enough . . ."
She began to cross towards the flapping curtains, but I stopped her.
"It's all right, Mrs. Early. I opened the window because some smoke blew back 
into the room. I'll close it in a minute."
"As you wish. Mr. Early will be up in a few minutes with your hot water . . ."
As soon as she had shut the door behind her I rushed over to the window to find 
a diminished-to-his-normal-size Ky-Lin shivering on the window-sill. Lifting him 
inside I pulled down the sash and put him down on the rug by the fire to dry 
out. I was trying hard not to laugh, he looked so bedraggled.
"Here, have a sip of my hot toddy . . ."
He did, then pulled himself together in a small, dignified way. "I bet you would 
fare no better if you'd been out there in the rain, and had to change back so 
quickly . . . Yes, thank you, another sip or two would be most welcome!" A long 
drink. "Er, thisis alcohol-free, I suppose?"

My luggage arrived the next day, mid-afternoon. Jos. Carter, Carrier, came 
trundling down the drive with Mr. Early next to him in the front seat. The men 
carried my mother's writing desk into the morning-room, where it was unwrapped 
and polished by Mrs. Early. My grandfather's wing-chair went into what I had 
christened the library, where it received the same treatment from the 
housekeeper. The books went into the study, and my trunk into the bedroom, where 
I unpacked what little I had and put it away into the wardrobe and chest of 
drawers. The patchwork quilt I spread over my bed, bringing a bright patch of 
colour to the room.
Mrs. Early commented on what I had brought. "Two nice pieces of furniture, miss, 
and the chair matches the curtains perfectly. Is the quilt your own work?"
I explained it was my mother's handiwork, and she was full of praise. "By the 
way, miss, I've taken the liberty of putting the laundry basket in the kitchen. 
It was that heavy, Mr. Early said, that I thought you might have something 
special in it."
Laundry basket? My meagre laundry usually came in a brown paper parcel. Surely 
Mrs. Jugg hadn't wasted one of her hampers, which usually went to those with a 
far bigger laundry than mine? And heavy? I would go down and take a look.
But first I tried out my father's chair in the "library," letting its soft 
curves and soft cushions wrap me into remembered ease, but suddenly there was a 
loud scream from the direction of the kitchen.
Rushing down the corridor I opened the kitchen door and found Mr. and Mrs. Early 
looking at a medium-sized laundry hamper in the middle of the floor.
Mrs. Early was armed with a poker. "It moved," she cried. "I'll swear it did!"
"Saw it too," said Mr. Early, armed with a cudgel.
I gazed in alarm at the hamper, which bore a label addressed to "Miss S. Lee, 
Hightop Hall, Dorset. By Rail."
Suddenly the whole basket jerked and creaked and we all jumped back. One of the 
leather straps snapped, and there was a faint groaning noise.
"There's something inside," I said. "Perhaps it's a dog . . ." I was scared 
stiff, but reckoned we couldn't leave whatever it was trapped in there for ever. 
Making a quick decision I moved forward and fumbled the other strap free, then 
moved back quickly.
Mr. and Mrs. Early clutched their weapons more tightly.
"Come out!" I said loudly. "Atonce! "
The lid lifted, fell back, and out of a tangle of laundry stepped—
"Toby!"I cried.

Chapter Twelve
Toby
"Toby!" I repeated. "What in theworld are you doing in there?"
He looked a real scarecrow: tangled hair, tousled clothes, a smeary face, filthy 
hands—and most of this had come off on my laundry, in which he had been wrapped.
Mrs. Early lowered her poker. "Youknow him, miss?" She made it sound like a 
crime.
I started to explain, but he turned a pitiful face in my direction and clutched 
the front of his trousers.
"Wanna piss, miss!"
I snatched at his sleeve, rushed him out into the yard and pointed him in the 
direction of the outside privy. When he reappeared, looking much better, I 
hauled him back into the kitchen.
"Would you be kind enough to give him a mug of milk, Mrs. Early?" He downed it 
in one gulp, sighed, and put the empty mug on the table. "There's more where 
that came from," I said, "when you have explained yourself!"
"Where'd you want me to start?"
"At the beginning. Just a moment though . . ." I turned to Mr. and Mrs. Early 
and finished explaining who and what he was. "Not my idea," I said.
"And just look at what he's done to your laundry!" Mrs. Early snatched out the 
sheets, pillowcases and towels. "Need more than one boil!"
"Right, Toby!"
"Er . . . I ain't et nuffin since—"
"How many times do I have to tell you? `I haven't eaten anything since . . .' 
Repeat it after me—and leave out that whine . . . Good. Carry on. You can eat 
after you have told me why and how you are here. The truth, mind."
I was fiercer with him than usual, largely because his appearance had been such 
a shock, bringing back the environment I had come from with painful clarity, now 
when I had decided to give it all up.
He hesitated. "I hid in there because I wanted to be with you. When—when I heard 
as you weren't coming back—"
"Thatyou weren't—"
"That you weren't coming back, I grew desperate. Me Mam's latest—"
"My—"
"My Mam's latest hates me, he does. Doesn't want me in the house no more—"
I sighed. "Anymore. Come on, Toby, you can talk better than that!"
"He told me as—that—I reminded him of a frog. Me—my Mam—was always saying 
as—that my dad was the best lover she ever had."
I looked at his filthy face. Large, long-lashed eyes, straight nose, determined 
chin— "You don't look a bit like a frog—or a toad, come to that."
"Not afrog frog, a Frenchie Frog. Me—my Mam—let slip he came from a town called 
Paree."
All Mrs. Jugg's children had different fathers, I knew that. Beside me Mrs. 
Early's eyes were like saucers.
"But how did you get in there? And when?"
"Miss Madeleine. From the school, remember? I went and told her everything, how 
I wanted to be with you, an' all. She went and saw my Mum. My Mum's got the hots 
for this new fellow—"
There was a gasp from Mrs. Early: such things just weren't mentioned.
"—and she said as it—that it was probably for the best if'n I joined you. For 
the time being, at any rate."
"But why the laundry basket?"
"Miss Madeleine ain't—hasn't got no—any—money, seeing as—that she's only Miss 
Hepzibah's by-blow—" Another gasp from Mrs. Early. "—so it was my Mum's idea, to 
save the fare. Miss Madeleine got permission to check that your things were all 
packed proper—properly—and she shut me in and labelled me this morning before 
they came to take everything to the station."
I wanted to laugh, but kept my voice severe. "And how do I know all this is the 
truth?"
He fished about in his pockets. "Got a letter from Miss Madeleine."
Taking the crumpled envelope I opened it and rapidly scanned the contents. It 
seemed that Madeleine Moffat had hidden depths. Not only did her letter confirm 
all that Toby had said, but she added a few details about Toby's new "uncle" 
that Toby would never have told me, which also made me glad that he was away 
from home. She hoped I could find him a good position, suggesting that he 
deserved it and would benefit from further education. She closed by regretting 
she had not had the chance to bid me farewell, and wishing me well in my new 
life. In a hastily written postscript she added that she had taken over my 
position at the school, "Although I shall not, of course, be receiving any 
wages!"
So here I was, a sort of surrogate aunt, charged with finding Toby a secure 
position and a temporary home, on top of everything else I had to think about! I 
looked at the filthy, forlorn-looking boy and felt a rush of sympathy. It must 
have been quite an experience, being humped and bumped around on carts and 
trains, upside down or right way up, without food or water and never even sure 
if he were going to arrive safely.
"Does he stay, miss?"
"For the time being, Mrs. Early, until we can find him a suitable position. I 
realise this will mean extra work for you—"
She shook her head. "Think nothing of it. Just a bit more food on the stove, for 
I'll bet he has an appetite . . . And if I might suggest it, he could do with a 
bath!"
He certainly could. It was warm in the kitchen, and even where I stood I could 
smell the unwashed children stink of the school . . .
But Toby had turned to me in something like terror. "A barf? I ain't 'ad a barf 
since Gawd knows when!" Obviously the very thought had washed away any attempt 
at correct speech.
"Now listen to me; you came here uninvited and I could send you straight back to 
London, if necessary in custody. Don't think I'm not pleased to see you, but if 
I let you remain, then you must do exactly what I say, is that understood?" He 
nodded. "Now, Mrs. Early will give you something to eat—" Indeed, she was 
already ladling soup into a large bowl. "—And then you will have a bath, as she 
suggested. I myself bathe every day, and I shall expect you to do the same. 
Understood again?" He nodded once more, as if he couldn't trust himself to 
speak. I realised he must be feeling that perhaps he had made a mistake in 
leaving home, so I softened my tone and added: "And as soon as Mr. and Mrs. 
Early have dealt with you, you can come upstairs and we'll have a talk by the 
fire and tea and cake."
The housekeeper cut a large hunk of bread and set that and the soup on the 
table, pulled up a stool and motioned Toby to eat. He needed no further 
invitation. He fell on the food like a starved dog, and ate as untidily, 
stuffing the bread into his mouth until his cheeks bulged, and slurping the soup 
noisily. I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but behind his back Mrs. Early shook 
her head, conveying without words that she understood his hunger. He was 
obviously in good hands.
"I'll send him up when he's ready, miss. Don't worry, he'll be all right. And if 
you hear a noise or two, just ignore it. I doubt he's seen soap and water in a 
good while . . ."
So I ignored the yells and screams I heard some time later, as I brought Ky-Lin 
up to date with what had happened.
"I shall be curious to see your little friend . . ."
But I don't think either of us was prepared for what came up shortly after Mrs. 
Early's tea-tray, now with a bigger tea-pot and two large slabs of cake.
"Mr. Early will be up with him in a minute, Miss," she said without preamble. 
"We had to burn his clothes, they were that flea-ridden. Once the eggs get into 
the seams, there's nothing else to do." She looked uncharacteristically hot and 
bothered, with wisps of hair escaping from under her cap. "So, begging your 
pardon, we've put him in one of your uncle's old nightshirts, not having 
anything else to hand. Your uncle wasn't that tall, but the garment reaches his 
ankles, and we had to stuff the slippers with paper. He wouldn't wear the 
combies . . ." She turned to go, then came back and lowered her voice. "Thought 
you might like to know: poor lad was covered in bruises and two burns. Not where 
they would show, mind. Reckon it's a good thing he's away from all that."
Poor Toby! But I had expected as much from Madeleine's letter.
She turned to go again, but hadn't quite finished. "By the by, the nightcap was 
your uncle's too, but we thought it best to cover his head against the cold. It 
was the lice as well, you see . . ."
I didn't immediately, and it was only when Mr. Early ushered the boy in a couple 
of minutes later that I realised the extent to which he had been "done over," as 
he would have put it.
I had always seen him as a healthily tanned, curly-haired boy with a ready grin, 
but what I saw now was someone I hardly recognised. A thin pale-faced lad with 
freckles on his nose, wearing an absurd nightshirt and a nightcap with a bobble 
on the end, shuffling across the floor in over-large slippers. His eyes were 
big, dark-rimmed and frightened.
"Toby? Come and sit down and let me pour you some tea." He smelt of good, strong 
carbolic soap, and even his bitten nails had been scrubbed clean. "My word! I 
hardly recognised you. It's nice to see you so—so clean and tidy! Aren't you 
glad to get rid of all that London dirt and grime?"
He looked at me resentfully, his lower lip trembling, then suddenly snatched off 
the nightcap, to reveal that they had shaved him completely bald. "Just look 
what they done to me hair! Bald as a coot, I am!"
"It'll soon grow back," I soothed, even as I tried to hide my dismay at the loss 
of his normally luxuriant mop. He saw my expression and flushed angrily.
"See? You don't like it neither! Looks like a freak I does, a bloody freak!"
"Toby! Don't swear—"
" 'Nough to make a saint swear!" I heard a tiny snigger from the hidden Ky-Lin. 
"You ain't never 'ad your 'ead shaved, 'ave you? Bloody cold it is too: you'll 
'ave me catch me death!"
"Oh, come on," I said placatingly. "I think it makes you look sort of—sort 
ofdistinguished . Like one of those marble busts we saw in that museum once, 
remember?" For sometimes I used to take him with me on my expeditions in London.
"They was wearing stone wigs," he said disgustedly. "And I ain't wearing no 
wigs, stone or otherwise. Right fright I'd look!"
I forebore to say that he looked a "right fright" at this moment. Leaning 
forward I touched his skull; it was strange to study the true shape of the head, 
so often hidden by hair, with its unaccustomed slopes, furrows and hollows. I 
examined my own head later, discovering for the first time my own bumps and 
lumps. Phrenology was an emerging science, I learned.
"Listen, Toby! Once your hair grows back—and it will, and quickly too—there'll 
be no more lice, no more nits, no more scratching. Doesn't that make any 
difference?"
"Not when you're as bald as an egg! Not when folks are goin' to look at you as 
if you came from a freak show! Not when the wind is whistling past your ears fit 
to freeze off your balls!"
"Toby!" I expostulated, though I was grinning inside, and there was another 
snigger from the hidden Ky-Lin. "That's enough of that! Tomorrow I will have you 
kitted out properly in the village, including a nice cap to hide your baldness. 
Now, drink your tea and eat your cake and I'll show you where you will sleep."
He ate his slice, and mine, and drank three cups of tea, with six lumps of sugar 
in each. Afterwards he looked much better, with a flush in his cheeks and a 
sparkle in his eyes.
I leant back in my chair, waiting till he had finished, initially loath to spoil 
his mood, but it had to be done.
"Look here,Toby, at the risk of repeating myself, I didn't invite you here, and 
I'm afraid you have come at rather a busy time as I shall be going away on a 
long journey very soon. Before I go, however, I shall find you somewhere to live 
and, hopefully, some job or other to keep you busy. However, if I agree to take 
on the responsibility of doing this, you must promise to behave yourself, and 
keep your bad language to yourself. Understood?"
He nodded, and I relaxed. Not for long.
"Reckon I'll go with you, miss."
"Oh, no you don't!" I said. "This is nothing to do with you. I'm not taking you 
on an expedition to China!"
"Chiny? Must be a third of the way across the world!" His eyes were now 
dangerously bright. " 'Member that map we had in the classroom?"
Indeed I did. Probably about six feet by four, a Mercator projection, it was 
primarily meant to glorify the British Empire, with all the red bits showing 
that we seemed to have conquered half the world. Actually its most useful 
function was to hide the badly stained plaster of the wall, for as a map it was 
pretty useless. The greasy brown oilcloth had dimmed so that the red was pale 
pink, the blues and greens and yellows all dulled to a sort of dun colour, 
smearing the world into an ancient hoarding, rather than the bright tapestry it 
should have been.
"Used to look at that map all the time, miss, 'specially when the lessons were 
boring. I was nearest, see. Got to understand what the different shapes were: 
ours looking like a little old lady in a bonnet riding a pig to market; Italy 
like a posh boot, kicking little Sicily, France and Germany big squares—and 
Chiny and Roosia so big they could swallow up 'most everybody else, 'cept the 
triangle of India. And the rivers, miss! Like wriggly worms, they was—sorry, 
were—so it must take a long time to travel along them, though it looks shorter 
in a straight line . . ." He ran (temporarily) out of breath. I was fascinated; 
I had never heard him so animated, and had no idea he was so keen on 
geography—unless of course he was making the whole thing up in order to impress 
me and book his place on our expedition. If so, it was a very adroit 
performance, especially as it seemed to be spontaneous.
"I never knew you were so keen on maps and things," I said carefully.
"Oh, yes! I used to look at Miss Madeleine's sometimes when she took over if 
Miss Hardacre were—was—off. She's like you, buys books second-hand, but they got 
maps mostly, and plants and animals. Helped me make up my mind what I'm goin' to 
be: a 'Splorer."
"An explorer?" Small chance, Toby, I thought. You need to have a private income 
for that sort of thing.
"Yes, however long it takes. Reckon I could get a job, save a bit, then 
volunteer to join an expedition. Cook, carrier, collector—whatever, till I 
gets—get enough to strike out on me—my—own."
In spite of my misgivings, I was impressed. If his actions matched his 
determination, then he would succeed.
"China is out of the question, I'm afraid, but tomorrow or the day after I'll 
tell you where I'm going and why. It's quite a story . . ." I doubted he would 
believe it though. "Ah, here's Mrs. Early to tell us supper is ready . . ."
After seconds of mince and dumplings and treacle tart, I gave him a candle and 
showed him to his bedroom, explaining that I was just across the corridor, and 
introduced him to the commode in the bathroom.
"No guzunder?"
"No . . . ? Oh, I see. No chamber-pot! Relieve yourself now, and I'll see you 
into bed."
I could see he was overawed by his bedroom, with its spruce single bed and the 
fire that had been lighted to air the room. He allowed me to tuck him up, but 
when I turned back to say goodnight I saw he was out of bed and standing on the 
rug.
"What's the matter?"
"It's soclean , miss! And—and tooquiet! "
"Rubbish! You'll soon get used to it. If you are going to be an explorer you 
have to get used to anything, and this will then seem like luxury. Blow out the 
candle and go to sleep . . ." A little harsh, perhaps, but it wouldn't do to 
accept everything he said at face value.
When I got back to the study Ky-Lin was nibbling at a couple of hazelnuts which 
I had collected for him earlier.
"Well, what do you think?"
"Not bad at all. Alittle more time in the sun, perhaps, but nice and sweet just 
the same . . ."
"No, not those. Toby!"
"We can take him with us," said Ky-Lin. "He's a likely lad."
"We can do no such thing! He's only a child."
"He's a bright thirteen- or fourteen-year old, and a trip like ours can only be 
good for him. Who else at his age and background gets a chance to travel like 
that? Where else would he hear different languages and have the chance to 
observe other life-styles? How do you know that the expedition wouldn't be an 
inspiration for him to follow his dream of being an explorer? Would you deny him 
all that?"
Put like that I was behaving like the classic wicked stepmother, denying a 
deserving child the chance of a lifetime because I was too protective, couldn't 
be bothered, didn't want the responsibility, saw too many drawbacks.
"He's not very strong." I said weakly. "It's a long way . . ."
"He's tougher than you think. You are a model for the sort of woman he has never 
known before. I think it would do him more harm if you leave him behind. Don't 
forget you are the only secure point he has in his life at the moment. One day 
he may go back to his own family, but from what the housekeeper said he's better 
off here for the time being. The boy needs affection, praise, most of all to 
feel he's needed. Here's your chance to make something of him; a year or so 
travelling could make all the difference. He's at a difficult time of life 
physically, too, just growing up. The discipline of a long trek will add muscles 
and inches, just wait and see." He paused. "I don't say there won't be moments 
when we shall want to throw him over the moon, but I still think it's worth it. 
Besides," he added slyly, "how do you know you will get on with your other 
travelling companions? At least you know Toby will be on your side . . ."
I had lost, and I knew it. "What about telling him everything—including you?"
"The sooner the better," he said briskly. "Save me all this chopping and 
changing. Er . . . could you possibly find some more of these splendid nuts 
tomorrow?"

I bathed, then sat up and read for a while before seeking my bed. I decided to 
check on Toby before I turned in, but was horrified to find his bed was empty. 
Rushing down the stairs to find Mrs. Early, I collided with her at the bottom. 
She had her finger to her lips.
"Hush, Miss . . . Just take a peep at this." She opened the kitchen door quietly 
and I peered in. At first I could see nothing untoward and then I glanced at the 
fire: there, wrapped in one of the blankets from his bed, the cat cuddled to his 
chest, was Toby, fast asleep on the rug.
Mrs. Early had a smile on her face. "Reckon a soft bed and being on his own is 
something he'll take a time to get used to. Don't worry, I reckon he'll do just 
fine!"

Chapter Thirteen
Educating Toby
In the morning I had to deal with an increasingly impatient Toby, forced by his 
lack of clothing to stay indoors, but Mrs. Early had given me an idea. I asked 
her to look out all the clothing my uncle had left, and she produced woolen 
shirts and sweaters, tweed jackets, caps and leggings, mufflers, gloves, shoes, 
a double set of underwear still in its tissue paper, handkerchiefs (ditto), and 
a lined cloak.
"I gave all the well-used materials worn next to the body—socks and underwear 
and such—to the Church for the poor, after I'd washed them," said Mrs. Early.
"You did right," I told her. "And you may do the same with those shoes and 
gloves, but I think we can make something of the rest for the lad." And after a 
tape-measure and a list for Mr. Early, he set off for the village and returned 
before luncheon with boots and felt slippers, socks and mittens for Toby, plus 
the village seamstress. She spent the afternoon, with Mrs. Early's help, cutting 
and snipping and sewing and altering. Although Toby was two or three inches 
shorter than my uncle, width-wise they were about the same, so it was only a 
case, for the most part, of shortening sleeves and hems and lifting waistlines. 
They also made a good job of altering the caps to fit, so that by dark Toby had 
a full set of clothes. The seamstress took the rest back with her to alter at 
home, promising to return them by Monday.
Toby was as pleased as Mr. Punch, and strutted around in his finery, trying to 
catch glimpses of himself in any mirror he could find, but insisted on wearing 
his caps back-to-front, with the brims at the nape of his neck.
"All the fashion in Lunnon," he said. "Wish me mates could see me now!" He 
wanted to rush out straightaway and parade himself but luckily it started to 
rain.
He ate like a horse at all meals, but was reluctant when reminded about his 
daily bath.
"I had the scrub to end all scrubs yesterday! Why, I'll bet I lost most of my 
skin as well, see, I'm a diff'rent colour! Me—my Ma didn't believe in baths. 
Laundering, yes; bathing, no. Why, I might even shrink! Clothes do, sometimes . 
. ."
I had to smile. "Toby, people don't shrink from bathing! Don't you see, if you 
hadn't had a good scrub you would have dirtied the sheets on your bed and the 
nice clothes you're wearing? Just like you ruined the laundry in the hamper . . 
. I can't tell you how happy I am to at last have the stink of London out of my 
nostrils, and don't have to look for fleas or lice anymore. And you look and 
smell so much nicer now!"
He looked at me, then grinned, a smile that was both cheeky and endearing at the 
same time.
"Just testing . . ." He thought for a moment, then added: "Thanks for the 
clothes, and for letting me stay," and gave me a quick, embarrassed hug. Which 
was enough to forgive him everything—for the time being.
The following day being Sunday I was in two minds about taking Toby to church 
with us, guessing that the only previous religious teaching he had received were 
the prayers and Bible readings we had had at the school, but he seemed to think 
it was natural to accompany us. I told him he must sit quiet, listen to the 
sermon and behave reverently through the prayers and lessons.
"Din' I sit quiet for five years in that school? Din' I listen to every—well, 
nearly every—word that was said? Did I ever not behave myself?"
He was right. Many of the children that had a spark of life left in them, apart 
from eating enough to keep them alive and wearing enough to keep them warm, 
became bored and restless. Toby had been less trouble than most, because we had 
all given him books to look at and extra work to do; the others wanted to be 
entertained, rather than providing their own amusement.
In any event he behaved himself perfectly in church, absorbing the ritual 
bowings and scrapings only a half-second behind, following the prayers and 
lessons in the prayer-book I lent him, and singing the one hymn he knew lustily. 
This week the snobbish families weren't present—perhaps they had satisfied their 
curiosity the previous Sunday—so we were greeted with friendliness untainted 
with condescension.
Toby and I decided to walk back to the Hall and, freed from the restrictions of 
the service, he reverted to pure boy. He kicked at the heaps of leaves, 
whistle-copied the song of a robin, hunted the hedgerows for old nests, while I 
picked some more bright foliage and lingered here and there to find some more 
hazelnuts for Ky-Lin. I hoped it would be sooner rather than later that he 
revealed himself to the boy, because it was becoming increasingly difficult for 
us to find time on our own to plan our journey.
After luncheon it started to rain again, so I took Toby on a tour of the rest of 
the Hall to keep him occupied. Now all the rest of my uncle's artifacts had been 
removed it was possible to appreciate just how much space there was. Our feet 
echoed on the bare wooden floors, on marble tiles, clattered up and down endless 
stairways. We went, on Toby's insistence, from cellar to attic and back again. 
Not that the place was entirely empty; ordinary, plain tables and chairs, a few 
bedsteads, cupboards, wardrobes and chests had been left behind, as were some 
threadbare rugs and runners and a pile of mothballed blankets.
He was enchanted with everything. Watching him dash about I realised what little 
space he had had in London, just tramping the same streets day after day. To be 
sure there were parks and grassy spaces in town, but he had never been 
encouraged to use them, except when he rarely accompanied me on a picnic, and in 
the large buildings like museums he had to behave sedately. Here he romped on 
the way back from church and was now behaving as if he were attending a party. 
Although the place was as clean as Mrs. Early and her girls had been able to get 
it, he still managed to end up happily grubby.
As we went back to the door leading into the Temple and tea, he slipped his hand 
into mine.
"You know what, miss? I reckon as this place would make a wonderful holiday home 
for poor children—or even an orphanage . . ."

After tea I pretended my eyes were tired, and had him practice his reading by 
telling me a couple of stories from myFairy-Tales by the Brothers Grimm . He 
seemed to enjoy "Rumpelstiltskin" best. After supper we had a hand or two of 
cards and I sent him to bed at half-past nine, with a length of string, to 
practice some cat's cradles I had shown him.
I settled down with Ky-Lin, tracing-paper and one of the more detailed maps to 
plot the first part of our journey. We decided to take the railway to the coast, 
first ascertaining where we would get a ferry across to Holland, travelling on 
deck as it was cheaper, and then to the mouth of the Rhine where it debouched 
into the sea and on by barge or boat to southern Bavaria and then cross overland 
to the Danube in order to continue our journey eastward.
I had the tracing-paper in place, cut into strips like the old-fashioned ones, 
where you only concentrated on the bit you wanted to travel, with Ky-Lin holding 
down the farthest end with his hooves, when there was a light tap at the door 
and Toby entered.
"Couldn't get to sleep, miss: reckon it was those apple dumplings we had for 
supper. Can I come in for a bit?"
I glanced at Ky-Lin, expecting him to have changed into a figurine; instead he 
was just the same, except that he was perfectly still. He winked at me.
"You can come in for a few minutes," I said. "Kindly shut the door."
He sat down opposite me, and I could see he was about to ask about the maps, but 
then he caught sight of Ky-Lin.
"Gosh, miss, you've got a cuddly toy! Where'd you get him from? Never seen one 
like that before . . ."
"And you aren't likely to. This—this is a representation of a creature who comes 
from China. In the mythical past he and his brethren were guards and guides for 
a holy person called the Buddha. Part of his teaching was that you could be 
reborn again, depending on the way you lived this life, and that every living 
thing was trying to do the same. In other words even the smallest living thing 
is trying to better itself, and you must never destroy anything alive, plant or 
animal. A fly can be reborn as a bird, from there to a rabbit, and thence to a 
man . . . But if you are bad, then you regress."
"So you don't stamp on an ant in case it's on its way up . . . I see." He leant 
forward. "Can I touch it?"
I glanced at Ky-Lin: another wink.
"Yes, but gently. He's fragile."
Toby reached out his right index finger and stroked it down Ky-Lin's spine. He 
drew it back, a look of surprise on his face. "Why, he's quite warm!"
"Yes."
"But toys aren't warm . . ."
"Well, he's not exactly a toy—"
As if in answer Ky-Lin winked at me again, then proceeded to act exactly like a 
mechanical toy. He made a whirring noise, then rose on his haunches to all four 
hooves, swung his head from side to side, then stepped slowly and jerkily round 
to face Toby, this time nodding his head, then sat down on his haunches again.
Toby's eyes were as round as the saucer-eyes of the first dog who guarded the 
treasure in the fairy tale, and he must have been holding his breath, for he let 
it out in a great sigh and a low whistle.
"Woweee! He's like those mechanical toys we saw in that museum once . . . Must 
be worth a bundle!"
"Irreplaceable," I agreed, trying not to giggle. "As far as I know, he's the 
only one left in the world."
"Did your uncle bring him back from his travels?"
"Yes, together with a couple of other things that I have inherited. Tell you 
about those in a minute."
He nodded towards Ky-Lin. "Does he do other things too?"
"Loads!" I was enjoying this and, from the look of it, so was Ky-Lin. "What 
would you like him to do?"
"Er—turn a somersault?" He put out his hand. "Hadn't you better wind him up 
again?"
"No. He goes for quite a long time without—without any external influences, 
don't you, Ky-Lin?"
The little creature nodded, obliged by starting his whirring noise again, and 
turned a grave and well-controlled somersault. Then he executed a pirouette and 
fluffed out his tail to its fullest glory.
Toby clapped his hands, then frowned. "But how do you tell him to do these 
things? How did he know to do a somersault next?"
"Ah, that's part of his magic!" Ky-Lin sank back on his haunches, making a noise 
like a coiled spring running down.
Toby said: "You were going to tell me about the other things your uncle left? 
Are they toys as well?"
"No, definitely not." I looked across at Ky-Lin who gave me an almost 
imperceptible nod. "Listen, and I'll tell you a story." I fetched the manuscript 
out of the cabinet, where I had kept everything since Toby arrived, and gave him 
a potted version of Summer's story, explained about my uncle's will and told him 
of the choice I had made. He didn't seem at all surprised.
"Just what I would have decided, miss. Where's the egg then that we're taking 
back to Chiney—er, China?"
"The EgI am taking back to China . . ." I brought it out of the cabinet and laid 
it on my shawl on the table.
"Does that do tricks as well?"
"Not as such, but it is growing larger every day, it's warm, and my uncle 
believed it holds something living. He also couldn't smash or crack it, so it is 
somewhat unusual. Pick it up . . ."
He did, although it was heavy, and examined it carefully, rolling it around in 
his hands.
"Itis warm . . . So that's what a dragon's egg looks like." He turned a puzzled 
face towards me. "But there aren't any dragons, are there, miss, so how can that 
be a dragon's egg?"
"Most people would say there wasn't such a thing as a Ky-Lin, but there he is on 
the table." I took pity on him. "No, I didn't believe in dragons or Ky-Lins or 
magic either when I first came here, but I have a more open mind now. 
Circumstances have forced me to reconsider, put it that way. My uncle didn't 
believe either, but he changed his mind."
Toby continued to examine the Eg, shaking it, scratching it with a bitten nail, 
even touching it with his tongue. He held it to his ear, and suddenly his face 
lit up.
"You're right! Itisalive!"
"What do you mean—alive?"
"I can hear something inside. A soft, kind of fluttery sound. Listen!" He handed 
it to me, but I could hear nothing. "Can't you hear it?" I shook my head. "Well, 
I can! It may not be a baby dragon, but there's something in there, sure as—sure 
as eggs is eggs!" And he laughed at his own joke.
"That settles it," said Ky-Lin unexpectedly. "He comes with us."
Toby stopped laughing and looked at me. "What did you say?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. Not a word."
"Somebody said something . . ." He picked up the Eg, listened. "Not this." He 
looked at Ky-Lin. "Does he talk as well?"
"Sometimes . . ."
"Can you make him speak?"
"He speaks when he wants to—but only to me."
"Why?"
"Because I have a magic translator."
He was silent for a moment. "Where's the key?"
"What key?"
"The one to wind him up."
"There isn't one."
He frowned. "Then how do you make him work?"
"Idon't.He does . . . Watch . . . Now you see him—" I covered Ky-Lin with my 
hands and willed him to change back to his ivory shape, which he did in about 
ten seconds: "—and now you don't." I parted my hands and there was the figurine.
Toby picked it up, looked at my hands, under the table and examined my sleeves.
"All right: where's he gone?"
"He's there." I pointed to the ivory.
"You're joshing me! It looks a bit like him, but it ain't him. That's not alive 
like he was. That can't move."
I sat back. "Don't be too sure! All right, Ky-Lin, show him!"
And in front of Toby's astonished gaze the ivory turned back to the "live" 
Ky-Lin, slowly and carefully, like a conjurer explaining a trick.
For a moment or two Toby was dumb, then: "If'n I hadn't seen it with my own eyes 
. . . Guess I'll believe anyfink now." He rose to his feet and bowed reverently 
as if he were in church.
"Tell him not to be an idiot," said Ky-Lin. "Tell him also that we are taking 
him with us."
I translated, and Toby's face lit up like an instant lamp. "I'm going with you? 
Gee-golly-gosh-an'-green Gorgonzola!" He jumped to his feet and did a little jig 
round the room. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"Tell him the terms and conditions," said Ky-Lin, and I translated as he told 
me.
"Ky-Lin says I have to tell you that we have a long and difficult journey ahead 
of us. There will be two other companions with us, as yet unknown, and you will 
have to fit in with them. It will be well over a year before we return, if we're 
lucky. There will be dangers to face and it is not a task to be undertaken 
lightly. If you wish to change your mind about coming, no-one will blame you . . 
."
"No way! I'm coming! I'll do anything, just anything! I'll carry the egg all the 
way to Chiney—China! I'll . . . I'll . . ."
"All right, that'll do! Come here and sit down." This was me talking. "Now, you 
said you would do exactly as you were told?"
"Yes, miss! Whatever you say . . ."
"And I say bed. Now. Immediately!"
"A little help," said Ky-Lin,and he bent forward and blew gently into the boy's 
face. "A little Sleepy-Dust . . ."
Within seconds Toby's eyes were drooping, and three minutes later he was in bed 
and sleeping soundly.
"Another of your tricks," I remarked to Ky-Lin as I fished a handful of 
hazelnuts out of my pocket.
"Thank you. Nothing special," he remarked modestly. "The Sleepy-Dust I mean, not 
these excellent nuts . . . I didn't want the lad to get over-excited."
"I hope you know what you are doing, taking him with us."
"So do I," he said. "So do I . . ."

The following morning Toby, clean, fed and shining, came and asked me if he 
could take Ky-Lin for a walk.
"Oh, I don't think that's a very good idea . . ."
His face crumpled. "But heasked me!"
"He did?"
I fetched the figurine out of the cabinet.
"But he hasn't been out of here today. How could he?"
"He asked me—sort of in my mind. Out loud in my mind. Honest!"
"He's right," said Ky-Lin, coming to life again. "I didn't know, however, 
whether he had understood."
"But what do you want to do?" I asked, the tiniest stab of jealousy prickling. 
After all, he had never asked me to take him out.
Toby answered for him. "He wants to practise," he said, frowning to himself. "He 
wants—he wants . . ." and he held his hands out in front of him like a fisherman 
demonstrating his catch. "He wants to practise growing big."
Ky-Lin nodded at me. "The boy's a natural. If we go up Bracken Hill, then 
perhaps I can get rid of this stiffness. I'm afraid I'm a little rusty, as you 
would put it. And if you would ask the boy to look out for a few nuts or 
berries?"
"Right, Toby." I described where he was to go, and the search for food for 
Ky-Lin. "Blackberries—you know what they look like—and haws and hips. Dark red 
smaller ones, and large orangey ones." I had a good idea. "As it's a fine day, 
how about me asking Mrs. Early to make up a picnic basket, and I'll join you at 
lunch-time?"
So, later in the day, after a morning mending, sewing and making lists, I walked 
up through the bracken with a basket filled with cold egg and ham pie, Russian 
salad, cheese and onion pasties and Conference pears, with a flagon of ginger 
beer.
When I reached the top of the hill however, there was no-one to be seen. I was 
sure, however, that I had heard a giggle from Toby as I climbed up, so I sat 
down and let the breeze cool my cheeks and ruffle my uncovered hair, content to 
await whatever surprise was in store. I didn't have to wait long. There was a 
sudden war-whoop and onto the rocks over my head sailed a pony-sized Ky-Lin with 
Toby on his back.
They teetered for a moment on the summit, then Ky-Lin gained his balance.
"Great, ain't it?" said Toby, slipping off Ky-Lin's back. "What's in the basket, 
then?"
Ky-Lin folded himself down to a reasonable size, and we all tucked in, Toby and 
I with the hamper, Ky-Lin with an assortment of nuts, fruit and berries Toby had 
provided. I was just packing the hamper with the empties when Toby said: "I 
wonder who came in the carrier's cart . . ."
"When?"
"When you was climbing the hill. Came down the drive with a couple of people in 
it, and now there's smoke coming out of another chimney. Look down: you can see 
it from here . . ."
"Could be our fellow-travellers," said Ky-Lin to me.
"I'd better go see," I said. "Toby, bring back the picnic basket," and gathering 
up my skirts, I ran back down the hill, to find a flustered Mrs. Early in the 
kitchen, her mouth drawn down, brewing a large pot of tea.
She didn't wait for my questions.
"Two of them. Says they're the ones what's going with you. Their luggage is in 
the hall. Shall I make up the other two bedrooms?"
"I'd better have a word with them first . . ."
"Doubt whether you'll be best pleased," she said, looking more disapproving than 
ever. "Not what I'd have chose myself . . . I lit a fire in the morning-room. 
You want me to bring the tea in there?"
"Yes, please . . ." I couldn't understand her ill-humour, until I tidied my 
hair, changed into slippers and walked down to the morning-room and opened the 
door.
Then I understood part of her temper immediately.

