‘What’s wrong with your fairy friend?’ Nan asks eventually.

‘He was a bit run-down, and his glamouring got out of control. Mrs Mandrake used a bit of mer-fae nest to revive him!’

‘She’s very good in an emergency,’ says Nan. ‘Always has been.’

‘Did you know she could do that?’

‘Of course!’ says Nan. ‘Most humans have a little fae in them, if they open their minds to it – and the closer to Winterspell you are, the easier that is . . . But now, tell me the rest of the story. You all look highly hassled.’

‘We’re OK. And Yanny’s better than he was, thanks to Mrs Mandrake, but I had to do the glamouring for him through town, and it was all a bit of a struggle, and so . . . I thought we’d stop here before we get him home.’

‘Well at least you got that bit right,’ says Nan. ‘Glamouring, eh? And it worked?’

‘Yes.’

‘She did a great job,’ Zara says brightly.

Nan blinks. ‘Well. Good. You all look wrung out from your adventures, I must say. Food is what we need now.’

She gives me a long, stern look so I know we’ll be talking again later, but for now, she seems happy enough to boss me and Zara around the kitchen. We make spaghetti with garlic and fresh tomatoes, and green beans from the garden. Zara flits about with me, her eyes filled with wonder at everything; even the battered old colander is charming and needs inspecting. Teacake remains curled before the fire while we cook, and Peg watches it all closely from the mantelpiece, occasionally sending sparks up the chimney with a flutter of his wings. Nan billows around us, and she’s just as bossy and chiding with Zara as she is with me, but the more she does it, the brighter Zara glows.

When dinner is ready, we set the table together, and suddenly it hits me that I’ve never done this before. Never had to lay the table for more than just me. Yanny stirs and stumbles up, fetching salt and pepper, raiding the drawer for the old steel cutlery and sending it flashing across the table.

And then we sit. Yanny, Zara and I, and Peg with his special old tin plate in one corner of the table; Teacake with her gold-rimmed saucer in another.

‘You said you have an imp?’ whispers Zara.

Peg fixes his dark bird eyes on me.

I shrug. ‘He’s good at disguise.’

‘It’s the bird,’ Yanny says with a yawn, picking up his cutlery and spearing a strand of spaghetti with the fork. ‘Imps like being birds. They like to fly; they like to look down on others.’

‘Ridiculous,’ says Peg.

Zara stares, her eyes wide as saucers.

‘Go on, show her,’ says Yanny. ‘She’s already seen plenty today; it’s a bit late to be pretending it all isn’t real.’

Peg growls, his form blurring, stretching and re-forming.

‘Wow,’ says Zara.

‘Isn’t he lovely,’ Nan says with a smile.