The water is up to my neck now. I make another attempt to free my ankle, but it’s wedged fast, and only hurts when I try.

I look over to the nest.

Violet isn’t there.

“No, I’m here,” she says, suddenly close.

I turn my head, and she’s right beside me, treading water.

“You can still g-g-get out,” I say, suddenly realizing it’s true. “Just go, Vi.”

“I can’t leave without you,” she says, and she dives down beneath the water. But she’s up again in a moment, gasping. There’s no time left now, and no light in this ink-black sea. She needs to stop trying to free me if she’s going to save herself.

“They’ll be n-n-needing a new Lost-and-Founder at the G-g-grand Nautilus Hotel,” I say, pulling the remains of my cap from my head and pushing it through the water to Violet. “You should do it, Vi.”

“Herbie, no!”

The water laps over my face for the first time. When it dips again, I grab a quick breath.

“Please go, Vi,” I say. “T-tell Lady Kraken…”

The water again.

Cough!

“Tell Lady Kraken…”

Then the water closes over me for good.

WENDY

BLADDERWRACKS, it’s dark in here.

But it’s not cold, so I guess being as dead as driftwood has an upside.

Bit odd, though, isn’t it? That I am able to think that? If I’m dead, I mean.

Perhaps I should try an eye. If I still have one.

So I do. And I have!

And what I see starts me wide awake.

A face is looking at me intently, from just a nose or two away. It’s an impressive nose, too, a real Julius Caesar job. A pair of spectacles drops from the forehead of the face, to land neatly on the hook of the nose, and a voice I know well says, “Ah, he’s coming round.”

“Dr Thalassi?” I manage to say, but my chest and throat feel like they’re on fire and I dissolve into coughs.

“Steady there,” says the doc. “Don’t try to speak, Herbie. Just take it easy.”

“Violet?” I say anyway, springing up like a jack-in-the-box. “Where’s Violet?”

I’m in a book-lined room, near a roaring fire. Something hairy and horrible is hunched over a typewriter in the window, and I realize where I am.

The Eerie Book Dispensary.

I’m lying on a makeshift bed of armchairs, wrapped in a blanket that smells of cat (but in a good way). Weak daylight is creeping in through the window, and I see that it’s snowing.

“Morning?” I ask, in a voice like sandpaper.

“Morning,” someone replies, and Violet appears at the doc’s shoulder, her face beaming like the sun.

Then more people are there: Jenny Hanniver in her shawl, peering down at me. And Mrs Fossil, her hands clasped together.