Chapter Fourteen
Unwelcome Guests
"Mr. Cumberbatch!" I was aware I was repeating myself, but I couldn't help 
myself. And after I had thought to get rid of him forever, here he was turning 
up again like the proverbial bad penny!
"Your servant, Miss Lee." He rose from the fireplace, where he had been warming 
his hands. "I have here a package of money and a letter from Mr. Swallow." He 
handed them over. Taking a paper-knife from the writing-desk I slit the letter 
open.
It read, after the usual salutations: "I am sending you Mr. Cumberbatch to 
accompany you on your journeys, on behalf of our firm, under your uncle's 
instructions. I have decided to send him as the other members of our firm are 
more advanced in years, and he is both young and fit. I might add, however, that 
he is unwilling to undertake this task, but I hope he will become reconciled as 
time goes on. We have equipped him as well as we could for his travels. He 
carries with him the moneys for your journey, which I must ask you to receipt as 
provided. 
"He will be accompanied by the private investigator your uncle also insisted 
upon, a Mr. Danny Duveen. He has been provided with moneys for his travelling 
outfit."He ended up wishing us well.
I put the letter and the packet of money down carefully on the writing-desk, 
realising that I was prolonging the moment when I would have to turn around and 
face my unwelcome fellow-traveller. He didn't want to go, and I didn't want him 
either! What a pickle . . . I couldn't imagine a more dreary companion: dreary 
and useless.
Mrs. Early provided the diversion I needed by bringing in a tray of tea, so I 
was able to greet him pleasantly enough, offer him a cup of tea and assure him 
his room would be ready as soon as possible. All this while I had half an eye on 
the other occupant of the room, seeming intent on examining one of the prints on 
the wall. He was wearing a heavy caped coat reaching almost to his ankles, as if 
he wasn't very tall. I wasn't sure whether his turned back was indicative of 
boorishness, politeness as I spoke with Mr. Cumberbatch, or shyness.
"Did you both have a pleasant journey?" I asked, preparing to pour the tea.
"Not particularly. Dem' smoky carriage and the dem' carrier was late—"
"Mr. Cumberbatch: we do not use language like that in this house, nor will I 
tolerate it on the journey. You are not in the office now."
My other guest clapped his hands as he turned round. "Well said, Miss Lee, well 
said! I always say you have to watch your mouth in front of the ladies, so I 
do!"
I nearly dropped the milk jug.
"You! What on earth are you doing here?" The man who now faced me was even more 
familiar than Mr. Cumberbatch: it was the importunate young "poet" who had lived 
for a while at my lodgings, and who had both pestered me with his poems and 
followed me round wherever I went. What was his name? Random, that was it: 
Richard Random.
He came forward, flung his coat off over a chair and extended his hand.
"Hello again, Miss Lee! Danny Duveen at your service . . . Mine's two sugars and 
only a splash of milk."
"But—but you're Richard Random!"
"Was, Miss Lee, was! That was only an alias, if you know what I mean. In my line 
of work it is essential that you move along and leave no clues behind you. So, 
the name changes with the job, and so do the disguises. If you had any idea how 
hard it was to write that dreadful doggerel! I did say two sugars, did I not?"
So this was the man on whom my uncle had depended for his report on me! And I 
had always thought it was my hidden attractions . . . I had to admit he had been 
both clever and persistent. As for "disguise," he looked little different: 
unshaven, untidy, unruly black hair falling over his forehead, very blue eyes. 
His clothes, too, had seen better days. They were decidedly grubby, ill-fitting, 
a little out of date, with a compensating touch of the exotic: a multi-coloured 
scarf, a sporty yellow waistcoat, a green handkerchief hanging out of one 
pocket, a flashy red-stoned ring. He looked as if he had rummaged very quickly 
through Old Sol's second-hand clothes shop, or was about to take his turn at a 
provincial music-hall, singing Irish ballads.
Still, it had been my uncle's wish that he accompany me, and at least he had 
more spirit than the lack-lustre Claude. Meanwhile the tea was not getting any 
warmer, so I lifted off the cosy and poured to suit them both; it didn't 
surprise me one bit to find that Claude preferred his very weak with no sugar.
Mrs. Early tapped at the door to inform me that fires had been lit in the 
bedrooms, and was the luggage to be taken up?
"Please. Have you seen Master Toby?"
"He's in the kitchen with us, miss."
"Would you have him join me in here? And we will have supper in the dining—room 
at seven, if that is not too inconvenient?"
"No trouble at all, miss. I'll have hot water sent up to the gentlemen's rooms a 
half-hour before."
In came Toby a couple of minutes later, obviously having been taken in hand by 
Mrs. Early, for his hands and face were clean and his hair combed.
"Gentlemen, I would like you to meet Toby, my ward. He will be accompanying us 
on our travels. Toby, the gentleman on my right is Mr. Cumberbatch from the 
solicitor's office, the other—"
"But I know's him!" cried Toby, pointing at Danny Duveen. "He came round my ma's 
a couple of times, asking all sorts of questions 'bout you! He's just a snooper, 
miss!"
"And your ma sent me away with a flea in my ear, didn't she Toby me boy? Or 
rather a soapy fist round my head . . ."
"Only after you kicked over a bucket of lye!"
" 'Twas an accident, me boy, a pure accident! Tripped up over the damn' thing, 
didn't I? Could hardly see a hand in front of my face, down in that steam-filled 
basement you call a laundry—"
"Mr. Duveen! Toby! That'll do . . . And my remarks about swearing to Mr. 
Cumberbatch apply equally to you, Sir! Is that understood?"
"Slip of the tongue, Miss Lee, slip of the tongue . . . Won't happen again, I 
assure you!"
Now why was I so certain that it would?

Supper was an uncomfortable affair. In spite of the fire the room was chilly 
through lack of use, and although I was used to correct table manners, it was 
obvious my two guests were not, and their sloppiness affected Toby. Not only was 
he overawed with the formality of the room, the best china and cutlery, the 
attempts at polite conversation, he was also thrown by the fact that both men 
picked up their chicken bones and chewed them, quite contrary to the 
instructions I had given him only a day or two since, that one only picks up the 
bones of game-birds.
As a consequence of all this he managed to slurp his soup in one of the many 
silences, spilled his gravy on the cloth as he was pouring it, one of his roast 
potatoes shot across the table and onto the floor and he ate it instead of 
leaving it, he forgot and tried to eat his peas off his knife, so that by the 
time we came to the tapioca pudding he was too disheartened to choose five of 
the stewed plums to go with it, to make sure he was the "Rich Man," living in a 
mansion this year and clad in silks although that game he had always enjoyed 
working out.
Not that the conduct of the other two was any better. Claude's manners showed 
some promise, although using his cheese knife to pare his nails was an 
excruciating sight and he drank his wine in great gulps as though it were water 
or ale. Danny insisted on second helpings, and left half of them; he kept his 
elbows on the table and his cutlery at either side of the plate and talked with 
his mouth full. They both belched.
At the end of the meal I rose to my feet and surveyed the debris.
"Right, gentlemen! Pigs usually eat from troughs, but I will be lenient and 
elevate you to the kitchen from now on! I cannot have you setting my ward a bad 
example. I will ask Mrs. Early now to serve you tea or coffee in the 
morning-room, and will expect you for breakfast—in the kitchen—between 
eight-thirty and nine. Goodnight. Come, Toby!"
And I swept out leaving them looking as though lightning had struck.

The following morning Toby and I enjoyed our breakfast of porridge, bacon and 
eggs, toast and marmalade in peace and warmth. Afterwards we went up to the 
study and I taught him a little more about the maps we would use, and he helped 
me with the tracing. I had asked Mrs. Early to light a fire in the morning-room 
and left a message for Claude and Danny that I would meet them there at eleven 
for coffee. I learned later that Claude turned up for cold porridge at 
nine-forty-five, and Danny didn't appear at all.
At eleven-fifteen I was still waiting for them to appear, seething inside, but 
when they eventually arrived I saw at once what had held them up. They were 
unshaven, apologetic and obviously under the influence. Either one or both had 
bottles in their rooms.
I took the cold coffee back to the kitchen, ordered some more, extra strong, and 
left Mrs. Early with a special directive. The coffee sobered them up a little, 
but as I tried to explain our expedition, even showing them some maps, I might 
as well have been talking to my five-year-olds at the School. At last I gave up, 
instructing them both to take a walk to the village and back to "freshen up" 
(though I didn't mention the fact that I knew they had hangovers) and instructed 
them to return in time for luncheon.
This was a big mistake.
Neither of them turned up for the meal, and it was growing dark by the time they 
staggered up the drive, full of song and strong ale. It was no use reprimanding 
them, they were past it, so I asked Mr. Early to "escort" them up to their 
rooms, supperless, making sure there were chamberpots under their beds. He was 
to call them at seven-thirty in the morning, informing them that there was 
plenty of hot water for bathing and shaving in the bathroom, and that they were 
expected to be down for breakfast at eight-thirty prompt.
That morning we all breakfasted together. A couple of pale, shaky, but 
clean-shaven young men spooned down their porridge with little enthusiasm but 
the kedgeree went down better and by the time they reached the toast and the 
second pot of tea was on the table, they were at least communicating, even if it 
was only "pass the butter/any more toast/where's the sugar/another cup of tea" 
type of speech.
After that it was a lot easier as they apparently had very little spare cash 
left, and the stores of liquor they had brought with them rapidly diminished. 
The instruction I had given Mrs. Early on that first morning was to examine 
their luggage—snooping perhaps, but I was a young woman on my own, charged with 
leading an expedition with two unknown men as my escorts, and no chaperone. So 
it was up to me to find out as much as I could about my erstwhile companions 
before we started.
It appeared that Claude's luggage, apart from a couple of bottles of sweet 
sherry, was of the conventional sort—well-worn but clean and mended underwear 
and a couple of rather threadbare suits. He obviously was a mother's boy, 
because his pocket-handkerchiefs were embroidered in blue with his initials, a 
jar of menthol and eucalyptus cream and another of corn-cure were wrapped in 
tissue, there were lavender sachets and a silver-framed photograph of a 
beaky-nosed matron, the spit of her son. The travelling clothes the solicitors 
had provided were adequate, though when I checked them later with him, it was 
obvious he needed stronger boots and a travelling cape.
Danny Duveen's luggage, such as it was, was a different matter altogether. While 
Claude's clothes and effects were in a battered but well-polished suitcase, 
Danny only possessed a crumpled cardboard case which, according to Mrs. Early, 
contained the sum total of six whisky bottles, three empty, three full, two 
dirty shirts and some unmentionables, also filthy, two electro-plated hip-flasks 
(empty), a packet of what appeared to be recommendations for jobs, all in the 
same hand, two marked decks of cards and another envelope of what Mrs. Early 
described as Dirty Photographs in capital letters and a reddened face. (For the 
record I examined these later and can only report that I had a good laugh.)
What Mrs. Early appeared to be most shocked about in Danny's luggage was not the 
dirt or the photographs, but the lack of nightshirts: apparently it was a crime 
above all others not to go to bed decently clad. I forebore to tell her that I 
had done just the same in those stuffy August nights in London when the only 
relief was to cast everything off and open the window to one's nakedness.
So. Claude was more or less provided for, apart from stronger boots and a cloak, 
but Danny had nothing, as far as I could see, and was probably a con-man, a 
gambler, fond of the bottle, had little use for hygiene, and was not above 
indulging his lower tastes with a little wishful thinking.
I discussed all this with Ky-Lin, who had met both Claude and Danny, via Toby's 
pocket, a couple of times. He was the one who advised me to treat them as a 
couple of recalcitrant schoolboys who wouldn't learn their tables, and now 
advised me to go through what remained of my uncle's clothes for Danny, 
remarking that he was afraid I would still have to use some of my own money to 
kit them out.
"Of course," he added helpfully, "if that Irish fellow decides he doesn't want 
to go, then we can discount him, quite legally, I believe."
No chance.
I had agreed with Claude to furnish him with stouter boots and a cloak and, I 
must say, he was properly grateful, but when it came to Danny . . .
First of all I asked why he had not come properly equipped and got the sort of 
answer I expected: no list and no money. "Then what happened to the moneys 
supplied to you by the solicitors?"
"Oh, that . . . Well now to tell you the truth I thought those were to sort of 
set me on me way. Pay off the odd debt or two, you know . . ."
"Instead of which you got drunk as a skunk and gambled the rest away," I said 
equably.
"How did you—? Oh, come on now, Miss Lee. Darlin' girl, a lad has got to have 
his bit of fun before going on a life or death expedition, now doesn't he?"
"Not with somebody else's money," I said firmly. "And I am not your `darling 
girl': please remember that. And may I ask where your ordinary clothes are? 
Shirts, suits, shoes?"
He spread his arms wide, with what he hoped was a disarming grin. "In rags or in 
hock, truth to tell!"
"That's better. I prefer the truth. Now, if my uncle hadn't considered you 
capable of undertaking this journey . . . You can, of course, back out if you 
wish to, and no hard feelings?"
He looked horrified. "Oh, no, I'm going with you! Otherwise I don't get—"
"You don't get what, exactly?"
"The fifty quid the solicitors said your uncle promised."
So that was it. Right, Mr. Duveen would get just as much as he deserved and no 
more. I went through my uncle's belongings once again and found that he and 
Danny were of a size—had that been an added attraction I wondered—and that I 
could provide Danny with nightshirts, combinations, shirts, jackets, socks, 
caps, gloves and even shoes which needed no further alteration and which, 
luckily, Mrs. Early had not yet passed on. There was even a little-used pair of 
walking boots. So, in the end, all he would need was a travelling-cloak and, 
like Claude, a haversack and blanket. I heaved a sigh of relief.
Having sent off for the last of our requirements, I settled back for a few days, 
with Ky-Lin's help, trying to make our guests better prepared for the journey. 
By now they were what I would call "house-trained"—in other words they were 
bathed, shaven, appeared on time for meals, were polite and (more or less) tidy. 
That they were bored was quite obvious. Neither of them were readers or walkers 
or naturalists and the idea of helping Mr. Early in the garden was anathema to 
their town souls. There was no doubt they missed the metropolis. Most of the 
time they spent playing cards, probably with Danny's marked decks, so Ky-Lin and 
I decided a little further education was necessary.
One morning after breakfast I brought them up to the study, for a lesson in 
map-reading.
Their reaction was unexpected.
"What do we need to look at maps for?" said Claude, covering his mouth at the 
last minute over a tremendous yawn.
"So as you can find your way should we get lost on the way," said Toby, 
unfortunately catching the yawn and repeating it.
"Why then should we get lost?" asked Danny. "Sure the way is plain enough, is it 
not?"
I had a feeling of misgiving.
"Tell me," I said. "What have you two been told about the journey?"
Claude was the first to answer. "Mr. Swallow told me that you were taking one of 
your uncle's artifacts back to where it came from, that you were given a year to 
do it in, and that I was to accompany you to make sure the conditions were 
fulfilled."
"Did he tell you where we were going?"
He shook his head. My heart sank.
"And you?" I asked, turning to Danny.
"The solicitors said that I would get fifty pounds for acting as an escort while 
you went on a journey for your dead uncle."
"Doyou know where we are going?"
"No, but at least it'll be better than here . . ."
I threw up my hands in despair and even Toby looked disbelieving.
"Mean to say as you two gents don't know we're walking to Chiney and back with a 
dragon's egg and a—" He clapped his hand over his mouth just in time; I had 
warned him not to mention Ky-Lin.
"Chiney?"
"I believe the boy means China, Claude me lad," said Danny. "Full of little 
yellow men."
"But isn't that a long way away?"
"Nearer than the other side of the moon," said Danny. "And they've probably got 
a decent rail service most of the way."
"I hope it's not too hot," said Claude. "I always get hay-fever in the summer."
"It's the thought of the rice that's putting me off right now. I never fancied 
rice pudding, even with a dollop of me mam's gooseberry jam . . ."
"Can't you send it by post?"
I decided it was time to intervene, but before I could open my mouth Toby took 
over.
"Let me, miss. Reckon I could put it straight and quicker." And he did. He 
explained as you would to under-fives about my uncle's will, got the original 
manuscript from the cabinet and briefed them on Summer's journey and ended by 
saying that my uncle believed the Eg, which he also produced, belonged to the 
dragons. He ended by dashing Danny's hopes of a rail service and Claude's of 
using the post, explaining to the latter that a dragon's egg was far too 
precious to entrust to a postman, and anyway they probably didn't have them in 
China.
I couldn't have put it better myself.
They both looked rather white when Toby had finished, though Claude tried a 
last-ditch stand.
"But there aren't any such things as dragons," he said. "We all know that!"
"This is what we have all been taught," I said. "Dragons don't exist and never 
did. Like fairies, elves, gnomes, brownies, goblins, trolls, ogres, giants, 
witches and wizards. If so, why are there so many legends, myths, folk-tales? I 
admit that I now have an open mind, and an open mind, gentlemen, is what you 
will need if you are to journey with us!"
"We've come all this way to—to take a lump of stone to China? Was your uncle out 
of his senses?"
"I don't believe so, Mr. Duveen. As I said, I have an open mind, but certain 
happenings, which I am not at liberty to discuss, have convinced me that there 
is more to this `lump of stone' than we imagine. Besides I am bound to this 
journey now, else I renounce all hope of inheriting Hightop Hall. So you see, I 
have a vested interest." Perhaps that would appeal to his mercenary instincts.
It did. "Would there be any treasure at the end of all this? If you're talking 
about legends, then they all had it that dragons were hoarders of fabulous 
jewels . . ."
"I doubt it," I said. "I think our rewards will be less substantial. If we 
succeed, I shall inherit this place; Toby will have had the adventure he's 
always wanted; for you, Mr. Cumberbatch, this is just part of your job, but it 
should prove more interesting than sitting behind a desk all day; Mr. Duveen, it 
means you will be free of debt for the time it takes to get there and back. That 
should be some incentive." I looked round at them all. "Now, shall we have a 
look at the maps?"

The next two weeks were pretty hectic. Eventually everything I had ordered came 
through, including two lengths of lightweight rope, a compass—"In case I'm not 
at hand all the time," said Ky-Lin—containers for salt, tea, sugar and water and 
tin plates, mugs and cutlery. It all sounded dreadfully Spartan and rather 
intimidating.
"Are you sure we hadn't better take a frying-pan and a stew-pot?" I said to 
Ky-Lin, intending frivolity, but he answered me seriously enough.
"I don't believe we shall need those, initially at least. And in order not to 
weigh us down too much, I suggest we buy them on the way."
Instead of heavy leather suitcases I had ordered two wicker ones, lined with 
oiled silk against the rain. They were much lighter, and it was agreed that 
Claude and Danny would share one, Toby and I the other, keeping items to a 
minimum, which meant underwear and spare shirts and sweaters, and any personal 
items we couldn't do without. Toby and I were easy, but the other two quarrelled 
until the day we left over what they considered essential.
As for the haversacks, it was agreed that Toby would carry the Eg, wrapped as 
usual in my shawl, and extra towels and toiletries; the men would take the 
ropes, plus the crockery and cutlery, and I would carry the maps, papers, sewing 
things and a small pair of binoculars. We also carried a blanket each. I was 
encumbered with a moneybelt, which I had no intention of handing over to either 
of the two men, although it was heavy, once I had changed the money into smaller 
coin.
Strangely enough getting all the paperwork through had been the most difficult. 
To get passports and all the requisite permissions from the embassies in London 
had proved frustrating. France, Germany and Bavaria were easy enough, and Russia 
came through at the last moment, but from China we heard nothing.
The date was agreed, we booked ahead on the overnight ferry to Holland and, 
through the same firm, a trip by ferry on the first stage of our journey up the 
Rhine. Mrs. Early packed whatever she could that would last us through at least 
part of our journey: salt, tea, sugar, dried fruits, shelled nuts, apples, 
long-lasting fruitcake and parkin, pickled eggs, a tin of cocoa, Liebig's 
extract of meat, packets of pepper, a jar of ready-mixed mustard, home-made 
chutney and pickles and a well-smoked ham. By the time these had been 
distributed between our haversacks, we were all visibly sagging.
That was not all—for the first two days of the journey the housekeeper had made 
sandwiches, pies, tarts, cakes, buns and biscuits, and included two large 
flagons of lemonade and barley water, which meant we had to burden ourselves 
with a huge hamper as well, but at least it would save money.
Hiring a small carriage from the village we made good time to catch the 
four-fifteen slow train to the coast, boarded the ferry and settled down on deck 
later in the evening. Leaning on the rail, I looked back at the lights of the 
coast and the still-shining blur that I took to be the white cliffs of Dover, a 
popular landmark.
It wasn't a cold night, nor was there much sea running, yet I had been 
shivering. I found it difficult to believe that we were really on our way and 
that here I was taking a trip by sea for the first time.
Toby joined me, and Ky-Lin leapt from one of his pockets to stand on the rail 
between us.
"Not superstitious are you, miss?"
"Don't think so Toby . . . Why?"
" 'Cos tonight's All Hallows' Eve—Samain, they used to call it."
"A good omen," interrupted Ky-Lin. "That was the night Summer set off on her 
travels, so she told me . . ."
But in spite of his optimism, I found myself shivering again.

BOOK TWO


  "Over the hills and far away."
  —John Gay
Chapter Fifteen
Slow, Slow,
Quick-quick Slow
I threw my corsets into the upper reaches of the Rhine, and watched them bob up 
and down in our wake, their strings trailing behind like the tentacles of an 
octopus.
It was strange to feel a cotton shift next to my skin instead of thinly covered 
whalebone, even stranger to know I could wriggle about without restriction. I 
had worn stays or corsets ever since I could remember—probably five or six years 
old—and the only relief had been at night when I could curl up in my nightdress 
and rub away the marks left on my skin. But over the years I had grown so used 
to lacing myself up each morning that it had become as automatic as brushing 
one's hair or teeth.
I shivered a little—not from cold, for I had plenty of layers of wool on 
underneath—but from my daring. No lady went around without her corsets. I 
wondered if that had led to the term a "loose woman."
Toby joined me at the rail, handing me a cup of coffee and a hunk of garlic 
sausage on rye bread. The corsets were still in sight.
"Cor! Me mam wears them!"
"Those . . ."
"Those, then. Bet they was—"
"Were."
"Were uncomfortable. Pinchy. Me mam was always getting bits of her stummick 
stuck in the laces . . ."
"Yes, well . . ." I shivered again.
"You chilly, miss? Can't've been that warm . . ."
"No, they weren't. Just feels strange without them."
"Better, I hopes, seein' as they's gone forever. Less you wants to swim for 'em 
that is."
I gave up trying to correct him. Usually he was very good, but if something 
unusual happened he tended to slip back into Cockney.
"No, no swimming . . ." I wouldn't have lasted two minutes in that water anyway. 
Thin sheets of ice broke off against the sides of the string of slow-moving 
barges as we chugged up the narrowing river, soon to reach the limit of 
navigable waterway.
It was now mid-December, and we had had a mixed journey. We had slipped easily 
through Holland, watching the windmills with their slow-moving sails, imagining 
the flat fields blossoming with tulips in the spring and admiring the ingenious 
Dutch in their efforts to keep the ever encroaching North Sea at bay. Our 
transport had been comfortable, with good food and clean linen, but 
unfortunately that part ended at Koblenz. Apparently the ferry ran no farther at 
this time of year, a fact that the firm that booked us had omitted to mention.
We complained and protested (through Ky-Lin) that we had paid to be carried 
farther, but the captain just shrugged his shoulders and referred us to our 
tickets which only specified transport up the river, "according to the usual 
rules and regulations." So we would have to find something a lot cheaper, to 
make up for the money we had lost. Thus the barge we were on now.
We had switched from one mode of travel to another, as and when we could find 
it, but mostly by river transport, although a couple of times we went along the 
bank by wagon, cart or stage, rather than waste time waiting for a barge or 
ferry. The trouble was, it was all too slow for our purpose. True, there was 
time to admire the wonderful scenery and marvel at the fairy-tale castles 
perched impossibly high on the cliffs above the river, but I was conscious all 
the time of how swiftly time was passing.
"We take to the road tomorrow," said Ky-Lin, appearing from my pocket. "Then we 
should travel faster. Don't give up yet!"
He seemed to be able to read my thoughts, was always encouraging and had been 
invaluable in translating our wants; he would perch on my shoulder, hidden by 
scarf, and make my requests in my own voice whispering the reply so only I could 
hear it! All I had to do was pretend I was talking and try to synchronise my 
actions. Magic as good as I had ever seen.
Both Claude and Danny, knowing nothing of Ky-Lin, were amazed at my linguistic 
prowess. Although I was still "Miss," we were now on Christian-name terms. This 
had come about after we had crossed the English Channel for they had both been 
as sick as dogs in spite of the calm sea, and all pretence of male superiority 
went overboard together with their suppers, and "Miss Lee" had disappeared in 
"Please help me, Miss Sophy!" and "Mr. Cumberbatch" in "Shut up, Claude, it's 
not as bad as that!" and "Mr. Duveen" became "Serves you right for making such a 
pig of yourself, Danny!"
"How will we travel?" I asked Ky-Lin.
"Well, there will be some public transport—coaches and the odd railway—but I 
think it might be better to hire a coach partways."
"But surely that will cost the earth!"
"Not necessarily. Much more convenient and we can travel by a more direct route; 
there are plenty of posting-houses between here and the Danube, and that is our 
next target."
It started to snow, great blobs whirling out of the grey sky, and we slipped and 
skidded on the icy deck as we made our way to our cabins. Claude and Danny were 
in the saloon, a polite term for the place where we ate as well. They were 
playing cards, Danny wrapped up to the eyeballs in coat, cloak, scarves and 
mufflers, while Claude, who seemed to have developed a permanent sniff and a 
drip on the end of his nose, was complaining bitterly about Danny's winning 
streak. I suspected that the latter cheated, but there was no way of finding 
out.
We retired to my cabin, where I continued as best I could with Toby's education, 
with Ky-Lin's help. He knew more about everything than I did, anyway.
The following day we disembarked at a small town called Schwarzberg, which 
Ky-Lin said meant Blackhill, after the mountain behind; although it belied its 
name, being now covered with last night's snow. We visited all the livery 
stables, but found there was no private transport to be hired, so we repaired to 
an inn by the quay for luncheon, and to discuss our next move.
Toby was gazing out the window at the barge unloading when he suddenly made a 
rather crude exclamation, which I didn't bother to try and understand, but 
obviously he had been struck with some idea.
"Look out there, folks: what do you see?"
"Barges unloading," said Claude, wiping his nose for the umpteenth time. "Why?"
"Yes, but what's waiting to be loaded up?"
Danny craned his neck. "Looks like logs of wood to me . . ."
"Exactly!" Toby was obviously bursting to impart his theory. "And what did we 
bring on the way up?"
"Sugar, dried fruit, flour, toys, barrels of wine, hunting rifles and 
ammunition, thick eiderdowns . . ." I was beginning to see which way his mind 
was working.
"Exactly," he said again. "Don't you see? They brings up what they needs up 
here, stuff they can't make themselves, and vikky-verky—sends back their wood in 
exchange."
"So?"
Toby was still patient. "So, Master Claude, just where does all that stuff from 
the barge go to?"
"Sure it goes into the shops here, I suppose." said Danny.
"Place ain't big enough. And what about all those parcels and packages they was 
carrying?" I let him tell it his own way, though by now I was smiling.
"There must be lots an' lots of small towns and villages round here what wants 
the goods, and someone got to take them there, and that is why we couldn't hire 
no transport!" He was flushed and bright-eyed. "So all we've got to do is find a 
carrier who's going our way and beg a lift!"
After that it was easy. Ky-Lin and I found a man who was taking a covered wagon 
to the next village on our way, staying overnight with his brother, then 
travelling on to the next town, and was glad of our company, promising to find 
us overnight accommodation. When we attempted to pay him for his troubles later, 
he refused, adding: "The more the people, the fewer the wolves," which Ky-Lin 
and I didn't bother telling the others, not sure whether the wolves he referred 
to were human or lupine. I did notice, however, that he carried a loaded rifle 
by the driver's seat. What he did accept, however was the offer of Mrs. Early's 
empty food hamper, which we still carried with us, explaining that it would be 
useful for carrying his racing pigeons.
And so it went on. We accepted lifts when we could, used public transport when 
there was any, hired the occasional chaise and were sometimes holed up for days 
by bad weather, spending Christmas in a cheery little inn in a forest and 
stuffing ourselves silly with roast goose, sausages, pork and masses of 
potatoes: roast, boiled, baked, grated and fried, or mashed. We also ate vast 
quantities of cabbage, fermented with white wine, which they called 
"Sauerkraut," and of course there were trays of gooey cakes, sweet biscuits and 
candies. There was also a tree, decorated with pretty bows, a custom the 
Hanoverian-born Prince Albert, the late husband of our dear Queen, had 
apparently introduced to England.
By the middle of February we were well on our way, the snows had begun to melt, 
the going was much easier and traffic on the roads more frequent. I was still 
worried about the money situation, but our spending had slowed down somewhat. We 
were all in good health—thank God!— although Claude still nursed his perpetual 
sniffle. Danny still sneaked off for the occasional drink—I had to give them a 
little pocket-money for their regular needs, but while Toby saved his and Claude 
spent his on luridly coloured picture-postcards to send home to his mother or on 
throat-lozenges, Danny spent his on strong beer or spirits.
Nevertheless, both men were improving: Claude was becoming less stuffy and 
staid, and Danny could be the life and soul of the party, if he chose. Toby was 
growing and filling out by the day, making a real bonny lad, and every day to 
him was a new discovery.
In February we reached Bavaria and the upper reaches of the Danube, and with the 
better weather we made good progress from Neuburg to Ingolstadt, Ingolstadt to 
Regensburg, then Straubing, Deggendorf and Passau. In March we crossed the 
border into Austria and really felt spring had arrived. If Bavaria had been 
charming, Austria was even better. The people were warm and welcoming, indulging 
in music at the least excuse; pipes, flutes, fiddles, trumpets and drums all 
sounded from one house to another, and even the school-children carried their 
recorders to school.
We spent three days in Linz, due to the unwelcome return of late snows, but we 
took the opportunity to repair our wardrobes: stockings and summer underwear for 
me, thinner shirts and socks for the men and Toby. As the touring season had now 
begun, we decided to take one of the tourist boats as far as Vienna, which we 
had heard was the most beautiful city in Europe.
A tour of the city was included in our tickets, although it passed so swiftly it 
seemed we were whirled past the fine buildings and statues without a chance to 
get more than a glimpse, but we did also get tickets to a concert in the 
evening, dominated by the divine waltzes of the brothers Strauss. Although the 
favourite was apparently the "Blue Danube"—a misnomer if ever I heard one: it 
was a sort of brownish-grey—my favourite was the "Emperor" with its full, 
sweeping tones and at times I could almost imagine being clad in silks and being 
borne aroud a vast ballroom in the arms of one of the handsome, uniformed 
officers who seemed to twirl their moustachios on every street-corner . . .
Their uniforms were so figure-hugging, the girls at boarding-school would have 
gone into swoons over them—
For almost the first time in my life I felt longings of a strange kind, a sort 
of yearning to be held tight in masculine arms; I wondered if it had anything to 
do with throwing away my corsets. Did I miss their tight restrictions, or was it 
more the general looseness of body bringing on a looseness of the emotions?
I subdued these feelings fiercely.
We left Vienna at the beginning of April, and had now been travelling for over 
five months. I asked Ky-Lin how much farther we had to go. "Are we half-way 
yet?"
"Well . . . Not exactly."
"But we've been travelling for ages! If we are to get there in time—"
"We will, we will. Up until now we have been travelling relatively slowly 
because of the terrain. Once we get to the steppes—"
"The what? The stairs?"
"Steppes. With two P's and an extra E. Now we have to get to the mouth of the 
Danube—perhaps another couple of weeks—then across the Black and Aral Seas—"
"You never told me all that!"
"You saw the maps."
"But—but—"
"You did."
I was silent for a moment. "It—it all looked—sort of smaller . . ."
"Maps usually do."
"But you're sure we're on course?"
"Sure. Sure as I can be . . ."
And with that I had to be satisfied.
Soon after we left Vienna we took to the roads again, traffic being faster and 
cheaper. We even took advantage of the infrequent railways, although the farther 
east we travelled, the more primitive they became, with frequent stops and 
delays, and with the warmer weather they could be stiflingly hot, and the wooden 
bench seats were exceedingly uncomfortable. If one tried to open the windows to 
get some air, they either wouldn't open or one got covered in smuts, most of the 
engines being wood- instead of coal-fired.
We passed through parts of Hungary, Slovakia, Croatia, Romania and Bulgaria with 
little time to absorb or enjoy the differences in each. The plains of Hungary 
and Croatia, mountains and forests of Slovakia, Transylvania and Walachia 
blurred into one another, the only distinctions being the differences of 
language which I was not clever enough to distinguish between, though Toby 
apparently could, according to Ky-Lin.
"The boy has a musical ear, and pace intonation and the particular lilt of 
language means much to those so gifted."
"What language did Summer speak?" I asked on impulse.
He considered for a moment. "Mostly Norman-French, and some Market-Latin, which 
was of course widely accepted in the west. I helped her with the Oriental 
languages of course, and she talked to the animals through the Ring which you 
now wear."
Now that he had answered one question about a person he normally seemed 
reluctant to discuss, perhaps he would satisfy another. "What was she like?"
"She was a very brave, considerate young woman. Over-impulsive, perhaps, but she 
was full of ideas, loyal and caring."
I had really wanted to know what she looked like: all females are curious about 
their predecessors or rivals. "Was she beautiful?"
He wrinkled up his nose, curled and uncurled his antennae. "Beautiful? My Master 
taught us that all Life was beautiful, from the leaf on the tree to the tooth of 
a shark. But if you ask me about the length of a nose, the shape of a mouth, the 
formation of one figure as set against another member of the human race, then I 
cannot tell you. Could you tell me that one ant is more `beautiful' than 
another? No. Another ant is the only one who would know. I am a Ky-Lin, and 
things like this do not concern us."
He must have seen the disappointment on my face, because he added: "She was 
about three inches shorter than you"—I was five feet six inches—"but then people 
were shorter in those days. Her hair was much lighter, and her eyes much bluer 
and a different shape, too. The formation of your bodies was similar." He 
thought for a moment. "And she smiled more often than you do."
Was I really that morose? Still, what did I have to smile about . . . Just to 
please Ky-Lin I essayed a grin, more a stretching of the mouth over the teeth. 
"That better?"
He shook his head sadly.

Chapter Sixteen
The Suitor
If the so-called Blue Danube was brown, then the Black Sea was definitely blue; 
dark, deep blue—my paint-box would have called it Prussian. As we stood on the 
dockside waiting for the ferry to start loading, it was sparkling like a jewel. 
The sky was clear, except for some small, fluffy clouds, the May sun was warm, 
and we were all in good spirits. Once we had crossed this sea we should embark 
into the real unknown. The rest of the journey, apart from a short journey up 
the Don, would be overland.
The gangplank was lowered and we climbed aboard with the other passengers. Some 
of them had brought their own food and would sleep on deck, as we had done when 
we crossed the English Channel, but the cost of a cabin was outweighed by the 
extra comfort. Or so we thought . . .
We had booked two doubles, Toby and I to share one, the men the other, but when 
we located them they were far from ideal. They held two, short, tiered bunks, 
both tiny and hard, with one thin blanket; there was also a hook for hanging 
clothes, a hanging lantern and a deeply recessed wash-basin and jug, which 
looked faintly ominous. A small porthole gave a restricted view, and Toby and I 
found it difficult to squeeze past each other in the confined space. In the end 
the one who wasn't washing, changing or looking out of the porthole had to tuck 
their feet up on one of the bunks.
It was complicated by the fact that there was no room for our haversacks or 
suitcases, which had to be stored in the hold, so everything we would need for 
the two days of sailing had to be extracted and stowed away somewhere. The Eg we 
kept with us, plus night wear, washing-things and our cloaks, but when we went 
to check on Danny and Claude we found the latter complaining that there was no 
room for his legs and Danny swearing at his clothes hook, which had just fallen 
off the wall. On every available space on the ferry were printed, on yellowed, 
faded paper, in English, French, German and Russian the Rules and Regulations. 
Breakfast, luncheon and supper would be served in the dining-saloon at—and there 
was then a list of "bells," which repeated ringing was apparently the way 
sailors measured their time. Each meal was the equivalent of two shillings per 
head. No-one was allowed in the engine-room or on the bridge, otherwise 
passengers were allowed the run of the ship. Canvas chairs were available for 
those who wished to sit out on deck. In inclement weather all would be expected 
to remain below, deck-passengers in the saloon. In the case of several blasts 
from the ship's sirens, we were all to assemble on deck, prepared to board one 
of the two lifeboats.
From the elevation of the deck we looked out at the calm blue sea, the mountains 
in the distance, and wondered what all the fuss was about. The weather seemed 
set fair, the air was balmy, our fellow-passengers seemed cheerful enough and 
the sailors unconcerned. Rough weather, alarm signals and lifeboats could safely 
be ignored, I reckoned.
"I do hope it won't be choppy," said Claude apprehensively.
"Of course it won't! The sea's like a mill-pond."
"All right for you, Sophy. You didn't get sick last time." The "Miss" had 
finally disappeared. I didn't mind.
"And you won't this time," I comforted him. "It's all in the mind, you 
know:think sick and you'llbe sick."
"Up and down, up and down, up and down," intoned Danny mischievously, suiting 
actions to the words. "Up and down, and—"
"Shutup!" said Claude, clutching his stomach.
"Give over, Danny!" I said. "Or you'll catch yourself with your own 
shenanigans."
"Just listen to the girl! And isn't she catching on to the Irish just like crabs 
to a piece of bacon rind!" The very mention of food made Claude look anxious 
again, as Danny knew it would. "Now I remember when I was a wee one, and I had a 
stomach upset, Mam used to make me sick by tying a piece of bacon rind to a 
length of string and—"
"Come on Claude," I said firmly. "You can walk me round the deck." I glanced 
back to where Danny was standing with a huge grin on his face. "Don't forget you 
will be sharing a very small cabin, and the only toilet is way down the 
corridor, in case Claude feels . . . unwell."
The smile was wiped off his face as if it had been sponged.

