Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Pushkin Children's Books
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
A magical middle-grade adventure story set in Wales and entwined with British folklore and mythology'Both the protagonists and the worlds are simply lovingly designed' Sallys BooksOn a summer holiday in Wales, Portia and Ben find a mysterious door set in a bramble hedge in the middle of a forest. It is a portal to the Otherworld and should never be opened, but how are they supposed to know that? After all, the old stories about the wonders and dangers of the Otherworld have long been forgotten ...For Robin Goodfellow, the man with the fox shadow, the children are his last chance to open the portal and finally return home. But for everyone else, the door spells great danger. This thrilling fantasy adventure immerses young readers deep in the world of British myths and legends.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 415
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
![Brombeerfuchs. Der Zauber von Sturmauge [Band 2 (Ungekürzt)] - Kathrin Tordasi - Hörbuch](https://legimifiles.blob.core.windows.net/images/f5e7677277df52fd1ab798107646824f/w200_u90.jpg)
![Brombeerfuchs. Das Geheimnis von Weltende [Band 1 (Ungekürzt)] - Kathrin Tordasi - Hörbuch](https://legimifiles.blob.core.windows.net/images/15d7b4b5eec24c8b932d4f4d5e012b13/w200_u90.jpg)
![Brombeerfuchs. Das Geheimnis von Weltende [Band 1] - Kathrin Tordasi - Hörbuch](https://legimifiles.blob.core.windows.net/images/94fea7b1dac1086dbe38604975d97303/w200_u90.jpg)
3
5
For Erika Grams & Wolfgang Gramps
6
Contents
Characters
Prologue
Long, long ago, humans and fairies could pass back and forth between their worlds effortlessly. The kingdoms of mortals and immortals were as close to each other as the banks of a river, with nothing but an empty stretch of land in between. No one ever gave the Borderlands a thought. But someone sensed every person who passed. And one night he who had been sleeping for a hundred years stirred.
Red autumn leaves fell from the trees as the Grey King rose from his lair. He roamed the in-between world, shrouded in swirling fog. Anyone caught in that fog either vanished without a trace or became a Mistwalker, a creature existing without a single memory of its former self. All at once, those travelling between the worlds had to fear for their lives.
And there was more. The Grey King sent his army into the Human and Fairy Worlds. Pale riders brought the fog with them, making lakes, fields and villages disappear and dissolve into a grey ocean. Eventually, humans and fairies joined forces, and together they pushed the King and his army back into the Borderlands. The fairies put him into a deep sleep—but they could not say how long their enchantment would last.
Exhausted from the battle, humans and fairies made a grave decision. They would seal up the border between their worlds, in the hope that the Grey King would never be able to leave his 12Borderlands ever again. And that was what came to pass. The human folk turned to their druids. Those wise women and men used rune magic to close all the doorways to the Fairy World, or Faerie as some call it. From that day onwards, they were locked, and only a handful of chosen ones possessed a key. Those Key Bearers were bound by one rule: if they opened a door leading to the other realm, they must close it as soon as they had crossed over. However, centuries went by, and the memory of the story of the Grey King began to fade into oblivion.
When we came into possession of one of those keys, no one remembered about the rule, or the Grey King for that matter. Unknowingly, we crossed over to Faerie, and for a while, we lived in blissful ignorance.
We left the door open behind us, since no one had told us why it must be closed. When the Grey King returned, no one saw the signs, no one raised an alarm. That morning, when the fog surged from the woods like a storm flood, it was already too late.
olivia stephen,Stories from the Otherworld (1965)
A Holiday in Wales
PORTIA
The town of Conwy nestled against the coast like a blob of jam inside the curve of a croissant. The houses of the old section stood on a hillside, overlooking the blue bay. Its narrow alleyways lay in the shadow of a castle with the Welsh flag fluttering from its turrets: a red dragon on a green and white base.
At the foot of the castle, a short distance from the ramparts, was the train station. It had two sets of tracks, and a platform so narrow that two adults were barely able to walk down it side by side. Behind the station was a car park, which was as empty as the station itself—except for a brown seagull rooting through the rubbish bins in the hope of finding some lunch.
Portia Beale stood at the entrance to the car park, occasionally glancing down at the note in her hand. Her mother had written down her aunts’ address and phone number on a piece of squared paper. “Just in case,” she had said. “They’ll come and pick you up, so you won’t need the number; at least not for now.”
Well, Mum, you thought wrong.
