I sat up, more carefully this time, and looked at the clock. It was nearly half-past eleven. Just over half an hour to midnight….

“Lucy, the time!” said Charlotte. “They should be here by now!”

“Perhaps the clock’s fast. I’m sure it’s fast. It can’t be half-past eleven already.” I tried to sound calm.

But she too was on her feet now, peering up at the clock. Just as she did so, it seemed to sense our presence and a spring deep inside its wicked heart began to whirr. We stepped back involuntarily, and the clock struck once for the half-hour and then seemed to sigh with an unpleasant satisfaction as the spring unwound inside it.

“What can we do?” Charlotte said.

She ran to the window. I ran to the door. It was locked. The window was barred. There was no way out….We came together in the center of the room, looking this way and that, distracted, nearly mad with fear.

“We’ve got to think, Charlotte; we mustn’t just give up and start wailing—Miss Davenport wouldn’t want that. Listen: what about the chimney? Could we climb up through that?”

In a moment we were both on our knees, peering at it. Oh, if only it wasn’t so dark—and if only all the shadows weren’t so full of horrors. But we felt all round the sooty cavity with our hands, and no, there wasn’t room. It was only a narrow slot in the wall, lined with bricks, not one of those great friendly chimneys you could get right into and sit next to the fire.

What next? Could we break the door down?

No—it was too solid, and there was no furniture, nothing to use as a battering ram, even if we had the strength, which we did not.

The window? Could we slip through the bars?

No—we might break the glass, but the bars were too closely set and newly fixed into the wood. It was then that I saw our uncle’s wickedness most clearly. He knew we’d try to escape; he knew he’d have to block every means; and even in a small detail like barring the window, he’d been thorough. I nearly despaired. It seemed that he’d thought of everything. We were helpless.

“Lucy,” whispered Charlotte, “what will he do?”

No need to ask who he was: Zamiel, of course.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” I said, so frightened that I sounded angry.

“He’ll tear us to pieces!” she said, and her voice was so weak it was almost lost. “The hounds—I’ve seen what they do—”

“Oh, so have I! Do stop, Charlotte! We’ll be all right. Miss Davenport said….”