The meals were adequate, if uninteresting, consisting mainly of cold cuts, 
pickles, hard-boiled eggs, black bread and preserves, with weak coffee. On that 
first day the steamer chugged across a smooth sea, and gradually the coastline 
receded behind us. Up on deck the engines didn't sound too bad, mainly a sort of 
throbbing beneath one's feet, but both in the dining-saloon and more markedly in 
the cabins the constant clatter and thrust of the machines could give the more 
sensitive a racking headache. Of course we all knew it was only for two nights, 
but what with the noise and heat below decks and the inconvenience of the tiny 
cabins by the following morning we were all short-tempered, and the thought of 
another night in the same conditions was daunting.
At least no-one had been sick . . .
We spent most of the day on deck, enjoying the warmth and sea-breezes. Now at 
the mid-point of our voyage, there was no sight of land, except for the 
occasional smudge of smoke, one of which heralded the crossing of the ferry's 
sister-ship to port of us. There were a couple of small fishing boats in the 
distance, but the real excitement of the day was provided by the passengers 
crowding to the rail to watch some great fishes diving and surfacing again 
alongside, like giant needles tacking the hems of the water. There were eight or 
nine of them, it was difficult to count, as their black backs gleamed for only a 
moment before they plunged back down again.
"What are they?" asked Toby excitedly, leaning over the rail so far I felt 
constrained to grab his belt.
One of the passengers, a well-dressed man with a fair moustache, answered his 
question, in rather drawly English.
"Why, they are dolphins, my boy, and they are mammals, not fish. They are 
sociable creatures, and often follow ships in and out of harbour, no-one is 
quite sure why."
"I wouldn't have expected them here," I said without thinking, realising too 
late that the gentleman might think me too forward for joining in the 
conversation without an introduction. "I thought they lived in warmer seas. It 
must be very cold here in winter."
"Oh, in winter they go back to the Mediterranean," said the gentleman, raising 
his hat politely. "The Black Sea isn't landlocked, unlike the Caspian. To the 
south it flows out near Constantinople." He bowed. "May I introduce myself? 
Archie McCall at your service, on leave from my regiment." He didn't say which 
one. "Just an idle tourist, I'm afraid."
He looked at me interrogatively and although I had no wish to involve us with a 
stranger, it would have been bad manners not to reciprocate.
"Miss Lee, and my—my brother, Tobias."
He smiled, smoothing his moustache. "On holiday, like myself?"
I opened my mouth to agree, but Toby forestalled me.
"Oh, no," he said seriously. He was still watching the dolphins, but I could see 
the mischievous look on his face. "We're on a sort of pilgrimage."
"Pilgrimage?"
"Yes. We're going to China with a Buddhist to look for dragons!" And with that 
he turned and grabbed my hand. "C'mon sister dear, let's see if there are any 
dolphins on the starboard side!" But once out of earshot of the bemused Mr. 
McCall, he turned on me. "What are you always telling me? Don't never—"
"Ever . . ."
"Don't ever talk to strangers! That's what you've always said, and what are you 
doin'? Chattin' up the first likely gent who eyes you up!"
"I wasn't `chatting up' anyone!" I was amazed at his vehemence. "It was you he 
was talking to, about the dolphins."
"Just an excuse,sister dear! He's been following you around looking for a chance 
ever since we came on board. Last night at supper he was swooning over every 
mouthful you took."
I was surprised. "I never noticed . . ."
"You was too busy gobbling that cabbage-stuff."
"Toby! I don't gobble!"
"Well, perhaps not. But you know what I mean."
"No, I donot ! I do not invite attentions from anyone, male or female, and I 
never have . . ."
And this was entirely true. Not that there had been any males at 
boarding-school, and when I had come to London to teach I was just another 
shabby little school-marm who spent nine hours a day in the class-room and the 
rest either in her lodgings or else in decorous visits to an art gallery, 
concert or museum, and who would look twice at such? As far as being out alone 
in the metropolis, I never left the school in the dark without Toby's escort, to 
discourage unwelcome attentions. In the summer I kept to the more populous ways 
and scurried along with my head down, finding it easy to blend in with my 
surroundings like the blandest of wallpaper. That was why Miss Moffat's strange 
behaviour had so upset me.
"Well, this gent's been following us round all day. And he's got his eye on 
you."
"You're wrong, Toby—"
"No, I ain't! He's comin' over here now . . . You just leave him alone. He's bad 
news. Don't encourage him. Don't even pass the time of day . . ."
But I had had enough. I wasn't going to let a child—and that was all Toby was, 
after all—dictate to me whom I should or shouldn't talk to. I was a responsible 
adult and could trust my own judgment to choose my own acquaintances. Besides, 
after the exclusive company of Claude, Danny and Toby, it would be nice to hold 
a conversation with somebody different. And if he proved to be a bore, then we 
were reaching our destination tomorrow, and that would be the last I should see 
of him.
After all, I was free to do with my life as I wished, once this expedition was 
over. I could marry a tramp, live in sin with an artist in a Parisian attic, 
join a harem, live as a gipsy, settle down to a respectable spinsterhood. 
Freedom of choice was an intoxicating thought, so when Mr. McCall approached me 
again I accepted the offer of his arm for a turn about the deck, ignoring Toby's 
furious scowls.
He was an agreeable companion, telling me of his recent trip to Australia, where 
he had studied closely the strange marsupials—kangaroo, koala, and wallaby that 
I had seen pictures of, but never come across even in a zoo. He also spoke of 
the Aborigines, the primitive natives of that continent, but I was rather taken 
aback by his attitude towards them, dismissing them as feckless, dirty and 
backward, fit only to be driven away into the bush.
"But surely those people, who were there before the settlers arrived, should be 
given the consideration they deserve?" I asked rather more warmly than I should. 
"I myself contribute regularly to the Mission Society, and our members believe 
most strongly that these children of God—and this includes the native Indians of 
North America and the Negroes of Africa—should be treated like any other member 
of the human race. After all, it is only ignorance that restricts them from 
becoming useful members of society, and ignorance can be cured by education."
"Your sentiments do you credit, Miss Lee!" he declared. "I am amazed that such a 
pretty and demure young lady should be so emancipated! You are to be 
congratulated on your humane outlook."
I blushed with pleasure. It was comforting that such a widely travelled 
gentleman should be willing to listen to my views. I felt quite exhilarated, and 
glanced up at him with gratitude, being reminded, unfortunately, of Red Riding 
Hood, for his teeth, when he smiled, were rather large . . . But hehad called me 
pretty.
"I am so glad to have made your acquaintance, Miss Lee. It is rare to meet 
someone who is both charming and erudite."
If possible, my blushes grew even deeper, but I averted my gaze, and hoped my 
bonnet hid the most tell-tale of them.
"You are too kind, sir. Any erudition I have acquired is entirely due to my 
profession as a school-teacher, I am sure."
"A school-marm? I might have guessed." I glanced up at his face, fearing 
disappointment or ridicule, but it was perfectly bland. "But I cannot guess what 
such a talented young lady is doing so far from home and during term-time too . 
. . ?"
It was a clear invitation to declare my true mission, but I side-stepped his 
enquiry with a non-committal answer.
"Like yourself, Mr. McCall, I am taking some leave."
"With your brother? I believe you have two other companions as well?"
"Mr. Cumberbatch and Mr. Duveen are escorting us, yes."
I was becoming a little annoyed by his questions, but as if sensing this he 
turned the conversation to other matters. At luncheon I found the attentive Mr. 
McCall on one side and a scowling and uncooperative Toby on the other, who 
constantly tried to monopolise the conversation, and when that didn't succeed, 
exhibited dreadful table manners, for which I had to reprimand him, thus gaining 
his objective of my attention.
Afterwards Mr. McCall commented on our relationship. "Your brother . . . He 
doesn't seem—quite in tune with you?"
How to answer this time? "He's . . . he's not exactly my brother. He's my ward, 
although we enjoy a brother/sister relationship."
"Ah," he nodded. "That explains a great deal. A different upbringing obviously. 
A special pupil, no doubt?"
I nodded too, and changed the subject. Time for a question on my part. "How long 
do you expect to be away from your regiment, sir? I do not think you mentioned 
the name?"
He looked at me and mentioned a town: Aldershot, which he could see meant 
nothing to me, and then a regiment, which meant even less. Shortly afterwards I 
excused myself to take a siesta, pleading a poor nights rest, and down below I 
found a furious Toby drumming his heels on the top bunk.
"I tol' you not to get too friendly with that—that—"
"That'll do! I don't want any of your back-street obscenities, nor do I want any 
criticism of my behaviour! I do what I please with my life, and I might remind 
you that you are only here on sufferance anyway!"
To my dismay the child that was still in Toby burst into tears and I moved at 
once to comfort and hug him, chastising myself for being so harsh and unfeeling. 
A quarter-hour later we were friends again, but he was still adamant in his 
dislike for Mr. McCall. We agreed to differ, especially as I reminded him that 
we docked tomorrow and would probably never see the man again.
"And now you must promise not to spoil the rest of the day with scowls and 
anti-social behaviour. Understood?"
He nodded, but I wasn't convinced. However he seemed to be as good as his word, 
going out of his way to be pleasant at supper-time and not making the usual 
objections when I sent him to have a good wash and bed at ten. As I left Mr. 
McCall put a hand on my arm.
"A little stroll around the deck later on? We can round off a pleasant 
acqaintanceship by watching the moon rise . . ."
I demurred. "Such behaviour is not possible on our short acquaintance, Mr. 
McCall—"
"Miss Lee, we are just ships that pass in the night . . ." Now where had I heard 
that before? "Why lose the chance to exchange a few pleasantries, an episode to 
press like a flower in the Book of Life?" He was certainly mixing his metaphors!
I'm afraid he took my quickly suppressed smile as encouragement.
"Come, Miss Lee—Sophy—have pity on a lonely bachelor who desires no more than a 
pleasant memory to carry back to his exclusively masculine and lonely life in 
barracks . . ."
At that moment, poised between yea and nay, I was rescued by Danny, who reminded 
me I had promised a hand of cards, so I had no chance to give Mr. McCall a 
definite answer. However, several hands into the game, I was surprised to learn 
that both Claude and Danny had noticed his attentions.
"Shouldn't pay too much attention to that chap," drawled the former, apropos of 
nothing in particular. "Not the right sort at all. . . . My trick, I believe?"
"Sure and begorra and you're right!" added Danny, studying his cards with a 
frown. "Wouldn't trust the beggar as far as I could throw him." He had been 
drinking again, and in consequence was losing. "He's a smooth-talking rogue, so 
he is!"
"It takes one to know one," I snapped. "My game!" and I threw down the three 
remaining trumps. "And now I am going to my cabin to read. Goodnight,gentle 
men!" and off I flounced indignantly. First Toby and then them! What right had 
they . . . If I had stopped to consider I might have realised that they were 
trying to shield me from any trouble, but I was beyond reasoning. The 
disadvantage to me lay in the fact that I had had to grow up too quickly, make 
decisions before I had the experience to judge their effect beforehand, and had 
mislaid something that was essential to a young woman in my position: feminine 
caution.
In the cabin Toby was apparently asleep on the top bunk, so I took off my 
bonnet, shawl and money-belt, loosened my hair and lay down on the bunk, 
prepared to read another chapter ofWestward Ho! but after a while the lantern 
started swaying to and fro erratically and getting up to peer out of the open 
porthole, the glitter of waves from the navigation lights seemed to be rising 
and falling more energetically than earlier. Perhaps we were in for a storm.
I could have gone down the corridor to the bathroom and had a good wash, then 
tucked myself up, but I didn't feel sleepy. In fact I felt more wide awake than 
I had all day. I shouldn't have had that siesta earlier. Perhaps a turn on deck 
would settle me down; it would be nice to get a breath of fresh air.
Without trying to analyse my decision or make excuses I picked up my shawl, 
turned down the lamp and made for the door—
"Where are you going?"
"I thought you were asleep!" I said, nearly jumping out of my skin. "Just for a 
short stroll on deck, that's all."
"You're going to meet that man!"
"Of course I'm not! I have no arrangement to meet Mr. McCall. You should know me 
better than that."
I turned to the door again, but there was another voice.
"Be careful out there; the wind is rising and the deck could be slippery with 
spray."
"I'll be careful," I said. "Thank you, Ky-Lin."
I closed the door, but his voice came muffled through the panelling. "Remember 
the ring; remember what it tells you . . ."
Why the ring, I wondered, as I walked down the corridor and climbed the 
companionway to the deck, having to clutch at the rail as I did so. I peered in 
at the lounge: all was quiet, a late foursome of cards and an old man dozing in 
a corner the only occupants. No sign of Mr. McCall—not that I was looking for 
him, of course.
The card-players finished their game, the steward came round with offers of 
coffee and brandy, but I declined. A gust of wind rattled the doors of the 
lounge: if I was to take a turn around the deck, I had better hurry. As I rose I 
felt a twinge in my finger, and looked down at the ring, so much a part of me 
now that I scarcely ever noticed it was there. Did that signal mean that I 
shouldn't go out on deck, or perhaps that I should be extra careful?
No further warnings, so I mentally shrugged my shoulders; just a quick foray. 
But outside the wind caught my shawl, almost tearing it from my shoulders, and 
loosened my hair still further so it lost its last pin and streamed back from my 
face. I made my way to the rail with a shiver, for the air was suddenly colder. 
Below me white caps were crowning the waves, and the bluff bows of the ferry 
were throwing up spray as they dipped and rose on the swell. I pulled my shawl 
tighter and knotted it behind: I had had enough. Sleepy or no, I would be better 
off in the cabin, but I had to cross a third of the deck to reach the way down 
and didn't want my hands encumbered.
As I inched my way along the rail towards safety, I found the ring was itching 
and throbbing on my finger; I paused for a moment to rub my hand against my 
skirt, and suddenly a pair of arms slid around me from behind, fingers slipped 
familiarly up towards my breasts and I caught the scent of bay-rum hair oil, 
brandy and cigars.
"Well met, my little school-marm," said a voice in my ear.
"Mr. McCall! Let me go this instant, sir! What on earth do you mean by this—this 
extraordinary behaviour?"
Twisting away from his grasp, I tried to reach the doors of the lounge, the 
nearest refuge, but he caught my arm and dragged me back towards the rail, 
pressing his body against mine in a most suggestive manner.
"Oh, come on, Sophy! Don't pretend that you don't want this! You've been giving 
me the nod all day—"
I freed one arm and aimed a slap at his face, which he easily evaded. "Mr. 
McCall! I demand that you—"
"Call me Archie, m'dear . . ." and he bent his head and attempted to kiss me, 
but I wrenched my head aside, at the same time trying to push him away, but I 
had underestimated the strength of a man all fired up as he was. My struggles 
only seemed to bring us closer together, and I realised that this was exciting 
him still further.
I opened my mouth to scream, but realised I would have no chance of being heard. 
By now the cumbersome ferry was rearing and plunging in the increasing storm, 
the wind was whistling through the wire struts of the rigging, and smoke from 
the two stacks was being whipped away to starboard. There was a light up on the 
bridge, but the windows on this side were shuttered and my struggles would not 
be seen.
How I wished I had never come out here! How I wished I had listened to Toby, 
Claude and Danny! I knew, however, that this was mostly my fault; I had, however 
innocently, encouraged this monster to believe I had an interest in him. I had 
to admit I had enjoyed his earlier attentions, being both flattered and 
intrigued, stupid, naive young woman that I was! Now all I wanted was to gain 
the safety of my cabin without harm.
"Leave mealone !"
"Oh no, my little temptress! Not now I've got you where I want you . . . You're 
going to deliver the goods, I promise you! If we go down to one of the lifeboats 
we'll be nice and snug inside . . . That's right! Give us a bit of a struggle: I 
like a girl with spirit . . ." As he spoke he was dragging me down towards the 
stern of the ship, his hands gripping me fiercely.
The ring on my finger was throbbing really hard now, and I remembered Ky-Lin's 
words: could it help me now, when I hadn't heeded its earlier warnings?
The ship gave a sudden lurch, as if the captain had decided to change direction 
to ride out the storm, and my attacker and I were both thrown over onto the 
deck, now slippery with spray. I tried to roll away, but in a moment he had 
followed and thrown his weight on top of me. One arm was across my throat, near 
choking me, while his other arm slipped down to my rucked-up skirt and his hand 
groped upwards. Instinctively I brought a knee sharply into his groin and he 
rolled off me with a groan and a couple of obscenities.
I tried to get to my feet, but the now-slanting deck prevented this, so I 
started to crawl towards the rail. To my horror I saw Archie McCall scrambling 
after me, his face twisted with fury. I grabbed the rail with one hand, but a 
moment later a fist smashed into my face and I lost my hold. The ship gave 
another lurch and I found I was sliding under the rail. With scrabbling fingers 
I tried, terrified, to cling to whatever I could: at one stage I had hold of Mr. 
McCall's sleeve, but I couldn't hold on. To his credit, once he realised I was 
in real danger, he stretched out a hand to me, but it was too late.
The last thing I saw before I fell over the side was a night-shirted figure 
skidding across the deck towards us, and a small object seeming to fly through 
the air. There was a moment when, my mouth open in a silent scream, I seemed to 
be suspended in mid-air, then I hit the water with a thump that knocked the 
breath from my lungs, and I went down, down, down . . .

Chapter Seventeen
Treasure Island
Down, down, down . . .
Down into the freezing, dark water, choking and gasping, mouth and nose and ears 
full of water, lungs screaming for air, arms and legs flailing, pressure of 
water and weight of clothes pulling one down still further, the accelerated 
thump of one's heart-beat—
God! Dear God! I didn't want to die! I went on struggling, not even sure which 
way was up and which down. Suddenly my head broke through to the surface and I 
took a great gasp of air, a draught sweeter than any I had ever tasted. Then 
once more I was beneath the waves, struggling to reach the surface again: 
another gasp of air and then back, drowning a little more each time, my clothes 
growing heavier and heavier as I tried vainly to tear them off. I started to 
pray, hopelessly, then I heard God answer me, a tiny voice in my ear, a voice 
that transcended even the bubble and pop of water that clouded my hearing.
"Stretch out your hand," said the voice. "And hang on tight!"
The power of prayer! Like a trusting child I did as I was told and found I was 
grasping a chair-leg. A chair? Out here? I was dead, or dying, or at best 
hallucinating. I stretched out my other hand and found another leg. A chair, or 
perhaps a table. Well whatever it was, it was keeping my head above water and I 
was no longer gasping for breath. Moving forward I got my elbow over the seat of 
the chair, or the top of the table, whichever it was, only to find that it 
immediately overturned, and I had to start all over again, having luckily kept a 
hand on one of the legs—
"Steady on, Miss Sophy!" said Ky-Lin. "I haven't quite got the hang of this 
yet!"
"Ky-Lin!" I gasped, on a gulp of water. "How on earth did you get here? I 
thought you were . . ."
"Something else?"
"I thought—I thought you were a chair, or a table." I couldn't tell him about 
God. "Is it really you? You're all stiff and—and wooden."
"How else could I support you in the water? I'm the wrong shape for a lifebelt . 
. . Sorry I was so long in changing, but I haven't tried this before. I knew I 
could change into different materials, I knew I could grow larger or smaller, 
but I didn't know whether I could combine the two at once. Apparently I can. One 
lives and learns . . . Which reminds me, if you want to live, because we are 
getting nowhere right now and you are getting colder and colder, I think we need 
some outside help. Besides which I think I am getting water-logged. Wrong wood, 
obviously. Please twist the Ring on your finger and ask for help."
"How? What help?"
"Just do it. We need swimmers, because Ky-Lins don't swim. Come on, before you 
freeze to death and I forget how to turn back again . . ."
So I moved my hands together on one of Ky-Lin's wooden legs and turned the Ring, 
with some difficulty because my hands were freezing and swollen. "Help us," I 
murmured. "We can't swim. Please help us . . ."
At the same time I heard Ky-Lin give half-a-dozen shrill, burbling whistles. I 
waited for a moment. "What's supposed to happen?"
"Just wait . . ."
It could have been five minutes, it could have been longer and my legs had gone 
numb and it had started to rain, when the choppy waves around us grew even more 
disturbed and suddenly we were surrounded by surging bodies and a high-pitched 
whistling such as Ky-Lin had produced.
"Good," said Ky-Lin. "They heard us . . ."
It was the dolphins, and within seconds I was borne up on one of the backs and 
surrounded by the others, the air thick with talk I could understand through the 
Ring.
"Bear her up, brother, she can't swim . . . poor girl, we must help . . . we 
heard the Ring . . . cannot stand the cold . . . mustn't sink . . . can't catch 
the ship . . . nearest land . . . the sacred one is with her, keep them together 
. . ."
I was clinging, spreadeagled, across a hard, thick-skinned back, and rolling up 
and down on the surface—not always, for sometimes my water steed darted a few 
feet below the surface, to rise again a few seconds later—but at last feeling 
safe. It seemed easier, too, to try and ride the back of the dolphin as I would 
a horse; at least that way I kept my mouth above water most of the time. My ride 
wasn't helped by the fact that that the other dolphins kept close order, 
sometimes jostling each other in an affectionate, boisterous way.
But where was Ky-Lin? For a moment I panicked, then there was a small voice in 
my ear.
"Safe and sound. Don't worry: we are being taken to the nearest land where we 
will wait for rescue. Toby will have alerted the captain to you going overboard, 
but in this storm he would be powerless to turn the ship to search for you. But 
the lad knows I am with you, so he won't be unduly worried."
Perhaps a half-hour later the dolphins' ceaseless chatter, and the rhythm of the 
waves, both changed. The sea became choppier and shallower and by the occasional 
light of a moon that appeared to be racing the clouds I could see a darker blur 
to my left. The dolphins stepped up their commentary among themselves.
"Coming in to land . . . a little to the left . . . watch the rocks . . . run 
them up onto the sand . . . gently does it . . . she'll feel heavier as we lose 
way . . . touch down!"
My watersteed grounded gently on a stretch of sand and then wriggled up higher 
so that I could step off dry-footed—my slippers had long gone—and I turned to 
face my rescuers, now sliding back into the sea. I knew that if I could 
understand them through my life-giving, life-saving Ring, then they would 
understand me as well.
"My friends," I said, standing as tall as I could in spite of the shivers and 
shakes of cold and exhaustion, "I and my friend Ky-Lin thank you for coming to 
our rescue. We shall be forever grateful!"
"Grateful . . . grateful . . ." I heard. "The human is grateful . . . we are 
grateful too . . . do not often have the chance . . . most do not understand . . 
. one day we will speak together without the use of Rings . . . we will teach 
humans how to communicate . . . we will have the art of healing . . . give us 
the human children . . . they will understand . . ."
"I hope that will be soon," I said sincerely. Walking forward into the surf I 
laid my cheek in turn against the forehead of each dolphin. "Bless you, my 
friends . . ."
One by one they slipped back into the sea, their bottle-shaped snouts bobbing up 
and down in a kind of farewell. When they had gone I stumbled back onto the sand 
and sat down suddenly, thoroughly exhausted, feeling as though I couldn't walk 
another step.
Ky-Lin came up behind me and nuzzled my shoulder. He was now back to his 
"living" self, but pony-sized still. "Come on, let's get you off to sleep. We 
can't do any more till morning."
I allowed him to lead me back amongst some trees, away from the rain, and tuck 
me up in the shelter of an overhanging rock, after insisting that I discard all 
my clothes apart from my shift and hang them on an overhanging branch. I was now 
even colder than ever, my teeth were chattering and I was shivering, but Ky-Lin 
lay down beside me, and with my back against his stomach, I began to respond to 
the warmth of his body.
He shifted a little. "Turn your face towards me for a moment . . ."
"Why?"
"Sleepy-Dust."
I turned my head obediently and he breathed into my face and nostrils a scent 
like that of sandalwood boxes in the sunshine . . .

When I awoke, after a night and half a day of dreamless sleep, I found myself 
lying on the beach, both warm and dry. The sun was high in the sky, interrupted 
by a few fluffy clouds, and the breeze came warm from the south. One could not 
have believed the storm of the night before, except for the debris I now saw 
cast up on the shoreline. And amongst all this debris was an industrious Ky-Lin, 
sorting out pieces of jetsam.
He looked up. "Feeling better? I thought you would be better in the sunshine so 
I rolled you down here. Come and give us a hand: we need some dry wood for a 
fire."
Between us we built a small cone-shaped heap of kindling, at the base dried moss 
and strips of birch-bark. I sat back on my heels.
"How do we light it? I haven't any vestas."
"The way your ancestors did, of course." He gave me two differently shaped 
stones. "Strike these together till you get a spark, and hold it near the moss. 
When it catches, blow it into a flame."
But I was hopeless; if I got a flame, it wouldn't catch. In the end Ky-Lin sat 
on his haunches beside me, forbade me to blow, and got the fire going almost on 
his own. Anyway, it was soon blazing away merrily upon which we had to gather 
damp seaweed so that it would give off smoke as a signal.
"What if nobody sees it? What if nobody comes? What if they think I am dead?"
"Oh, they'll come," he said confidently. "This may be a deserted islet with no 
water, but there is far more traffic across than there used to be all those 
years ago when the pirates fought here and people called it the Accursed Isle."
"Accursed? Then no-one will come, and if they do they won't pick me up!"
"Course they will! You've only got to run down to the beach in your shift waving 
your petticoat and they'll be queueing up to take us off!"
"How do you know about the pirates?"
"I'll show you." He led me across the islet to a small cave, and there were the 
skeletons of two men, two swords and a dagger.
"Obviously they fought, over what I do not know, and both died." said Ky-Lin. 
"But this place is so seldom visited that no-one bothered to bury them."
"Then let's do it now," I said, and I found a thick fallen branch to loosen the 
earth while Ky-Lin's hooves moved so fast I could hardly see them as he 
shovelled out a shallow grave. I had thought I would not wish to touch the 
bones, but when it came to it, it was no different than shifting a bundle of 
sticks: blessedly, something inside of me had rendered me numb to the revulsion 
I had thought to feel.
Once the earth covered them I stuck the swords and dagger in the earth beside. 
"Shouldn't we say a prayer?"
Ky-Lin nodded. "I shall pray that they may find a better way next time, and you 
that their sins be forgiven and that they gain eternal rest. Strange, we both 
wish them well, but in different ways."
We stood silent for a moment, then I asked Ky-Lin how he knew the island was 
called "accursed."
"Places tell you things," he said. "Stones, rocks, caves, houses can retain an 
image, a feel, of any unusual action. Some of you humans seem to have a stronger 
feeling for this: they can sense at once when they enter a house whether it has 
had a sad or happy past." I nodded: I knew what he meant; my mother used to call 
it "atmosphere," and I knew now that Hightop Hall had a good one, whatever its 
past.
As turned to go back I stubbed my toe. "Damn! Er . . . Sorry, Ky-Lin. An echo of 
Toby, I guess."
He nodded. "Do not forget the boy knew nothing better before. You do. But that 
must have hurt. Let me see? Ah, a little touch with my horn—so—and it is 
better." Poking about with a hoof, he unearthed a pouch of shrivelled and 
dessicated leather. "Open it up, Miss Sophy."
I wrenched apart the stiff ties and tipped the contents out onto the ground. 
"Pearls? But what strange colours . . ."
Ky-Lin examined them, his forked tongue flickering rapidly over each one. 
"Fifty. All genuine. All beautiful." He examined the pouch. "And they have not 
been here that long: perhaps twenty years. So this is not what those two were 
fighting over. Probably someone hid them where he thought no-one would search."
"How do you know—the number of years? And why are they such funny colours? Look: 
black, pink, yellow, a sort of green . . ."
"I know the years through the decay of the leather they are in, and also because 
the colours have not faded: they tend to fade with exposure and age. The 
colours? These are very rare, precisely because of that very thing. They will 
fetch good prices. Put them back into the pouch until we can find something 
safer to carry them in."
"We're—we're not going to keep them?" I said, scandalised.
"Why not?"
"Because . . . because they don't belong to us. The person who put them there 
will come back for them one day."
"Unlikely after all this time. Besides, I have felt them, and there is no sense 
of ownership. They are like goods laid out on a stall, waiting to be bought. You 
are very lucky."
I didn't understand how he knew all this, but then there were a lot of things 
about Ky-Lin I didn't understand . . .
We trudged back towards the beach, and by now I was feeling distinctly hungry 
and thirsty, but Ky-Lin pointed out a scoop of rock that held a cupful of rain 
water, so at least I slaked my thirst. My clothes were damp-dry, so I dressed as 
well as I could in the crumpled, salt-stained garments. I was just fastening the 
buttons on my blouse when there came a shout from the direction of the beach. I 
snatched up my shawl and prepared to run, but there was a hiss from Ky-Lin.
"Wait for me! And do up those buttons . . ."
He was rapidly shrinking before my gaze, and a few seconds later was back to his 
figurine self, which I picked up and put in my pocket.
"Sorry . . ." I prepared to run again.
"You've forgotten the pearls . . . And when you get to the beach, stagger about 
as if you are on your last legs. I'll do the interpreting: just keep your face 
turned away."
I did as I was told, trod falteringly towards the fire, which was still belching 
smoke, and sank to my knees, shading my eyes and staring out to sea in the best 
"Robinson Crusoe" tradition.
"Don't over-do it," muttered Ky-Lin. "On the other hand they are only simple 
fishermen, so your histrionics are probably appreciated . . ."
There was much excited jabbering from the boat, about two hundred yards from the 
shore. I stood up and waved: they waved back. No-one made a move to come nearer 
and I realised, without Ky-Lin's prompting, that they were superstitious about 
landing on the islet and also, thanks to the dolphins, I remembered there were 
rocks close inshore. So I kicked sand over the fire to put it out, and then 
waded into the sea.
Immediately two men jumped into the shallows and waded to meet me, and in a 
minute or two I was hauled aboard, showing a deal more leg than I would have 
wished, to lie on the bottom boards of a boat that stank of fish. Not that I 
cared: at least I was safe, and by the time Ky-Lin had spoken through me, 
explaining my dramatic escape from drowning and the dolphins help in guiding me 
to dry land, everyone's mouths were open in admiration.
I was given bread and cheese, which I wolfed down, and chicory coffee which they 
brewed on a small brazier on deck. I thought-asked Ky-Lin whether they would 
take us to harbour and he said they would for a large bribe, which was the way 
they did things here, and that they had had a poor catch because of last night's 
storm.
"Promise them what they want, I just want to get to dry land and see the others 
again . . ."
Dusk was falling as we approached the harbour where I should have docked early 
this morning, and as we chugged towards land I could see the quayside was lined 
with people. We were followed by the scream of the gulls chasing our boat, as 
they did with all fishing boats, and in their exuberance my fisher-folk flung 
their meagre catch overboard to feathered appreciation.
Once we docked and I was helped up the steps to the quayside, I was met by Toby, 
Claude and Danny, who hugged and kissed me in a very satisfactory manner. It 
appeared they had at last persuaded the captain of the ferry to turn back to 
look for me, but of course he had been unsuccessful. It also meant that they had 
only docked some two hours earlier, and since then they had tried to persuade a 
flotilla of boats to go out looking for me.
"Only we didn't have the lingo," explained Toby. "Reminds me: you got 
you-know-who?"
"In my pocket," I said. "Hush . . ."
Toby had rescued my money-belt from the cabin, so it was easy to pay the 
fishermen well, and we left them recounting my rescue to the rest of the the 
townsfolk, doubtless to the accompaniment of free hospitality for many days to 
come. We found a comfortable hotel where I luxuriated in masses of hot water to 
wash the salt from my hair and skin, sending my clothes out for laundering.
We took a table downstairs for supper, away from other diners, where we enjoyed 
kebabs with a fruity red wine, followed by sticky pastries and coffee. I felt we 
needed a celebration, especially since I now held the secret of the pearls.
I suddenly remembered something important.
"What happened to Mr. McCall?"
The others glanced at one another. "He skipped ship as soon as we docked," said 
Danny. "Last seen heading for the back streets, sans luggage."
"We tried to hang on to him," said Claude. "But no-one would listen."
Toby thumped his fist on the table. "I knew he was no good from the beginning!"
"All right!" I interrupted. "I should have listened to you all."
"Don't blame yourself, Sophy," said Claude, going pink. "You couldn't have 
known." He patted my hand.
"We understand," nodded Danny. "Sure we do. Slimy feller like that . . . Takes 
experience to recognise that sort."
I hid a smile.
I had told the others that the dolphins had guided me to safety, and I hoped the 
townsfolk would now be more tolerant towards them, but I brought Toby more fully 
up to date later.
"And Toby," I finished, "just stop me from doing anything foolish like that 
again!"

Two days later, fully recovered and freshly kitted out, we joined a caravan of 
travellers moving east. I knew we were starting the second, more wild stage of 
our journey by Ky-Lin's reminder the day before.
"Time to buy that cooking-pot, I think . . ."

Chapter Eighteen
A Very
Unusual Cat
There were no border guards, no flags, no lines drawn in the sand, no 
indications whatsoever, but I knew immediately when we left Europe and crossed 
into Asia. It wasn't that the terrain had changed: for days now we had been 
travelling through undulating countryside, past pretty little villages, 
snow-capped mountains in the distance, the forests on either side full with June 
leaf. Then one morning when the ground grew steeper and the ground stonier and I 
caught the scent of pines on the warm air I knew we were at last in Asia. To be 
sure I asked Ky-Lin."To humans the extent of countries and continents are lines 
drawn on a map," he said, "and as such have little importance. But yes, if you 
were now standing on a map, you would be in that part which has `Asia' written 
on it."
I felt as excited as if I were a real explorer. Not in the sense of being the 
first in unknown territory, but in the knowledge that everything from now on 
would be different, my senses bombarded with new impressions: touches, tastes, 
smells, sights and sounds. So much to absorb, so little time to do it. I didn't 
keep a journal as such, but I had a small sketchbook in which I did some quick 
drawings and jotted down anything I wanted to remember: "flocks of small brown 
birds" I had written at one point; "grasshoppers," "lop-eared sheep" and "woman 
in red scarf" at others. I just hoped it would all mean something when I looked 
at it in the future.
I left it to Claude to record our progress, which he did faithfully, every day 
putting first the date and day of the week, then where we were (if we knew), how 
far we travelled that day, any unusual incidents, approximately how much we 
spent, and the state of the weather. He had twelve black notebooks, one for 
every month we spent away, and this was for the benefit of the firm, to prove we 
had been there and back. I would have found it all very boring.
We had hired a wagon, a driver and two spare riding horses before we joined a 
caravan, as I had got very good prices for three of the smaller yellow pearls, 
and I thought we deserved a little luxury. Ky-Lin advised us to carry our own 
food, so I had to do a quick mental re-cap of the cookery book I had left 
behind: not that that prepared me much for the cooking of rice, couscous, dried 
salted meat and fish, dried fruit and vegetables, nor for the making of 
unleavened bread. Surprisingly, my best help was Claude, who confessed to a 
liking for cookery, saying that after his father died and they had been 
"temporarily embarrassed," he had helped his mother with the cooking.
To my mind this more than made up for his dire performance on horseback. I had 
ridden as a child, and the small, stubby, hairy horses we had now were not much 
different from my ponies. Danny, being Irish, had an inborn gift for riding 
almost anything, and he showed uncharacteristic patience in teaching Toby, who 
was an apt pupil. So three out of the four of us could ride, which would be 
necessary on the next stage of our journey, and I realised we would have to 
persist with Claude, who still rode (or fell off) like the proverbial sack of 
potatoes—or, considering his build, more like a dislocated skeleton, in spite of 
the fact that his feet almost touched the ground.
We kitted ourselves out for the warmer weather with leggings, loose cotton 
shirts and, in my case, a divided skirt for easier riding. The men had 
haircuts—yes, even Toby, whose locks were now almost as long as they had been 
before—and I decided on drastic action for myself. But when I arrived back from 
the hairdresser, I was greeted with silence.
"Well?"
Luckily the silence had been of approbation, rather than otherwise, for they 
came crowding forward and touched or ruffled my unfashionably cropped head, 
springing already into soft curls. Claude decided it was sensible, Danny that it 
didn't spoil my beauty, and Toby said it suited me much better than those "dull 
plaits and buns and things."
It certainly felt much lighter and cooler, and was far easier to wash and keep 
clean.
In the sunshine we all wore woven straw hats against the sun and we only rode 
early in the morning or towards dusk. At night our wagon-driver curled up 
outside, near to his tethered ponies, and Toby did the same. Danny and I did 
sometimes, Claude never. I always seemed to find the ants. Normally we flung 
back the front and back openings to the wagon, making sure it had the benefit of 
the prevailing easterlies. Even so, it was rapidly approaching the hottest part 
of the year, and we all welcomed the occasional stream, river or lake in which 
to cool off, even fully clothed.
The caravan plodded on, ever upwards, our pace that of the slowest, those who 
brought their herds of sheep or goats for sale further on. If we had forgotten 
anything it would have been provided for, for there were the usual entrepreneurs 
who took their places in the caravan. One family brought a dry-goods wagon, 
laden with pots, pans, firewood, rope, boots, blankets, harness, nails, hammers, 
spare wheels and axles for the wagons and whatever else one needed in that line. 
Another brought food, including crates of chickens, and a third provided 
ready-cooked food. And all charged exorbitant prices
What they carried back in return was anyone's guess, but Ky-Lin remarked that 
there was a profitable trade in opium and also in the handwoven rugs and 
blankets the tribespeople made.
The countryside through which we passed was completely different from the mostly 
cosy European villages, hills, woods and forests. Here were vast stretches of 
open grassland, rippling in the breeze, with mountains dim in the distance. The 
air was thinner, sharper, more difficult to breathe, and we needed time to 
become acclimatised. One good thing was that Claude's "hay-fever," or whatever 
it was, seemed to have dried up.
Sometimes we saw no-one else for days, heard nothing different from the clump of 
hooves, the clink of harness, the cries of the drivers and herders, the 
bleatings of sheep and goats, the shush-shush of the wind through the grasses, 
the twitter of flocks of finches as they harvested seeds and the occasional 
lonely cry of a solitary raptor, circling overnead. Other days we would pass 
another caravan on the return journey, or see a group of herdsmen with horses or 
sheep, or a family trudging in single file, laden with packages and parcels, the 
men in embroidered felt caps, the women in headshawls or scarves.
We didn't always pass through grassland; sometimes we descended into 
mini-deserts of rocks and stones, and once or twice into the pleasure of a 
fertile valley with fresh fruit, grain and meat and the sheer bliss of 
mountain-cold water. To me the tracks we followed were barely discernible in the 
now-July grass, but Ky-Lin told me that this was part of the old Silk Road, 
which every traveller knew well enough from centuries ago.
Sometimes our fellow-travellers took out long, unwieldy-looking guns or even 
sling-shots to try and vary their diet, but although they sometimes came back 
with a few small birds, the shy Saiga antelope evaded them, standing on the 
skyline just out of range.
The weather was warm, sixty-five to seventy degrees during the day, and the 
nights pleasant, and in spite of my clothing, I was becoming as brown as a 
gipsy. Once we reached our first sizable town I was determined to dispose of my 
skirt, much as I had chucked away my corsets, and ride breeched like Toby and 
the men. No-one would care.
Ky-Lin kept me entertained with reminiscences of his travels with Summer and was 
the ideal travelling companion: compact, easy to feed and full of stories.
And the Eg continued to grow. . . .