She pulled her phone from her pocket, trying to ignore the lump in her throat. No reason to panic. She had taken 14the train from London to Wales all by herself, so why would she be scared of making a simple phone call? After all, her mother had warned her that the aunts were a tad scatter-brained—perhaps they had simply forgotten that their guest was arriving today.
Portia had already typed in the first three digits when a Nissan car came barrelling noisily into the car park, brakes screeching and exhaust popping, and halted in front of her. The door flew open, and a stocky woman with a short grey plait heaved herself out. Portia’s thumb was still hovering over the screen when the woman came stomping towards her, in clumpy green wellington boots.
“Damn and blast it!” she said by way of a greeting. “I really thought I was going to make it in time.”
That was Portia’s first impression of Aunt Bramble.
Initially Portia and her mother had been planning to spend their summer holidays in Andalusia—but a week before their scheduled departure, her mum had cancelled the trip. Portia had been disappointed, but not particularly surprised. Her mother had been feeling unwell all month. Signs that the holiday wouldn’t happen had gathered like storm clouds on the horizon.
Gwendolyn Beale had broken the news to her daughter three days ago. Andalusia was off. Instead, she said, Portia would be spending a fortnight with some relatives in North Wales. Rose was Gwendolyn’s aunt and Bramble her partner. They lived in a cottage in the countryside, but had been travelling on and off for years, so Portia hadn’t seen them 15since she was very little. Still, they were really looking forward to her visit. At least that’s what Portia’s mum had said. Now that Bramble was right in front of her, large as life, Portia wasn’t so sure.
“Where on earth is my blasted watch?” said Bramble in a voice as thorny as her namesake, rummaging through her trouser and coat pockets. Portia had no idea how to greet the older woman, so in the end she simply stuck out a hand. “Hello, I’m Portia.”
She felt foolish as soon as the words left her mouth, but Bramble paused for the first time since she had jumped out of the car. She looked Portia up and down with a smile on her face, before taking her hand in a firm grip. “I know who you are, girl. Even though I’ve got to say, you’ve grown an awful lot since I last saw you.”
She produced a battered wristwatch from the depths of a pocket. “Shall we?”
Without waiting for a response, Bramble grabbed Portia’s bag and headed back towards her dented grey Nissan. Portia followed, adjusting the straps on her backpack.
“That train’s always, always late,” Bramble grumbled. “And then today of all days it’s on time. Have you been waiting long?”
“No, not really,” said Portia, but Bramble didn’t seem to be listening anyway. She opened the boot, swore again and pushed aside a big bag of bark mulch to make space for Portia’s suitcase.
“Go ahead and get in! Rose is waiting with the tea, and if I don’t deliver you on time, she’ll do her eyebrow thingy.”16
“Her what thingy?” Portia asked as she opened the passenger door.
Bramble snorted. “Oh, you’ll see, you’ll see.”
The boot closed with a bang, and before she knew it they were on their way.
The Nissan rattled and clattered so much during the ride that Portia was worried the old rust bucket would fall apart at any moment. Bramble on the other hand didn’t seem to be bothered at all. She sped along the narrow streets at a speed that must surely have been over the limit. Portia clasped the backpack on her lap with both hands and nervously watched the stone houses swoosh by outside.
She would have liked to ask Bramble to slow down but didn’t dare. In her half-moon glasses, she reminded Portia of the headmistress at her school, even though the tousled grey plait didn’t quite fit the image of a strict teacher. Her clothes were what you might charitably call practical: a flowery blouse, a washed-out green cardigan and a faded pair of jeans tucked into her wellies. Portia wondered what Bramble had been up to before she had left the house to pick her up at the train station.
“When we last saw you, you were three years old,” Bramble said, hurtling through a roundabout without even touching the brakes. A little gnome dangling from the rear-view mirror bounced frantically up and down. “You probably don’t remember, do you?”
“No, I don’t, actually,” Portia replied. That gnome must be sick to his stomach, she thought.17
“Well, it would be quite unusual if you did, actually.” Bramble rattled over a speed bump. “But I remember you used to love hiding things.” She laughed. “Once, you put Rose’s shoes in the oven. It must have taken her an hour to find them.”
“Um. I’m sorry, I suppose?” Portia stuttered, thrown off guard.
“Not at all!” said Bramble. “I discovered your little hiding place after about ten minutes, but it was simply too much fun to watch Rose searching high and low. We could do it again, but I reckon you’re too old for such shenanigans by now, aren’t you?”
