Casper Candlewacks in the Time Travelling Toaster. Ivan Brett

      Was this a trick? Casper examined the strangers’ faces: snarling, doubtful, but deadly serious. Either they didn’t know, which wasn’t that unusual for Corne-on-the-Kobb, or it was a test. And with their hairdryers raised and loaded, the pigeons perched on nearby gutters watching the exchange hungrily, it wasn’t one Casper wanted to fail. “Twenty twelve?” he said hesitantly.

      The strangers shared a look, then turned back to Casper. “So it’s true…” gasped the one called Chrys, staring at him as if he was encrusted with diamonds.

      And just like that, the hairdryers were down and the lad had proffered a gloved hand for shaking. “Sorry about all that, old boy. Can’t be too careful these days. I’m Briar.”

      They shook. Briar’s grip was cold and glovey.

      “Briar Blight.”

      

      Crunch. Briar Blight squeezed Casper’s hand far too hard, pulverising his bones into soup. The lad smirked, but didn’t loosen his grip. “And this is my sister, Chrysanthemum Blight, but she likes to be called Chrys. Pretty name, ugly sister.”

      Chrysanthemum smirked sarcastically at Briar.

      Confusion and shattered bone surged through Casper’s veins. “Blight?” He winced, pulled his hand free and turned round to see Anemonie stepping forward, grinning like a minx. “D’you know them?”

      Anemonie ignored Casper’s question and shoved straight past. “Blights, eh? Well, I’ve not heard of you, and I’m a Blight. I’m THE Blight. Anemonie Epiphany Hookworme Blight. Heir to Blight Manor, owner of a hundred slaves and the last hope for the upper classes. What’re you, then? Second cousins on my dad’s side?” She crossed her arms challengingly.

      Briar’s eyes grew wide. Next to him, Chrys watched Anemonie in awe, her snarly mouth agape. “Granny?”

      Anemonie tipped her head back and guffawed. “HAH! What are you, stupid or somethink? You ain’t my granny. I met both my grannies. None of ’em had that hedgehog barnet, and both of ’em are dead.”

      Chrys touched her hair protectively.

      “What she meant to say –” said Briar, digging the steel cap of his boot into Chrys’s ankle, which made the girl squeak – “is that your granny is our granny’s first cousin’s nephew’s… er… dog. We’re distant relatives, but just as posh, and we’re well rich. Look.”

      Briar produced a black wallet with a gold rim from his suit pocket. He popped it open, pulled out a fat wad of banknotes between thumb and forefinger and cast them off into the breeze without a second thought.