At the end of July we reached our first objective, the town of Azumak, which 
straddled the most important trade routes for hundreds of miles. There was the 
way we had come and its continuation east; another road swung north towards the 
Russias, yet another southwest towards Persia, while the one we wanted went 
southeast towards the mountains of northern China.
To call Azumak a town was flattering it. True, there was a large market-place 
surrounded by warehouses, eating-houses, lodging-houses and stables; farther out 
was a small mosque, ditto a Buddhist temple; there was a tiny Greek Orthodox 
church and an even tinier Christian shrine, whose wooden effigy was so worn it 
was impossible to tell whether it was male or female, but the streets of the 
rest of the town were a hugger-mugger straggle of mud huts, tents, stalls, 
goat-pens, chicken-houses, sheds, yards and night-soil pits.
We found lodgings in one of the inns facing the square, and it was quite the 
noisiest location I had ever tried to sleep in. Morning, noon and night there 
were shouts, screams, yells, the rumble of wagons, the squeak of axles, 
quarrels, arguments, sellers extolling their wares, drums and pipes—and all this 
without the bleats, grunts, groans and squeals of the animals. Plus the all-day 
all-night barking of the dogs . . .
We had no intention of staying in this maelstrom of noise, dirt and dealing, but 
there seemed to be no choice. I had thought one night, perhaps two, before we 
found a caravan going our way, but it appeared no-one wished to travel that 
particular road. The rewards of such travel—opium, silk, jade, mohair, certain 
herbs and spices—were easily available on the longer but safer and more populous 
Silk Road, for which caravans were made up every two or three days. Travellers 
for Persia left approximately every two weeks, for Russia there were few takers 
except in the fur-trading season.
We—Ky-Lin and I—enquired everywhere, but no-one offered. It seemed so 
frustrating to have come so far, just to kick our heels. We tried to change our 
lodgings, but there was nothing better available, although we did manage to 
change our rooms for those at the back—at a higher price, of course. We had to 
eat out and this wasn't cheap either, and each day we were spending well over 
our budget. After three days of this I was beginning to despair, in spite of 
Ky-Lin counselling patience. He also advised me to use some of the waiting time 
finding us warmer clothes. This seemed ridiculous with the August heat pressing 
down on us, but he assured me that now was the cheapest time to buy.
Fur jackets, padded trousers (me as well), fur caps with ear-flaps, fur mitts 
and stronger boots, this set us up, together with the what was left of the 
winter clothes we had worn last winter through Europe. For all of this, and for 
the price of the journey ahead, it was necessary to sell more pearls, which 
Ky-Lin counselled me to bargain for through a back-street trader, rather than 
travellers from a caravan. I wasn't convinced, but after he had taken me through 
both options, I had to admit he was right.
On the fourth morning I was thoroughly restless and decided to take a walk round 
the market on our doorstep. I left Claude and Danny over one of their endless 
games of cards (on the second night I had made the mistake of giving Danny and 
Claude money to buy their own meal, and they had come home reeling and reeking 
of some rot-gut called arrack, or something like that, were thoroughly sick, 
which served them right, and stank of anise for twenty-four hours afterwards, so 
now we all went out together, or not at all). Toby had set off with Ky-Lin in 
his pocket, having perfected the art of Ky-Lin speaking through his mouth, 
Ky-Lin doing the prompting by little nudges in his pocket. So, although Toby 
couldn't understand anything, Ky-Lin could report back to me. I rather suspected 
Toby's first call would be at the camel-lines outside the town. We had both seen 
a sad-looking specimen in a zoo in London, and a string of them on the skyline 
while we were in the caravan, but he was always fascinated by the varying 
animals and birds we came across.
The market was its usual crowded, smelly, noisy self. Jingling the few loose 
coins in my pocket, for I had no intention of buying anything, I wound my way 
past the fresh food stalls—meat, vegetables, fruit—to the dry goods—fish, rice, 
beans, sultanas and raisins—then to the salt and spices. Next came the sweet 
things: sugar, honey, cakes. On to the cloth: silk and ready-made clothes, 
thread, needles, scissors, tape and ribbons. Then there were pots and pans and 
crockery, the latter ranging from the cheapest to the finest Chinese porcelain. 
One section was devoted to furniture, mostly bamboo and Chinese, and Persian 
rugs and carpets. Of course there were stalls for the sale of arms: swords, 
spears, rifles and percussion revolvers. Jewellery, from the exotic and 
expensive to the cheap and tawdry—I didn't see any pearls as good as mine. Toys 
for children, wooden mechanical monkeys, dolls with porcelain faces; one stall 
devoted entirely to soapstone and jade, the latter from spinach through rose to 
the pale "mutton-fat". I passed quickly through the stalls selling dull things 
like hides, saddles, boots, baskets, rope and tents, likewise past those selling 
tobacco, snuff and hashish, and finding a patch of shade, bought a refreshing 
cup of sherbert, deciding that enough was enough and that the rest of the stalls 
could hold no further surprises.
I emptied my tin cup and hung it on my belt, to be rinsed when I returned to the 
inn. We all had one: it was common sense not to share in the cups and ladles 
supplied by the drinks vendors, especially when one saw the diseases and sore 
mouths among the population.
Rather than try and battle through the middle of the market, I headed for the 
side, knowing that two corners would see me back at the inn. Now I was passing 
those stalls that faced the buildings surrounding the square. These were mostly 
small, some of them selling second-hand goods. This was the part where one found 
the bargains, if anywhere, but although I looked at a couple of embroidered 
purses I had no Ky-Lin to bargain for me.
Now I was at the last corner before the inn and I hastened my step, but suddenly 
an almighty great racket broke out just ahead to my right. Squealing, 
screeching, barking, howls of pain and the crash and splinter of wood. Hurrying 
forward I came across one of those sorry little stalls that sold "pets": mainly 
exotic birds, but also reptiles and the occasional dog or cat, although these 
latter were such prolific breeders that the streets were full of mongrels and 
feral cats already that no-one wanted anyway.
It seemed that this stall was one of the typical, cheaper ones: cages of 
pink-dyed canaries and colourful finches, a few somnolent tortoises, a couple of 
half-grown Saluki crosses and—a cat? At least that's what it sounded like. Half 
the cages were on the ground, the birds fluttering up and down, a tortoise lay 
on its back, claws waving helplessly, and the dogs were barking furiously and 
straining at their leashes, their fury directed at a creature crouching right at 
the back of the stall beside a cage whose door had literally been torn off. The 
animal was spitting, snarling and growling, while the stall-holder was stabbing 
furiously in its direction with what looked like a small, two-pronged pitchfork, 
cursing and yelling and out of control.
I became aware that the Ring on my finger was throbbing madly, so much so that 
it was actually hurting. I was supposed to do something or avoid something, but 
what? I stepped forward and turned over the tortoise which crawled away to 
safety, righted the bird-cages, avoided the snarling dogs, but still the Ring 
hurt. There was a sudden scream of pain from the corner of the stall and the 
stall-holder had the cat, or whatever-it-was, pinned down beneath the pitchfork, 
was picking up an iron bar and obviously moving in for the kill.
Without further thought I moved forward and snatched the pitchfork from the 
stall-holder's hand, and a moment later wrenched the bar from his suddenly 
slackened other hand, throwing both to the ground. He raised his fist at me and 
I stepped back as he picked up the pitchfork again, prepared to have another go 
at the animal.
I was in an awkward position. I couldn't understand him, nor he me, but I knew 
without doubt that I was meant to rescue the animal, now growling quietly in a 
corner and licking at an injured side. It now looked more like a cat to me, 
although I had had little to do with them, except as rodent-catchers in barns 
and stables. I wasn't even sure I liked them very much, although I had never 
really been able to find out. My parents had never considered pets to be 
essential to a household. I rode a perfectly pleasant pony, the doctor had a 
snappy little terrier, there was an aloof striped cat next door and my 
headmistress had a pair of blue lovebirds, but that was it. I had never stroked 
or cuddled any animal, and when I saw how obsessed their owners became with 
them, I decided I wouldn't bother to have one. But I wouldn't see one needlessly 
hurt.
The trouble was, I had only a few coins in my pocket, and nothing else to 
bargain with . . .
Still, it was worth a try. I tried the universal gesture for money, rubbing my 
right thumb and first two fingers together and raising my eyebrows 
interrogatively.
At once his attitude changed. He fawned and chirruped like his birds and burst 
into a flood of Arabic, putting down the pitchfork and obviously extolling the 
virtues of his beautiful cat. When he saw I didn't understand he threw in a few 
phrases of guttural French for good measure. Through this I gathered that the 
cat was unique and came originally from Siam.
"Look at his princely form, his unusual colour, his thick soft fur, his 
extraordinary eyes . . ." Words to that effect, but as I could see nothing but a 
dim form, a snarling row of teeth and a red-eyed glare I took his rhodomontade 
with the large pinch of salt it deserved. After five minutes or so, a sum of 
money was mentioned, which was far beyond my reach.
I shook my head and mentioned a sum commensurate with the few coins I had in my 
pocket—coinages were some of the terms one learned in all languages, and 
quickly—but he spat in disgust and waved me away. I knew some of the moves and 
pretended to walk away, waving my hand as though I had no further interest. The 
stall-holder caught at my sleeve and now his price had halved, though it was 
still more than I had.
I mentioned the same sum, he held his nose as though I was a bad smell, I 
pointed to the still snarling cat and the broken cage, as if it was he who had 
the worst of the bargain; I even poured my few coins into his palm, but I could 
see it was no use. I knew also that even if I managed to convey that I would 
bring back more money, he would have lost patience before I returned, preferring 
to get a good price for an animal for the pot; many people ate dog, cat or even 
rat, considering them a delicacy.
But there was nothing else I had to offer; I turned out my pockets and came up 
with a lump of fluff and a length of string. As a last resort I tried the secret 
pocket I had made in my new leggings and found the smallest pearl I had brought 
to change yesterday but kept as we had got enough with the other six—Eureka!
With the air of a conjuror I handed it over to the stall-holder who took it as 
though it would bite, demonstrated its smallness, tasted it with his tongue to 
see if it was genuine and again shook his head, though I noticed the coins had 
disappeared and he kept the pearl between his fingers.
At that moment the cat took matters into its own paws.
There was a sudden blur of movement, it sailed past my left ear and a moment 
later I yelped with pain as a heavy weight settled on my shoulder and several 
sharp bits dug into my skin as the creature regained its balance and turned 
around, so that out of the corner of my eye I could see an ear, an eye, a furry 
muzzle.
The stall-holder moved forward as if to interfere, but the cat spat and growled 
so savagely that he retreated, waving his arms and cursing, no doubt glad to be 
rid of the pair of us at a profit, for that pearl was worth twenty cats and 
more.
In the meantime I was frozen on the spot. Having only seen the formidable animal 
growling, spitting and snarling and feeling the weight and the claws—admittedly 
now sheathed—I was scared stiff the cat would turn on me if I so much as shifted 
an inch. I had such a picture in my mind of its savage aspect and menacing 
growls, so that when it started to purr against my ear I at first thought it was 
the prelude to imminent attack.
However, just in time I realised the Ring was no longer throbbing, rather was it 
exuding a kind of soothing warmth. So when the creature rested its head against 
my cheek and a cold nose tentatively touched mine, I felt I had fulfilled the 
Ring's intention in freeing the creature. I moved slowly and gingerly away from 
the animal stall and made my way down the alley towards the inn, a little bowed 
under the weight. Coming to a wall a little higher than I, I patted the top 
invitingly.
"Here you are, pussy-cat. Now you are free to go." I was glad there was no-one 
to hear. "I expect you can catch plenty of mice and—and things. Off you go now, 
and keep away from cages . . ."
I had thought it would understand, at least in part, through the Ring, but it 
was obviously deaf or something; it just settled down closer on my shoulder, 
purring more loudly, its tail tapping gently on the back of my shoulder, as if 
to say: "Keep on going . . ."
Of course! It was probably hungry. Well, I could probably get something for it 
at the inn. Reaching the courtyard I stepped over to the outside stairs which 
led to our rooms, ignoring the curious glances of those who always haunted the 
place, squatting around a small fire or leaning against a wall in the shade. I 
walked up the stairs very carefully, so as not to jolt the cat from my 
shoulders, or have his claws digging in once more.
Reaching my room I first opened the shutters then moved over to my pallet, 
sitting down gingerly. At last the cat cooperated, leaping down onto the blanket 
and licking a paw.
"I'll go and get you something to eat," I said, feeling foolish. "A little fish 
and a drink of milk, perhaps . . ."
I had my hand on the latch when I heard a quiet voice behind me.
"Not raw, if you don't mind. Lightly poached with a sprig of tarragon, and 
water, not milk . . ."

Chapter Nineteen
An Addition and
a Subtraction
I whirled round, convinced someone was playing tricks: Toby, perhaps, hiding 
under the bed or perched on the roof outside, but the cat and I were alone, and 
the former had its attention firmly fixed on the other paw. I shook my head to 
rid it of the cobwebs. All this had been too much; it was just an accumulation 
of stress, that was all. I was thinking for myself, not the cat. I wouldn't eat 
raw fish, so obviously I had arranged a recipe in my mind and spoken it out 
aloud. But the voice hadn't sounded like mine. . . .
I went down to the kitchen with a few coins in my hand and arranged for the fish 
and tarragon. I drew a fish in the dust on the floor, mimed the filleting and 
picked a few leaves of dried tarragon from the selection hanging from the 
rafters. I then pointed to the pan and water, and supervised the poaching, 
indicating when I considered it done. By then I was so hungry myself that I 
bought a leg of chicken and ate it on the spot.
Opening the bedroom door the cat leapt off the bed and advanced to meet me, tail 
held high and gently waving. I set down the dish on the floor and removed the 
cover, the enticing smell making my mouth water.
"It's hot," I said unnecessarily, for the poor thing was obviously deaf, like 
all blue-eyed cats, but it had the sense to sit back and wait for the steam to 
disperse. Risking scalded fingers I knelt down and examined the fillets, pulling 
out a couple of bones that had been missed and discarding the tarragon. "There, 
nothing left to choke on. I'll put some water in the cover . . ." Stop talking 
to yourself, Sophy!
After a couple of minutes it started to eat, delicately: a gourmet rather than a 
gourmand, obviously. As it ate I had leisure to study it more closely. It was 
completely unlike the chunky tabbies, gingers, blacks, black-and-whites and 
tortoiseshells I had seen in England, nor had it the snub-nosed appeal of the 
Persian. Neither did it resemble the shabby alley-cats we had come across 
abroad. For a start he was much bigger and undeniably elegant, slim and 
streamlined, with a pointed muzzle and long ditto tail, this last with a tiny 
kink at the end. His colour was the most striking, of course, dark chocolate at 
the extremities and a cream body. Without touching him I could see that the fur 
was dense and soft. His claws looked shorter and blunter than most cats, but it 
was those beautiful blue eyes that I found the most appealing; not a dark blue, 
rather that translucent pale blue of the tiny flowers we used to call "babies' 
breath" when we were children—pity about the deafness. Then I noticed that his 
ears flicked back and forth from every noise outside, and I wondered . . . 
perhaps he spoke some strange tongue that was not transmitted through the Ring.
Finished, he drank deeply, gave me a glance as if to say "thank you" and leapt 
back onto the bed to give himself a thorough wash from head to toe, wincing a 
little as he licked his side, where I could see the skin had been broken, 
probably by that wretched pitchfork. I put the dish, cover and bowl on the 
rickety table under the window. I was deathly tired after my expedition, but the 
bed was occupied, and I didn't want to risk those claws, remembering what I had 
seen earlier.
"Er . . . Could you move up a bit? I'd like to have a rest." But how could I 
expect it to understand?
"Sure," said the cat in my sleepy head, moving to the foot of the bed, and 
without thinking any further I lay down and immediately fell asleep.
"What on earth isthat?" asked Toby, bursting into my room, but as the answer was 
perfectly obvious he didn't wait for one but instead launched into an 
enthusiastic account of how he and Ky-Lin had found a man willing to guide us to 
his brother's village, some one hundred and fifty miles on towards our 
destination, and that his brother would be sure to take us the rest of the way.
"Apparently the guide has goods to deliver to his brother, knows where he can 
hire half-a-dozen ponies, and Ky-Lin says—at least Ithink he says—he nodded 
anyway and only did a bit of the bargaining—that the price was reasonable. What 
do you say to that?"
"I say you've done a wonderful job," I laughed giving him a hug. "Both of you!" 
For of course it had been Ky-Lin who had found the man and done the bargaining 
through Toby's mouth. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow at dawn," said Ky-Lin, jumping from Toby's shoulder to mine. "We meet 
him outside town at the beginning of the track south-east. Each of us will have 
a pony, and there will be two for transporting our food and blankets and 
clothes, etc."
"Well, we'd better get going, then! We have to get packed, buy some food and—"
"And I'mstarving !" interrupted Toby. "Haven't had anything since breakfast . . 
."
I discovered I was starving too, and went down the corridor to rout out Claude 
and Danny. We partook of a hasty meal of fried fish, meat and rice, then set out 
to do the serious shopping: firewood, rice, salt, oil, dried meat, fish, 
vegetables and fruit, and extra water-bottles. What with packing and organising, 
I completely forgot about the cat, though when I at last returned to my room at 
about nine that night I felt an uncomfortable pang to find that he had gone 
through the still unshuttered window. He had chosen his freedom. I just hoped he 
would be all right.
Ky-Lin had already hidden under my pillow, so I took down the dirty dishes to 
the kitchen and had a quick wash under the pump in the yard and then sought my 
bed, where I had no trouble falling asleep.
To be awoken by a thump in the middle of my stomach.
"Ouch! What the hell . . ." Sophy! Language . . .
"Sorry! Missed my footing . . ."
Voices in my head again. I turned over and looked at my fob-watch by the 
moonlight coming in through the open window. Three A.M. At my feet the cat had 
curled himself up.
"Thought you had gone . . ."
"Just exploring . . . And using the usual toilet facilities. May I ask you a 
favour? I am afraid that my side is quite painful. I would not wish it to become 
infected."
I stumbled out of bed and lit the lamp, still convinced I was dreaming, but then 
one did strange things in dreams. Like talking to injured cats. I dampened one 
of my diminishing store of clean handkerchiefs and bathed the contusions on the 
cat's ribs. The skin was broken, weals breaking out on the surface where the fur 
had been torn away.
"There . . . That better?"
"Let me," said a voice from my pillow. Ky-Lin spoke to the cat. "If you will 
allow me?"
In my increasingly confused dream the cat nodded, and Ky-Lin moved down the bed 
and touched his little pink horn to the cat's side. Immediately the skin seemed 
to heal, the swelling going down.
"Thank you, Sacred One . . ."
"No problem," said Ky-Lin. "And now let's get some sleep. We have a long day 
ahead of us tomorrow." He blew out the lamp and lay by my pillow, while the cat 
curled up at my feet again. I slept without further dreams until Ky-Lin nudged 
me awake just before dawn. We had paid our dues the night before so started to 
carry our luggage down the stairs and into the street, where it piled up 
formidably. Toby and the others were to carry it down to our rendezvous, but it 
took three journeys, and a sleepy sun was reddening the grey dawn as we finished 
loading our ponies, Mustaq, our guide, muttering at our tardiness.
Even though it was so early, people were already stirring, and I paused to pick 
up some savoury pancakes from a yawning stall-holder. On either side of these 
alleys bedding was already being hung out to air on the balconies, cooking fires 
being lit, sleepy children carrying buckets to the nearest well, bundles of rags 
coming to life again as vagrants and beggars.
Juggling the hot pancakes in my hands, I saw that the cat was following me. It 
wasn't coming with us, that was for sure, but it was probably hungry. Carefully 
I dissected the coolest of the pancakes and laid it on the ground.
"There you are, pussy-cat; goodbye and good luck!" and off I trotted to join the 
others and hand out the pancakes. The guide provided us with some revolting 
coffee, which wiped any lingering sleep from anyone's eyes. I was just 
shortening my stirrups ready to mount, Danny having already lengthened Claude's, 
who was looking extremely uncomfortable and quite precarious, when I felt a 
nudge on my right leg. Oh,no ! Not the cat again!
"Shoo!" I said. "Go away! Look I gave you something to eat, your hurts are 
better and cats fend for themselves."
"Just a moment," said Ky-Lin from my pocket, which he had swapped from Toby's a 
few minutes past. "How many are we, counting the Eg?"
Peculiar question, given the circumstances. "Er . . ." I counted on my fingers. 
Me, Toby, Ky-Lin, the Eg, Danny and Claude. "Six. Why?"
"Summer had seven with her on both her first and second journeys, at least for 
part of the time. So did the One before her, but that was a long while ago. But 
the Ring remembers."
And as if to echo his words, the Ring gave a tiny, painless throb.
"You mean that seven is a lucky number?"
"It is considered to be so by some."
It was now obvious which way the conversation was leading. "You want us to take 
the cat?"
"My wishes have nothing to do with it. I was just trying to remind you of your 
options. I neither want you to ignore the obvious, nor to make a decision you 
might later regret. I also believe you should not pass up on any luck that comes 
your way."
I thought about it. It had been the Ring that had urged me to rescue the cat, 
and I had to admit it had been no trouble. But it couldn't run behind a horse—
"It can perch quite comfortably on the the pony carrying the luggage," said 
Ky-Lin, reading my thoughts for the umpteenth time of our acquaintance. I looked 
down at the subject of our conversation, and a pair of beautiful blue eyes gazed 
back at me.
"I won't be any bother," it said, quite clearly.
"I thought you couldn't—didn't—"
"He was shy," said Ky-Lin.
When we rejoined the others the cat leapt gracefully onto the back of the 
luggage-carrying pony and settled down, wedged comfortably between the 
haversacks.
"Is he coming with us?" asked Toby.
"I suppose so."
"What's he called?"
"Cat," said Danny.
"Tom," said Claude, accurately.
"No," said Toby. "He deserves better than that. He's very beautiful—no, I 
suppose you would call it handsome for a boy."
"Beau," I said. The cat raised its head and looked at me.
"Near enough," it said, and settled down again. So Beau-cat he became, fulfilled 
his promise of being no trouble, and was seldom far from my side when we were on 
the ground.
So off we went into the unknown, through the undulating steppes, always tending 
higher and higher. Sometimes we rode through grass as high as the horses 
withers, and other times over stony ground, and I would have been lost in five 
minutes, but Ky-Lin assured me we were headed in the right direction.
We progressed more or less uneventfully. I cooked for us every night, leaving 
enough cold for breaking our fast and a lunch-time snack with, as I said before, 
the competent help of Claude; he seemed to be a loaves-and-fishes man—able to 
make a little go a long way. Having watched the sort of herbs our earlier 
fellow-travellers had gathered, I was able to vary the taste of the ubiquitous 
rice and couscous a little. This was nothing to the spicy smells that our 
earlier guide, Mustaq, conjured up, although when I begged a pinch of his 
mixture, it nearly burnt the roofs off our mouths.
At night he erected a kind of tarpaulin for us, and we slept on the ground, 
wrapped in our blankets and with our cloaks for pillows. It was the first time I 
had slept on bare ground and I'll swear that every pebble and stone in 
Turkestan, or wherever we were, was digging into my hips, spine and shoulders, 
but after the first couple of nights I became used to it, having the sense to 
clear the space and scrape out a small depression before I lay down.
I must admit that I was intrigued by the sight of the night-shirted men, for 
they bore no resemblance to the statues and paintings of gods and athletes I had 
seen in various art galleries and museums in London. When we had travelled 
earlier in the wagon, there had been a blanket slung between them and me, but 
now it was amusing to see the strategems they underwent when they were changing: 
hiding behind the pony-lines, running off a couple of hundred yards and 
crouching down or doing as we used to do at school—undressing under our 
nightgowns. They were not as adept at this as I was . . .
Of course many of the workers we had passed in the fields, and some of the 
herdsmen also, wore the minimum of clothing, merely a brief loincloth, but this 
seemed normal and natural in the native population—but Claude and Danny had such 
skinny shanks! And without regular exposure to the sun, these limbs looked like 
white pipe-cleaners, especially Claude's!
The village we were headed for was some hundred and fifty miles distant and we 
reached it in just over a week. All the while we were gradually climbing, so 
gradually that sometimes it wasn't until we stopped for a meal or overnight camp 
and looked back the way we had come that we saw how far we had climbed. Now we 
could see the mountains we were aiming for; just a bluish suggestion on the 
horizon, but day by day gaining shape. Ky-Lin reckoned we had about another five 
hundred miles to go before we found a suitable pass though the mountains, which 
sounded pretty daunting, especially as we were well into September. Now that we 
were that much higher, the grass was not as tall, which made the going easier 
for the ponies, and we were instead passing through mini-meadows of blue, yellow 
and white flowers, dancing in the perpetual easterlies.
We spent two days in Mustaq's brother's village because, like many other 
horse-owners, their ponies grazed well away from the village and had to be 
rounded up. In the meantime we were lodged at one end of a smelly stable, 
divided from the sheep and goats by only a wooden paling. We ate well, though: 
pancakes, unleavened bread, cheese, lamb kebabs and spicy fried vegetables.
Mustaq's brother, Makub, was as like his brother as could be: small, dour and 
uncommunicative, with the same droopy moustaches. With the help of Ky-Lin we 
agreed a price, half down, the other half when we reached the mountains.
I bought provisions, though of course the price was much higher so far from a 
town: more rice, oil, dried meats and vegetables and fruit, firewood, plus some 
hard and rather smelly cheese. The poor pony carrying the food looked swaybacked 
by the time we had finished, but we knew these foods would have to last us three 
weeks at least, till we got through the mountains, as there were no more 
settlements on the way.
We made good progress during the next few days and Ky-Lin whispered that we had 
covered at least a third of our journey to the mountains.

The ground was becoming more broken up, and several times we crossed small 
gullies and streams, and even came across the odd tree. On the evening of the 
fourteenth day since we had left the village, our guide, Makub, suddenly became 
more convivial, and suggested he join us for supper, bringing a couple of spicy 
dishes to serve with our rice.
I didn't entirely trust this sudden change of heart, and something—perhaps it 
was the Ring—warned me against his food, and more particularly against the flask 
he offered round afterwards. I couldn't consult with Ky-Lin, as he had crept off 
some time before to forage for some fallen seeds he had seen earlier, but it was 
with a sinking heart that I saw even Toby take a draught from the flask, 
although he made a face and refused more. When it came to my turn I merely 
raised the flask to my lips and pretended to swallow, out of courtesy, but to my 
dismay Claude and Danny set to with a will until the flask was empty. They then 
broke into raucous song, music-hall ballads with dubious lyrics, some decidedly 
risqué, and I regret to say even Toby joined in.
It was very late when I managed to get them to bed and by then was exhausted 
myself and could only give the returned Ky-Lin an abbreviated version of what 
had happened. I fell asleep to the sound of loud snoring which drowned out the 
more pleasant sounds of the night.
It was still dark, though dawn wasn't far away, when I was awoken by a panicking 
Toby.
"Sophy, Sophy, wake up!"
I rolled over. "Whassa matter?"
" 'E's gorn!" It must be bad: he was back to Cockney again.
"Who's gone?"
" 'E 'as. The guide! I went out there to be sick, 'cos me stummick's fair 
terrible, and there's nothin' an' nobody there. There's nothin' but us! The 
dirty git's run orf with everythin'! Ponies, gear, the lot!"

Chapter Twenty
On Our Own
I tried to spring to my feet but fell to my knees, tangled in my blanket. 
Furiously I scrabbled free and went out into the pre-dawn, the skies already 
paling and the stars fading one by one. Toby was still retching, but Ky-Lin and 
Beau-cat were anxiously awaiting me. I gazed around: nothing. Toby was right. 
Makub had left us and taken everything with him. Even the Eg . . . A thief in 
the night.
What on earth were we going to do? Without food, water or transport we would 
surely perish, and even if Ky-Lin could guide us back to the village it was 
doubtful if we could make it. Besides which, the object of all this journeying 
had gone: without the Eg, what was the point of going on? I sank to my knees in 
despair, but there was a nudge from Ky-Lin.
"Get dressed," he hissed. "Quick as you can. Wake the others if you can, but I 
doubt it."
The first quickly done, the second impossible. They lay there and snored and 
snored and snored, and no amount of shouting, shaking or even kicking made the 
slightest bit of difference. I ran out of the shelter again to find Ky-Lin 
rapidly changing into his pony-size mode, as always in fits and starts, ending 
with the last shortened foot and a crumpled ear. Beau-cat was watching 
impassively, but Toby was still retching. Ky-Lin finished "changing" and briefly 
touched Toby's stomach with his horn.
"That should make it better . . . Tell him, girl, to stay here and get the 
others on their feet—if necessary drag them over to the stream and dunk them in 
it."
"What's the matter with them?"
"A powerful drug in that flask he gave them. The food was probably contaminated 
as well. You and Beau here had neither, which is why you are well enough." He 
paused. "Well, come on then . . ."
"Come on where? What are we going to do?"
"Go after him, of course! Climb on to my back and hang on tight."
"But we'll never catch him! He's been gone five or six hours. He must be at 
least twenty miles away!"
"With eight ponies? Probably only five or six. Come on, we're wasting precious 
time."
In fact it was a good ten.
Toby had had the dubious pleasure of riding Ky-Lin before and enjoyed it—I say 
dubious, because he wouldn't touch a living organism, so the progress was a 
hair-raising behind-bumping teeth-jarring nightmare—but to me it was an 
experience I preferred to forget, especially as Beau-cat had decided to 
accompany us, and was clinging on for dear life to the back of my (luckily) 
thick jacket. True, when we came to suitable stony ground Ky-Lin trotted instead 
of bounding, but when he finally drew to a halt I slid off his back, groaning 
and aching in every joint.
"Hush!" said Ky-Lin. "He's not far away. . . . Where does it hurt?"
"Everywhere," I groaned, but quietly. Even the cessation of movement was a 
treat.
"Sorry," he said. "But if we had left it any longer or been any slower he would 
have gone too far, and we must retrieve the Eg, or else I will entirely forfeit 
my time in Nirvana. Lie still." And quickly and expertly he dabbed me with his 
little pink horn, and immediately I felt better. Beau-cat seemed all right, 
although he was carefully straightening his claws to their correct alignment.
"Thanks . . ." I stretched and wriggled about a bit and discovered I was still 
in one piece. I started to get up but Ky-Lin stopped me
"Stay down. I told you he isn't far. Move forward to that large rock over there 
and take a quick peep."
By the time I reached the rock I had already seen the plume of smoke over to our 
right and when I cautiously raised my head I could see that Makub had built a 
small fire in a little dell, having tethered all but his own pony to a lone tree 
nearby.
"He reckons he's safe," breathed Ky-Lin in my ear. "What with the drug and the 
distance."
"What are we going to do? He's got a gun."
"Come back a bit and I'll tell you." Obediently Beau-cat and I followed him 
until we were out of earshot of the guide. "Now listen you two—"
I pointed at Beau-cat. "Will he understand?"
"We are both animals—" He stopped. "On second thoughts, put your Ring-finger on 
his collar—"
"He hasn't got one. A collar, I mean."
"Just because you haven't seen it, doesn't mean he hasn't got one."
I pushed my fingers into the soft fur around Beau-cat's neck and, sure enough, I 
could see a tatty brass-coloured chain, studded with green glass stones. I 
thought it might be too tight, but my finger fitted quite easily underneath.
"Now listen, and listen carefully, because we haven't time to go over it more 
than once. He will soon have finished his coffee . . ."
And he told us what we had to do.
* * ** * *
We didn't get back to the others until the sun was on its way down. What with 
rounding up the ponies, who had panicked, broken their halters and were anything 
up to a mile distant, and indulging ouselves in a scrappy meal, plus walking the 
beasts back, I wasn't surprised to see Toby had come a couple of miles down the 
track to look for us.
He was overjoyed to see us again, mounted one of the ponies and listened 
intently as I told him of our successful foray. He declared it was better than a 
play, but added: "Won't you have to tell the others about Ky-Lin now?"
I looked across at Ky-Lin, who was trotting, pony-size, among the other steeds.
"Well?"
"Probably as good a time as any. It would have to happen sooner or later, 
anyway. I'll stay behind while you explain, otherwise they'll probably die of 
fright. Break it to them gently; at least now there are no other humans around."
Claude and Danny were in a sorry state. They were still stumbling around 
half-dazed, alternately clutching at their heads and their stomachs. While Toby 
hobbled the ponies, ensured the Eg was safe, and looked out some rations, I 
built a small fire and heated up couscous and vegetables, telling the two 
disgraces to go down to the stream and not to return until they were sober, 
clean and presentable. This took some time, but eventually they returned as the 
moon rose and accepted a small bowl of food and drank water.
"Perhaps that will teach you to be a little more abstemious," I said severely. 
"You could have died, you know."
"I shall never, ever again touch strong liquors," said Claude. "Not ever." And 
as far as I know, he never has.
"What was it?" asked Danny. "Food poisoning?"
"Man poisoning. Makub was going to abandon us, steal our ponies and make his way 
to the village, where he probably had an arrangement with his brother to take 
our belongings back to town and sell them. He's probably done it before, on the 
less-frequented routes."
"You mean—he meant us to die?" asked Claude.
"Well, with no food and no transport, what else?"
Toby looked at me and I nodded. "Tell us then, dear Sophy, how you managed to 
get the horses back . . ." This we had rehearsed.
"Well," I started, "I couldn't have done it without the help of my friend Ky-Lin 
. . ." I turned my head and called out into the darkness. "Are you there?"
And out trotted Ky-Lin into the firelight.
A quarter-hour later, when Toby had found Claude cowering a couple of hundred 
yards away and I had caught up with Danny, and persuaded the pair of them that 
there was nothing to fear, I introduced them to the mythical creature, 
explaining that Toby had known about him from the beginning.
"And there were none of your stupid hysterics from him," I added. "Toby took him 
for what I said he was: someone sent to help us. And before you ask, my uncle 
bought him many years ago. If you remember I told you part of Summer's story, 
and he, Ky-Lin, accompanied her on part of her journey and was there at the 
inception of the Eg we are here to return."
I wasn't sure whether they were listening to me properly, and I must admit that 
a Ky-Lin by the fire in all his shimmering glory was a sight to behold.
"I might add," I said, "that he can also change his size. That is why you have 
not seen him before. He has usually been either in my or Toby's pocket. Show 
them, Ky-Lin."
Obediently, slowly, carefully he shrank back to dog, cat, rat, mouse size and 
scuttled across to my side.
"See?"
Claude and Danny scrambled back to their places by the fire.
"But how do you'se two understand each other?" asked Danny, a question I had 
been dreading.
"We have a necessary bond," I said carefully. "A sort of built-in interpreter." 
I was unwilling to explain the Ring fully, even to Toby. "Now would you like to 
hear how we beat Makub at his own game?"
"Er . . . You don't have one of your headache powders left, do you?" asked 
Claude.
As it happened I did, and dosed them both, before settling down to tell them of 
our Marvellous Adventure.
I explained Ky-Lin's plan to make the thief believe he was surrounded, which 
meant that we three had to move to different points, and then one by one make as 
much noise as possible. Beau-cat screamed as only a full-blooded Siamese cat can 
(which I admit made me jump out of my skin), I was to yell the Arabic for thief, 
something like "Harami!" then move a hundred yards to my left and groan loudly 
like a ghost. Then I was to return to my original position and yell "Thief!" 
again. And so we alternated, Ky-Lin making a sort of screeching noise like a 
giant eagle owl. By the time we had done this a half-dozen times Makub had had 
enough. After the first couple of shouts and yells he had fired his long Afghan 
rifle, then struggled to tip in more powder and shot, but as it was a 
muzzle-loader he only got off one more wayward shot before Ky-Lin burst on the 
scene in all his glory, and Makub took one terrified look before leaping onto 
his horse and heading north at a gallop.
"Will he get back?" asked Danny.
"Very probably. There is plenty of water, and his horse has grass. Ky-Lin says 
he will be very hungry . . . Perhaps it will teach him a lesson. Of course he 
will have a good story ready, telling them how we were ambushed by bandits, and 
he only just escaped with his life."
"Serve him right," said Claude. "Haven't we got an extra horse?"
"His baggage pony. A bit of food and some items we might use for bargaining, if 
necessary." I didn't tell them this latter consisted of tobacco, hashish, 
alcohol, opium and, of course, the rifle and ammunition.
"So, what do we do now?" asked Claude nervously.
"We go on, of course. We have food, transport and Ky-Lin will be our guide. He 
knows the way."
"Are you sure?" asked Danny.
"Of course," I said. But I wasn't. It wasn't that I had no faith in Ky-Lin's 
guidance, rather I had my reservations about our endurance. We still had a long 
way to go.
Ky-Lin guided us a little more east of the south-east we had been travelling so 
far. Now we were higher than we had ever been, the air was thinner and the dawn 
and dusk closer together as the year waned. Gradually we were assuming our 
winter clothes: no more night-shifts, rather sleeping in our underwear. The sun 
was still fierce at midday but the stars burnt cold at night. Consequently we 
started off each morning shortly after dawn, rested at midday for an hour, then 
pressed on till well after sundown.
Ahead of us the mountains reared like fearsome, jagged teeth, their tops 
snow-covered already, wreaths of powdered snow blown westward from their tips 
like ladies' shawls in a wind. Already we were near enough to see that the lower 
slopes were covered with thick pine forests, and could glimpse the glitter of 
the many small streams that cascaded down through ravines and gullies.
I had to admit we were making good progress, but for the past few days I had the 
feeling that we were being watched or followed. We had glimpsed a couple of 
herds of shaggy horses, and once I was sure I had caught sight of a mounted 
horseman. Both times the Ring had given a tiny jolt but nothing to suggest that 
danger was imminent. Beau-cat was also uneasy, his tail twitching irritably 
every now and again, but Ky-Lin kept his own counsel.
One night before we unfolded the tarpaulin and made a pocket of it on the 
ground, for greater warmth and protection, I asked Claude, busy making notes in 
one of his little black notebooks, what date it was?
"October fifth. Twenty-six days to go." I wished he hadn't sounded so cheerful.
Perhaps it was the thought that we only had three weeks and five days to go, 
perhaps it was because I had indulged myself with some cheese, but that night I 
found it difficult to sleep. My dreams were snatches of rubbish, and I couldn't 
get comfortable.
So, shortly before dawn I gave up all pretence at sleep and went and relieved 
myself, accompanied by an equally restless Beau-cat. We teamed up again on the 
way back to camp, but suddenly everything changed. The Ring gave an enormous 
stab, and Beau-cat lifted his head and hissed. "Quick! Run! Strangers are coming 
. . ." and he bounded away in the direction of the camp to alert the others. But 
before I had gone a dozen yards or so I was knocked to the ground from behind, 
my head wrapped in a thick covering and my hands fastened; I was then lifted 
from the ground and carried away.

