He emerged from his bedroom in black jeans and a black sweater as usual, with that strange silver vial around his neck. Maximilian was wearing his Spectacles of Knowledge regularly again, which was a good sign. The spectacles at least were likely to be sensible. He had his school knapsack with him too. He was stuffing into it a big notepad and the pencil case that contained his fountain pen, three pencils and a selection of black onyx and hematite crystals that Odile hadn’t been able to help noticing last time she’d cleaned out her son’s room. The hematite was for scholars. But the black onyx was a mage’s stone.

“Remind me what you’re doing at the university again?” said Odile.

“Helping Effie’s dad set up his stall.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the university next week as well, instead of school?” Odile frowned. “Is it next week or the one after? I honestly can’t keep up with everything you do. I remember the good old days when school was just simple. You went to one place, learned something and then came home . . .”

“It’s next week,” said Maximilian. “I brought a letter home. I’m going to be in the Creative Writing Department.”

“And is Effie’s dad paying you for helping him today?”

“No. He’s letting us use the library as a reward.”

“The University Library?”

“Of course. What other library is there?”

“It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Well, it is a bit dangerous in there. I mean, I take it you’ll be going to Special Collections. You will be careful?”

“Yes, Mum.”

What was it about mothers? Odile Underwood knew—or in some cases rightly suspected—that Maximilian had recently braved, among other things, poisonous spiders, an evil bookseller, a houseful of existentialist faeries, a dream doctor in the Underworld and—perhaps worst of all—the experience of learning to ride a horse. But she was still worried about him spending Saturday afternoon in a library.

“Bunting?” repeated Orwell Bookend. The face he made when he said this was the same one he pulled when he walked into a room just after baby Luna had been changed. It was as if he was being completely enveloped in the heady smell of fresh poo.

“Bunting?” he said again.

“And balloons,” said the student helper.

“Balloons?” said Orwell. The way he said “balloons” suggested a much larger quantity of much smellier poo. “I’m not having balloons on my stall. Balloons for heaven’s sake! Absolutely not. This is a serious university faculty. We explore language, meaning and great literature in a dignified way. This isn’t a blooming children’s party.”

“They’re having bunting and balloons outside on the gates all week long,” explained the student helper. “To make people feel welcome during the Winter Fair.”