“You blow out the candles on the cake,” said Samuel.

When they’d asked Wormwood how old he was, he’d thought that he might just be a few billion years younger than the universe itself, which made him, oh, about ten billion years old.

“The cake’s only a foot wide!” Mrs. Johnson had pointed out. “He can’t have ten billion candles. They won’t fit, and if we try the whole town will go up in flames.”

So they’d settled on one candle for every billion years, which seemed like a reasonable compromise.

Nurd was seated directly across the table from Wormwood. He was wearing a red paper party hat, and was trying unsuccessfully to blow up a balloon. Nurd had changed a lot in the time that they’d been in Biddlecombe, thought Wormwood. His skin was still green, of course, but not as green as before. He now looked like someone who had just eaten a bad egg. His head, which had formerly been shaped like a crescent moon, had shrunk slightly. It was still long and odd-looking, but he was now able to walk the streets of Biddlecombe without frightening too many children or causing cars to crash, especially if he kept his head covered.

“This balloon appears to be broken,” said Nurd. “If I blow any harder, my eyes will pop out. Again.”

That had been embarrassing. Samuel had used a spoon to retrieve them from Nurd’s glass of lemonade.

Wormwood took a deep breath.

“Make a wish,” said Maria. “But you have to keep it to yourself, or else it won’t come true.”

“Oh, I think I’ve got the hang of the balloon now,” said Nurd.

Wormwood closed his eyes. He made his wish. He blew. There was a loud whoosh, followed by a pop and a distinct smell of burning.

Wormwood opened his eyes. Across the table, Nurd’s head was on fire. In one of his hands, he held the charred, melted remains of a balloon.

“Oh, thank you,” said Nurd as he tried to douse the flames. “Thank you very much.”

“Sorry,” said Wormwood. “I’ve never tried to blow anything out before.”

“Wow,” said Samuel. “You have inflammable breath. I always thought it smelled like petrol.”

“The cake survived,” said Tom. “The icing has just melted a bit.”

“I’m fine,” said Nurd. “Don’t worry about me. I love being set alight. Keeps out the cold.”

Samuel patted Nurd on the back.

“Seriously, I’m okay,” said Nurd.

“I know. Your back was on fire, though.”

“Oh.”

“There’s a hole in your cloak, but I expect Mum will be able to fix it.”

Mrs. Johnson cut the cake and gave everybody a slice.

“What did you wish for, Wormwood?” asked Tom.

“And if you tell me that you wished my head was on fire, we’ll have words,” said Nurd.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to say,” said Wormwood.

“That’s before you blow,” said Tom. “It’s all right to tell us now.”

“Well, I wished that everything would stay just the way it is,” said Wormwood. “I’m happy here. We all are.”