Chapter Twenty-one
The Shaman
It was hot and stuffy in the felt tent, or yurt, and the smoke took its time 
leaving the animal-dung-burning brazier and finding its way out through the 
small hole in the roof.
My hands had been untied and I sat with Toby on one side, the men on the other 
and Ky-Lin tucked away in my collar, unseen. There was no sign of Beau-cat, but 
I comforted myself that of all the seven of us, he was best equipped to look 
after himself.
We had been given a space, rather like prisoners in a dock, but the rest of the 
yurt was crowded. Both men and women were dressed alike, in trews, short skirts, 
thick jackets and caps, the latter rising conically to a point, with embroidered 
ear-flaps. They were all swarthy, with plaited black hair and slanting eyes, the 
men with wispy beards and moustaches.
They didn't seem particularly menacing, although all the men wore knives in 
their belts or stuck in the tops of their high boots. The tent was about fifteen 
feet wide, roughly circular, and supported on thin wooden poles, and there were 
already some twenty-five people squatting on either side of us. Directly 
opposite us was a high stool, painted in bright colours and boasting an 
embroidered cushion, and the people kept glancing at the open tent-flap then the 
stool, as though expecting an honoured guest.
All at once there was a loud rattling noise and a thin, ululating cry, midway 
between that of a strangling dog at the end of its chain and an owl with a 
cough, and through the tent-flap came one of the tallest men I had ever seen, 
thin to the point of emaciation. He had to bend his bald head to enter, leaving 
the beams of sunshine outside to dance with motes of dust and pollen.
Everyone straightened up as he entered, and all talk ceased abruptly. He was 
dressed in skins and a loin-cloth; around his neck was a rattle of bones, from 
his pendulous ears dangled the same, and in his right hand he held a staff with 
a triple row of feathers. His face was decorated with a smudge of blue on both 
cheeks, a yellow line down his nose and a red chin.
He stood for a moment in the centre of the yurt, then raised his arm and rattled 
his staff deafeningly. All his people bowed their heads as if in worship, and he 
took his place on the stool like a king ascending his throne. Unfortunately he 
smelt like a midden.
"Local witch-doctor or shaman," murmured Ky-Lin in my ear. "Very important. We 
can ignore all the others. He is the one who will decide what happens to us."
"Is he very powerful—as a shaman?"
"Not particularly. Probably got the job because of his genetic defects—all that 
height and hairlessness. But don't underestimate his power over his people."
"Then what do we do?"
"First of all we listen. If I am not mistaken he is about to give us all a 
speech: I only hope his is a dialect I understand . . ."
Right on cue the shaman rose to his feet, pointed a finger at us (all his nails 
looked as if they had never been trimmed, yellow bits of corrugated horn that 
spiralled away from his finger-ends like corkscrews) and started off in an 
accusatory tone.
"Good," muttered Ky-Lin. "The dialect is based on Kurdish, and one I can now 
understand, although I didn't when I travelled with Summer, to my shame, but I 
have made myself fully conversant since then . . . He is asking who we are, 
where we came from, where we are bound, why we are in his tribe's grazing 
grounds. All this wrapped up in flowery persiflage to impress the rest of them. 
When he's finished he will invite us to reply, which I will do through you. Keep 
your head down, then he won't notice we don't synchronise. Tell the others to 
sit still and not interrupt or look bored."
I watched the shaman working himself up into his final frenzy, bones clanking, 
eyes rolled up into his head, spittle flying from his mouth. His audience was 
obviously impressed as he finally sat down, there was a hiss of approval. But he 
hadn't finished. After a moment to seize his breath, he stood up again, reached 
into a leather pouch at his waist and threw something into the glowing embers of 
the brazier. There was a flash and a bang, and a cloud of coloured stars filled 
the space in the roof of the yurt, to fall back and singe the carpets on which 
we sat.
We all jumped, except for Ky-Lin.
"Third rate," he observed. "All right for children. Poor quality gunpowder, 
mixed with sand and grit, and little plugs of barium nitrate. We can do better 
than that . . . Now it's our turn. Stand up, bow to the shaman, keep your head 
down, and do a regal wave now and again if I give you a nudge. Just to emphasize 
a point . . ."
Now Queen Victoria I was not, although I had seen her once driving in a London 
park with two of her daughters, and her "regal wave" had consisted of a languid 
black-gloved hand being raised an inch or two and doing a quarter-turn in the 
air.
"Right," I said. I turned to the others and repeated Ky-Lin's instructions, then 
rose to my feet. It didn't help that one of them had gone to sleep, but to 
disguise this I did a little shuffle-like dance turning in a circle before 
facing my audience. My heart was beating like a captured bird, but after ten 
minutes and Ky-Lin was still droning away in my voice, I relaxed a little. I 
mouthed, I nodded, I shook my head, I waved my hands every now and again on cue. 
As I gained confidence I overdid it.
"Steady on," murmured Ky-Lin. "You'll never make Covent Garden at this rate . . 
."
In between "our" speech, he told me what he was saying. We were on a special 
mission, but had left our trail on purpose to meet the great and fabled horsemen 
of the Plains, who were in a position to help us, if they so wished.
Of course the fame of the shaman had also preceded him, and we had brought a 
couple of gifts as appreciation for receiving us so cordially.
"Tell Toby to go to Makub's horse and unearth a packet of hashish—just one, 
mind—and ditto of tobacco."
After a moment or two of indecision he was allowed to go, escorted of course, 
and when he returned he reported that our gear had not been touched, but that 
the ponies had been hobbled and were grazing.
"Good," muttered Ky-Lin. "That means they are still undecided how to deal with 
us."
To say the shaman was pleased with his gift would have been an understatement. 
His eyes gleamed, his tall bean-pole body gave a little shimmy, but of course 
his words were less effusive. He thanked us as if we had merely gifted him a 
half-dozen eggs, but his fingers were trembling as he pulled out a kind of pipe 
from his tatty clothing and proceeded to pack it with a lot of hashish and a 
little tobacco, lit it and puffed contentedly, until the sweetish smell of the 
drug over-rode all other odours.
I could see the other members of the tribe sniffing appreciatively. Was it 
possible, I wondered to myself, to become affected by the smoke?
"Very unlikely," murmured Ky-Lin, reading my thoughts again. "But any noxious 
fumes from that sort of thing can harm others . . . Now I am going to demand 
breakfast!"
It worked. Ten minutes later we were presented with bowls of a milky porridge, 
followed by a sort of blood-sausage wrapped in rice-flour pancakes, and bowls of 
pale tea. Everyone was eating with us, and I noticed their appreciation was 
expressed by loud belchings.
"Tell the others to copy," said Ky-Lin. "Bad manners not to."
Toby managed well enough, so did Danny, but Claude and I, try as we would, 
couldn't even manage the tiniest burp. Having been brought up to repress any 
such manifestation of bodily functions, I found I was now surprisingly 
embarrassed atnotbeing able to!
"Wait for it," murmured Ky-Lin. "First Master Claude . . ." A moment later 
Claude apparently obliged, looking as startled as if he had sat on a thistle, 
wondering where the sound had come from. "Yes," said Ky-Lin. "I can throw my 
voice. Useful sometimes. Your turn . . ."
My expressions of appreciation were more genteel, but still I blushed.
"Now down to business," said Ky-Lin when the debris had been cleared away. 
"First we'll soften them up with a story . . . Ready?"
He proceeded to tell them the story of the little slave-boy Summer had called 
"Tug," because she couldn't pronounce his name, whom she had rescued and taken 
with her on her journeying, until he had been fortuitously re-united with his 
tribe.
Ky-Lin's account however, differed a little from the fragment I remembered from 
my uncle's summary. "Once upon a time, many, many moons ago, before your 
father's father's father's time, a prince was born to your people. At that time 
your herds stretched from dawn to sunset across the plains and your people were 
as numerous as the stars in the sky . . ."
The shaman was half-asleep, but everyone else shuffled forward on their heels, 
and the light from the tent-flap was dimmed as those outside leant in to listen 
too. It seemed that like children all over the world, there was nothing these 
people loved better than a story.
"This prince, Xytilchihijyckntug—" There was a great gasp from the audience and 
several of them nudged each other, so perhaps Ky-Lin had got it right. Even the 
shaman now had one eye open. "This prince could outrun the wind, outride the 
greatest horseman in the world, throw a spear farther than the eye could see and 
charm both men and women with his wit and wisdom. He visited other peoples to 
bring back to his own people the best of other cultures. He lived to a great 
age, outliving his three wives and was survived by fourteen sons and seven 
daughters. When he died it seemed the whole world mourned his passing, for the 
sun withheld his face for seven days, the moon was veiled, the winds were hushed 
and the clouds wept for sorrow . . ."
In other words, it rained for a week.
"But the story I have to tell," continued Ky-Lin (and me), "concerns a time when 
the prince was only a young boy, some ten or eleven years old . . ." And he went 
on to tell the story more or less as I knew it. How the boy was captured, sold 
and re-sold until Summer bought him at auction, being the nice girl she was, and 
how they travelled together until they came across some of his tribespeople 
performing at a fair, when he went back with them. Not as briefly as that, of 
course, but with much verbiage and colourful episodes which served to show the 
young prince's promise, even at that age.
Our audience were quiet as mice, except for now and again a little "hoo!" or 
"ha!" of appreciation.
There was no mention of the Ring, nor how Tug had repaid his debt by rescuing 
Summer from jail, instead I heard to my astonishment thathe had taughtherhis 
language, instead of the other way round, which is why I could speak it now. 
Apparently too, Summer had put off her own journeyings in order to return him to 
his people without delay.
I began to see where all this was leading: the idea of a long-ago debt that now 
needed repaying—but Ky-Lin was winding up his peroration.
"They finally parted with tears of regret, the prince swearing a solemn oath on 
the bones of his forefathers that if ever Summer, her heirs or friends needed 
help from him or his tribe, in the however distant future, that help would be 
forthcoming. And now," said Ky-Lin simply, "we are here to collect the debt."
But how, I wondered, were we going to persuade these people that we were 
Summer's heirs and assigns after all this time?
Our audience glanced at one another, not sure whether they had heard aright and 
the shaman suddenly snapped upright on his stool and glared at us suspiciously.
"Before you presume to collect this so-called debt—" (Ky-Lin translating) "—I 
should first want proof that you are what you say you are . . ."
"Of course!" Ky-Lin and I interrupted. "You could not believe we would offend 
your hospitality by impersonation? If you will be patient for a moment or two 
longer we will present our credentials. I must tell you a little more about the 
girl, Summer, who rescued your prince from a life of slavery and degradation . . 
."
Skipping over the awkward bits, Ky-Lin and I told of how Summer, while with the 
prince, had been entrusted with a fabulous dragon's egg—gasp from the 
audience—which, after she had seen the prince safely back with his people, she 
had carried to the dragon's lair in a certain Blue Mountain.
As she attempted to return the egg, it had been stolen by a traitorous 
companion, and she had lost her life in consequence. (Sympathetic groans from 
the audience.) For many moons the egg had been lost, but it had now been found, 
and the dragons wanted it back. They had given my brother and me and our two 
servants until the next full moon to return the egg, otherwise they would issue 
forth from the Blue Mountain and lay ravage to all the lands within their reach, 
carry off the young women and children, kill the men and the horses.
We had been abandoned by our guide, who had run off with food and transport, so 
we needed their aid to reach our objective in time, before the dragons revolted. 
. . .
How were Ky-Lins allowed to tell such awful whoppers, I wondered? Perhaps they 
crossed their hooves, like we crossed our fingers behind our backs.
Our audience were impressed, no doubt about that, but the shaman hadn't finished 
with us.
"And where is this fabulous egg?" he demanded, rattling all his bone 
decorations. "And how is it that you came into its possession?"
Ky-Lin had obviously thought about this one, because the answer came pat enough. 
"Because I inherited from Summer the ability to recognise it for what it is, and 
also because I can converse with animals, as she could, and as your prince will 
have told you."
The shaman could obviously neither confirm nor deny this last, but demanded to 
see the egg, so off Toby went once more and fetched it back wrapped as usual in 
my shawl. As he unwrapped it I could see just how much it had grown since the 
last time I saw it. It must now weigh at least twelve pounds, and seemed to be 
glowing slightly. There was a definite warmth there too.
I invited the shaman to come forward and inspect it. He walked around it, leant 
over and peered at it closely then finally, very gingerly, poked out a bony 
finger and touched it, then snatched it away again, obviously surprised by its 
warmth.
I/we invited him to listen to it, see if he could hear anything. He knelt down 
with a rattle of bones and applied his left ear to the Eg. At first he shook his 
head, then suddenly stiffened, touched a finger to his own heart and then leant 
forward again, only to shoot back in a surprisingly agile somersault, his mouth 
an O of amazement and awe.
"I added a hiss or two," murmured Ky-Lin. "And a very little roar . . . Don't 
worry: he was the only one who heard it."
I turned my chuckle into a cough. Surely now we had convinced everyone! The 
shaman, however, wanted one last try.
"You said that this—Summer?—could converse with animals? And that you have 
inherited that gift?"
I nodded, panicking. How to prove it?
"Beau . . ." murmured Ky-Lin.
"But he's—"
"Here," said Beau-cat, nudging the back of my knee. "Been hiding."
I knelt down and whispered. "That silly old wizard over there wants proof that 
we can communicate. It's very important. Could you forget your dignity for a 
moment and, say, walk in a circle, sit up and beg, and lie down and roll from 
side to side?"
He looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes. "What's it worth?"
I blinked. It was unlike him to ask for favours. "What do you suggest?"
The answer, when it came, was so unexpected that I almost forgot where we were.
"How about a kiss?"
I was scandalised. "One doesn't kiss cats."
"Oh, well: worth a try . . . Now, what was it you wanted me to do again?"
Strolling into the middle, he gazed around the audience with that haughty air 
that some cats seem to be able to summon at will. The people shuffled back, 
obviously not used to such a large animal—he certainly had grown since I had 
rescued him: almost twice as big, I reckoned.
He looked back at me. "Now?"
"Please . . ."
He went through the routine with an air of the utmost boredom, as if humouring a 
group of children, and when he had finished he sat down and washed his face, to 
some applause.
The shaman hung on, however. "How do I know this is not a well-established 
routine?" He rattled his bones menacingly.
"Then you choose something you want him to do, and I will instruct him . . ."
"Tell him, then, to jump over the brazier. And back again."
This would not be easy. The brazier, on its tripod, stood perhaps four feet from 
the ground, and it was glowing with heat.
I explained to Beau. "Can you do it?" I asked anxiously. "I don't want you to 
hurt yourself."
For answer he stood up, backed away a little, eyed his target and then leapt, 
not once but four times: twice there, twice back. The audience burst into 
spontaneous applause and Beau-cat retreated to my side.
"Satisfied?"
"Not bad—for a cat," said Ky-Lin. "Now, Miss Sophy, let's finish this with some 
fireworks of our own. Raise your arms above your head, bring them down slowly, 
then point your index fingers at the fire."
The resultant display of coloured balls, stars, ribbons of smoke and tongues of 
fire almost emptied the yurt, but to their credit Toby, Danny and Claude stayed 
where they were, with the cat.
I looked around for the scorch-marks on the rugs that lined the tent but there 
weren't any.
"Pure illusion," said Ky-Lin. "They saw what they wanted to see. And now," he 
added briskly, "I think some luncheon is in order!"
Pancakes, cheese and milky tea later and we were ready to go. We had fresh, 
tough-looking little ponies, extra food, fuel and blankets, and two guides, only 
too anxious to get going.
Ky-Lin reminded me that we shouldn't need any of Makub's hashish or opium 
anymore, so we left the majority for the shaman, keeping some back for our 
guides.
We didn't see the shaman again; I think he had retired to bed with a headache. 
Of one thing I was sure: he was glad to see the back of us.
Later that night after we had made camp and had eaten some more of the delicious 
blood-sausage I had warmed up, I congratulated Ky-Lin on his strategy, and 
Beau-cat on his bravery.
"I knew we were all right if we survived the initial attack," said Ky-Lin. "All 
children love a story, love to be frightened by tales of dragons and suchlike, 
and adore fireworks. And that's all they were: gullible children."
"Well I, for one," said Claude, "will miss their delicious food. The milky tea 
was most refreshing."
"I prefer less milk in mine," said Danny. "But these sausages are the best I've 
tasted in an age."
"Good," said Ky-Lin. "You'll probably get offered some more before this trip is 
over. The pack-ponies are mares, and the other ponies have already been cupped 
more than once."
Toby and I understood at once, I think, but the other two had to have it 
explained to them.
"How else would they get fresh milk and blood, except from their horses?" said 
Toby, though he was looking a bit green. "It obviously doesn't harm the horses, 
otherwise they wouldn't do it."
I remembered something I had read once. "I believe they prefer their milk 
fermented: they say it's a nice refreshing drink . . ."
Without a word the other two got up and disappeared in different directions, not 
coming back for some time . . .

Our guides didn't believe in wasting time. They hurried and harried us from dawn 
till dusk, determined to be rid of us as soon as possible.
They were probably scared that the Eg would hatch out while we were travelling, 
and woke us up before dawn, curtailed our lunch-break and had us on the move 
until long after the sun had gone down.
The little ponies were more than equal to the task, and even Claude didn't fall 
off so often. Rapidly the mountains drew nearer, and fearsome they looked, with 
sharp inclines, jagged tops, steep cliffs and great icicles hanging hundreds of 
feet up.
It was much, much colder, and we were glad of the extra blankets at night. We 
were already wearing most of our winter gear, and Beau-cat's fur was growing 
longer and thicker.
On the sixth day we left the plains for good and started to climb through 
increasingly dense forest of pine and fir, their thick, resinous smell with us 
all day. It was also getting difficult to breathe again with the increased 
altitude. Their was no definite path to follow but our guides were adept at 
finding the easiest way, sometimes having to hack a gap for us with their little 
axes.
We all felt a little odd: Claude had a couple of nose-bleeds, Danny started 
talking to himself and I had a slight headache, but Ky-lin told me that this was 
just a touch of mountain-sickness, which affected different people in different 
ways, and it would pass as we became more acclimatised.
We climbed for three more days, more slowly as the ascent grew steeper, and 
Ky-Lin worried as to how we would carry our food and gear once our guides had 
left with their horses. Toby suggested that we try to build a sledge, so for two 
nights we laboured, with the aid of the guides and their efficient axes, who 
chopped pine and spruce, until we had a reasonable enough sledge, capable of 
carrying at least our food, fuel and any extra gear. All the rest would have to 
be carried in our haversacks.
At last we reached the head of the pass and made camp in one of the most bleak 
and exposed places I had ever seen, open on all sides to the weather.
"They should call this Four-Winds Crossing," said Danny, shivering like the rest 
of us as we huddled round a sparse fire. What he said was true: wherever we sat 
or crouched, there was an icy wind at our back. I crossed over to the guides and 
handed them some hashish and a couple of pellets of opium for helping us. They 
accepted with grunts, but I could see all they were waiting for was their 
departure in the morning.
In the event they didn't wait for dawn, but were packed up and gone without a 
goodbye by the time we had struggled awake.
"Right," said Ky-Lin. "Now for it!" and he stretched and creaked and popped 
until he was once more pony-size, which still made Danny and Claude nervous. 
"Told you I would pull my weight. Load up the sledge then, and let's get going. 
It's all downhill from here . . ."

Chapter Twenty-two
River of Ice
What Ky-Lin didn't say was that going down could be quite as painful as 
climbing, for you were using completely different muscles; also falling upwards 
wasn't as perilous as falling down a slope—in fact some of that first descent 
was so steep that we had to hold the sledge back rather than pull it behind us.
That initial way down wound irritatingly between interlocking spurs of the 
mountains, so although we moved as fast as we could, as far as losing height was 
concerned it was a slow business. We stopped for a quick mid-day snack, cheese 
and dried fruit, and then pressed on. Later a few flakes of snow drifted down, 
and the sky was a greyish yellow.
Ky-Lin looked anxious. "There's a lot more snow up there—we'll need shelter 
tonight. These hills are mainly limestone, so there should be caves further 
down."
By sundown we had managed to find a small scoop in the hillside, surrounded by 
boulders, with an overhang of rock. I made a fire and boiled up enough rice and 
fish to last until the following night and, at Ky-Lin's suggestion, put the pan 
outside to catch any snow for filling our water-bottles.
It was a miserable night. Quite apart from the moaning wind that seemed 
determined to seek us out, both with noise and cold, and the rattle of stones 
intermittently falling from the rocks above, we all ached all over. Ky-Lin 
touched us all with his healing horn and that alleviated the pains a little, but 
did nothing for the cold; however I was comforted by the warmth of Beau-cat, who 
crept under my blankets and snuggled up against my back.
It had been snowing heavily overnight; as we progressed the sun melted most of 
it away, but the ground was slippery and several times I ended up on my behind. 
One consolation was that the spurs of the mountains were widening and our course 
downwards was faster and easier, although the going was very uneven: smooth 
rock, stony clefts, thin soil.
At last we rounded the last spur of the mountain and there before us, some five 
hundred feet below, was a wide valley, sloping gently towards the horizon, the 
midday sun glittering on what looked like a sliver of river, that grew larger as 
it progressed southward.
"Great! Now we can float the sledge down the water," said Danny, clapping his 
hands together; he was tired of dragging on the ropes.
"Not on there we can't." said Ky-Lin. "And tell him, tell them all, not to make 
any sudden loud noises." He glanced up at the mountains on either side. "There's 
enough snow up there to give us all a nasty shock."
"Why can't we float the sledge?"
"Because that isn't a river of water: it's a river of ice. A glacier."
A glacier! I had heard of them, read something about them many years ago. 
Rapidly I translated Ky-Lin's words to the others, who gazed down at it with a 
wonder equal to my own.
"Well, if it's a river of ice, why can't we slide the sledge along it?"
"Not on that surface," said Ky-Lin. "At least, not for more than a short 
distance. It is like a badly iced cake, and is rough with stones, rocks, 
whatever has got caught up with it over the years. Also, it moves, albeit 
slowly, more towards the middle and the edges tend to pile up with rubbish. 
You'll see when we get there."
I translated again, and then we began the steep descent, which was quite the 
most hazardous part of our journey so far; it was far steeper than we had had to 
cope with so far, and at one stage we were literally clinging to the rocks with 
the sledge dangling beneath us. All the while Ky-Lin was trying to educate me 
with talk of moraines, ablation, neves, sublimation, crystallisation, firn and 
crevasses, but I'm afraid I was too busy trying to get down in one piece to pay 
much attention. Afterwards I wished I had, but by then it was too late.
The glacier started like a thin tongue of ice, but gradually widened until it 
filled most of the valley. As Ky-Lin had predicted, it was very difficult to 
walk upon. Not only was it both skiddy and slidy, it was also gritty, fissured 
and uneven. The sledge was more difficult to manage than before, because we had 
to seek out the smoother bits all the time, or lift it bodily over ridges as 
high as my waist. Of all of us, the terrain was toughest on Beau-cat. Not 
because he wasn't far more agile than the rest of us, but because of the 
tenderness of his paws; he could manage stones and rocks, but the gritty surface 
of the glacier scratched and tore at his pads, so for the most part he rode on 
the sledge.
The one bonus we had was to realise how we were definitely moving downhill, 
cheered at our pause to eat at mid-day to see the highest mountains receding 
behind us.
"Another two or three days," said Ky-Lin.
We took turns with the sledge, generally an hour at a time, although Ky-Lin, 
pony-size, always did a double stint. After eating that day it was Toby's and my 
turn, it being easier with two at once, each with a length of rope. Suddenly 
Toby stopped on a smooth stretch, so abruptly that the sledge ran into the back 
of my legs.
"Ouch! What's the matter?"
"Quick, over here everyone!" he shouted. "Just look at this!"
"Hush!" said Ky-Lin, sharply. "We don't want to bring the snows down on us."
"What is it?" Claude, Danny and I were over by his side in a moment, for he was 
pointing downward through the ice.
"Look," he breathed. "Just look at that . . ."
Generally the ice was cloudy and we could not see more than an inch or so 
beneath the surface, but here we could see far farther by a freak of the 
glacier's movement. What we saw was like something out of a book of faery. 
There, trapped beneath the ice, were the antlered heads of two enormous stags, 
locked in a battle of death. Anywhere else their bones would have long ago 
vanished, but here they were forever immortalised. We could only clearly see 
their heads, part of their shoulders and one leg, but they were so large, even 
at this distance beneath the ice, that I found it hard to believe they had ever 
existed.
"Giant elk," said Ky-Lin. "Some call them Irish elk, because their remains have 
been found in the peat bogs of that island. Peat is a good preservative."
"Why the two of them together?" asked Toby. "Did they kill each other at the 
same time?"
I translated Ky-Lin's reply for him. No, one would die first, but because their 
antlers were locked solid, the other wouldn't be able to free itself, and would 
die later of wounds or starvation, as sometimes happens even now with the red 
deer of Europe.
I shivered, not only because it was cold, with the bitter north wind chasing us 
down the valley, but also because it was sad to think of death coming that 
way—the victor becoming the vanquished. Somehow for a brief moment a thousand 
years, two, three became now and they were here—
I shivered again.
"Come on," said Ky-Lin gently. "We've a way still to go before nightfall.They 
are history:we are now. Their reincarnations will have passed through many 
stages by now." I had forgotten he was a follower of the Buddha.
That night we found a better cave, which seemed warmer, but this, we discovered, 
was because of the snow which had again fallen overnight. The wind semed to have 
increased and was pluming the snow on the tips of the mountains into puffs of 
what looked like mist, and drove icy particles skittering unpleasantly across 
the ice of the glacier.
All night long we had been aware of the creaks and groans of the glacier as it 
moved in the centre at an average of one foot per day. Fresh-fed by spring melts 
it would flow faster, also in the heat of summer, but now it was almost static. 
Despite this it still made the most weird noises as the ice rubbed against the 
banks, or thrust up a barrier in the centre.
What happened later was meant to be, perhaps not. All I know is it changed our 
journey irrevocably. It was a mistake, my mistake, and a costly one.
It was Toby's and my stint to pull the sledge, the last one before our midday 
halt. We had done a half-hour when Toby went off to relieve himself. The sledge 
was much lighter now, because of the food and fuel we had consumed and I didn't 
find it too burdensome, but the Afghan rifle kept getting in the way. Danny had 
insisted on bringing it with us, saying darkly that "it might come in useful," 
but so far it had just been a nuisance. For the dozenth time it hit me in the 
back of the legs and I lost patience. Tugging it free, I sent it skidding across 
the ice in Danny's direction.
"If you want this, then carry it yourself . . ."
"Now don't get in a paddy, darlin' girl . . ."
"For the last time, I'm not your darlin' girl!" and I pulled away as fast as I 
could. Not far to go now: another couple of days or so and our journey would be 
over. I fell into a reverie of just what I would do when I got back to Hightop 
Hall, and saw that I was falling behind with my daydreaming. Seeing a nice long, 
smooth, stretch of untrodden snow, sloping down for at least two hundred yards, 
I thought: perfect! Why pull when one could ride?
Gathering up the ropes I went to the back of the sledge and gave it a shove, 
then ran forward and jumped on as it gathered speed. My weight made it go even 
faster and I waved gaily to the others as I drew level. Toby waved back, but it 
was with both arms and urgently, while Ky-Lin started to bound across the ice 
towards me. I waved again, to assure them I was fine—
Then the world disappeared.
One moment I was accelerating along the fresh snow trying to keep the sledge in 
a straight line, as I had when a child, delighting in whizzing down the slopes 
near the village, to tumble off at the bottom and be scooped up in my father's 
arms, the next I was falling into oblivion, my mouth full of snow, blocking out 
my shout of panic. There was a bump that nearly knocked the breath from my 
lungs, a knock on my head and momentarily I lost consciousness.
I opened my eyes again to a blur of white, pain, a dragging sensation in my left 
wrist, piercing cold and complete disorientation. There was a creaking, 
crunching noise in my ears, the falling of stones . . .
"Stay still, stay perfectly still . . ." It was Ky-Lin's voice in my ears, 
thought rather than the spoken word. "Just don't move, however much it hurts. 
We're coming to get you. No, don't look up: justwait.Don't try to talk . . ."
I did as I was told, desperately fighting all my instincts to move, to yell out 
my terror, to wriggle free of whatever held me fast. I was shivering like the 
leaves on an aspen tree, my teeth chattering like the proverbial castanets. All 
I could see from my prone position was a wall of ice, layered like a giant 
sandwich: white, grey, stony, clear, cloudy, thick, thin. Even the strips were 
wavering before my eyes, for my shivering was growing uncontrollable.
All at once there was a creaking noise above me and instinctively I cowered, 
fearing a fall of rock, but a moment later I saw a pair of feet followed by the 
attached legs, and a moment later there came the reassuring voice of Toby.
"It's all right, Sophy: just lay still."
Idiotically I wanted to correct his English. "Lie . . ." I whispered, but I'm 
sure he didn't hear me.
"Keep still. I know you're cold and you hurt, but for the moment you are best 
just laying there while I set things up. You're on a ledge—that's why you 
mustn't move—and I'm going to land just beside you. The sledge-rope is still 
attached to your wrist, and I'm going to cut it loose so they can haul you up. 
Meanwhile I shall stay with you." He was speaking in a very low voice, as if he 
feared he would bring a further fall down on us.
It seemed to take an age. I could feel his feet nudging my body, hear the sawing 
of the rope, and then suddenly my wrist was free, the pain started to subside 
and a creaking, bumping noise told me the sledge was being retrieved. I was now 
so cold my teeth no longer chattered: they felt as though they were glued 
together, and I was sure that if I bit my tongue I wouldn't feel it.
There was another slithering noise and then Toby was fastening the rope around 
my waist. He thrust my hands around something, but I couldn't feel what it was.
"Now, hang on and don't struggle. You'll be perfectly safe. Don't look down . . 
."
There was a sudden jerk, and I screamed as I found myself spinning and twisting 
in space. For a long moment I panicked, as the rope slipped from my waist to my 
chest, and I was afraid of the disgrace of soiling myself, but luckily I had to 
concentrate on just breathing, for my weight was tightening the rope cruelly. At 
last I realised I was moving upwards and, risking a look, I saw a ring of faces 
above me, spinning slowly round.
It seemed like forever, but it could only have been a couple of minutes later 
that my front was being scraped painfully across the lip of the crevasse into 
which I had fallen, as I was finally hauled to safety. I was pulled away across 
the ice to safety, and a moment later Danny was rubbing my arms and legs, and as 
Toby was hauled to the surface by Claude and Ky-Lin, all joined in carrying me 
to the edge and wrapping me in blankets, while a warm, furry blanket wound 
itself round my neck and proceeded to lick at my ears and nose. I attempted 
feebly to push away Beau-cat's rasping tongue, but Ky-Lin stopped me.
"Let him. Best thing for you: we don't want frostbite."
Ky-Lin pronounced that there were no bones broken, just bumps and bruises and a 
slightly sprained wrist.
"No more travelling today. Stay where you are, and I'll scout around for a 
decent shelter." No words of blame for stupid behaviour: if I had been wider 
awake I would have realised there was some good reason why the rest of the party 
had been on a completely different course. I was lucky to be alive, I knew that 
now, and I tried, inadequately, to thank them all.
I felt even worse when I discovered that the sledge was a write-off and that we 
had lost a lot of the heavier provisions: rice, fuel, honey, the axe and larger 
cooking-pot. We still had one spare blanket, a small pan, some flour, dried meat 
and fruit, but it was a pitifully small heap. Thank goodness there were only a 
couple of days or so to go. . . .
Ky-Lin found us a roomier cave than usual, and once we had everything inside it 
started to snow again, so we probably wouldn't have got far even without my 
"accident." Claude and Danny were trying to wrest apart the shattered remains of 
the sledge, but they needed the missing axe.
"Pity!" said Danny. "It would have made a broth of a fire."
"The wood's damp anyway," said Claude. "No, it's hopeless."
I was still shivering, and there was a tightness in my chest. Ky-Lin glanced at 
me anxiously.
"Claude is wrong," he said. "Nothing is entirely hopeless . . . Tell them to 
stand back from the sledge."
Somewhere at the back of my mind I seemed to recall a fragment of Summer's 
journey: was it something to do with Ky-Lin splitting rocks, or metal, or 
something?
There was a sudden flash of light, a scrunching noise, chips of wood seemed to 
fly everywhere, then rearranged themselves into a neat heap of firewood in the 
corner of the cave.
"Wow!" said Danny and Claude in unison.
"How did he dothat ?" asked Toby.
"Tell him," said Ky-Lin, "that it is literally the triumph of mind over matter."
"Magic?"
Ky-Lin shook his head. "No magic. Just a simple matter of disassociating various 
elements into their separate constituents and reassembling them into a 
combination more acceptable to our present needs."
I tried to translate this but failed: I hadn't the slightest idea what he was 
talking about. I glanced at Ky-Lin and thought I detected the fragment of a 
smile—obviously he didn't want me to understand, or he was making the whole 
thing up and itwas magic.
We lit a small but warming fire and Claude took over the cooking, producing 
pancakes with the last of the flour and pouring melted cheese over them. 
Everything else would have to be divided up between us and carried in the 
haversacks, but we decided to leave this until morning, especially as Ky-Lin had 
diminished in size, explaining to me that splitting the wood had weakened him 
somewhat. I made sure he ate part of a pancake and some dried fruit, then he 
curled up in a corner and slept till morning, when he seemed almost fully 
recovered.
That afternoon while Claude soaked some dried meat to add to a supper of rice, 
we played desultory word-games, several times looking out to see whether it had 
stopped snowing, but it hadn't. The tightness in my chest didn't seem to lessen, 
and that night I kept waking up with a troublesome little cough.
In the morning everything was covered with a fresh fall of snow that squeaked 
its protest underfoot and clogged our footsteps. We had parcelled out what 
remained of our goods, Toby being in charge solely of the Eg, which was by far 
the heaviest individual burden.
"Take care now," advised Ky-Lin, now nearly back to pony-size. "If we keep to 
the edge of the glacier, the snow will have cushioned the rough places."
We made reasonable progress, and before long I was perspiring. I looked across 
at the others: they too were mopping their brows and Danny, now using the long 
Afghan rifle as a walking stick, had undone his jacket.
Ky-Lin lifted his nose and sniffed the wind, which had swung round to the south. 
"There's a temporary thaw coming, he said. "We shall have to take extra care. 
This will activate small streams and rivulets and may well loosen the snow above 
us. We'd better move out into the centre of the glacier, just in case."
We ate a frugal luncheon under an overhang so we didn't have to sit on the snow, 
then moved out again. We had been plagued by thin wisps of mist all morning as 
the sun sucked up moisture from the snow, but suddenly these cleared temporarily 
and we all saw it at once. There, admittedly at least a day's journey away, was 
a green valley.
We gazed at it disbelievingly for at least a minute before the mists closed in 
again, then we all started talking at once.
"Are you sure that wasn't a mirage?"
"We should be there tomorrow!"
"What a relief to see a bit of green again!"
"At last some proper food . . ."
Then what should have been the impossible happened.
Danny, in his exuberance raised the Afghan rifle in the air and mimed what we 
had seen the tribesmen do in reality: firing a round into the air. He pulled the 
trigger twice, mouthing silent "Bang-bangs."
Then three things happened simultaneously. Ky-Lin whispered an urgent "No!" the 
Ring gave a tremendous stab, and Danny pressed the trigger for the third time. 
There was a terrific bang that ricocheted from side to side of the ravine, then 
a horrible hush.
Danny threw the rifle away, whispering: "I didn't know it was loaded!" and we 
all glanced at each other in terror. For a moment it looked as though we might 
have got away with it, but the Ring was still stabbing away furiously and Ky-Lin 
was herding us urgently towards the edge of the glacier.
"Find us a cave, a large one, Master Beau!"
Then it came.
At first it was a rumble so low that it was almost under the threshold of sound, 
but it grew in pitch and intensity until it drowned all other sound. We ran as 
fast as we could, but the clinging snow impeded our progress, and it was like 
trying to run in thick, dry sand. We were only half-way to the edge when Ky-Lin 
left my side and went back the way he had come, and to my horror I saw Toby had 
fallen. I ran a few more faltering steps and then glanced back. Toby was 
hobbling and Ky-Lin took him up on his back and started back towards us, but at 
that very moment a huge slab of ice came skating down the glacier towards them.
I stifled a scream, saw Ky-Lin leap aboard the ice, carrying Toby, and then the 
vanguard of the avalanche was upon us.
With a huge rumbling roar and an icy blast of air the snow bore down on us like 
huge waves on the sea-shore, turning over and over, curling and spuming, 
cresting impossibly high. I looked for Toby and Ky-Lin but couldn't see them, 
forgetting my own danger until hands grabbed me from either side and dragged me 
away.
I couldn't see for the tears in my eyes. Gone, probably for ever, were Toby, 
Ky-Lin and the Eg. Not that the last mattered against the lives of the other 
two: people I had loved, my especial friends. I would have given anything to 
have them back beside me.
A moment later I was pulled into a black hole, the rumbling and crashing behind 
me intensified, I was thrown to the ground and then utter darkness . . .