Portia couldn’t help but smile. “I suppose I am.”
“What a shame,” Bramble sighed. “Music?”
Without waiting for Portia’s reply, she turned the radio on. Abba’s ‘Waterloo’ blared from the speakers, and Bramble immediately began humming along. Portia glanced over and noticed that her glasses had slid down to the tip of her nose. In fact, she didn’t look like a teacher at all, Portia decided. She was more like an archaeologist who dug up buried treasures or explored pyramids.
The only thing missing is an old leather hat, Portia thought. As if she had read her mind, Bramble glanced over at her and winked—perhaps she wasn’t as thorny as Portia had feared after all.
A Thief in the Night
PORTIA
Driving inland from Conwy, the road took them along the edge of the Snowdonia National Park, home to Wales’s highest mountains, most beautiful lakes and most of its sheep too. At least that’s what Portia’s mother had told her. The River Conwy meandered across green meadows like a blue ribbon, and it was true: there was barely a patch of grass not occupied by a grazing sheep. Twenty minutes later, Bramble had steered the old car to a place called Trefriw. Portia tried several times to pronounce the name, but couldn’t manage it.
“Trair-vruew,” Bramble corrected her. “And if you’re having trouble with that, you just wait until we take you to Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.”
“Come again?” Portia spluttered.
Bramble repeated the name.
“It’s actually the longest place name in the world,” she explained. “It roughly translates to Mary’s church resting in a hollow of white hazels near a fierce whirlpool and the church of Thysilio of the red cave. The Welsh are quite particular when it comes to their names.”
“Aren’t you from Wales?” Portia asked.19
Bramble shook her head. “Migrated here from Shropshire. But don’t tell anyone.” She honked the horn vigorously and waved at a man walking along the side of the road.
“We’re almost there now,” she promised, before glancing at her watch and stepping on the accelerator even harder. The Nissan roared out of Trefriw, over a stone bridge and past a lush green meadow before entering a little wood of gnarled oaks that pressed up against the road from either side. Then they emerged from the trees, and Portia caught her breath.
The view was stunning—to their right, a beautiful little valley, with a stream running along its bottom, bordered by dark-hued willows; ahead, forest-clad foothills rising to distant, craggy mountaintops.
“Wow,” Portia gasped.
Bramble grinned. “Beautiful, but remote,” she said. “Don’t worry, though. If you take my bike, you’ll be in town in no time at all. And Llanrwst isn’t far, either.”
“Hlun…?” Portia gave it a try.
“Hlan-roost,” Bramble repeated. “They’ve got a little cinema and a bookshop and what have you. So you won’t have to be cooped up in the house with us two old bags all the time. Aha, speak of the devil.”
Portia peered ahead through the windscreen. An apple orchard appeared at the end of the road, and beyond that, a grey stone house.
“Home sweet home,” Bramble proclaimed as she parked under an apple tree. With another glance at her watch, she climbed out of the car. Portia did the same, all the while 20staring at her aunts’ house. She hadn’t expected anything as beautiful as this! There was even a conservatory, and a hammock tied between two trees. The aunts must have plenty of green fingers between them, she thought. Flowers flourished all over the garden and along the windowsills. A dog rose climbed up the front wall of the house, and the purple flowers of a clematis cascaded from the porch like a waterfall. Portia wouldn’t have been surprised to see Peter Rabbit himself hopping around the garden.
“Are you afraid of dogs?” Bramble asked as she hoisted Portia’s luggage from the boot.
“No… Why?” She had barely uttered her question when a black-and-white bullet came shooting towards them.
“Marlowe!” Bramble yelled sharply, but the dog was already jumping around Portia, panting excitedly. He trod on her feet with his paws, pressed his flank against her knees and wagged his tail as if they were the dearest of best friends.
Portia squatted down to scratch Marlowe between his ears. Judging by the way he rested his head on her thighs he liked that.
Bramble shook her head in mock disapproval. “Quite the fierce guard dog, aren’t you?”
“Love at first sight, I see.”
Portia turned around and looked up to see a woman of about Bramble’s age walking towards them with a broad smile on her face, drying her hands on a tea towel. This had to be Rose. She wore glasses too, but unlike Bramble, Rose had short, curly hair, and was quite smartly turned out, in 21a red blouse and a poppy-patterned skirt. Portia wiped her hands on her jeans, anticipating a handshake. But Rose didn’t waste any time with that. Still smiling, she placed both of her hands on Portia’s shoulders.
