But before he could take that final step, the old man faltered, and for a moment it seemed he would fall. He staggered sideways, groping desperately for the edge of the table to support himself. Finally, he turned his back to the wardrobe and hunched over, exhausted and fighting for breath. By the time he had recovered, a full minute later, he seemed to have forgotten the creaking wardrobe door. Behind that door the little girl finally dared breathe again.
The wizard turned back to the boy. “I will leave you while my magic takes hold,” he muttered, then shambled out into the passageway and shut the door behind him while the voice of that strange book continued its story.
Slowly, cautiously, the girl emerged from beside the wardrobe and stood watching the magic at work. Now she could see that the words the sorcerer had spoken were written in a black, spidery hand on the pages of the book itself. The story droned on while the boy listened through his sleep. He was frowning again. A low groan broke from his lips as the name Robert was repeated.
No, this wasn’t right. He wasn’t Robert at all. She had heard his real name just now: Marcel. She knew she must stop this magic somehow…
The book, perhaps that was the key. She leaned over the stool, and with a quick flick of her hand she slammed it shut. The voice continued, though muffled now so that the words could not be heard. That should do it, she thought with a smile of satisfaction.
But the smile was soon wiped from her face when the book opened again by itself, at exactly the same page, and the story continued. She tried again, this time sitting on the front cover. It worked for a moment, then she gave a little shriek as the book bucked her off and left her sprawled painfully on the floor beside the table.
If she couldn’t stop the telling, then she would have to stop the boy from hearing. She grabbed the candle and began to search for something that could block up his ears. But apart from a few threadbare blankets in the wardrobe, she found nothing, while behind her the storytelling continued, every word searing itself into the boy’s mind. Candlewax dripped on to her hand, hot and runny. She picked it off, moulding its softness between her fingers before she flicked it aside. Then her fingers stopped suddenly. She realised she had found just the thing.
Working quickly, she melted a pool of wax into her palm, and while it was still warm she worked it into two lumps and pushed them into the boy’s ears. There, it was done. His face became less troubled and his slow, gentle breathing told her he was drifting into a calmer sleep. She sighed with relief and withdrew into the shadows beside the wardrobe once more in case anyone returned.
After the first telling the book began again, and after the second came a third, but just as this was starting there were more footsteps in the hall outside and the door opened to admit the woman and her son. They stood listening without a word until the story reached its tragic conclusion.
When I was twelve years old, my father cut his leg with a scythe and the wound began to fester. After struggling desperately for over a week, he died, and because there was no one to care for me I was taken to a home for orphans in Fallside.
Finally the voice ceased and the book closed without the touch of a hand.
“Your new name is Robert, it seems. It’s as good a name as any.” The woman touched the palm of her hand to the boy’s face. “He’s warmer now,” she said to her son, tucking in the blankets where the boy’s twisting and turning had torn them free.
Watching from nearby the little girl held her breath and hoped they would not see the wax in his ears. But there was no need to worry, she soon discovered. “Come on, Lord Alwyn will be waiting for his book,” the son said quickly, and taking the candle with them, they left the room.
Even when the house grew quiet, the little girl hesitated. She was still terrified of being discovered. At last, when her fears had calmed a little, she returned to the boy’s side and removed the wax from his ears. Even this intrusion did not wake him, and she guessed that the old man’s magic was still at work. Then she returned to her own room and climbed into bed. The night had many hours still before dawn, but she didn’t sleep a wink.
Chapter 1 Mrs Timmins’ Home for Orphans and Foundlings
DAYLIGHT FRINGED THE CURTAIN of the tiny room, then when the sun had climbed high enough, arrows of sunshine broke around the edges, finding targets on the table, the chair and the gaping wardrobe. At last, one golden beam touched the boy’s face, and he awoke.
Staring down at him was a pair of kindly green eyes. There was a mouth that quivered uncertainly between a smile and a frown, a bulbous nose to match the round and reddened cheeks, and above those eyes, wisps of greying hair that refused to stay in place under her cap.
“Who are you?” he asked weakly.
“I’m Mrs Timmins,” she said softly. “You’ve been brought here to live with me and the other children. Counting you, that will make thirteen altogether.”
“To live… other children?” he murmured, closing his eyes again. Sleep began to welcome him back into its drowsy folds but he fought his way free, opening his eyes a second time. “Where am I?”
“You are in a home for orphans and foundlings. From this window, you can see the village of Fallside,” she told him, sweeping aside the curtain with a plump hand. “Such as it is,” she added without enthusiasm as she glanced briefly at the village. Then she tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry. You’re quite safe here.” She helped him sit up, wedging pillows behind him.
“Orphans and foundlings,” he repeated under his breath. He pushed aside the blankets and tried to stand up.
“My, you’re almost as tall as I am,” exclaimed the woman. “You won’t be with us for long, that’s for certain. Any farmer in the district would be pleased to have a fine lad like you working his fields.”
This made no sense to the boy at all. Work in a farmer’s field? He couldn’t remember ever doing any such thing. In fact, he couldn’t remember much at all. Whose hands are these? he thought, looking down at his body. They must be his feet, because he was standing on them.
A small mirror hung from a hook on the wardrobe. He went closer but he was only certain that this was really his face when a pair of wide blue eyes blinked back at him. What else could he see? There was brown hair, almost black really, and pale skin, as though he had been kept out of the sun for some time. He worried for a moment that he was a ghost, but then wouldn’t this woman have been afraid of him? What had she called herself? Mrs Timmins, wasn’t it? There she was, watching him with friendly amusement. No, he wasn’t a ghost.
He took another look in the mirror. That mouth drooped a bit. Perhaps it came from feeling so dazed. Now that he’d seen it he decided that, as faces went, it could have been worse, and the thought brought a smile to his lips.
“Can you tell me your name, then?” Mrs Timmins asked.
“Name…” the boy murmured. He opened his mouth quickly but no words came out, causing him to frown in confusion. “Name…” he said again. Why was it so hard for him to say it? Wait… he did know, after all. “I think my name is… Robert.”
“Ah, you do remember,” Mrs Timmins said brightly. “Welcome to my orphanage. There’s always room for one more in this house.”
She left him alone to dress in the clothes she had brought for him. “Robert,” he said to himself when he was finished. He knew he had been born with that name and he sensed somehow that his mother was dead. Was it… yes, when he was a baby. If he was an orphan then his father must be dead too. Shouldn’t he feel sadness? With a shock, he realised that all he could feel was emptiness and the few things he could remember rattled