But this was entirely different. This particular opera was mainly performed by women. They sang without microphones, and their pure voices filled the large theatre. Occasionally a man sang too, and his voice was exactly the voice Maximilian would like to have had for singing in the shower, not that he took many showers. But he sounded brave, interesting and complex – just how Maximilian would like to be.
The opera seemed to be about a love triangle that led to faked suicide and madness. Maximilian wondered if Mrs Beathag Hide was familiar with the story. She would probably like it. Franz seemed to be enjoying the performance as well. Every so often he closed his eyes and seemed to go somewhere else. He didn’t seem to be sleeping, though. He seemed, rather, to be in a kind of deep meditation.
Maximilian realised he was having both the best and worst evening of his life. The meal had been superb, and now he was hearing these divinely interesting sounds. But it was, of course, all in the company of a vampiric psychopath who probably meant to kill him. Perhaps this would also be the last evening of Maximilian’s life.
For the moment, however, Meister Lupoldus was fast asleep. Every so often he emitted a gentle snore. Maximilian didn’t want to think about his possible execution, so he let himself become entranced by the opera. Of course, most children hate opera because it is complicated and boring and you have to sit still for a long time. But we have already established that Maximilian was not like other children. And surely even the most philistine child would agree that opera is slightly better than being executed.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over.
Meister Lupoldus was awake and clapping and calling, ‘BRAVO!’
Franz looked rather dazed.
‘Now we will attend the GATHERING,’ said Meister Lupoldus.
Terrence Deer-Hart was an extremely attractive man. Or so his many fans told him in the letters they sent. The fans often sprayed their missives with perfume, and to each of them he sent back a mass-produced photograph of himself with his autograph scrawled on it by an assistant. His grown-up fans loved his abundant hair. But the last children he had met had said they thought his hair was ‘funny’. Funny. Young people were so cruel. He sighed as he ran the heated comb through his thick curls again.
He would have to remember not to swear this time. To use the word ‘flipping’ when he meant something much worse. And also not to smoke in the classroom. But really, it was just so flipping tiresome spending time with children. They were small, yes, but quite terrifying. The way they looked at you with their beady little eyes and then asked you questions about things. How much is a pint of milk? How the flip was Terrence supposed to know?
Mind you, it hadn’t been children asking him that. No. He remembered now. He’d been on the radio talking about his latest book and someone had phoned in from the Borders and suggested he was out of touch!!! Just because he had one – ONE – child playing with a set of wooden skittles and another one wearing a knitted pullover, they had called him old-fashioned!!! No one accused Laurel Wilde of being old-fashioned, with her flipping steam trains and picnic blankets and sandwiches wrapped in flipping greaseproof paper!!!
Terrence Deer-Hart only ever brought out his heated comb on very special occasions. He would not bother with it tomorrow for the children. But today he was meeting with the very most important person in his life: his publisher, Skylurian Midzhar. And he was going to convince her to put a stop to these silly school visits and finally allow him to write a book for adults, one in which he could use as many swear-words as he flipping well liked.
And perhaps this would also be the day when he told her his true feelings towards her. Surely it wouldn’t come as a surprise? And especially after all the kind things she had said recently about his hair, his skin, and of course his writing. He loved her. Yes, he thought to himself. He loved Skylurian Midzhar. But would she love him back?
8
There was no queue for the Otherworld. The last time Effie had come here it had been very crowded, and she’d had to wait for a long time before she was allowed through. But today there was no one around. Not even Festus. He must have gone through already. He’d certainly appeared to be in quite a hurry.
A woman in a floral dress was waiting with a scanning device. She was different from the woman who’d been on duty the last time Effie had come here.
‘Right,’ said the woman, scanning her. ‘M-currency is 1,003. One boon, a Ring of Strength, coming in at around a hundred pieces of dragon’s gold or twenty thousand M-currency. Next!’
‘Wait,’ said Effie. ‘Are you sure? I should have a lot more M-currency, and my ring isn’t . . .’
‘NEXT!’
A man at a desk had been writing down figures with his quill pen.
‘You’re not supposed to argue,’ he said.
‘But . . .’
‘She’s new,’ he whispered. ‘Now scram.’
‘NEXT!’
Effie hurried down the corridor and soon emerged in the Edgelands Market. The goblins who ran most of the first few stalls looked sleepy and a little bewildered. The sun was still in the process of coming up and everything looked pink and frail. The meteors had been dancing all night, more in the Otherworld sky than elsewhere, but were now becoming still. One lone meteor commenced its final fizzle into oblivion, then nothing.
The goblins left Effie completely alone. Effie hardly noticed them. She was worrying about what the woman on the door had said when she’d scanned her. She must have got it wrong because she was new. She hadn’t correctly identified Effie’s Ring of the True Hero after all. But 1,003 M-currency? That was absurd. Especially as Effie had been saving it up deliberately. She hadn’t been checking it very often, but the last time she’d been to Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop for a cup of hot chocolate Lexy’s Aunt Octavia had told her she had had something like forty thousand. It must have been a mistake.
Effie headed straight for the book stall that had been here last time, walking past stalls both familiar and new to her. Deeper into the Otherworld no one used money for anything. But here all currencies were accepted, and most people traded in krubles or dragon’s gold. You could buy or sell magical, Otherworld objects alongside Realworld items that were rare in the Other-world. Effie walked past the usual stalls selling enchanted weapons, silk clothing and feathered hats, but was then amused to come across a stall she had never seen before that sold denim clothing and old mobile phones that people mainly used as torches.
The book stall was not where it had been last time Effie had been here, so she walked deeper into the market. She soon noticed a stall that offered something called KHARAKTER KONSULTATIONS. An unhappy-looking woman sat filing her nails and watching an old Realworld soap opera on a grainy black-and-white TV. Effie remembered Festus’s warning not to get a consultation here in the market. He needn’t have bothered to warn her. Effie would not have had a consultation with this woman for anything.
Next to the stall was the entrance to one of the indoor bazaars. Its opening had been constructed from vast swathes of purple velvet cloth. Inside was the usual jumble of interconnected tents made from expensive silks and linens, with thick Oriental carpets for their floors. Some of the spaces were tiny, some were as big as normal shops. Effie soon realised that this particular sequence of outlets had a theme. One tiny chamber contained only a single silver-coloured box. ‘Composer?’ enquired the shopkeeper, as Effie peered