Chapter Twenty-three
The Caves
The dark . . .
Darkness and pain and partial deafness, choking on dust, the rumble of stone, 
panic of emptiness—
"I'm here, I'm here!" A brush of fur against my hand. "Don't panic! Just get 
your breath back and sit up. We are in a large cave and are safe for the moment. 
Claude, Danny, you and I. And nobody's hurt; just a few bruises, that's all. I'm 
going to leave you for a moment to explore but I'll be back in a few minutes."
It was the longest speech he had made through the Ring: I realised that, even in 
my distressed state.
A wail came from somewhere to my right. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Myhead! "
"Yourhead! It wasmy head you hit with yours!"
"And whose fault was that, may I ask? Where are we, anyway? And where's Sophy?"
"I'm over here, to your left. Stop arguing and come and join me . . ."
Scrabbling, scraping sounds, suppressed swearing and we were all together. A 
quick hug all round, and then the questions. I wanted to know if they had seen 
any more of Toby and Ky-lin than I had, the answer no, and they both wanted to 
know where we were.
"Sure, and they were together," said Danny. "And a canny old thing like Ky-Lin 
knows how to survive."
"He won't let Toby come to any harm," comforted Claude. "They are probably 
looking for us now. . . ."
I told them what Beau had told me, and a moment later he was back, rubbing 
against my knees.
"No way out the way we came in, I'm afraid. The fall brought down part of the 
entrance tunnel, and it must be blocked by at least twelve feet of debris."
I could hear the panic in my voice. "You mean—we're trapped? If there's no way 
out we'll die!" Without thinking I had spoken the words aloud, instead of by 
thought-process through the Ring, and immediately I could hear the others 
muttering hysterically.
"Now look what you've done," said Beau-cat. "I never said we were trapped."
"We're in a cave, aren't we, and you said the entrance was blocked—shut up you 
two—so we must be trapped . . . mustn't we?"
"I said we couldn't get out the way we came in, yes, but that doesn't mean there 
aren't other ways out. This is a large cave—just sing a couple of lines of your 
favourite hymn. Yes, go on!"
"All things bright and beautiful . . ." How inappropriate! Danny and Claude must 
have thought I had completely lost my mind, but as my voice strengthened I 
understood what the cat had meant. It was not like singing in an overstuffed 
sitting-room, far more like being in church. "You're right . . . But how do we 
know there are any passages leading out?"
"Trust me. Stand up and turn around slowly. See if you can feel any difference 
in the quality of the air. No, I'm not joking. . . ."
I did as he said, then repeated the manouevre. Sure enough I felt a slight 
difference in the movement of the air. I pointed to the two directions I thought 
it was coming from, forgetting of course that we were in darkness. But it seemed 
he could see me.
"Correct. Well done. As it happens I have already found our first passage and it 
leads in the right direction."
"How do you know?"
"Because we want downwards and as far as possible east of south. That way we 
have a good chance of finding the ultimate way out. And, yes, before you ask, I 
do know my south from my north!"
I was quite sure this new, masterful Beau-cat did. I told the others why I had 
been singing and the fact that Beau had found a passage for us to follow, at 
which they cheered up considerably.
"Now," said Beau, "retrieve your haversacks and let's see what we have. Yours is 
a little way to your left. I believe there are some candles in there."
He was quite right. There were a half-dozen ordinary ones and four long-burners, 
plus vestas. I wasted a couple of the latter before I managed to get a candle 
going, then bent to light some more.
"Steady on," said Beau. "One at a time. We don't know how long those will have 
to last."
So, by the light of one small candle we emptied our haversacks and took stock of 
what we had. It was a pitifully small heap. We each had a blanket, mug and 
water-bottle, the latter full. Then there were two coils of rope, a quantity of 
firewood, the small cooking pot and a ladle. As far as food was concerned, it 
was a small quantity of everything. A little rice and couscous, but not much; a 
pack of dates, another of dried figs, a few dried vegetables, some nuts, cheese 
and a handful of raisins. I would have said that would give us one meal, but not 
much more.
"Now that we haven't got Ky-Lin with us, it is up to you to take charge. Those 
two need leading, they can't do it on their own. So, I will help you, and you 
must be positive and firm. Every day I will scout ahead and find the best way 
forward—"
"Everyday ? I thought we'd be out of here by tonight!"
"Sorry, Sophy, but I think it will take longer than that. These hills are 
honeycombed with caves, but they don't all lead the right way; some are 
dead-ends and others may be too small to traverse. So, come on and give your 
first orders. Pack up everything except the shorter rope, get fastened together 
so we don't get parted. I'll lead the way, you follow with a guarded candle. 
We'll keep going as long as we can on this first stage."
He paused for a moment. "Tell me: how is the Ring?"
"The Ring?" I looked down at it. "It's fine. . . . Why?"
"Then that means we are doing the right thing. Let me know if it starts playing 
up, won't you?"
I nodded. After that first stab when we tumbled into the cave it had been quiet, 
so perhaps things weren't quite as bad as they seemed.
I decided to take Beau's advice and be positive, so I organised the others as he 
had suggested. "What time is it, Claude?"
He looked at his watch, shook it, looked again.
"Just after two in the afternoon, Sophy. I would have thought it later than 
that."
So would I: just over a half-hour since we had been entombed, because I had 
checked my fob-watch minutes before the avalanche. "Well, that's a bonus: means 
we can travel further . . . Right! Off we go! At least it isn't cold . . ."
In fact, after the sub-zero temperatures we had had to endure, it was almost 
pleasantly warm; I presumed these caves retained more or less the same 
temperature, like cellars: cool in summer, warm in winter, although it didn't do 
anything for my cough.
We started out with high hopes, but after an hour or so of stumbling along a 
stony, unlit, uneven, twisting passage, anchored only by a rope that we had to 
adjust because somebody either trod on somebody's heels or was jerked forward 
painfully, we were all short-tempered and much less sanguine. The passage was 
also not uniformly wide, nor did it slope down evenly. Once there was a sudden 
drop of about three feet; once a rock-fall almost blocked our way completely: 
another time we had to lower our heads to avoid bumping our heads on the 
roof—especially Claude!
We conversed in whispers—why whispers? Because it is a known fact that one 
always whispers in churches, cathedrals, libraries, museums, catacombs—anywhere 
one feels awe, unease or fear. Anything was possible in these caves; I would not 
have been surprised if they brought forth all the things which used to give me 
nightmares as a child: bats, ogres, witches, trolls, statues-which-came-to-life 
and giant cockroaches.
"Rubbish!" said Beau's thought-voice. "Don't you think that I would sense those 
things? Stop worrying!" And he rubbed his face against my thigh. Goodness, he 
certainly was growing. . . .
"You almost sound as if you are enjoying all this!"
"Why not? Better than giving up and crying! Think of it as a game, a puzzle, a 
maze to solve. We'll get out, never fear, but it may take a day or two. At the 
moment we are travelling at a snail's pace, but when we get into some of the 
larger caves we should move faster. Don't forget you have to measure this 
stumbling around in semi-darkness with what we achieved in the open. Twenty 
miles outside, what with twists and turns as well, will take four times as long 
in here."
An hour and a half later we reached the end of the passage, which debouched into 
a small chamber, before splitting into two exits. While Beau searched ahead we 
took a well-earned rest, ate a couple of mouthfuls of nuts and dried fruit, then 
pressed on again. This time the going was easier, but there were several halts 
as we passed other passages which Beau had to scout. At one, tantalisingly, 
there came a breath of outside air, but the cat reported that it was only a 
narrow funnel that even he couldn't struggle through.
At last, after we had used three of the ordinary candles, we reached a larger 
cavern, and I decided that enough was enough and called a halt for the day.
"We're not going to spend the night in here?" asked Claude fearfully.
"You're not going to tell me that you really thought we would be tucked up safe 
in some cosy inn, are you?" said Danny. "Are you frightened of the dark, then?"
"Of course not," he answered hurriedly. "It's just that . . . that . . ."
"We're all in the same boat, and we're all together," I said. "So be a good lad 
and help me prepare something for supper."
We made a small but comfortable fire and boiled up the rest of the couscous with 
a scrap or two of the fish, and finished with some dates. Hardly satisfying, but 
better than nothing. We were all physically exhausted, but sleep didn't come 
easily: our bodies were tired, our minds wide awake. Not only was the ground 
uneven and stony, but everyone must have been worrying the same way I was: how 
long would we be in here? What would happen if the little food that was left ran 
out? Worse, how about using up all the candles? Would we wander endlessly until 
we lay down and died?
Danny sat up suddenly. "This is no use, you know. I'm not a bit sleepy. Why 
don't we have a sing-song or something?"
"Or a story," suggested Claude, who couldn't sing.
"A story it is then; who's to start?"
"You can, Danny," I said.
To his credit he told us an amusing folk-tale about how an enterprising Irish 
family finally outwitted a couple of ill-intentioned leprechauns.
Claude then told one of my favourites, "Stone Soup," how a cunning traveller and 
his dog conned a fat and lazy cook out of dinner and a gold coin. But of course 
this talk of food made us feel hungry again, so when it was my turn I steered 
away from all that and started to tell the tale of the "Princess and the Pea," 
but before I had finished I had the strong suspicion that I was talking to 
myself (and Beau).
"They're asleep," I said.
"Five minutes ago. An interesting tale. My governess never told me that one. But 
normal princesses aren't as tender-skinned as that."
"Cats don't have governesses, Beau. And how would you know how princesses feel?"
"Young princes have tutors or governesses, and they also have princesses as 
sisters."
"But you're not a prince—"
"Who says? Want to hear my story?"
I hesitated. The Ring was warm on my finger, the candle was out, what remained 
of the fire a couple of embers, but I was still not sleepy enough and my chest 
felt tight. What on earth would he invent to entertain? "All right, then . . ."
"Lie down, tuck yourself up, and I'll tell you just how a handsome prince was 
turned into a lowly cat . . ."
I see: it was one of those. A fairy-tale. At least "Stone Soup" could have had a 
basis in fact—just with a clever enough man and a stupid enough woman . . . But 
even thinking about that and my stomach started to protest, so I shut my eyes 
and concentrated on Beau's tale.
"Once upon a time," I murmured. "All the best fairy tales start that way. . . ."
"Once upon a time," he began obediently, "if that's what you want. But this is 
fact, not fiction."
"Anything you say . . ."
"This story begins in the country of Siam some few years ago," he began, and I 
snuggled down to listen through the Ring. "The current king had many wives and 
innumerable concubines, so there were plenty of royal princes and 
princesses—eleven of the former and twenty-three of the latter, if I remember 
correctly . . ."
I found myself drifting.
"The king decided he had to do something about it, as the palace was getting 
definitely overcrowded. All the royal children had had English governesses, and 
that is why I speak your language so well, but the king decided to give his sons 
the chance of further education, and arranged advantageous marriages for the 
girls. The princes were sent to foreign universities—"
"Oxford and Cambridge," I murmured sleepily. "Harvard and Yale . . ."
"And the Sorbonne, of course. That's where I went, and that is why I was pleased 
when you called me `Beau,' the French for handsome."
"But you are a cat, not a prince!" I interrupted, waking up.
"Fiddlesticks, as you English say! You haven't heard the rest of the story . . 
."
"Sorry, I won't interrupt again."
"Well, when I came back from the Sorbonne I found that my father had decided it 
was time that I got married. I was then twenty-four years old and in no mood to 
settle down. I asked him to send me abroad again for a while, to one of our 
embassies perhaps, but he was adamant. Until all of his sons had produced a son 
he would not be satisfied, for he had not yet decided whom to make his heir.
"That might have been acceptable to my other brothers, but not to me. I had 
always been a rebel, so I took off on my own with a purseful of money and some 
jewelry to enjoy the fleshpots of the world. My wild way of life led me into 
some very peculiar situations, but none so strange as an encounter I had in 
Spain. It was fiesta-time, and I had watched a very beautiful girl dancing all 
evening. It seemed she had noticed me too, for when the dancing was over—and 
very late it was—she caught up with me as I was returning to my lodgings, and 
invited me to her place for a last drink. I was already stumbling-drunk, so it 
didn't seem at all unusual that a young woman like that was not chaperoned.
"As it was, I'm afraid I disappointed her, for immediately I entered her 
apartment I was sick, then fell asleep on the floor. Waking some time before 
dawn I found I was immensely thirsty, and wandered down a long corridor looking 
for the kitchen. On my way I became aware of some strange chanting coming from a 
room to my right, whose door was partially open. I peered in, intending to 
apologise to my pretty hostess and beg a glass of water, but what I saw drove 
all thoughts of thirst from my mind . . ."
He paused, and sighed. "We can finish the tale tomorrow. You must be very 
tired."
By now I was sitting bolt upright and the thought of sleep was far from my mind. 
"No, no, go on!"
"All right then . . . Where was I? Ah, yes. I peeped into the room, and I 
couldn't believe my eyes. An old crone, bent almost double with age, was 
hobbling round a bubbling cauldron on a brazier, muttering spells and charms! At 
first I thought it must be some ancient relative of the girl I had met earlier, 
then I noticed she was wearing the same dress, and in her ears were the same 
earrings! Even as I watched, I could see the spells begin to take effect; from 
looking about a hundred years old she was gradually straightening, and her hair 
was turning from white to its previous colour . . .
"I must have made some sound for suddenly she turned towards the door and saw 
me."
"Couldn't you just have run away?"
"I suppose I could—I cetainly should have! But I suppose it was the residue of 
the drink talking, but whatever it was I stepped into the room and accused her 
of being a witch!"
"What did she do? What did she say?"
"At first she was surprised, then she was very angry that she had been found 
out, and told me to get out and never darken her doors again!"
"And did you?"
"No, I was an idiot. I did the very worst thing I could have done. She looked so 
stupid half-changed—"
"Half-changed?"
"The top half was nearly the pretty lady again, the bottom half was still the 
old crone. I couldn't help myself: I laughed at her."
There was silence.
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"I'm just suspending judgment, that's all," I said carefully. "Of course I don't 
believe in witches—"
"You should! It was she who made me what I am now. Apparently she knew perfectly 
well who I was all the time, and had some hare-brained scheme of seducing me 
into becoming her puppet and then persuading my father to make me his heir.
"I said something to the effect that she must be jesting if she thought I would 
ever agree to anything like that, saying that she was just a silly old woman and 
I wasn't the least afraid of her spells and curses. I'm afraid that did it."
This was better than the Arabian Nights! He had a terrific imagination. 
"Couldn't you still have run for it?"
"She had fixed me where I stood. I could move neither hand nor foot. Some kind 
of hypnosis, I suppose."
"Couldn't you have struck out at her? Shut your eyes and unhypnotised yourself? 
Yelled for help?" I was getting involved in his fairy-tale.
"One, she was out of reach and I couldn't move; two, I tried looking away, it 
didn't work; three, who would have heard me? Anyone else in that apartment would 
have been her creature anyway.
"Then she started to threaten me, everything that could hurt me most—blinding, 
laming, impotence—but I gathered from her mutterings that these spells lasted 
only for a specific time, and I reckoned I could put up with any form of 
disability for a short while. My spirits started to rise, and at last I found a 
tongue in my head, tried to defy her.
" `I don't believe you have any powers at all!' I said. `Why, if you could work 
any spells, you would have turned me into a dog or a toad or a crow long ago!' A 
foolish boast to make, for at once she started to circle me, muttering in a 
strange tongue, and a rhythm I realised was a primitive form of spell-casting.
"Suddenly I felt a horrid shrinking feeling, and realised the floor was coming 
up to meet me. I found I was on all fours, and that my feet were turning into 
clawed paws! The room was expanding, my mouth became full of pointed teeth, 
suddenly I had sprouted a tail, my body had become covered in fur, and there I 
was, crouched on the ground amidst my discarded clothing. The only thing from my 
other life that I still retained was the neckace I had been wearing—an insurance 
against the need for money—which I still wear."
"You mean the one you're wearing now? The tatty one of coloured glass and 
brass?" I snorted with derision. "I suppose you're going to tell me it is really 
gold and emeralds!"
"Of course—when she changed me she changed that as well, without realising it. 
She laughed at me, gave me a lusty kick, and opened the window. `Out you go, 
tom-cat; roam the alleys until you die, or else find a virgin who will give you 
three human kisses of her own volition. And this you must do within the year, 
else you will turn to dust!'
"I leapt from the window and fled." He paused. "And that's it. That was four 
months ago; I won't bore you with my aimless wanderings, nor my capture by that 
stall-holder you rescued me from. You are the one I have been looking for, the 
one with the Ring, the only one I can explain this to." He paused again. "So how 
about it?"
"About what?"
"A kiss, freely given. The first . . . Or more, if you feel like it."
I drew away and tucked myself up again. A story was a story, but as to believing 
it—
"I don't kiss cats," I said. "Sorry. It was a good tale, though. 'Night . . ." 
And I turned over and went to sleep almost immediately.

Chapter Twenty-four
The Last Barrier

I woke from a wonderful dream, instantly forgotten as I realised nothing had 
changed, that we were still imprisoned in this maze of caves. But the good 
feeling persisted, which was just as well, because the others, except Beau, were 
distinctly querulous and grumpy. It took me time to get them going, to make them 
believe that a breakfast of a handful of nuts and raisins and a drink of water 
from a brackish pool was sustaining.
However we made good progress that day, led by the indefatigable cat and 
heartened by the fact that the passages we followed all seemed to slope 
downwards and lead in the right direction. Then around five in the evening, we 
came across an unexpected hazard.
Beau came trotting back to announce that a few hundred yards farther on the 
passage dropped away some thirty feet after a recent subsidence, and it would be 
difficult to climb down.
"We mustn't get too near the edge: it's still crumbling away."
"No other way round? An alternative passage?"
"Sorry, no."
We proceeded cautiously, but there was no doubt when we came to the edge of the 
landslide, for there were still rattles of stone and pebble, and the ground felt 
crumbly beneath our feet.
"How do we get down?" said Danny.
"Not sure," I said. "Beau is going to take a look . . . Take care," I muttered 
to him. "We don't want to lose you . . ."
"Give us a kiss, then . . ."
"Shut up! Sorry . . ."
"Apology accepted. Don't worry: cats have nine lives, you know, even if they are 
princes in disguise . . ."
His fur slid under my hand and he disappeared. Claude, Danny and I huddled 
together, listening to the slithers still occuring.
"How long has he been?" I whispered to Claude.
"Nearly five minutes," he whispered back, and after that I must have asked him 
to consult his watch every thirty seconds, until he told me gruffly to stay 
still and wait. But the waiting seemed intolerable and it was with the greatest 
relief that I heard a scrabble of claws and a panting Beau arrived back.
I overwhelmed him with questions until he tapped his paw against my thigh. "Hush 
up! Let me get my breath back . . ." A couple of minutes later he told me what 
he had found. "Now you won't like it, but it isn't impossible. It's farther than 
I thought, some sixty feet or so, and it is more or less sheer all the way down. 
And before you ask, no, none of you could expect to climb down unassisted."
"Then how in the world did you manage it?"
"Have you ever watched a cat climb down from high up in a tree? No, I thought 
not. They spread out all their claws and come down backwards, paw over paw, back 
ones hanging on, front ones finding the best purchase, then, when they reckon 
they are near enough to the ground, they twist around, kick off with their back 
feet and land right way up."
I translated the essential bits to the others.
"All right for cats, but how do we manage?" said Danny.
"Find a witch, and we can all be cats." I said facetiously. Beau was the only 
one who knew what I was talking about, and he wasn't best pleased.
"Serve you right if I left you to work it out for yourselves!" he hissed. Of 
course he didn't mean it, and between us we planned a viable solution. We had a 
rope fifty feet long, which would have to be looped securely at the top; this 
would make it too short to reach the ground at the other end, but if we added a 
couple of blankets that should lengthen it enough. Unfortunately the nearest 
knob of rock to which we could attach the rope was some way back down the 
passage, so it meant tying our jackets together by the sleeves to get the extra 
length. At last Beau declared himself satisfied with our knots, and I only hoped 
the seams in our now rather tatty jackets wouldn't split.
"Well, who's first?" I asked. "Afraid I've never climbed down a rope before."
"Neither have I," said Claude.
"Sure and I have," said Danny. "Many's the time my pa and I went—"
He stopped suddenly as if afraid of saying too much. He shrugged. "I'll go 
first. Give us a candle and vestas, and it'll light the rest of you down." He 
spat on his hands and rolled the sleeves of his woollen shirt down over the 
palms. Grabbing the rope he swung himself over the edge accompanied by the 
rattle of stones and pebbles. He disappeared into the darkness, and there was 
only the creak of the rope and an occasional muffled exclamation to show us he 
was still there.
There was an agonising wait, then athump and an "Ouch!"
"Are you all right?"
"Sure, fine and dandy!" His voice had an echo. "Apart from a broken leg and a 
lump on my head the size of a duck's egg . . . Only joking. The rope is still 
about three feet short: difficult to see where you're landing. Haul the rope 
back and send down the haversacks next, while I light this candle."
Looping the straps through Claude's scarf, which gave us the extra length we 
needed, this was accomplished successfully, then it was my turn.
My palms were sweating. "I'll never make it!"
"Of course you will," said Beau. "Make a proper loop from the scarf and Claude 
will lower you down. You're not heavy, and it isn't very far."
After all that it was easier than going to the dentist; there was a moment of 
utter panic when I was lowered over the edge, but luckily I kept my mouth shut. 
Claude lowered me jerkily, hand over hand, but as I had my eyes firmly closed it 
wasn't until I found Danny's hands around my waist that I realised that I was 
safe. He set me down gently as I disentangled myself from the scarf.
"All right, Sophy?"
I nodded, exhaling a breath I hadn't realised I was holding.
Now it was Claude's turn. The rope started swaying, Danny grabbed the end to 
hold it steady, and soon enough I saw the soles of Claude's boots by the light 
of the candle some ten or fifteen feet above me. Then everything went wrong. 
There was a snapping, tearing sound and he fell the last six feet, bringing the 
scarf and my jacket, minus the right sleeve, to land heavily with his left ankle 
twisted underneath him.
He let out a cry as he tried to stand and crumpled back down again. Even by the 
sparse light of the candle I could see that his face was white and twisted with 
pain.
"Think I've broken it—swelling up like mad!"
I unlaced his boot carefully, before the ankle swelled up too much to get it 
off; casting about for something to wrap it up I saw the very thing: his own 
scarf. Pouring water from my water-bottle I handled the ankle carefully: there 
had been plenty of sprains and breaks in the school at which I had taught, and I 
could see and feel that there was no break, but sometimes a sprain was more 
painful. I wrapped it up tightly until he looked like a man with a bad case of 
gout.
"Just take it easy. I'll give you a headache powder to ease the pain a bit."
"Always knew his brains were in his feet. . . ."
"Don't be cruel, Danny . . ." although I was smiling to myself. I telegraphed 
Beau to unhook the rope and send it down, moving us out of the way. It snaked 
into a neat coil at my feet, closely followed by the cat himself.
I insisted that we carry on, although Claude was in considerable pain. Perhaps I 
was being hard, but I knew just how little food there was left and God only knew 
how long it would take us to find a way out. We did stop early for supper and 
sleep, although both were in short supply.
I lay awake longer than the others, trying to control my troublesome cough.
Next day we moved as fast and as far as we could, although Claude found it 
difficult to keep up, even though the passage was now mostly wide enough for 
Danny to walk alongside and hook his shoulder under Claude's. I was really 
worried; we were down to a mere handful of food, although there were plenty of 
little streams and rivulets to slake our thirst. Most worrying of all was the 
situation as far as the candles were concerned. There were only two and a half 
left, and while we could manage without food for a while, we couldn't stumble 
about in the darkness.
I was just about to suggest settling down for the night, having turned to see 
the exhausted faces of Danny and Claude, when Beau came bounding up the passage.
"Another half-mile and there is a large cavern. No way out, but a glimpse of the 
world outside."
Intrigued, we followed him into a cave, the largest I had ever seen, stretching 
away into a darkness too great for our feeble candle. Not only did it stretch 
away on either side, it also soared up like the roof of a cathedral, and even 
our whispers were tossed back in mini-echoes. It was awesome and I felt a bit 
like tip-toeing. It was the sort of place one would expect to find stalactites 
and stalagmites marching away like the pillars in a church.
We walked along the left side until we found a relatively smooth patch to settle 
down on. I dished out most of what was left—only a handful of dried fruit for 
breakfast, and that was it—then renewed Claude's bandage. As soon as we were 
finished I blew out the remains of the candle, hoping it would last us for a 
while in the morning.
Then it happened.
There was a glow in the cavern, a soft light that came and went. We all looked 
up in the same direction at once and there was a collective gasp of recognition.
"The sky!"
"Moonlight."
"Clouds!"
"And the stars—how absolutely wonderful!"
Stumbling in the dark, but drawn irresistably by the light, we walked into the 
centre of the cavern, and stood under the jagged hole that scarred the southern 
wall of the cave. No way could we climb up there: it must have been a hundred 
feet up, but from where we stood we could feel the occasional breath of fresh, 
colder air. Heavy clouds interrupted the westering moon, now near full, and I 
felt a sudden alarm when I realised the Eg had to be delivered on the night 
after the full—
"Reminds me of home," said Danny. "The roof's leaking. Anyone got a bucket?" and 
he pointed to the shaft of light, down which drifted a few desultory snowflakes.

We awoke to light, real light, day-light.
None of us had passed a particularly good night. There was the uneven dripping 
of water from somewhere nearby; it was colder than it had been and the blankets 
were not much help; worst of all there were certain cracking and rumbling 
noises, mostly far off, although the echoes in the cavern were distortive, and 
my chest felt tight and uncomfortable.
"Sounds as if the whole complex is falling to pieces," I muttered to Beau.
"Nothing of the sort! Every now and again, especially when the temperature 
changes, or when water has built up and seeks a way out, then you get a rockfall 
or two: that's what you can hear. Go back to sleep. . . ."
And now, like all mornings in the light, the night fears and dangers were chased 
away. The dawnlight coming down through Danny's "hole in the roof" was still 
grey, but quite strong enough for us to see to eat the handful of food left.
"That's it," I said unnecessarily.
Beau, who had eaten nothing for two days, now came and nudged my elbow. "Come 
and see something that might cheer you up."
He led me over to a spot almost directly opposite the soft light coming through 
the jagged hole. I peered at the wall: it looked as though there were faint 
scratches in the stone.
"What is it? Why is it important?"
"It's hope. Our first. Wait a minute until the light grows stronger, then look 
closer."
I did as he suggested, then I could make out what looked like pictures of 
animals, but the sort of animals I had never seen before. A long-tusked elephant 
with a thick coat of hair, a tiger with down-pointing canine teeth, horses with 
thick, stubby legs and manes, deer with enormous antlers, just like the ones we 
had seen in the ice . . . And among them all were sketches of fur-clad men with 
spears and clubs. Some of the animals were pictured lying on the ground, stuck 
with broken spears—
"What does it mean?"
"It means that once upon a time, perhaps thousands of years ago, men lit fires 
in here, cooked, ate, slept and raised their children—and they couldn't have 
done that unless there was a way in and a way out. Those pictures you see were 
their record of the animals they hunted and how."
"Then why did they leave?"
"Probably an Ice Age, like the one that created the glacier. They were 
meat-eaters, so would follow the migration of their food farther south. It could 
have been tribal warfare or disease, but there are no bones. I've looked."
"You said yourself that could have been thousands of years ago! The way could 
well have been blocked long since!"
"There are signs of more recent occupation, if you move a little farther 
along—there! Put out your hand: what do you feel?"
It sounded very silly when I said it. "Big toes?"
"Right. Step back some way and then look up."
I saw what looked like six statues, some twenty feet high, carved into the rock. 
The light from the roof was stronger now and a shaft of sun struck momentarily 
against one of the eroding faces: slanted eyes, a calm flat face, curved lips.
"The Six Immortals, I guess," said Beau. "This place must have been some sort of 
temple some three or four hundred years ago. If you look between each pair of 
feet you will find a niche or bowl for offerings. So the worshippers had a way 
in and a way out."
"Then why did they stop coming to worship?"
"That I don't know. What I do know is that we cannot be far from the way out 
now, and the quicker we get going, the quicker we get out."
I told the others what we had seen, we packed up and started off, but it took 
longer than we thought. Claude's ankle had stiffened up, and we had to adapt to 
his slower pace, so that it was well past mid-day when we had traversed the full 
length of the cavern, some two miles, and left what there was of the light 
behind, lighting our penultimate candle in the only passage Beau could find.
It seemed claustrophobic being in a passage again after the size of the cavern, 
but we stumbled on as best we could, and I reckoned we had made another mile 
when the passage turned a corner and widened abruptly. At the same time the 
sound of running water we had been hearing intermittently suddenly intensified 
until it almost drowned speech, and the candle-flame bent back on itself. The 
only encouragement was that there seemed to be a slight lessening of the 
darkness ahead.
Now the walls on either side of us were dripping with water, and as we rounded 
yet another turn we saw why: across our path raged a roaring torrent of water, 
effectively blocking our progress.
We had come to the end of the road.

Chapter Twenty-five
Dangerous
Crossing
I sat down hard and burst into tears. Anger, disappointment, frustration and 
fear: to have come so far and to be finally denied our freedom. A further 
cruelty were the chinks of light that came through a crack in the roof above, 
showing us just how impossible a crossing would be. At some time or another 
water had built up against a wall of the cave until the rock had given way and 
the water had roared through, digging itself a deep channel over the years, to 
disappear underground once more.
One by one we retreated to the first bend in the passage, where at least we 
could hear ourselves speak.
"I—I can't swim!" blubbered Claude, his tears, like mine, mixing with the fine 
spray that had drenched us. Indeed we were all shivering, and it was this, more 
than anything, that brought me back to my senses.
"Neither can I," I said. "But there must be some way across."
"Not through that water," said Danny, his usual optimism dampened. "You're not 
on your own, Claude, you great lob-lolly, so pull yourself together and get that 
brain of yours working. We'll think of something." But he didn't sound 
convinced.
I looked around. "Where's Beau?" I wiped my face, ashamed of my earlier 
outburst.
"Here," he said. "Just been reconnoitering." He was dripping; his fur clung to 
him in clumps, bare skin showing through the darkened pelt. "All may not be 
lost." He spoke to me through drying licks of his fur. "This must be the reason 
(lick) that the cavern was finally abandoned. (Lick) We can't get out at the far 
end (lick) where the water exits (lick) because there is a risk (lick) that we 
would be sucked down and lost."
"It's all impossible!" I burst out. "We can't wade or swim across: we'd be 
dashed to pieces on the rocks. There must be some other way out!"
"Probably, but it might take days to find it (lick) and even then it could leave 
us stranded (lick) high up on some mountain. (Lick) Besides we have no food and 
no candles. (Lick) And Master Claude's ankle is not getting any better. (Lick) 
No, this is the best we can do. Let me think . . ." He continued to tidy 
himself, finishing with a comb to his whiskers. Right-handed, or pawed, I noted 
. . .
The tiny bit of candle in my hand gave a flare and collapsed back, a reminder of 
how little time we had left.
"Could we catch some fish?" We all gazed at Claude without speaking and he 
sighed. "Just a thought."
"Rod, line, hook, bait, net?" said Danny, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Besides 
which there probably aren't any, and if there were they would be uneatable. What 
kind of fish live in a cave all their lives?"
Suddenly Beau started to pace back and forth, his tail twitching from side to 
side. We all watched him, not really in any kind of hope, but with a wish that 
he would suggest something,anything .
At last he stopped his pacing and looked at me. "We still have the rope?"
I nodded. "About forty feet long."
"Should be long enough. Tell them to tie a loop about a foot across at one end." 
I relayed his instructions, dying to know what he had in mind, but not wanting 
to be disappointed by some cat-brained scheme that couldn't possibly work. 
"Now," said Beau to me, after inspecting the knot, "make a bag out of the 
jackets, one strong enough to hold me, but leave the two ends free."
I was more mystified than ever, especially when he trod around the scoop of 
leather and declared himself satisfied. "It'll do."
"Dowhat ?" I just had to ask. Beau looked up at me, his blue eyes gleaming in 
the last of the candlelight.
"The only thing we can do," he said. "You are going to catapult me across to the 
other side!"
It sounded like complete madness, stated like that, but once Beau had explained 
a bit more to me, I could see that there might, just might, be a glimmer of 
hope, although it was an awful risk for him. All his calculations had to be 
exactly right, and if he failed the consequences for all of us were too horrible 
to contemplate.
He sensed my reluctance. "What alternative is there? Come on, let's get it over 
with. The others understand what they have to do?" I nodded. "Your job is to 
hang on to the other end of the rope and pay it out:don't lose the end!"
"What happens if . . . ?"
I couldn't say it.
"Then you will have to pray—ask the Ring to help you, if I cannot."
That was a strange thing: the Ring wasn't jabbing a warning. It seemed as cool 
as ever. Perhaps it was because I wasn't yet in any real danger. I gave it a 
quick rub, praying it to help Beau.
He led us back to the roaring waters and in moments we were all soaked once 
more. The path alongside was neither even nor of uniform width and very slippery 
underfoot; at one moment we could walk two abreast, the next we were hugging the 
wall, terrified lest we slip, the weak illumination from above making it even 
more difficult as we slipped from light to shadow almost step for step.
At one point a large chunk of rock broke away behind us: glancing back I saw it 
had taken the path with it and shivered with fear: no way back!
Beau, who was leading the way, stopped and looked at me. This was the spot he 
had chosen. Although the torrent was not at its narrowest here, still some 
twenty feet across, at least the ledge on which we stood was wide enough to 
swing a cat—what an awful expression to think of, given the circumstances!—and 
on the other side was another, not as wide but at least clear of obstacles.
Beau indicated that Claude and Danny should spread out his "sling" on the 
ground; he climbed in and settled himself comfortably, shaking himself first 
like a dog to rid his fur of excess water. I knelt down by his side.
"Are you sure?"
His only answer was: "Going to wish me luck?"
"All the luck in the world!" and without thinking I leant forward and kissed his 
wet muzzle.
There was a sudden gleam of light, blue light, as though a spark had been lit 
behind those beautiful eyes.
"One down, two to go . . ." He nodded at Claude and Danny. "Tell them to start 
swinging; not too fast at first, but higher and stronger bit by bit, like a 
child on a swing."
My mind momentarily confused by having actually kissed an animal, a thing I 
thought I would never do, afeared by the dreadful position in which we found 
ourselves, numbed by the terrible cold, dazed by the roar of the torrent and 
nursing the thoughts of everything that could go wrong, I found it difficult to 
start everything off. I remembered at the last moment, thank God, to wrap the 
other end of the rope around my wrist, ready to pay out the rest. The loop I 
settled around Beau's neck and stepped back. All was now ready. I muttered a 
swift prayer for all of us, my heart beating like a hammer, and making my 
breathing more difficult than it had become over the past few days.
At last, still reluctant, I nodded at the other two.
Slowly at first they achieved some sort of rhythm. Beau was now about the size 
and weight of a large dog, and it took some time to get the swing effective, 
back and forth, higher and higher. I could see the cat was clinging with all his 
might to the cloth, to avoid being shaken off too early; he must be feeling 
pretty sick.
The sling went higher and higher, until eventually at its highest it reached the 
height of Claude's shoulder. Suddenly on the next outward swing there was a 
flash of fur and in a seemingly endless arc Beau sailed through the air, a blur 
of movement against the spray. I followed his progress with agonised attention: 
like all such moments, it seemed to be happening at half-speed. As I 
automatically paid out the rope all I could think was. "He isn't going to make 
it, he isn't going to make it—he couldn't!"
For an agonising moment he landed and then teetered unsteadily on the ledge on 
the far side, then he gained ground and with a surge of relief I saw him safe 
and upright on the ledge he had chosen. The boys let out a cheer, which I doubt 
he could have heard, but I was too busy with my tears of relief to join in. At 
least one of us was safe. . . .
"Congratulations, dear Beau!" I thought across to him.
"It was the kiss that did it!"
I was glad to see that he still had a sense of humour.
"Listen, Sophy: I think I can smell fresh air. I'm going to go to the end of the 
passage and find out. In the meantime put a loop on your end of the rope and 
move a bit farther down. I'll loop mine over here."
Beau stopped some fifty feet farther on, shucked off his loop and passed it over 
a pinnacle in one easy movement. He then looked through the spray at me.
"Find something similar over there, and get the rope as taut as you can. Back in 
a bit."
When he did come back, some ten minutes later, he was still soaked through, but 
he held his tail at a jaunty angle. "It's there," he called out to me. "The way 
out. About half a mile farther on. So let's get going. Send the first one over!"
We had discussed this before. Danny, being the most lithe and agile among us 
would be first, so he could help anyone in difficulties from the other side. We 
had the rope stretched as taut as we could, so it didn't dip into the water.
I relayed Beau's good news. "So, just a quick hand over hand," I said in a shout 
to make myself heard. "Ready, Danny?"
"Easy as fallin' off a log," he shouted back. "When it comes to your turn grasp 
the rope firmly, cross your ankles and hang upside down. One hand at a time and 
don't look down. Just concentrate on getting across as quick as you can."
"Wherever did you learn all that?"
He leaned close, his curls flattened against his head with the wet, and spoke in 
my ear. "From me da'. And wasn't he the best housebreaker in all Ireland?"
At least that's what Ithought he said. But I might have been mistaken.
A moment later he was off, swinging across the gap like a monkey, although he 
was soaked through in a second, and I could see the spray was getting in his 
eyes. It took about two minutes to cross the twenty-foot wide chasm, but he 
stepped off the other side safe and sound. He checked the loop their end, then 
gave us a cheery wave, meaning: "Next one!"
I had already decided this should be Claude, because I knew that if he was left 
until last, he would never have the courage to start out. It wasn't his fault: 
he was just like that. He would always need someone to pull him and someone to 
push.
Just before he set off Beau thought to me: "Now we've found the way out we won't 
need the haversacks, so leave them behind. Just get anything you want out 
first." I knew Danny would have nothing, but had a look just in case. A pack of 
cards, some of those silly photographs, a couple of dice: I tucked the first and 
last into an oilskin pack in which I kept my sewing things, fob-watch and Bible. 
At the last moment I tucked my monthly rags and clean handkerchiefs into my 
pockets: they would dry out. Claude retrieved his notebooks, also in oilskin, 
and tucked them into his jacket, together with his chronometer and photograph of 
his mother.
Then I took at least five minutes arranging him on the rope. His legs were so 
long that he didn't seem to have grasped the concept of hauling himself across 
with his ankles hooked over the rope. First one then the other fell off, and 
when I had got them properly aligned I found he was hugging the rope to his 
chest instead of hanging by his hands. In the end I got quite cross with him, 
and told him I would go myself and he would be left on his own if he didn't pull 
himself together.
At last he started off at a snail's pace, his eyes tight shut and a sort of 
moaning noise coming down his nostrils. As he got farther across the rope sloped 
downwards, aiding his progress; at last he seemed to be getting the hang of it. 
I checked the loop at our end: it seemed to be holding all right, although his 
slow, swaying progress was threatening to fray the edges a little.
If only he would just hurry up! He was now two-thirds of the way across, and I 
was just beginning to think I would have to steel myself to follow him very 
shortly, when it all happened.
His feet became unlocked and slipped down, until he was only hanging by his 
hands from the rope. He was making no attempt to right himself, and his mouth 
was open in a silent yell for help. I started forward, but Danny was quickest. 
In a moment he was back on the rope inching his way towards Claude. By now the 
whole thing was swaying wildly and I knelt down to hold it steady, hoping to God 
that it would hold, but it was swaying and jerking so much with both men on it 
that there was little I could do.
Eventually Danny reached the panicking Claude and leaned down to place his feet 
and ankles round the rope again and tried to tug him forward, but Claude wasn't 
having any. He doubled his arms around the rope and just hung on, making no 
effort to go either forward or back. I could see Danny was shouting at him, 
getting more and more exasperated, tugging at his collar and his belt. At last 
he jerked one of Claude's arms free and placed it forward on the rope, and 
pulled at him again. This time he moved, but only fractionally. Danny repeated 
the process again and again until he backed up on the ledge and inched Claude up 
as well.
Then he kicked him good and hard, on the behind—
In the meantime I could see Beau pacing anxiously back and forth. As soon as 
Claude was safe, he thought-yelled at me to hurry up. "And check the rope," he 
added.
I turned and saw to my horror that a couple of the strands had snapped, due 
probably to the extra weight of Claude and Danny together. But there looked to 
be plenty of thickness left, and I was now so cold that I couldn't have 
re-knotted the rope. I said a quick prayer, then lowered myself over the edge, 
pulled my sleeves over my hands, grasped the rope by guess rather than feel, 
because I was so numb, hooked my ankles over the rope as Danny had instructed 
and started to haul myself across.
He had made it look so easy, but I found it very hard. The weight of my body 
made it a real effort to pull with my arms, and my feet didn't help at all. All 
at once the Ring started to throb urgently, even though I had hardly any feeling 
in my hands. For a moment I gazed back, dreading that the loop was about to give 
way, and saw to my horror that the piece of rope to which Beau must have alluded 
was the one that hung over the river; it had sagged so much it was now badly 
frayed, and even as I looked a strand snapped and curled towards me.
For a moment I was frozen with fear, then the urgent pricking of the Ring got me 
going as fast as I could towards safety. Halfway there, at the lowest drop of 
the rope, almost touching the roaring waters beneath—
The rope broke.
Half a second later I found myself in the water.
This was not water as I had always known it, this was a battering ram, a great 
thumping that drove the breath from my body, bruised my arms, legs and ribs, 
banged my head with great cuffs, poured itself down my mouth as if it had forced 
my mouth open and then held it in a dentist's vise. My screams were literally 
washed away, and I was a piece of flotsam that wasn't sure which way was up and 
which was down.
Suddenly I was brought up by an agonising jerk round my waist, and for a second 
or two my head was above water. I took great gulps of air and promptly vomited 
before being sucked down again, frantically trying to rid myself of the 
constriction around my waist, only to find that it was the frayed end of the 
rope that had snapped and whipped around me.
I realised that this rope was possibly my only hope. It was firmly looped at 
Beau's end, so if I could hang on perhaps, just perhaps, I could pull myself 
towards the far side. I wrapped the loose end as tightly as I could around my 
arm. My mind was starting to blank out, and in another few minutes I should 
start to lose consciousness forever—
Another kind of painful jerk almost pulled my arm from its socket: had the rope 
snagged? Another jerk, I swallowed another mouthful of water, got a sudden gasp 
of air, choked, vomited again. Now I was dragging across rocks, my head took a 
painful blow, then at last my head was above water and the roaring pounding 
waters were receding. My shoulders were clear, my waist, my hips; my legs were 
being scraped against something and suddenly I was in a different dimension, 
flat on my stomach on the rocks on the far side where the boys had hauled me. 
Anxious hands were patting and pummelling me and my ears ringing and bubbling 
with water and distorted voices.
I tried to sit up, but firm hands were pressing me down, pumping the rest of the 
water from my lungs. I dribbled for a bit and then tried again. "I'm—I'm fine," 
I managed at last. "But so cold . . ." Somebody's jacket was put round my 
shoulders and I was helped to my feet, shaking and trembling, Danny on one side 
and a limping Claude on the other, and led away from the roaring torrent.
There was a faint mew ahead. "Follow me," said Beau. "The light from behind will 
guide you to the turn in the passage, and then you will be able to see where we 
get out of here. Just take it easy: there's no real hurry right now."
I was crying however, and couldn't seem to stop, and the three of us stumbled 
along that ill-lit passage like a trio of drunks leaving an inn at closing-time. 
I was still shivering, my head ached, my chest hurt so much I wondered whether I 
had cracked any ribs, and I was still coughing up what I supposed was water.
It took us an hour, that last half-mile, but at last I could smell fresh air, 
sharp and cold, and see a patch of daylight ahead, growing bigger as we stumbled 
and swayed towards it.
A moment later and I blinked: something was obscuring the light, something that 
grew larger and larger until it filled my vision. A creature radiating warmth 
and comfort and reassurance—
"Ky-Lin. . .! "


