Effie tried not to glance at Tabitha Quinn, who had been giving her evil glares from the Department of Subterranean Geography stand for the last half an hour. She was there with her mother, Professor Quinn. Effie had been hoping she might bump into Leander, Tabitha’s older brother—who was much nicer, and who was an interpreter just like Effie—but so far only Tabitha had turned up to help. She was ridiculously attired in a deep-purple silk flapper dress, which was covered in crystals, and she had a string of pearls around her neck. On her feet she wore white high-heeled Mary Janes. It was how all the junior girls at Blessed Bartolo’s dressed at the moment.

Last time Effie had seen Tabitha had been on the fateful night of the Sterran Guandré. Because of Tabitha, Effie had lost her valuable calling card that took her directly to Truelove House. Afterward, Tabitha claimed she’d been put under a spell by the powerful Diberi Skylurian Midzhar, but Effie wasn’t completely convinced. And she had no idea why Tabitha would still have it in for her. Effie had also beaten Tabitha at tennis once, but surely she would have forgotten that by now?

Several minutes later—by now the minutes were feeling more like hours—Effie was so focused on untangling an ancient-looking string of bunting that she was not looking at Tabitha. Nor did she notice that a broad, big-haired man was suddenly looming over her. Lexy was standing next to him with a strange expression on her face.

“This is Effie Truelove,” Lexy was saying.

“Aha!” boomed the man. “Yes, I’d been hoping to meet the famous young Truelove girl. Hello!”

Orwell Bookend looked up from his own tangle of bunting. He appeared finally to have given in about the decorations, though he didn’t seem very happy about it.

“Another Truelove perhaps?” said Jupiter Peacock to Orwell, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

“No,” said Orwell sourly. “Who are you?”

“Professor Jupiter Peacock. Call me JP.”

“Ah yes,” said Orwell, brightening as he always did when he realized he was talking to a famous person, especially one who could influence one of his promotions. He took JP’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “I’m Dr. Orwell Bookend, Dean of the Faculty of Linguistics. And you’ve translated that, er, book . . . I hear it’s doing rather well. . . . And of course you’re giving the Midwinter Lecture on Monday. We’re all looking forward to it very much.”

Jupiter Peacock reached into his brown briefcase and pulled out a thin hardcover book with a purple cloth cover and gold lettering.

“Here,” he said, giving it to Effie. “A family copy. For you and your, er . . .”

“He’s my dad,” said Effie. “We’ve just got different names.”