Jack looked up, and Tom saw a flicker run through his eyes. It could not be fear, but it might have been anticipation. More than anything Tom was reminded of a lizard, ageless and implacable, waiting at the crossroads for something to happen. He shuddered, half expecting a forked tongue to flicker out of his mouth.

‘They are ancient and wily. They may be able to enter. Whether they will be able to break through to the Captive is another thing. I have many ways of stopping them.’ Jack counted the vials of draughts carefully and placed them in their right positions.

And that was when the idea came to Tom. If he could persuade Jack to show him how the spells worked, how the defences were made, then would he also be able to pull them apart?

The thought made him pause in his work, and Jack eyed him.

‘What ails you?’

‘Nothing.’ He scrambled for an excuse. ‘I was just thinking about how to stop the Samdhya reaching the Captive.’

Tom felt the beam of Jack’s eyes raking through his soul.

‘We’ve done enough for today.’ Jack rose abruptly, then slowly cleaned his hands over the sink, dried them off. ‘You will come to my rooms later. I will show you your parents again.’ Without looking back, he stomped out and up to his rooms.

As if from nowhere, Leana appeared and nuzzled her head onto Tom’s knees. Tom gratefully tickled her chin, and then gulped down two long glasses of water, before scouring the larder. He found some stale biscuits and ate them greedily. There were some tins, which he would open later for supper.

Once he was satisfied, he thought about what he could do. He was in realms undreamed of. Nothing he had read or done at school or anywhere else could help him. All he had was the wooden flute in his pocket and the diary of Margaret Ravenswood.

Jack must have a weak spot. He must do. There must be some way that Tom could get behind his defences.

He trudged up to his room, Leana at his heels, and flung himself onto the bed. There was no mobile phone signal, of course.

A thought struck him. Perhaps he could go to the mound and find some signal there. He could call Fletcher, ask him to send someone, or even come himself, though the thought of Fletcher striding up the gravel path, bellowing in his nasal tones, seemed absurd, his ancient Ford on the drive behind him.