BOOK THREE


  "Journeys end in lovers' meetings."
  —Wm. Shakespeare
Chapter Twenty-six
The Return
of the Eg
He seemed to fill the passageway, bringing with him a sort of aura of light, I 
flung my arms around his neck and hugged him convulsively.
"Ky-Lin! You found us! Is Toby all right? Where's the Eg? Where are we? Where's 
the Blue Mountain?" I was stopped by a convulsive fit of coughing and a pain in 
my chest, the worst yet.
He leaned forward and touched me with his little horn, and instantly the pain 
abated somewhat.
"Dear girl, you are soaking! Here, climb up on my back and I'll carry you 
outside. Master Claude with an injured ankle?" He bent forward and touched that, 
too. "Better? I cannot carry you both, but make your way outside and I will 
arrange for transport. Come, Miss Sophy . . ."
"But where is—"
"Just do as you are told. Answers as we go."
Off we trotted towards the widening oval of light, with it coming the first 
intimation of ice, cold and snow, but Ky-Lin radiated heat and I snuggled down 
against his warm hide as he bore me down the passage and out into the open.
Once outside I opened my eyes to their widest and breathed in the sharp air as 
deep as I could, although it hurt my chest to do so. We were at the foot of the 
mountains among the broken rubble of the outermost rim of the glacier, among 
what I believe Ky-Lin had referred to once as a "moraine."
And there, a basket at his feet, all bundled in scarves and a cloak, was Toby!
He helped me off Ky-Lin's back, exclaimed at my damp clothing and wrapped me in 
his cloak. I hugged him happily and started off with all my questions, which had 
so far remained unanswered.
"Let the lad tell his own story," said Ky-Lin as he turned back to help the 
others. "It'll be quicker!"
Ky-Lin was gone about ten minutes, but during that time it seemed that Toby 
never drew breath. Apparently the avalanche that had nearly cost us our lives 
was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. "Awesome," he called 
it.
They had initially outraced the front of the avalanche on their slab of ice, but 
as it caught up with them Ky-Lin had taken Toby and the Eg on his back, managed 
to steer them closer to the side, then given an almighty leap that landed them 
safe on a ledge away from the rolling, boiling mass of snow. Once everything 
grew quiet again they had made their way down to the valley, and a small Chinese 
village some three miles from where we now sat. They had made this their 
headquarters, coming back every day to try to find us. They had even already 
explored the passage we had emerged from, but had decided that the torrent of 
water would have been too difficult for us to cross, after going back to the 
spot where we had disappeared and satisfying themselves that we couldn't escape 
that way either.
They had examined every exit they could find, mostly farther west, but Ky-Lin 
had insisted they came back to this one that morning. "I reckon he had this sort 
of sixth sense, being a sort of magical creature."
I guessed the Ring might have had something to do with it, but didn't say so.
I gazed around; the sun was already setting towards the west, and I couldn't 
help my shivers. Our goal, the Blue Mountain, couldn't be so far away. I 
switched my gaze to the south, and there it was! It should have been tinged by 
the setting sun, but it wasn't. It held a cold blue light of its own. I suppose 
it had once been conical, the cone of some extinct volcano, but the top had 
caved in years ago—wasn't there something about that in the long-ago journal of 
Summer?
I sprang to my feet, or tried to, yielding to a bout of coughing.
"That's it! Where is the Eg?"
"Here." He pointed to the bundle at his feet. "Heavier than ever."
"We must go there. Now!" I coughed again. "We must have wasted so much time 
wandering around those wretched caves. I must take itnow ! Help me to pick it up 
and carry it—"
He rose to his feet. "Be reasonable, Sophy! You're in no fit state to carry 
anything. You can't just run off like that, anyway. The mountain is miles away!"
"I must! Don't you understand? This is what we all came here for—"
"You're just not well enough! And it'll be dark soon. We'll never find our way 
for starters . . ."
"Well, Ky-Lin will just have to carry me, or something . . ." I sat down again 
and burst into tears. "How can we be so near and yet so far?"
"Now then, what's all this about?" Ky-Lin was back, with Beau. I explained as 
best I could, and to my surprise he fell in with the idea without any 
objections. "If you are set on it, I will help you all I can. I have left the 
others at the entrance to the cave, where they will be sheltered from the cold, 
and will send back litters for them both. We shall go down to the village, where 
you will get something to eat and a change of clothing. It will take a half-hour 
for me to get you to the village, and then you must rest. We'll set out for the 
mountain about three hours before midnight, then you will have fulfilled your 
quest. You're sure it must be tonight?"
I nodded. "I've got this sort of urgent feeling . . ."
He nodded. "Let's get going then." He looked at Toby and Beau. "Can you two make 
it? If you fall behind, Toby knows the way . . ." I translated quickly to Toby, 
and he nodded.
"We'll go at our own pace."
Then Ky-Lin and I were off. I was still shivering but, as he promised, within a 
half-hour I was snug in a village house, supping a bowl of chicken-noodle soup. 
Strangely enough, even after so many days practically starving, I didn't really 
feel hungry, but I drank three bowls of fragrantly scented pale tea, and felt 
much better.
The villager's wife gave me hot water to wash in all over, plus clean my hair, 
and then she took away my tatty, torn clothing and provided me with typical 
village wear of padded blue jacket, trousers of the same material, felt slippers 
and a cap with ear flaps. I should have felt warmer, but I still shivered, so 
she tut-tutted and led me to a small pallet. Making me lie down, she covered me 
with a coarse blanket, bringing the brazier which heated the house nearer. 
Putting her finger to her lips she mimed sleep and carried the lamp—a wick 
floating in a stone jar of oil—farther from my eyes.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew was the arrival of the 
others, about an hour later. Toby and Beau must have been fed and rested at one 
of the other houses, because they turned up a few minutes later, yawning and 
stretching, but otherwise looking ready for anything. I wished I did.
Within minutes Danny and Claude were guzzling large bowls of chicken and rice, 
and slurping their tea, belching politely afterwards, which I suppose I should 
have done also.
Ky-Lin breezed in and asked if I was ready, asking me to tell Danny and Claude 
that washing water, dry clothes and beds would be ready for them shortly.
"Why, where are you going?" asked Danny.
"To return the Eg, before the time runs out. I have a sort of feeling it's got 
to be done tonight."
Claude frowned, and glanced at Danny. "But I thought you said—" to receive a 
sharp dig in the ribs.
"Never mind, never mind," said Danny hurriedly. "We'll talk about it later . . 
."
Claude rose to his feet. "Are you sure you're all right? You look a bit pale to 
me."
"So would you if you had nearly drowned! Now, don't try to stop me, because I 
have to be there before midnight." But they still looked uncomfortable.
A couple of crude litters stood outside; basically they were just hammocks 
suspended from bamboo poles, with lanterns slung at either end. Toby looked 
dubious, ready to argue, but I told him, from Ky-Lin, that he had done enough 
running about already, the Eg needed safe transport, and anyway he would have to 
help me once we got to the mountain.
Beau joined me in my litter, but before long I think we both felt it would have 
been better to walk, apart from the fact that it was too far. The combination of 
both jogging unevenly at the same time as swaying from side to side made me feel 
slightly sick, together with the dancing of the lanterns. In spite of that I 
dozed off again, but Beau excused himself to run alongside for a while.
I seem to remember disembodied dreams with no sense to them: a huge clock 
ticking away the minutes at an astonishing rate; a calendar whose pages flipped 
back and forth at the bidding of a wind I couldn't feel; rocks falling all 
around me and bouncing at my feet soundlessly; a gargoyle spouting water 
detached itself from a wall and marched towards me, leering; trees burst into 
bloom in the snow and died in the sun.
"Hey there, wake up!" said Ky-Lin, touching my face with his antennae. "This is 
as far as they will go."
I climbed stiffly out of the litter, the nasty taste of the dreams still in my 
mouth, coughing a little with the effort. Bright moonlight, piercing cold, and 
in front of me a dark mass rising smoothly from the plain, crowned with a gap 
like a broken tooth.
The Blue Mountain.
"How do I get up there?" I was shivering again. It looked very forbidding, dark 
and threatening, and I couldn't see any way up. And I had to carry the Eg, and 
presumably the lantern as well. "And—and what do I do when I g-get there?"
"You just leave the dragons their egg," said Ky-Lin gently. "Summer told us 
there was a cavern up there, remember? Just get up there and come straight 
back." He nodded at Toby and Beau. "They'll go with you."
Obviously Toby had picked up the sense at least of what Ky-Lin had been saying, 
for he held up the sack in which he was carrying the Eg. "I have this safe, and 
we'll take a lantern and go slow. Any idea where we start off?"
"Around the other side," Ky-Lin explained to me. "I'll carry you as far as I 
can, but I'm not allowed to go any further; our people do not deal with 
dragons—it has always been so. Each of us pretends the other doesn't exist. It 
is easier that way."
Around the other side the moon illuminated a steep and rocky climb leading to a 
sort of path that snaked around the mountain. Ky-Lin carried me as far as the 
beginning of the path and promised he would wait as we set off, Beau in front in 
case of hidden obstacles, then Toby with the Eg and the lantern, and me bringing 
up the rear, stopping now and again to catch my breath.
I had thought that the climb would be difficult, but in fact it was surprisingly 
easy; the path was more or less smooth and the gradient not particularly steep. 
I suppose it took us about a half-hour to reach the end of the track and the 
mouth of a dark passage. I shivered again: surely I didn't have to go into the 
unknown darkness of a cave so soon after our escape!
Toby started forward but I grabbed his arm. "Do we have to go in there?"
He turned and gave me a grin. "Sure, it's the way in, isn't it? This was the way 
Summer went in, and I bet she was scared, too."
"But the whole place was supposed to have blown up: how do we know the passage 
isn't blocked?"
"Only by going in and finding out. And if itis blocked, then we give the dragons 
a shout and tell them where we've left the Eg."
I was sure he was joking. "What if there aren't any dragons left?"
"I don't believe it really matters if there are or not. All your uncle wanted 
you to do was bring the Eg back to the Blue Mountain wasn't it? Well, here you 
are, and you've carried out his wishes. If the passage is blocked and there are 
no dragons, we'll just tuck the Eg up snugly and it can hatch itself. Come on: 
five minutes and the job's done and we can all go home again!"
"I'll go first," said Beau to me. "I don't sense any danger. What does the Ring 
say?"
Just a steady throb: nothing life-threatening. A warning, but not a definite 
danger. "Right," I said. " `Lead on, MacDuff!' "
After a few yards we turned a sharp corner and at once there was a different 
quality to the light. A sort of phosphorescence seemed to be seeping from the 
walls; it was like the luminosity you get from decaying plant life, but without 
the stench. But there was a smell ahead: a sort of cindery, sulphurous stink 
that made me pinch my nostrils. We turned a couple more corners and then stepped 
out into what resembled an arena.
It had once been a large cavern, but now the roof was gone, leaving the jagged 
edges looking like the overhanging eaves of a decayed mansion. The high moon 
showed that where we stood the ground was smooth, but on the other side of a 
central chasm was a jumble of rocks and stones, like a giant's playground.
But there was no sign of any dragons . . .
It was warm in there, but not a healthy heat; it was like the embers of a fire 
not quite out. We moved forward until we stood on the rim of the chasm, from 
where the heat was coming. Gazing carefully down, we could see, far, far below, 
what looked like the ruby heart of sullen coals, with a spark travelling now and 
again from end to end. Obviously if this had once been the heart of a volcano, 
then there was still life down there.
There was a sudden puff of heat-laden air from below, with the rotten-egg smell 
of steam-trains and we retreated rapidly, gasping and choking.
"Let's get out of here," said Toby in a low voice. "You're coughing badly."
"But—but where do we put the Eg?"
"Don't know. Perhaps we can find a place where it won't roll about."
"Why are you whispering?"
"I'm not . . . Dunno. Anyway, you are too."
I shrugged. "Let sleeping dragons lie is my motto."
"There's a sort of egg-shaped dip over here," called out Beau. "Look as though 
it would be a good fit, too."
On my instructions Toby carried the Eg over to where Beau was sitting, and sure 
enough there was a depression in the ground that looked as if it were made on 
purpose. Taking the Eg out of the sack, he made a kind of bed for it with the 
same and then laid it down like putting it in a nest.
I gazed down at it. It was even bigger than I remembered, and must weigh at 
least fifteen pounds. I wondered how much larger it would be before it hatched, 
and when that would be. . . . In the moonlight it still held its own sparkly 
radiance. I patted it gently.
"Good-bye Eg, and good luck. May your hatchling be something very special. . . 
." It ought to be, I added to myself, after all these years! "I've carried out 
my part of the bargain: now it's up to you." I stepped back. "Right. Time to 
go."
Beau nudged my knee. "Hadn't you better say something polite to the dragons?"
"What dragons? There aren't any."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course!" I had forgotten about whispering and gestured all round the cavern. 
"Nothing but a jumble of old stones and a few embers. How can I talk to things 
that aren't there? I'd just feel silly."
"I still think you should try. Just tell them how you came to undertake this 
journey and that the Eg has now been restored to them."
Toby looked at me with surprise as I gazed out over the chasm to the jumble of 
rocks which was the only place where dragons could possibly hide, and gave a 
potted version of why we had come and what we had brought. I finished on a bout 
of coughing, but decided on one last attempt to find out whether I was talking 
to thin air or something solid.
I looked back at the stones. Was it my imagination, or had they rearranged 
themselves a little? I was suddenly afraid. "Listen here, dragons," I said. "Of 
course I don't necessarily believe there are any of you out there, but if there 
are, it would be polite to show yourselves and perhaps say thank-you. . . ."
Nothing.
I turned to go, but at that very moment there was a strange kind of hissing 
noise, like the noise a gas lamp makes when it is turned on too high, and a hot 
choking blast of air; not air from the chasm, this smelled quite different, more 
like an overdone roast. At the same time Toby's lantern dimmed right down, so we 
could hardly see a thing, only being able to distinguish the entrance to the 
passage with difficulty by its darker outline, as the moon was also temporarily 
hidden by cloud.
As we gained the beginning of the passage I glanced back one last time, to print 
the memory firmly on my mind. The moon was now westering and a beam touched the 
rocks and struck off one—no, two—points of red. And surely there were two more? 
But those were green—
Another blast of burnt-fat air nudged us down the passage and once again the 
lantern burned low. We reached the entrance to the path outside and I took deep 
breaths of the fresh air, or tried to, as my lungs felt stuffed up.
"Come on, Sophy, let's get you—" but Toby never finished his sentence because 
there was a sudden clap like thunder directly above us. I glanced up and was 
sure I saw the silhouette of a dragon above us. Not that I had ever seen one 
before, but it looked just like the ones in my children's books; huge sweeping 
wings, four taloned feet, a twisted tail and a coruscating flight. It could be 
nothing else.
"Look Toby, Beau: a dragon!"
"Where, where?" They gazed around, but it must have been in the wrong direction, 
because they shook their heads.
"Up there! Above us . . ." But even as I spoke the dark shape drifted away out 
of sight. "Itwas there," I insisted. "Isaw it!"
"Yes, yes I'm sure it was," said Toby soothingly. "Come on, Sophy, you are not 
at all well. You look a bit feverish to me."
Indeed I now felt dreadful. I had been artificially buoyed up by the incentive 
of getting the Eg to its destination, and now we had succeeded and no further 
effort was needed all I wanted to do was lie down and sleep, for a week if 
necessary. My chest hurt, I had the shivers again but my head felt as if it was 
on fire. I followed them down the path, my hand on Toby's left shoulder, because 
my feet had suddenly developed a tendency to wander off in the wrong direction.
Finally I made it to where Ky-Lin was waiting; he took one look at me then 
touched me briefly with his horn, as usual alleviating the pains a little. I 
don't recall any of the journey back to the village in the litter, though when 
we dismounted I looked back at the Blue Mountain and quite clearly saw two 
shapes like outsize bats wheeling above the moutain.
"Look, Beau! Dragons . . ."
He gazed up into the sky. "Yes," he said. "Dragons . . . Come and lie down 
Sophy: you'll feel better in the morning."
I thought I was so tired I could have fallen asleep on one of Toby's mother's 
clotheslines, but it wasn't as easy as that. I was hot, I was cold, tossed and 
turned, couldn't get comfortable, and at one point got up to see if the dragons 
were still there.
Ky-Lin apeared at my elbow. "Back to bed Sophy, and I'll give you something to 
help you sleep . . ."
As I lay down again he breathed over me gently: a scent of spring, a breath of 
autumn, stimulating and soothing at the same time. I closed my eyes and slipped 
into dreamless sleep.

Chapter Twenty-seven
A Day Too Late?
I don't remember much about the next few days: ten, to be precise, as I was told 
afterwards. During that time I drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite 
sure what was reality and what was dream—or nightmare.
Once there seemed to be an interminable, jolting journey; I was either burning 
hot or freezing cold; there were bitter brews to drink. Sometimes there were 
voices whispering in my ear, words I could not understand; at other times it 
sounded as though a crowd was shouting somewhere in the distance, and always, 
always there was the struggle to breathe, as if I were running a perpetual race 
I couldn't win.
Whenever I opened my eyes there were shadows: the sun chased them across the 
white walls, the candlelight made them rear and sway like demented 
devil-dancers. Then there were the dreams. Once, when I was so cold I couldn't 
bear it, I went for a walk and found myself at the back door of the little 
cottage I used to share with my parents and they were there at a wicker table 
under the apple tree, just as I remembered them.
My mother looked up and smiled. "Come and join us," she called. "We've been 
waiting for you!" But then my father put his hand on her arm and shook his head. 
It was all in slow motion, as it sometimes is in dreams. His voice, when it came 
was oddly distorted. "It's not time yet," he said. "Go and check the clock." I 
started to move towards them, but he held up his hand, palm forward. "Go and 
check the clock!" I turned back into the cottage and there beside the door was a 
clock I didn't remember having seen before. I looked at the face, but instead of 
the usual hours and minutes and numbers of one to twelve there were figures of 
one to seventy-five and a single hand, which pointed to twenty-two, just my age.
Was this supposed to measure my life-span? I turned back to ask my parents, but 
they were gone, just a few petals falling from the apple tree, to remind me of 
what I had once known. . . .
That was the only dream I remembered clearly, but there were others, less 
pleasant.
Once I awoke, or thought I did, to hear Claude and Danny arguing outside. I 
didn't know what it was all about, but I thought I heard Danny say: "If you 
won't tell her, then I will! You can't go on letting her believe she's won!" To 
which the reply was: "You're not to tell her! If it's anybody's task, then it's 
mine!" and "But you know how much it means to her—"
I don't recall any more, but I do remember wondering who the "she" was they 
referred to.
I didn't "come to" apparently for a few more days, but one morning, after a 
particularly restless, sweat-soaked night, I awoke to diffused moonlight on 
white-washed walls, a clear head and the ability to breathe without wheezing and 
choking. A woman was bending over me and I indicated that I was thirsty, and a 
couple of minutes later I was gulping the best drink in the world: a cupful of 
ice-cold, clear, pure, mountain water. Five minutes later I was chair-lifted by 
two of them to the bathroom, where I relieved myself, and was then given a warm 
bath and hair-wash and dressed in a clean shift. My bed had been changed and 
re-made as well, and the women fussed and twittered around me in their own 
language, until I pointed to my mouth and rubbed my tummy, indicating that I was 
hungry.
Five minutes later there arrived a bowl of warm gruel; it tasted of nuts and 
honey and I spooned it down eagerly, not realising just how hungry I had been. I 
tried to ask where the others were, but it wasn't until I repeated the name 
"Ky-Lin" a couple of times and they nodded, and one of them spread her fingers a 
couple of times to indicate twenty minutes, that I knew she had understood.
I fell asleep again while I was waiting, to wake to the dissonance of bells and 
the sound of distant chanting, to find Beau at my side, purring.
"You awake? Feel better?"
I yawned. "I think so—to both questions . . . Where am I? How long have I been 
ill?"
"We are being cared for in a Buddhist monastery some ten miles from the Blue 
Mountain. It is high up on a hill, and it is where Ky-Lin normally lives. And 
yes, you have been ill, very ill for quite a long time. They said it was 
pneumonia. At one stage we thought—even Ky-Lin thought—that you wouldn't make 
it."
I felt very uncomfortable. It doesn't help to be told that one had been near 
death. "I suppose it was getting wet in the caves?"
He nodded. "Apparently." He padded up the bed towards my pillow. "But now you're 
better!"
I hugged him. "Muchbetter! Where are the others?"
"They'll be here in a minute." He pushed his wet nose against my cheek. "Give us 
a kiss . . ."
I pushed him away, laughing. "I told you, I don't kiss cats!" He was even bigger 
than I remembered.
"You have done already—"
But he was interrupted. The door was flung open and in came Claude and Danny, 
the latter clutching a bunch of wild chrysanthemums. I was embraced, 
congratulated on my recovery, told how much they had missed me, and then 
subjected to a detailed account of the monastery, where they had been, what they 
had done.
"For six days we weren't even allowed to tip-toe in to see you," said Danny, 
"and when we did you looked half-dead already! And now here you are, sitting up 
and taking notice, just as if nothing had happened at all, at all!" He had gone 
Irish. "Ten days it was since you went up the mountain and you were all but lost 
to us!"
Lying back in bed I tried to calculate. "Then it must be the eleventh of 
November . . . We missed Bonfire Night, boys!"
There was a sort of uneasy silence, and then Claude blurted out: "Actually, it's 
the twelfth."
I stared at him. It couldn't be. Even I could count. There was another even more 
uncomfortable sort of silence, broken eventually by a crimson-faced, 
embarrassed, uncomfortable Danny.
"What he's trying to tell you," he said heavily, "is that you were one day late 
depositing the Eg."
"And I'm telling you I'm willing to lie and change my notebooks," protested 
Claude. "You won't lose out, Sophy. I'll tell the solicitors—"
I burst into angry, frustrated, hopeless tears.
"Hey, what's all this?" Ky-Lin came bouncing into the room, his antennae as pink 
as raspberries. "Welcome back to us, Miss Sophy! But why the tears?"
There was a flurry of explanations.
"Well, well, well. Just sit back and think before you all jump to conclusions. 
Don't you have some sort of nursery rhyme about how many days there are in every 
month?"
In a sort of ragged chorus Danny, Claude and I recited the following:

  "Thirty days hath September,
  April, June and November.
  All the rest have thirty-one,
  Except for February alone,
  Which hath but twenty-eight days clear,
  And twenty-nine in each leap year."

"Excellent!" said Ky-Lin. "Now then, what year is it in your Western counting? 
Well, Master Claude?"
"Er . . . Eighteen-eighty-four." He ventured.
"And is that number divisible by four?"
He nodded.
"Then this year was a leap year, wasn't it? So, Miss Sophy was in time after 
all!"
"I was? I am? I did it after all?" In spite of my weakness I bounced up and down 
on the bed.
Claude went red, then white, then red again. "Apparently yes, Sophy. All my 
fault," and then he disappeared, presumably to alter all the dates in his little 
black books, from the twenty-ninth of February onwards . . .
Danny raised his clasped hands above his head. "Glory be!"
"Knew it would be all right!" purred Beau.
Completely forgetting my previous vows I leant forward and on impulse gave him 
an exuberant hug and a kiss, to feel a strange constriction in my stomach, a 
sort of breathlessness that had nothing to do with my recent illness. His lovely 
blue eyes dilated, then he let out a sigh more human then feline.
"Two down," he said clearly. "One to go . . ."

After that it should have been easy, and home again before Easter, but Ky-Lin, 
the nurses who had been tending me and the monk who made up the noxious potions 
I had drunk, all insisted that I convalesce for a while longer, until all traces 
of congestion were gone. So I twiddled my thumbs through the rest of November 
and into December, when of course the snow and the icing up of the rivers made 
travelling impossible until the spring thaw.
During my extended stay at the monastery I spent a great deal of time on the 
balcony-garden outside my room. A set of steps led down to a tiny paved garden, 
full of button-chrysanthemums and bonsai plants, protected at night by straw 
matting. When the sun shone it was pleasantly warm out there during the day, but 
at night I was only too glad to snuggle down under my feather-filled coverlet.
On one such day I was sitting outside with Ky-Lin and Beau; Claude and Danny had 
walked down to the village that nestled at the foot of the steep hill on which 
the monastery stood, because it was market day.
I shaded my eyes against the strong sunlight. "Ky-Lin, what's that lump?"
"Lump? What lump?" He had shrunk a good deal because, as he explained, being 
larger was hard work; he was now about the size of a small terrier. "I don't see 
any lump . . ."
I laughed. "Perhaps it isn't a lump then." I pointed. "Over there: that piece of 
stone on the rail of the balcony."
He leapt up to the two-foot rim and nosed what I had referred to. "You mean 
this?"
I nodded. "What is it?"
"This—thislumpyou referred to—this is a memorial to my friend, my dear friend 
Growch, Mistress Summer's travelling companion."
"I remember! In the translation my uncle made he was meant to stay behind when 
she went to the mountain. Did he disobey?"
"He did, and he got badly burnt when the mountain blew. I nursed him back to 
health, but the damage to his emotions I could not cure. He loved Mistress 
Summer and served her well, and could never forgive himself for not being there 
when she—disappeared."
"The account never mentioned what happened to her afterwards . . ." I hesitated. 
"Did she—did she die with her lover?"
"No-one knows. Some say they both escaped and flew away to a far-away island, 
but I must admit I did not sense her presence later. But then, of course, I was 
busy caring for the dog."
"You loved him?"
"Ky-Lins do not `love,' as you understand it. We are capable of affection and 
respect, and for Growch I had a great deal of this. He was an amiable companion 
and we talked much of many things. When he passed away to another plane I was 
very sorry, but one of the monks, a devoted admirer of his, carved a stone 
statue of a dog asleep in the sun. This is what you see, but hundreds of years 
have softened the stone and rounded the statue."
I reached out and touched it, warm from the sun.
"I wish I had known him . . . And Summer."
Ky-Lin seemed to have recovered his composure. "I was glad to know them both. He 
was a real `character' as I think you would put it. He taught me a great many 
words that I am sure my Master would not approve of, but with him they just 
seemed natural."
I moved forward to lean over the parapet: to my left was the Blue Mountain, 
ahead the valley stretched away towards the river we should take on the first 
part of our journey, and towering above us to the right were the mountains.
"What will you do when we are gone?"
"Wait here for my Master. He will decide whether I have expiated all my sins, or 
whether I have to stay here a little longer, to be of use to someone else."
I tried to question him about his "sins," but he shook his head, only murmuring 
something about "carelessness" and "pride." It seemed it was very difficult for 
a Ky-Lin to become, and stay, perfect. . . .

The proposals came a few days after that. I had noticed both Danny and Claude 
behaving oddly during the last few days—arguing in fierce whispers, going into 
corners with pieces of rice paper, brush and ink, nudging each other and looking 
at me and then away again. The first time this latter happened I thought I was 
blemished in some way because of my illness, but a mirror reassured me. 
Thinner-faced perhaps, but otherwise unchanged. So, when I came across them 
tossing best-of-three, then best-of five, then best-of-seven, I decided to leave 
well alone. If they wished to behave like a pair of overgrown schoolboys, that 
was up to them.
So, one afternoon when Claude tapped on the door of my room and asked if he 
could have a word, I thought it was some kind of advice he needed about his 
acne, perhaps, or a request to mend his combinations, which he still insisted on 
wearing. Whatever it was, it was clear he was highly embarrassed, red as a 
turkey-cock's wattle and perspiring profusely. I offered him a cup of water and 
led him out onto the balcony, where there was a welcome breeze and we could 
stare out over the scenery instead of having to look at each other eye to eye.
"How can I help, Claude dear?"
At first he hemmed and hawed, then all at once the words came tumbling out like 
a string of broken beads, and as difficult to match together. Apparently I would 
never be fulfilled until I had known the joys of married life with all it 
entailed. I needed a husband to care for and protect me. Money was no object, 
because two could live as cheaply as one. He said, obliquely, how much he had 
always admired me etc. etc., that I was the only one, true, suitable mate to 
share his life with, so would I accept his hand in marriage? He was sure his 
mother would find me acceptable, he added, only I must never reveal I had ever 
worn, er, trousers. . . .
"No, I won't," I said firmly, "because the situation will not arise. I am both 
grateful and honoured by your proposal, but I have to tell you that marriage 
plays no part in my future plans, at least for the forseeable future." I stifled 
my giggles with a fit of coughing. During his declaration I had veered between 
surprise, repulsion and amusement. The latter was winning, but I was glad to see 
he looked relieved, not tear-stricken.
"Well, if you're sure . . . ?"
"Absolutely." I felt an imp of mischief ready to jump out from the corner. "Did 
you toss for who should be first?"
He half-rose from his chair. "How did—how did you know?"
"It didn't take much! Don't tell him I know, just say you failed in your 
endeavour." I relented, rose and kissed him on both cheeks. "Claude, this 
doesn't mean I'm not immensely fond of you, and will never forget your company 
during our expedition. Go and find a girl more worthy of you—and your mother—and 
be happy!"
After that I didn't have to wait too long for Danny. Perhaps encouraged by 
Claude's failure, he appeared on the scene only a few minutes later.
This time it was quite different. He came armed with a bunch of flowers and a 
mouthful of Irish exaggerations, his tongue making the words flow like a lively 
stream over rolling pebbles (and as near unstoppable). Apparently I was the most 
beautiful, talented, desirable creature on earth, and the best prospect a man 
like him could hope to find. He even went down on his knees to propose, but this 
time the amusement couldn't be held back.
He sprang to his feet. "You're laughing at me!"
I shook my head, tried to stifle my giggles. "No, my dear, not at you, just the 
methods you use! I'm very flattered that you asked me, but I'll tell you what I 
told Claude: I've no plans to marry for quite a while."
At first he looked cross, then as relieved as Claude, then finally he laughed 
too. "Worth a try, girl!"
After they had both gone I turned to Beau, a silent and hidden witness to both 
proposals.
"Did I deal with them properly?"
He yawned and straightened luxuriously. "Of course. Neither was right for you."
I laughed again. "And I suppose the prince-you-are is?"
"Of course. Wait and see."

When I had fully recovered we left the monastery, after a well-deserved donation 
of a couple of pink pearls, and rented a small house in the valley below until 
the spring. It was really one large room with niches for sleeping, a primitive 
stove and a large brazier. There was a well outside in a little square, a woman 
to do our washing, an annex that served as a bathroom, and a market twice a 
week, so we did pretty well, with frequent visits from Ky-Lin.
Of course we couldn't celebrate Christmas as we would have wished, but we did 
the best we could, with paper streamers, chicken stuffed with what we could 
get—rice, nuts and dried fruit—and we let off some firecrackers. Afterwards we 
decided to sing a couple of carols, so the boys stood outside and serenaded me 
through the the open door. A heavenly choir it was not, although it awakened in 
me all sorts of nostalgia. Some of the villagers came out of their houses to 
listen, and the dogsloved it, joining in with enthusiasm. . . .
Once we heard that the ice was breaking up on the river, we knew it was time to 
go. Ky-Lin accompanied us. He was back to figurine size and I carried him either 
in my pocket or on my shoulder. We decided to walk rather than ride: walking was 
the way Summer had done it, though in the opposite direction. As we left I took 
a last look at the Blue Mountain; in the daylight it looked like a harmless, 
bluish lump rising from the plain, and I found it hard to remember that terrible 
trip to restore the Eg. I hoped it was all right.
On the way I looked in vain for the deadly swamp that had nearly ended Summer's 
expedition. We were walking along a paved causeway at the time, with neat fields 
of rice, vegetables and fruit on either side.
Ky-Lin anticipated my question
"This is it," he told me. "A lot can happen in a few hundred years. Gradually it 
was drained, the land was fertile, the population grew, and now it is as you see 
it today. There are still some outlying patches that remain to be treated, but 
they will be done, in time."
Ky-Lin acted as translator when we arranged for our passage downriver, also when 
we sold off a few more pearls to see us on the first part of our long journey. I 
would have dearly loved him to come with us, but as he explained his part of the 
story was over and he had to return to the monastery to await his Master, the 
Buddha.
"How will you get back from here?"
"A pocket here, a pouch there. I shall wait till someone goes in the right 
direction."
He bumped his knobby forehead against mine, a sort of goodbye, I supposed. 
"Don't worry about me. Good luck attend you and your Prince of Purloiners." But 
before I could ask what on earth he was talking about, he was nodding at the 
middle finger of my right hand. "I don't believe you will be needing that any 
more."
I looked down at my finger where the little ring of horn, the Unicorn Ring, had 
been getting looser and looser over the past few days. In fact I now had to 
screw up my fist or trap it with my thumb to keep it from falling off.
"Itis a bit loose . . ."
"Which means you no longer need it. When you relied on it to help you with this 
expedition you couldn't take it off. Now it is ready to await its next wearer, 
one who will need its magical powers to help them on another worthwhile 
adventure. The Ring chooses its own wearer, you know that. Why don't you take it 
off and put it round my neck? I have been involved with it before and we trust 
each other. What do you say?"
I hesitated; it had been so much a part of me for nearly eighteen months . . . 
But I knew I had no permanent right to it. "But—but how will I understand 
animals, how will I know when danger threatens?"
"Your own common sense and the new life you will lead makes both these needs 
superfluous."
"What about understanding Beau?"
"He will make his feelings known to you, with or without the Ring. You two have 
grown close enough not to need words. Trust me . . ."
Slowly, reluctantly, I drew the Ring from my finger. Once off, it seemed to have 
a life of its own, for in an instant there it was nestling round Ky-Lin's neck. 
All at once the world seemed a duller, greyer place, birdsong muted, the bales 
of silk waiting to be loaded a paler colour, the sun behind a cloud. Momentarily 
I closed my eyes on the disappointment, something brushed against my eyelids and 
when I opened them again everything was back to normal. Everything that is, but 
one. Ky-Lin had gone. . . .

