“I’ve been trying! I can’t do anything with it! I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the way to it. Or maybe it just doesn’t want me anymore. I can’t remember how I did any of it. I can’t do it.”

“Maybe not.” His grandfather shrugged and smiled. “I’ll admit, it’s a long shot. But it’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it? You got something from the tablet not long ago.”

Alex shivered. “That’s another thing,” he said, frowning. “You’ve told me how dangerous it all is. Magic. Forces not to be dabbled with. Old voodoo for another time, you said. Had to be destroyed. The whole point of everything you’ve done, everything we’ve done, was to stop your father getting his hands on the golem’s tablet, stop him doing . . . this kind of thing. And now you want me to try to do exactly the same—”

“This is very different.”

“How? How’s it different?”

“It’s just different, that’s all. Anyway, a person has a right to contradict himself. And, Alex, this is Harry.”

“But other people died . . . my dad.” Alex’s throat tightened. “You never tried to bring him back . . . did you?”

“No.” The old man stared into the trees, focused on something else. “I had no chance to try. I had nothing like the tablet then. Maybe it’s for the best I didn’t. And maybe I shouldn’t be asking you now, but—”

“But if I could,” Alex broke in. His mind was racing into new territory. “If I was able to do what you’re asking—I could try to get my dad back, too, couldn’t I?”

“Ah, no, Alex, I don’t think so.” Taking up his cane, the old man began quickly tracing patterns on the ground. “I don’t know much about the whole resurrection game, but from the little I’ve gleaned, it seems three or four days is the optimal time. Four was the magic number for old Lazarus, for example. You know, chap in the Bible. That’s why I didn’t want us to leave it any longer: it’ll be three days for Harry tonight. I mean, he’s hardly been away, ha. Your father has been gone too long. He’s gone, Alex.

“Perhaps I’m just being foolish now. I have no idea what might happen if you manage to succeed with Harry. All the stories about this kind of thing—well, few end well. But Harry knows . . . Harry knew things about what’s going on that we don’t. I have a very bad feeling about it. If there’s even the slightest chance, we have to try. And, anyway: Alex, this is Harry. And it’s my fault he . . .