‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Don’t stay in my room any more. What are you waiting for?’ And unbolting the door she led the way, Steerpike following her like a shadow to Mrs Slagg’s bedroom.

At the Prunesquallors

AT THE PRUNESQUALLORS

Mrs Slagg was so agitated at the sight of an outlandish youth in the company of her Fuchsia that it was several minutes before she had recovered sufficiently to listen to anything in the way of an explanation. Her eyes would dart to and fro from Fuchsia to the features of the intruder. She stood for so long a time, plucking nervously at her lower lip, that Fuchsia realized it was useless to continue with her explanation and was wondering what to do next when Steerpike’s voice broke in.

‘Madam,’ he said, addressing Mrs Slagg, ‘my name is Steerpike, and I ask you to forgive my sudden appearance at the door of your room.’ And he bowed very low indeed, his eyes squinting up through his eyebrows as he did so.

Mrs Slagg took three uncertain steps towards Fuchsia and clutched her arm. ‘What is he saying? What is he saying? Oh, my poor heart, who is he, then? What has he done to you, my only?’

‘He’s coming, too,’ said Fuchsia, by way of an answer. ‘Wants to see Dr Prune as well. What’s his present? What’s he giving me a present for? Come on. Let’s go to his house. I’m tired. Be quick, I want to go to bed.’

Mrs Slagg suddenly became very active when Fuchsia mentioned her tiredness and started for the door, holding the girl by her forearm. ‘You’ll be into your bed in no time. I’ll put you there myself and tuck you in, and turn your lamp out for you as I always did, my wickedness, and you can go to sleep until I wake you, my only, and can give you breakfast by the fire; so don’t you mind, my tired thing. Only a few minutes with the Doctor – only a few minutes.’

They passed through the door, Mrs Slagg peering suspiciously around Fuchsia’s arm at the quick movements of the high-shouldered boy.

Without another word between them they began to descend several flights of stairs until they reached a hall where armour hung coldly upon the walls and the corners were stacked with old weapons that were as rich with rust as a hedge of winter beech. It was no place to linger in, for a chill cut upwards from the stone floor and cold beads of moisture stood like sweat upon the tarnished surface of iron and steel.