Skylurian and Raven’s eyes met for a moment. Each knew what the other was thinking. Raven was wondering why Skylurian would want to burn all these books when everyone knew that true witches only ever burned something if they wanted its contents to come true. And Skylurian was thinking that the sooner some dreadful accident befell this nosy child, the better. When she smiled, it was certainly not with her eyes, and barely with her mouth.
‘Or maybe we’ll just pour a fizzy drink on it,’ she said.
But Raven had something much more important on her mind. After breakfast, she put on her school uniform and read through her spell. It was important to get these things completely right. In fact, this was more of a prayer than a spell, although the two things are very similar. Raven knew – without needing to attend Dr Green’s classes – that while it was always possible to bend the universe to your will, it was rarely advisable to do so. Do not dabble, Raven often told herself. Good does not come to dabblers. Someone had said that once, but Raven couldn’t think who. Perhaps her English teacher, Mrs Beathag Hide.
But Effie was in trouble. This message had been carried through the dawn chorus and into the cold pink morning. Euphemia Truelove, said one of the rumours going around, was going to die on Friday.
‘Come on,’ said the young man, as he hurried Maximilian towards the helicopter that had landed among a group of alpacas in one of the school fields.
The alpacas – sort of like large sheep with long necks – were always annoyed, but this latest intrusion was beyond the pale. The large whirring machine was bad enough, but who or what was this bizarre alien creature? Maximilian was wondering roughly the same thing. The young man was wearing a silk-lined leopard-skin tunic over a pair of yellow tights and an orange silk shirt. On his head was an orange hat with a massive tassel hanging from it. He wore soft flat boots in a kind of cream leather. Maximilian had never seen anyone like him before.
The other thing bothering the alpacas was the Otherworldly boy-child currently running as fast as he could through their field, brandishing a dangerous-looking dagger and muttering something about being free at last. But he was soon gone, and they quickly forgot him.
‘I am Lorenz,’ said the young man in the leopard-skin tunic to Maximilian, ducking under the helicopter blades. ‘I have come to take you to Meister Lupoldus. I trust you are already acquainted with your uncle? Please.’ Lorenz held open the door of the helicopter, and Maximilian climbed in.
Maximilian was rather looking forward to riding in a helicopter, but the next thing he knew he was waking up to the swish-slosh sound of oars moving through water. Lorenz seemed to be giving directions to an oarsman. He was speaking a foreign language which Maximilian thought he did not understand. But then his brain seemed to retune and he found he knew what the men were saying. Not that anything they said helped him to understand how a large shiny helicopter had turned into a small wooden rowing boat. Perhaps he’d dropped off again. Perhaps a whole day had passed, or even two. Maximilian felt very hungry and thirsty. And his uncle? Would this be on his mother’s side? No. She only had one sister. Maximilian had never met his father. Could he have sent for him now, via this uncle?
A sort of thrill went through Maximilian that was deeper than anything he’d ever felt. He wasn’t at all sleepy now. The small boat was on a river – or maybe it was a canal – going through some kind of city. It seemed to be early in the evening; the sun had set and soft lights flickered in small windows. Maximilian could see stone archways, ornate domes and thin Gothic spires. The smaller streets seemed to be cobbled, but the larger squares and avenues were paved with marble. The boat turned off the main canal into a smaller waterway, under a stone bridge.
‘Almost there,’ said Lorenz, in the strange language.
Maximilian didn’t know quite what to say back.
‘Are we going to my uncle’s house?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Lorenz. ‘You must call him Meister and do whatever he asks of you. He’s looking for a new Apprentice. That’s why you have been brought here. I leave the day after tomorrow.’
Maximilian wanted to ask about his father, and whether he was in any way involved with this plan. But just then Lorenz leapt off the boat and helped the oarsman to secure it to the bank. Then he offered Maximilian a hand.
‘The Meister is a difficult man,’ said Lorenz. ‘But not impossible.’
‘What does he do?’
Lorenz laughed. Perhaps Maximilian had not put this so well in this new language.
‘Do? Ha! What doesn’t he do? Now, hush and follow me. If we’re lucky, he will already have left for the opera and you won’t meet him until morning. Ah, at last. Here is Franz. He will help with your luggage.’
Maximilian hadn’t thought he had any luggage, but the oarsman and Franz between them lifted out of the boat a green trunk with gold trim. Was this Maximilian’s? Where on earth had it come from? Had his uncle sent it for him? But why send luggage to be brought back to the place it had come from? Perhaps his mother had packed it for him. Yes, that would make sense. She was always doing things like that.
Franz was very thin and dressed all in black. Maximilian thought he must be some kind of servant. He was much stronger than he looked. On his own, he hefted the trunk onto his back and walked with it through a set of wrought-iron gates into a garden courtyard. The garden smelled strongly of jasmine and other evening flowers that Maximilian could not name. Moths flapped sleepily around candle-lamps in the warm evening air. Where on earth was he?
Maximilian followed Franz and Lorenz up a winding stone path through the garden until they came to a door. Inside was a floor of black-and-white stone tiles and a steep staircase. The walls were painted a deep blood-red and more candle-lamps threw dancing shadows onto them. Franz walked past the stairs to a very old-looking wrought-iron lift. He placed Maximilian’s trunk in the lift and began winding a large metal lever. It looked like hard work.
‘Will the boy be taking supper here?’ Franz asked Lorenz.
Then the entrance hall was suddenly enveloped in a heady scent of patchouli, vanilla and musk. A man had entered, rather in the way a leading actor might stride onto the stage. He swirled his black cape about him. This, Maximilian supposed, must be Meister Lupoldus. His uncle.
‘NO,’ bellowed Meister Lupoldus. ‘He will dine with ME.’
On hearing his master’s voice, Lorenz’s posture changed. He seemed to shrink a foot and began to visibly quiver.
‘Yes, Meister,’ he said, bowing.
‘But not in those ridiculous garments! Dress the boy and then BRING him to me.’
Maximilian was hurried up the stairs and along a corridor which stretched far ahead. Franz brought the trunk in and then left. Lorenz opened it and started flinging clothes around the room. A servant then picked them up and placed them neatly on the four-poster bed. Maximilian had never seen clothes like this before. There were silk tunics in odd colours, like dusky pink and pond green, a selection of curious hats, a pair of boots not unlike the ones Lorenz was wearing, two pairs of thin, pointed soft leather slippers and – disturbingly – several pairs of what looked like tights.
Soon Lorenz had assembled an outfit he thought would please the Meister. Maximilian was then washed by another servant – which took rather a long time – and given a set of complicated undergarments. After this came the dreaded tights. Then a kind of corset, which Lorenz tied tight at the back. Then a sky-blue silk shirt with billowing sleeves, followed by a darker blue tunic with a thin gold belt. Lorenz chose a pair of turquoise slippers and a yellow felt hat.
Maximilian felt quite stupid. But, if he was completely honest (and no one was here to see him, after all), the feel of the