Effie continued down the dingy corridor and then made her way up to the door to the narrow cobbled street and opened it. There, hovering anxiously on the magic carpet, was Clothilde. So she hadn’t been a prisoner at all. Her eyes were big and frightened.

“Oh my goodness,” she said when she saw Effie’s sword. “Effie!”

Effie quickly dissolved her sword. So Dr. Wiseacre had been lying. Effie had suspected as much. But she’d had no other choice. If Dr. Wiseacre hadn’t been lying . . . It was all too complicated to think about, suddenly.

“Get on,” Clothilde said to Effie. “I think the council is going to want to talk to you. We’re in big trouble.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Effie. “But she said she had you prisoner and she was turning this lever and . . .”

“Shhh,” said Clothilde. “Tell me when we get back. For now I just need to fly this thing as fast as I can. Hold on!”

The phone was ringing in Leonard Levar’s Antiquarian Bookshop. It rang and rang and then stopped and then started again. Wolf was beginning to wonder if he should get out of bed and answer it. It was still dark outside, but Wolf could hear the faint song of a robin. Since the worldquake the Cosmic Web had got stronger, the birds now held some sort of dawn chorus every day of the year, not just in spring. There were also the bang-crash sounds of things being unloaded in shops around the bookshop. It was morning, just about.

Wolf looked at his watch, Yes: It was quarter past six.

Who would be phoning the bookshop at this time? One of Leonard Levar’s horrible old acquaintances, probably. And Wolf didn’t want anyone else to know he was in the bookshop. He put the pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring.

Whoever it was was certainly very insistent.

Eventually Wolf got up and pulled on a Tusitala School rugby team sweatshirt and put on some jeans. The phone started ringing yet again. This time he answered it. The ancient Bakelite receiver was heavy in his hand as he held it to his ear.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hello,” said a stern voice. “I’d like to speak to a Mr. Wolf Reed please.”

“Um . . . that’s me.” Was he in some sort of trouble?

“It’s concerning a Miss Natasha Reed,” said the voice.

“Yes?” said Wolf, his heart starting to beat much faster.

“We understand that you are looking for information concerning this person,” said the voice.

“Yes! “Please—tell me where she is.”

“All in good time,” said the voice. “Do you have pen and paper?”

“Yes.” Wolf reached for the old yellow pad that he’d been using to make notes on rugby strategy.

“Good. Await further instructions,” said the voice.

The phone went dead.