Chapter Twenty-eight
"Prince of
Purloiners"?
After that it was a leisurely voyage home, by sea when we could, by coach when 
we couldn't. We swapped a river-barge for a bouncy junk, a smoky coaster, a dhow 
(not much room in this), a river-boat, and finally the cross-channel ferry. 
During the long days and gradually warming nights I washed and mended all our 
clothes—what there was left of them—bought pen, paper and ink and wrote down an 
account of all our adventures so that perhaps one day my children might read it.
Once we were in "civilisation" again I had to go back to wearing a skirt, and I 
found I had enough to refit us all cheaply, and to give the boys a little 
pocket-money. Danny promptly bought packs of cards and small, smelly cigars, 
Claude some more handkerchiefs, although his permanent sniffles were now 
minimal. He had already, with the money he had managed from the little I had 
given them before, bought a length of purple silk for his mother. Toby saved his 
money right until the last, when he came across a very good second-hand compass 
in a shop, just before we joined the cross-channel ferry that would take us on 
our last lap.
My purchases were books, of course; second-hand copies of Mr. Browning's 
poems—and a real delight they were: it was almost as if he was talking to you, 
acting out the part of Fra Lippo Lippi, for instance—and a very tatty copy of 
Mr. Verne'sAround the World in Eighty Days , another interesting tale.
During our voyage home, Danny and Claude had become close friends, as though the 
trials we had been through had done much to smooth over their differences in 
lifestyles and outlook. Perhaps it was more accurate to say that that they 
accepted the differences, and tried to assess how they could work to their 
mutual advantages. So much so, that they ventured to me that they were thinking 
of combining their talents and opening a detective agency.
"If Danny does the detecting, then I'll do the books and the housekeeping," 
Claude told me. "He's got lots of good ideas. . . ."
I was sure he had. . . .
Having exchanged the few pearls I had left—apart from the half-dozen most 
beautiful: a huge pink one and five perfectly formed blacks, guessing that I 
would probably get a better price in London—we still had enough to telegraph 
Mrs. Early of our imminent return, the price of a hired coach and two cabins on 
the ferry. The boys shared one, Beau and I the other, although the captain had 
looked askance at Beau.
"No wild animals," he had said dismissively.
I could understand his hesitation. Already Beau was the size of a panther, and 
appeared to be expanding every day. I assured the captain that he was perfectly 
tame, and that I would pay for any damage he caused.
It was true what Ky-Lin had said: we got along fine without the Ring though of 
course we couldn't converse the way we used to. I talked to him, though, and he 
appeared to understand everything I said, so we were a comfortable couple; I was 
going to say there were no disagreements, but I had learnt enough about cat 
body-language to understand what a lashing tail meant!
We had dined well, the sea was smooth and it was a warm, early June night, with 
a thin silver moon curving up from the sea through our open porthole. Although I 
was excited at the thought of our long journey at last coming to an end and 
thought I wouldn't sleep, in fact I succumbed within minutes of lying down on my 
bunk, leaving Beau gazing out of the porthole. It seemed only minutes later that 
I woke—in fact the moon didn't seem to have moved at all—to find Beau padding 
back and forth across the cabin from my bunk to the porthole and back again, 
obviously with something on his mind.
"What's the matter, Beau? Can't you sleep? It won't be long now; when it gets 
light we should see the White Cliffs, and before you know it we'll be on our way 
home!"
"Yourhome . . ." I thought I heard him say.
"And yours to share."
"Not the same . . ."
I sat up. Yes, I was sure he had spoken. Right, so I was dreaming: no wonder I 
thought I had only been asleep for a few minutes. Well, dreams could be 
interesting, and it was nice to talk properly to Beau. His head was on my 
pillow, and the moonlight, thin though it was, showed me a beloved face whose 
every change of expression I had become used to; the angle of the ears, line of 
mouth, depth of cheeks, attitude of whiskers, arrangement of fur, the set of the 
eyes, the dilation of the pupils—the whole look now was one of misery, 
depression and resignation.
"Of course it won't be the same as your beautiful palace in Siam," I said, 
pretending to fall in with his absurd stories. "But I will try to make it as 
comfortable as I can for you—I promise you will eat well and have the run of 
some lovely countryside. Lots of rats and mice . . ."
"Princes don't eat mice," he said. "All I want is that kiss you promised me, 
before it is too late."
"I didn't promise you anything of the sort," I said. "I told you, one doesn't 
kiss cats. The fact that I forgot a couple of times has nothing to do with it!" 
But I was angry with myself, just for being angry. I paused. "What do you mean: 
`before it is too late' ?"
"Because my year is nearly up. If I cannot receive that kiss then I am condemned 
to spend the rest of my life as a cat. And that I could not bear, however kind 
you would be to me. I am aman, not an animal!"
Because I was still angry with myself I hit out at him.
"You know perfectly well I don't believe that rubbish you told me, don't you? 
Princes and palaces, witches and spells—a load of rubbish!" I had forgotten I 
was still dreaming. "And that story of that tatty collar of yours being made of 
precious stones . . . Pah!"
There was a little silence. "I thought it might come in useful with that 
orphanage you were planning," he said at last.
How did he know that? I had never discussed it with anyone, even Toby, although 
it had been much on my mind on the way home.
Somehow that touched me as nothing else had.
I was beginning to realise just how much I valued his comradeship, his company, 
his constancy. Would it hurt me so much to kiss him once more? Of course it 
wouldn't! But there was a reason for not doing so, I realised. What would happen 
if it didn't work? If he had been wrong all along? Supposing that third kiss 
left him as he was—a cat? What would he feel like? Wouldn't it be better that he 
blame me, rather than face the humiliation and distress of defeat?
If it meant I could guarantee that he would turn back into the prince he thought 
he had been, then I would kiss him all over, for as long as it took. . . . But I 
just couldn't risk it.
"Listen my dear, I just can't do it. I don't want to disappoint you." I patted 
the bunk. "Don't let's spoil our last night's travel. Come up and have a 
cuddle!"
Suddenly there was no room to spare; I was surrounded by cat: warm, furry, 
purring. This latter was a deep-throated rumble, in-out, in-out, on different 
notes, a semitone in between, and a trifle moreforte on the breath out. It was 
soothing, soporific: I closed my eyes . . .
"Of course it may be that you are afraid of being confronted by a prince," said 
Beau, as if continuing a conversation we hadn't had, and effectually jerking me 
out of my doze. "What would you say if I told you I was not the scion of a noble 
house, but rather the bastard son of a waterfront woman, and a thief as well?"
I sat up. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"I am saying that perhaps I should have told you the truth right from the start, 
instead of trying to romance it up a bit, but I thought you might accept me more 
readily as a suitor if you thought—"
"A suitor? How on earth could you have thought—"
"That you would countenance a cat? But I keep telling you—"
"You keep telling me about a witch and a ridiculous spell—"
"But that was the only part that was true! The rest I made up, just to impress 
you!"
It took me a minute or two to digest all this, but once I realised I was still 
dreaming I decided it wouldn't interrupt the dream if I heard what he had to 
say.
"Perhaps you had better tell me the truth then," I said. "Not that I will 
necessarily believe you, of course. And not that it will make the slightest 
difference to my decision," I added.
He nodded. "Understood. But I will feel better to have told you. . . . The story 
begins before I was born. In the country of Siam there lived a rich widower, a 
merchant, with one child, a beautiful girl with hair the colour of the night, 
eyes the brown of autumn leaves and a skin like ivory—"
"How do you know she looked like that? You said this was before you were born!"
"Don't interrupt! All will become clear . . . Being a rich merchant and trader 
her father had several warehouses and a counting-house down by the waterfront, 
and his daughter, who was also gifted with figures, helped her father in the 
latter.
"One day her father was attending other business and his daughter had occasion 
to do business with an English ship which was carrying a cargo of tin. During 
her supervision of the unloading she noticed a young sailor, a handsome young 
man with fair hair, blue eyes and a smile to melt one's heart, so she told me 
later. Apparently over the next couple of days they fell deeply in love, and by 
the time the sailor had to rejoin his ship some couple of weeks later, she was 
already pregnant. By the time her condition became obvious, she swore to her 
father that the sailor had promised to come out on his next voyage to marry her, 
and that he had already sent a letter ahead to his parents telling them of his 
decision. But her father was so angry and humiliated that he threw her out of 
the house.
"She waited in vain for her lover to return, for his ship foundered on the 
voyage with all hands, but her son was born before the news reached her."
"How cruel! First being thrown out of the house and then losing her lover! How 
did she survive?"
"Although her father refused to see her again, he gave her a small annual 
income, enough to keep her and the boy from starvation. He also gave her a 
necklace that had belonged to her mother, a magnificent example in diamonds and 
emeralds . . ."
Where had I heard that before? "You were that boy?" In my dream . . .
"Yes, that is how I can remember how beautiful she was. She told me that if she 
had been on her own she would have cast herself into the sea to die as her lover 
had, but that I had given her something to live for. She taught me all she knew 
about book-keeping and mathematics, and managed to save enough to hire me an 
expatriate Englishman to teach me to speak, read and write in my father's 
language."
He paused. "And so it went on until I was about fourteen or fifteen years old. . 
. ."
"Go on . . ."
He sighed. "The next bit I always find difficult to even think about. My 
grandfather, the merchant, married again, a wicked woman who tried to persuade 
him to cut off my mother's allowance. When he refused he became ill, and was 
dead within a year of his marriage. Our allowance was stopped, my mother became 
ill and my wicked step-grandmother sent round the police for the necklace, 
saying my mother had stolen it. She had bribed them, of course."
He sighed again. "Those were the hard times. My mother needed medicines, and the 
care of a doctor. I applied for job after job, but always my applications were 
turned down—my step-grandmother again."
"So what did you do?"
"The only thing I could do: I turned to thievery." He saw my look of shock. 
"What else could I do? And I was good at it; it wasn't too difficult, with all 
the goods passing through the port. I was quick and agile, and I was never 
caught. I found a couple of fences willing to buy whatever I could not take 
home—jewellery or clothes—but food and delicacies I bought for my mother every 
day. I don't know whether she realised what I was doing, for I told her I had a 
good position, though she must have marvelled at the strange hours I kept—but 
perhaps she just didn't want to know.
"She was only thirty-five when she died; I believe she was longing to be 
re-united with her English sailor, reckoning that I was now old enough to take 
care of myself: her death hit me hard. For a while I had no wish to live myself. 
I grew neglectful of my appearance, forgot to eat or wash. Eventually though I 
pulled myself together and, not wanting to continue a thief and waste my life, 
decided to follow my father's profession and went to sea. This was a big 
mistake: I'm afraid I hated every minute. Businessman, yes, given the chance: 
sailor, no.
"I reckoned my mother had left me two things she wished me to do. My father had 
told her of his parents address in England, and she asked me to visit them some 
day; the other was my determination to retrieve the necklace. To this end I took 
to spying on my step-grandmother in her villa, and it wasn't long before I 
discovered that she was a witch; I watched her cast spells to entrap young men 
and make up the most subtle poisons and potions.
"I waited one night until I reckoned she was asleep, then used my thieving 
skills to enter the villa and steal back the necklace. Once found I put it on, 
and was just leaving the villa when my step-grandmother jumped out at me. 
Apparently her powers had told her I would come."
He stretched, quivered, and settled back. "The rest you know, more or less; 
there is no need to go over it again. She used her powers to bewitch me into 
what you see now, and laid the curse of the three kisses on me. Since then I 
have spent months of my life trying to escape capture, starvation, degradation, 
and it was only when you rescued me from that murderous stall-holder that I 
began to hope once more.
"But now my time is running out. It took a great deal out of me learning to eat 
and hunt like a cat, and also to avoid capture. A couple of times it was only my 
tough claws that got me out of trouble. I was trapped a number of times by the 
enticement of food, but luckily my captors had to sleep and I remembered the 
ways to open doors and unlatch windows."
I knew I was dreaming, I must be, but why would someone like Beau alter his 
story, so that the desirable prince became an undesirable thief? Surely if 
anyone was going to be idiotic enough to believe his story they would rather 
look forward to a princely suitor than a commoner!
I had one more thing puzzling me. "You said you liked it when I called you Beau, 
but you never really explained why. Was it a pet-name?"
"Depends on how you spell and say it. My father's name was David Bowe and my 
mother named me after him—only she called me `Davey.' "
"Isee !" I thought for a moment. "Can I go on calling you `Beau'?"
"Of course. Well?"
"Well what?"
"Does it make any difference to your decision? The truth, I mean."
"How can I be sure it is the truth?"
"You can't. Any more than you can tell whether a kiss will turn me back into the 
man I once was. You'll just have to trust me . . ."
I turned to him, hugged him, stroked him. "Look, I'm quite happy with you as a 
cat. Why do you want to tempt fate? I love you. . . ."
"I love you too, but I'd rather love you as a man. . . ."
I sat up abruptly. I had never thought that if he really was a man— But I was 
dreaming, and silly thoughts do come with dreams.
"You aren't, you know," said Beau. "You are as wide awake as I am. Look, if you 
are so convinced it won't work, I promise to absolve you from all blame if 
anything goes wrong—but it won't."
So, tired of arguing, and praying against all reason that he was right and I was 
wrong, and that I wasn't dreaming, I leant forward and kissed him full on his 
mouth.

Chapter Twenty-nine
The Wedding Gift
"Told you so," murmured Beau, a.k.a. David Bowe. He took off the emerald and 
diamond necklace and clasped it round my neck. "There you are: my wedding 
present. We can use it to finance the orphanage, if that's what you want." He 
leant over and kissed me, a proper, human, deeply satisfying kiss. "And now, if 
you don't mind moving over a bit, my darling?"

Chapter Thirty
A Year Later
My husband and I leaned on the gate that led to the playfield, the baby asleep 
in a basket at our feet. A year after our return another June breeze riffled the 
corn in the farmer's field next door and stirred the waist-high bracken on the 
hill, bringing with it the scent of summer flowers, honey, lime-blossom and the 
richness of warm pine trees. The children, eight girls and three boys so far, 
although Toby would be bringing us more the next day, were chasing a soft ball 
across the grass and, judging by the shrieks of laughter, thoroughly enjoying 
themselves.
Behind us in the old stable-yard, drying linen flapped and cracked in the wind, 
and through the kitchen window I could see Ellen and her widowed sister Jeannie 
were making the final preparations for luncheon: cold chicken and summer salad, 
with fresh, warm bread and milk pudding to follow. All the produce was from 
Hightop, apart from the flour and yeast, for we now had two dairy cows, were 
fattening a couple of pigs and had increased the numbers of ducks and chickens 
and extended the kitchen garden by half as much again, and Mr. Early was busy 
carpentering a see-saw and swings for the children.
The choice of children we had left to Toby—he knew better than any who needed 
help—but at first I had been full of worthy schemes for their education—globes 
and improving books in the room we had designated as the schoolroom. But it was 
Ellen—who had left the school and Miss Moffat after being accused by the 
headmistress of not being economical enough with the poor fare the children were 
offered, which was absolute nonsense, as well I knew—who had put me on the right 
path.
"Listen, miss—sorry, missus, but it's difficult to think of you as a married 
lady—you ain't teachin' in a school no more, you're goin' to run a Horphanage. 
What them children need is food, more food and lovin' care, not books, leastways 
not at first. Once you've got them clean and tidy and rid of the bed-wetting and 
have taught 'em to use a knife and fork proper and say yes please and no thank 
you, the next stage is bedmakin', dustin' and polishin', layin' fires and 
blackleadin'. Then into the kitchens to prepare vegetables and learn to wash up. 
After that comes simple stitchery, which my sister can teach 'em, 'cos she 
earned what she could as a seamstress. Then you can teach 'em enough to follow a 
receipt, sign their names and add two and two so they aren't cheated when the 
tradespeople call."
She saw the dismayed look on my face, and I could see she was trying not to 
laugh.
"Oh Missus Sophy, don't look so worrit! They'll come to your learnin' soon 
enough, but first things first! Now, the first thing is what they's to wear. 
It's summer, so vests and cotton shirts and leggings for the boys, and vests, 
short dresses and pantaloons for the girls. Something cool, comfortable and easy 
to put on and take off. As this is a Horphanage, perhaps it would be better if 
they all wore the same colour: how about brown for the boys and blue for the 
girls? That way there won't be no nonsense about one wearing something better 
than someone else . . . And that's another thing: they'll have to learn washin' 
and ironin' as well. And I forgot the butter and cheese makin'."
"But Ellen, some of them will be only five or six years old!"
"Never too young to learn. Fact, the younger the better. Now, when we've got 
them to rights, the boys can help Mr. Early with the kitchen garden and the 
animals, and I'll have the girls in the kitchen. Tell you what, you have them in 
the mornings and we'll take them for the rest of the day. Don't forget, you're 
not teaching future Prime Ministers and lady librarians, you're trying to make 
the girls fit for service in good positions and the boys 'prenticed well. That's 
all. If on the way you find someone to take further, like Master Toby, well and 
good, but don't expect it!"
She was perfectly right, of course, but I found it difficult to absorb, no more 
so than on the day we welcomed our first arrivals and I watched horrified as the 
new arrivals were taken out into the yard, stripped bare, had their heads 
shaved, girls as well as boys, and were then dumped, one by one, into a large 
tub of warm water and scrubbed with carbolic soap until all the London grime had 
gone for good. Two of them were too cowed by their earlier life and the newness 
of their surroundings to do anything but submit, but the other three yelled and 
shrieked and fought all the way through and Mrs. Early, Ellen and her sister had 
their work cut out. Bathed and disinfected, they luckily fitted into the clothes 
Jeannie had already sewn. They were then fed—outside—just to see about their 
manners which were, mostly, nonexistent. So that was the first chore . . .
Play-time was before luncheon and before supper. In the winter months we had to 
spend a good of time indoors, and at those times we used the schoolroom, which I 
made as bright and welcoming as possible, to hear many stories and play games of 
blindman's buff, hunt the thimble or musical chairs from the old piano, together 
with the quieter dominoes, draughts and hands of cards. Two of the downstairs 
smaller rooms were turned into indoor privies and washrooms. We bought new beds, 
put up hooks for clothes, provided cutlery and crockery and hung curtains. After 
we had just about become used to our first arrivals, Toby brought six more, and 
we started all over again, luckily helped by the first lot, determined to show 
their superiority.
We had decided that about thirty children was about enough to cope with, 
replacing after that those who got good positions. We had sold the pearls in 
London for an excellent price, and the necklace had been bought at our inflated 
asking price by a certain "Royal Personage" for his mistress! That money was 
invested in railways, cotton and munitions, which Beau said people always need, 
and were paying good dividends.
He himself had found a position as consultant with a city Merchant Bank dealing 
with the Far East, and went up to town two or three times a week. We had given 
Claude and Danny a hundred pounds each to set them up, because they were still 
determined on the detective agency.
We had found Beau's grandfather and grandmother living quietly in Plymouth, and 
although wary at first they had soon accepted their grandson and his wife as 
welcome additions to the family, and were delighted to learn they were soon to 
be great-grandparents.
As for Toby, we had offered him a lump sum but he wouldn't take it, asking us 
instead to put a bit aside whenever we had any to spare and invest it, so he 
would have a bit put by when he kitted himself out for his first expedition. He 
was still determined to become an explorer, and to this end was studying every 
book he could find on the subject, besides searching out the most deserving 
cases for the orphanage. With the five he was bringing us tomorrow, it would 
bring the count up to eighteen, with Jeannie's two little girls. He explained 
that we would always have more girls than boys, because the latter were better 
able to look after themselves on the streets, and adapted readily to being part 
of a gang of young thieves.
Another piece of news was that Miss Madeleine from the Charity School was 
planning to join us next week. Apparently Miss Moffat had found a rather 
attractive young lady to fill my post, and Madeleine wrote that she was just 
twiddling her thumbs and would I take her at a low wage? Between the lines I 
could read that she was desperate also not to end up as an old maid, and 
immediately bethought myself of the young curate at the village church, who came 
faithfully every Sunday to lead us in prayers and tell the children Bible 
stories. Beau was happy for her to come, saying I would have more time with our 
daughter if I had someone else to do the teaching.
We three lived at the "Temple," as I still thought of it, looked after by Mr. 
and Mrs. Early. Our bedroom was the one I had first occupied, the baby's Night 
Nursery next to it, the Day Nursery the room in which I had prepared for our 
journey, which still left three bedrooms for guests. If Madeleine had one of 
these, Toby could have one and Claude and Danny double up, if they all arrived 
for a visit together.
Thinking of those two made me grin, and Beau turned to look at me.
"Share it?"
"Just thinking of that first success of `Cumberbatch and Duveen.' "
"Typical Danny . . ."
Indeed it had been, but it had opened all sorts of doors for them, so now they 
had moved from their original lock-up to an office with a room behind for 
eating, cooking and sleeping and an outside privy, with two let floors above, 
from which they collected rent. Their first "scoop" had been, as Beau said, 
"typical Danny." As I saw it, it was ten out of ten for opportunism.
It appeared that he had witnessed an accident in which an expensive-looking 
carriage had overturned, discharging a small beribboned dog who yapped and 
dodged between the legs of the passersby. Danny seized his chance, grabbed the 
dog and bore it back to their lodgings. In spite of Claude's protests he fed it 
and cleared up its messes and bore its petulant barking, until he could study 
the papers the next day, and saw as he expected, a reward of ten pounds. He 
waited until the next day when the reward had risen to fifteen pounds, then had 
visited the bereaved dog-owner, a hysterical dowager, and offered his services 
to "find" the dog, hinting darkly at a dog-stealing gang, and the dangers of 
trying to penetrate their fastnesses, and had been offered the reward, plus five 
pounds per day if he could return the dog. Obviously he had been successful, but 
it had taken him five days. . . . Forty pounds to the good, plus the 
recommendation of a grateful dowager! Danny had a lucky touch, or a four-leaved 
clover.
Behind us the bell clanged outside the kitchen door and the children ceased 
their play and streamed for the gate, which Beau swung open. Ten minutes until 
luncheon, time for the children to wash their hands and tidy up. Beau closed the 
gate and dropped a kiss on the tip of my nose.
"Saturday afternoon, sweetheart . . ."
"So?"
"So the children are going on a nature ramble this afternoon with Mr. and Mrs. 
Early. Neither of us will be needed between, say, two and five. I suggest we—" 
and he bent and whispered in my ear.
I blushed. "In the open?"
"Why not? The sun is good for you, and I like to see my wife in daylight. You 
are beautiful in any light, my sweet, but the sun is something we can't often 
take advantage of . . ."
I adored him, of course. Strangely enough, his cat-colours had come through to 
his human body. His skin was the creamy-beige of his cat-coat, his hair the 
chocolate of his mask and paws, and his eyes the same startling blue; his body 
was as lithe and strong as his cat-body. And he loved me too . . .
I nodded down at the wicker-basket, where Serena had just opened her eyes and 
was stretching and yawning her toothless mouth. Her fist went to her mouth, 
obviously ready forherluncheon. "What about her?"
"Go and feed her, and then let Ellen have her for an hour or two. You know she 
dotes on her. . . ."
Serena opened her eyes, the same blue as her father's, and yawned again, and my 
heart turned over with love for them both, my husband and my daughter. Just now, 
life was good. Doubtless there would be hard times, bad times in the future, but 
our love would see us through, of that I was sure.
Beau put his arms about me. "Any regrets, my darling?"
"None at all." But then I remembered something that was still nagging at me. 
"Well, yes: I suppose there is something . . ."
"Tell me!" He kissed me again. "I'll cure it if I can."
"You can't, nobody can . . ."
"But what is it?"
"Well, it's just that . . . Sounds silly I know, such a small thing really . . 
."
"What?"
"I just wish I knew what happened to the Eg . . ."

Epilogue

Ky-Lin could have told her . . .

As soon as the Travellers had left, the dragons flew, one by one, across the 
chasm to where the Eg, their Eg, their long-lost treasure, lay in the niche in 
the ground long reserved as the official Hatching-Ground. They flew in order of 
precedence; first the senior Master-Dragon, the Brown, followed by the Orange, 
the Green, the Grey, the Purple, the Yellow and finally the Blue, his mere 
twelve hundred years making him the most junior.
One by one they approached the Eg reverently, muttering a suitable welcome, 
until all seven were grouped round in a circle, admiring, longing to touch, to 
examine more closely, to guess the weight, estimate the date of hatching. It was 
for the senior dragon to make the first move, followed by the others in order of 
seniority. Although it was not encouraged, there were inevitable side-bets; 
these were safer than quarrels, and they only used trinkets as stakes: a silver 
platter or two, a small string of pearls, an amethyst brooch—the sort of wagers 
they laid in their endless games of chess, checkers, Mah-Jong etc.
The dragons' colours glowed with excitement. Although naturally of a neutral 
colour, the lozenges of scales on their chests reflected their "true" colours, 
which only dyed their skins when they were excited, as now, or were injured or 
ill, when the colours seeped into the neutral patches and dyed the whole dragon 
with a paler shade of the original. This had happened hundreds of years ago to 
the Blue, at a bad time when he had temporarily mislaid the jewels that would 
make him a Master-Dragon.
The dragons were more or less agreed. The hatching would take place around 
Middle-Year, and the weight was about fifteen pounds at present, of which three 
pounds were the shell. It would be a large baby dragon.
In the meantime there was plenty to do to prepare for the new arrival.
Firstly the Eg must be kept warm and comfortable and turned regularly. One after 
the other the dragons provided comforts. Yellow filched a padded quilt from the 
bush where it had been drying, though when he had tried to accelerate the drying 
process with a puff or two of dragon-fire it was not quite as it should have 
been, although the scorched bits didn't show once the quilt was folded. Blue 
concentrated on a layer of dried grasses for the floor of the Nursery, Green 
fashioned a beautiful teething-ring from bone and coral, Purple picked out the 
finest jewels for the baby's first toys and Orange wove a basket to hold them, 
while Grey fashioned wind-chimes from the smallest bones in their collection.
As senior dragon, Brown was in charge of the arrangements and supervised the 
rota for the weekly turning of the Eg and the continual Hatch-Sitting.

Winter passed, spring brought new life to the crops and countryside and the 
dragons did their annual Turd-Out, as they called it among themselves, although 
Brown frowned on this and preferred it to be referred to in his hearing as 
Spring-Clean. This year it was more important than ever that the whole cave was 
as pristine as possible, pending their New Arrival, so they all set to with a 
will, using their wings to sweep all the debris down into the accomodating 
chasm, so that detritus, dried faeces and general rubbish went up conveniently 
in a puff or two of greasy smoke and a couple of sparks. Their Hoard was sorted, 
examined, cleaned, stones polished and arranged to their best advantage; the 
silver and gold on stone shelves at the back, the jewels each in their own piles 
of colour: rubies, garnets, beryl, bloodstones, rose-quartz, carnelian and 
fire-opals; topazes, agate, amber and tiger's eye; emeralds, peridot and jade; 
sapphire, aquamarine and amethyst; diamond and crystal; pearl and moonstone and 
opals, and all set off nicely with bands of jet.
Now all was ready, and only three months to go . . .

Unseen and unregarded, the Travellers who had returned the Eg started their long 
journey home, and at the monastery Ky-Lin welcomed the spring sunshine and spent 
much of his time snoozing on the parapet of the balcony where stood the stone 
replica of his friend Growch. Some time soon his Master would arrive and take 
him to his rest, although He had so much to do it might be later rather than 
sooner. After all, he, Ky-Lin, was one of his Master's most unimportant 
servants, and must wait his turn.
Truth to tell he had rather enjoyed his extended time on earth. Without becoming 
too puffed up with pride, he had at least helped both Summerdai and Sophronisbe 
to attain their goals. He, too, wondered what had become of the Eg. He couldn't 
miss the fact that there was more than usual activity among the dragons, some of 
them flying by day, which was most unusual.
He wondered, too, how far his friends had travelled homewards, and whether that 
rogue of a Beau-Cat had managed to persuade Sophy that he needed a final kiss to 
transform him, when he knew perfectly well that the spell only lasted a year 
anyway. . . .
It had been a long journey for all of them, as had the earlier one with Summer: 
he hoped this one would have a happier ending. He had thought the Eg would have 
hatched earlier than this; there was certainly life in there, even after all the 
vicissitudes it had been through; both he and the boy had heard the somewhat 
puzzling sounds from within. Still, he felt that everyone would be left in no 
doubt once it had hatched.
Not that he knew much about dragons. They were creatures of another, earlier 
time, some of the survivors of the Great Darkness he had been told about, when 
the Black Star fell on earth and shut out the sun for aeons. He and his brethren 
were of a later time, direct creations of their Master, devoted to the 
preservation of life in all its forms, unlike the careless, fire-setting, 
meat-eating dragons—although their reputation as man-eaters was erroneous. 
Perhaps this one would grow up differently, although if Growch had been there he 
would have said: "No chance, mate. Once a dragon, always a dragon . . ."

March had gone, April and May came and went, and now the days had lengthened 
until it was no sooner time to go to bed than time to get up again, or so it 
seemed to the peasants toiling on their land, although in the monastery the 
monks enjoyed the indulgence of the sun on their shaven skulls as they moved 
from one duty to another.
Up in the Blue Mountain the dragons jostled one another for the privilege of 
Eg-Sitting now the time was drawing near for the hatching, sometimes only giving 
their predecessor five minutes before shoving him aside and taking over. The Eg 
grew warmer and larger, and now it weighed over eighteen pounds. What a baby it 
would produce!
As Middle-Year appeared to accelerate towards them, all the dragons vied with 
one another to provide their baby with the very best. Orange scorched his tail 
down in the chasm while smoking the tenderest pieces of meat for the baby 
dragon's first meals; Grey almost choked on the fluff he collected from plants 
for bedding; Yellow was badly scratched searching for shards of glass to reflect 
the moonlight; Green was nearly exhausted when he arrived back from the south 
with a length of the finest silk for covering while the baby's scales hardened; 
Purple blunted his claws tearing out suitable white stones from the moraine to 
fence in the Hatching-Ground and Blue took one of the silver spoons and filled 
several golden bowls with the finest spring water for drinking and washing. Of 
course dragons used to roll in dew or snow for their twice-yearly bath, but the 
baby would be too young for a while even to be flown out for this.
Nobody cared for bumps and bruises. Their baby dragon hatching safe and healthy 
was all that mattered. The years since the last hatching were legion, and the 
surviving dragons were not growing any younger. There must be other dragon eggs 
scattered throughout the world but these were in forgotten places and might 
never have the right conditions to hatch, but this one was here, it was real, it 
was live and it was about to hatch.
The sun rose higher in the sky, the air grew warmer, and at last it was the eve 
of Middle-Year-Day. There was an overnight full-moon which bathed the 
Hatching-Ground and the waiting dragons in silver light. It seemed that the moon 
was reluctant to miss the hatching, for it was still a pale disc in the sky when 
the sun rose in the east, and now all the dragons were gathered in a circle 
around the Eg, most of the side-bets having been paid out already.
One hour before mid-day the tapping began.
At first it was so faint that the dragons had to hold their breath in unison to 
hear it at all, but then the noise gradually grew in volume and faster and 
faster, until it was perfectly audible. Tap, tap, tap; tap, tap, tap.
But the shell of the Eg resisted. The tapping grew more frantic, punctuated by 
what sounded like tiny thumps, as if a small fist was joining in with the 
disposable egg-beak attached to the jaw of the baby dragon. The noise 
crescendoed, and then gradually died back as though the creature within was 
exhausted, was losing both strength and heart. The dragons glanced anxiously at 
each other, then turned to the Senior Dragon, Brown.
He thought for a long moment; all sounds had ceased. Then he nodded slowly. 
"Show claws . . ."
One by one the dragons raised first their left then their right front claws, 
which were carefully examined by Brown. All the dragons were supposed to keep 
their claws sharp on the specially imported granite Sharpening Stone, but some 
of the older ones skipped the chore, so consequently it was the youngest, Blue, 
who was chosen to help their baby out of his prison of shell.
Brown indicated where he wanted the cut made. "But not too deep; just halfway 
through. Be very, very careful . . ."
All held their breath as Blue extended the middle claw of his right front foot 
and held it poised over the Eg. They noticed he was trembling. He took a deep 
breath, then as delicately but decisively as a glass-cutter etching the thinnest 
balloon glass, he traced a fine line two-thirds around the breadth of the Eg.
For a moment there was no response, and then the tapping started again, louder 
this time, the accompanying thumping as well, and now through the crack in the 
shell a thin mewling sound. Like a miracle the crack widened fractionally until 
there was a minute glimpse of movement. By now all the dragons' heads were 
circled above the Eg, a living dome of bony heads and hissing breath.
Noon, and the sun at its zenith on this Middle-Year-Day. A shaft of light 
suddenly burned down on the dragons' skulls and they all drew back as if 
scorched. They believed that the sun's rays were harmful, would burn through 
their skulls and scramble their brains. Now the rays of the sun shone on the 
cracked Eg and the noise and activity within increased a hundred per cent. The 
membrane which divided the outer shell from its contents stretched and 
stretched, thinner and thinner as the crack in the Eg widened until suddenly 
with a rippingpop! it burst apart, the Eg-shell opened into two distinct halves 
like a two-petalled flower, and its contents were revealed . . .

Ky-Lin heard the roar from where he lay in the mid-morning shadows among the 
bonsai trees on his little balcony. He sprang upright, thinking for a moment 
that the fires in the Blue Mountain had erupted again, but recognised 
immediately that the noise came from the harsh, cacaphonous voices of the 
dragons. Whatever it was, they were clearly upset.
Gradually the noise subsided, rising once more into a brief crescendo every 
quarter-hour or so, but this merely increased Ky-Lin's sense of unease. He could 
not imagine what could have occasioned such an uproar, audible so clearly across 
the miles that separated the monastery from the mountain. Had something happened 
to the Eg? If it had hatched normally he would have expected something other 
than this howl of both anger and bewilderment. Was there something wrong with 
the baby dragon? Could it be malformed? Sick? Dead? And if it were any of those 
things, wouldn't the dragons blame both him and the Travellers for not taking 
enough care with it? If so, what could they do? Would they take to the air and 
pursue Sophy and Company and wreak a terrible vengeance? Or would they seek him 
out and pulverize him, raze the monastery to the ground?
No, he couldn't let that happen. He must journey towards the mountain and meet 
them half-way, try to undo whatever damage had been done before it was too late. 
Accordingly he did a quick transformation into pony-size and made his way 
through the monastery, down the track to the village and turned north onto the 
plain. He trotted along in the afternoon heat, carefully avoiding damaging any 
living growth, his hooves throwing up little puffs of dust.
He made good progress, and as he neared the Blue Mountain the dragon voices grew 
louder and more discordant. He wished he could understand just what they were 
shouting about—
He skidded to a sudden halt, realising all at once what an utter idiot he was. 
Because of the unspoken ban against any congress between his people and them, 
they had always ignored that the other creatures existed, and of course there 
was no way he could communicate with them if they came face to face. They were 
such primitive creatures that thought transference was out, too.
He sank down on his haunches, in his misery shrinking down a size or two. He 
could not remember ever feeling so miserable, even when . . . But no point in 
remembering that. He and his brethren were not supposed to feel sadness—nor 
anger, hatred, love, pride or impatience. Perhaps he had been in the world too 
long, for he knew he had felt all these emotions at one time or another, most of 
them only momentarily. His downfall had originally been his pride, and luckily 
he didn't really know how to be impatient; but he had felt affection for Summer 
and Sophy, and for the boy Toby, but probably the greatest had been for Growch.
There was only one thing to do. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, gazed 
inwards and sent a prayer to his Master—not a request for direct aid, that would 
be wrong, rather a prayer for guidance on what to do next. One had to rely on 
oneself for action.
He was deep in meditation, sinking into that limbo where the body no longer 
mattered or responded to outside influences, when he was jerked back into the 
real world by a sudden clatter of leathery wings above. Claws seized his 
shoulders and he was borne upwards into the air with a whoosh! and a sinking 
lurch in his stomach. All his senses returned with a rush as he saw the plain 
beneath him disappear with alarming speed. Whatever in the world was happening?
He realised that he had been pounced on by one of the dragons and was being 
carried higher and higher towards the north-east, but to what purpose? Was he to 
be dropped from a great height, to be smashed to smithereens? Made into a snack 
for the dragons' dinner? But perhaps they had something less violent in mind: to 
show him something perhaps? To demonstrate why they were so angry?
Whatever the eventual outcome they had obviously seen him coming and decided to 
collect him, although it was unusual for them to fly in the heat of the sun, so 
it must be urgent. Lifting his head a little he saw they were approaching the 
Blue Mountain, swinging back behind it to the shady side, but when it seemed 
they must literally brush the rocks his carrier-dragon shot straight upwards, 
making Ky-Lin dizzily wish he had not indulged in those few extra grains of rice 
that morning. They must be all of three thousand feet high . . .
The next moment they started to drop like stones, plummeting down so fast that 
Ky-Lin was thrust back momentarily against the dragon's bony chest. Beneath them 
the black maw of the mountain rose up with frightening speed: a dark blot, an 
inky puddle, an ebony lake—the mouth of Hell itself!
The dragon braked sharply at the last moment, then did a neat landing in the 
middle of a circle of six scaly others, dropping Ky-Lin unceremoniously to the 
ground. All around was the stench of cinders, old bones, stale air, sulphur. 
Ky-Lin choked and gagged and his eyes started to run. Something shoved him in 
the back, propelling him forward; blinking he tried to clear his streaming eyes, 
conscious of the dragon-voices grumbling and growling all around him.
His eyes clearing, becoming used to the dragon-stench, he peered ahead of him. 
He was in a small enclosed space surrounded by a fence of stones and—yes—there 
was the Eg, or rather one of the neatly bisected halves. Moving nearer without 
hindrance, he peered down and there, cradled in the egg, its tiny claws 
clutching a strip of smoked meat which it was attempting to chew with its 
razor-sharp baby teeth and making contented little mewling sounds, was a baby 
dragon.
Its blue eyes gazed up at him curiously. Blue eyes? Did they change as the 
dragons grew, like puppies, kittens or human babies? He peered closer. It seemed 
healthy enough: four legs, claws present and correct, two vestigial wings, tail, 
nose, eyes and ears all looking in the right places. Just for a moment it bore a 
fleeting resemblance to a little piglet, especially as its tail was tightly 
curled.
And it was pink . . .
Presumably all dragons started that colour, together with the blue eyes, and 
they lost that ridiculous tuft of blond hair like chicken-fluff that grew on top 
of its head as they matured.
He was saved from further guesswork—if the baby dragon was healthy and happy 
then what was all the fuss about—by a violent nudge, one which knocked him 
sideways out of the ring of stones and onto a bare patch of ground, on which lay 
the other half of the Eg.
Now all the dragons were hissing, instead of the crooning-growl they had made 
over the baby dragon, but suddenly a thin, angry wail cut across all other 
sounds, pitched as it was at a higher frequency; rapidly it grew into a 
horrendous, ear-piercing screech, a sound compounded of anger and despair, 
grating on the ear like a giant chalk on a giant blackboard. Ky-Lin moved over 
to the other half-egg and gazed down. And there . . . ? There was a baby.
Ahuman baby!
The little girl, tufts of black hair sticking up all over her scalp, eyes 
screwed up in temper, toothless mouth agape for another wail, arms and legs 
pumping, was quite obviously not a dragon, although she was behaving like one. 
So, the Eg had held its surprises after all—twins! one dragon-baby, one human 
one.
No wonder the dragons were so upset. At last Ky-Lin had an inkling of why he was 
here. He realised that the dragons thought he was partly to blame for this mess: 
after all hadn't he helped first Summer and later Sophy to deliver a flawed Eg? 
Sure, they had their baby dragon, but here was a lively, lusty reminder of their 
renegade dragon, Black Jasper, who had broken all the rules and fathered an Eg 
with his human love.
Now he was left in no doubt as to his role. He glanced over to where the baby 
dragon lay—no eye contact with his captors, kidnappers, hostage-takers, 
hijackers, whatever they were: this only incensed them, apparently—and he saw 
the baby dragon lifted tenderly from his half of the Eg and cradled in blunted 
claws, while a padded quilt was ripped in half by another, sharper claw. Half 
was tossed across to land at his feet, a scorched, charred half, while the 
other, unmarked half was the dragon-baby's new cradle.
Another dragon tossed the half-shell with the baby girl onto the damaged quilt 
then brought the corners together into a rough knot, and moved back. Another 
pushed him forward again till he was standing over the bundle. So, he was 
expected to carry it away. He opened his mouth, took the knot into his mouth and 
tugged, but the cloth slipped away. He tried again, but once again his 
ruminant's teeth could not get a grip, and he that even if he grew to pony-size 
he would never be able to carry the bundle away. He stepped back and shook his 
head, was nudged forward again, attempted it again, but only succeeded in trying 
so hard that he merely let go too quickly and landed with an undignified bump on 
his rump. And if dragons could be said to snigger, they were sniggering now.
The baby had been quiet for the last few minutes, but now she started up with 
another piercing wail, rising to an indignant shriek. The dragons shrank back, 
and he realised that the noise actually hurt their ears, accustomed as they were 
to their own much deeper voices. There was hissed conversation above his head, 
then suddenly he was grasped once more by strong claws and borne aloft; out of 
the corner of his eye he saw that a second dragon had grabbed the baby-bundle 
and was bearing it aloft also.
Once more the vertigo, the churning stomach, the rush of wind over his hide, but 
now he was surprised to see it was already dusk and that there was much cooler 
air in the upper reaches, although the further they descended heat from from the 
baked earth beneath came puffing up like an open oven.
Ky-Lin looked down, expecting to find the plain rising up to meet them, but they 
appeared to be swinging further south-west. He saw the monastery looming up, and 
already he could see the twinkling lights of the cooking-fires and lanterns in 
the courtyard. What were the dragons doing? Almost immediately there was that 
sickening drop of hundreds of feet and then a lurch as his dragon pulled up just 
short of the balcony. So they knew just where they could usually find him . . .
A moment later he was dropped unceremoniously beside the bonsais, and the bundle 
followed, a little more gently, to lie in front of him. Above them the dragons 
hovered for a wing-beat or so, their drown-draught flattening the hair on his 
plumed tail and smelling of cinders, then they were up and away, their raucous 
cries fading away as they swept back towards the Blue Mountain.

The bundle beside him stirred. Awkwardly Ky-Lin worried the knot loose until the 
baby girl lay revealed, wriggling uncomfortably, her mouth squaring itself for 
another gappy yell. Soon someone would come to investigate, on the excuse of 
bringing him his supper or lamp, but before then he would have to seek help, 
make a plan.
Despairingly he nosed the lump of stone that represented his old friend, Growch, 
and let his thoughts wash out over the stone. "What shall I do next? I've never 
had to deal with a baby before. . . ."
He didn't expect an answer, but at once, in his mind, he heard a voice: a hint, 
a murmur that sounded so like Growch that he shook his head in disbelief.
"Come on, mate? Think . . . Babies is no different from pups. At this age they 
needs milk, warmth and a lick or two to keep 'em clean. Once they starts to 
grow, then they needs training, care, an' lots of love. Start 'er off right: 
after that it's up to you . . ." The phantom voice faded, died away.
Of course! A wet-nurse from the village to care for the babe until she was 
weaned. That took care of the next few months. But then? The voice that had 
seemed to be Growch's had said "after that it's up to you . . ." but there was 
always a choice, wasn't there? And if his Master came for him soon . . . But if 
he didn't?
He glanced down at the baby girl again. She had decided to calm down, but she 
was still frowning, sucking at one of her fists; then she stretched out her 
other hand towards him and for a moment her face smoothed out and she was still 
and there was a sudden fleeting resemblance to . . .
He sighed. Yes, there was always a choice—but then he had just made his.
Hadn't he?