“Portia, my dear,” she said. “Just look at you. And look at how much you’ve grown! We haven’t seen each other in far too long. How old were you when we came to visit the last time? Maybe two?”
“Three,” Bramble cut in. “And yes, girls usually do a fair bit of growing up over nine years.”
“You’re late,” Rose shot back in reply.
“You should have seen the traffic,” Bramble retorted.
“The traffic?” Rose’s right eyebrow arched in obvious disbelief. Bramble flashed Portia a meaningful glance.
Ah, Portia thought. The eyebrow thingy!
“Terrible traffic,” Bramble confirmed without even batting an eye. “All because of those new traffic lights in Tal-y-Cafn. Why they built those things in the first place is beyond me, really.” She carried Portia’s suitcase towards the garden gate as Marlowe dashed past her and into the house. “On top of which, I had to drive sensibly. After all,” she added, “one should never speed when travelling with young passengers, you know.”
By now, Portia’s red face could have given a ripe tomato a run for its money. She’d never heard anyone lie so smoothly.
“No less than I would expect from a driver as conscientious as you are,” Rose said drily. She threw the tea towel over her shoulder and stretched out her hand. To her surprise, Portia glimpsed a tattoo on her wrist: a row of zigzag lines—like the traces of little birds’ tracks.22
“Come along, dear,” said Rose. “You can help me set the table.”
The house’s name was written on a slate above the doorbell: Afallon. Portia stepped in through the open door and stopped dead.
The entrance hall was crammed full of stuff: a coat rack, a basket filled with umbrellas and a knee-high elephant made of bronze. A vase filled with lilies and hortensia stood on an old telephone table with a gold-framed mirror hanging on the wall above it.
Portia had never seen that much stuff in one place—other than in a museum. Except that it didn’t smell like freshly baked cakes in a museum. She sniffed the sweet air. Vanilla, she thought. And lemon. She walked slowly into the house and saw the open doors on each side of the hallway.
Perhaps this was the kind of house with secret passages? Great big oil paintings that swung open to reveal hidden doors? Portia’s heart was racing. She would have loved to begin exploring all the rooms right away. She stared about her, taking in the walls, ceiling and the dark-brown wooden staircase with ornate banisters that climbed up towards the first floor.
“So, what do you think?” Rose was leaning against the door frame with folded arms. “Can you bear to spend a few weeks with us?”
“Definitely!” Portia blurted out. “Thank you so much for having me.”
“Ah, nonsense, we’ve been looking forward to your visit. 23In fact,” she continued in a raised voice, “that tea has been looking forward to meeting you for more than an hour.”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you,” Bramble harrumphed, as she edged past Rose and set off up the stairs with Portia’s suitcase.
“Your room is upstairs,” Rose explained. “But let’s have some tea and cake first, shall we?”
“Cake sounds lovely,” Portia said immediately.
Rose laughed. “I thought it would!” She pointed to a door to her right. “The living room is through there. Why don’t you go ahead while I fetch us some tea from the kitchen?”
Portia shrugged off her backpack, feeling a pleasant tingle under her skin as the weight was lifted, and pushed open the living-room door.
“Amazing,” she whispered.
The room was like a magical hollow dug beneath the roots of a tree. The low ceiling was held up by oak rafters and the walls were painted a pastel green. A crimson Persian rug lay on the wooden floorboards between three wing-backed chairs facing a fireplace. But the best part was the books. Shelves crammed full of them, stood against every wall. An open glass door led out to the conservatory. Even out there, Portia could see books piled up on a chaise longue, surrounded by buckets overflowing with greenery, and beautiful plants trailing from hanging baskets above.
Portia was so impressed by all the books that she was unable to take in anything else for a moment. Only on reaching the middle of the room did she realize that she was not alone.24
A fox was sitting in the doorway between the living room and the conservatory. The animal looked straight at her, its fur gleaming like copper in the afternoon sun. Portia held her breath, but the fox stayed where it was, watching her with pricked ears and golden, inquisitive eyes. Fascinated, she held its gaze, until she heard a whimpering behind her. She turned around to find Marlowe crouching in the living-room doorway, his head tucked between his paws.
He clearly wasn’t a hunting dog, judging by how frightened he looked. The fox, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be scared at all. Quite the contrary—it was calmly sizing Marlowe up. Portia even thought she saw it give a cheeky smirk, although of course that wasn’t possible.
“Marlowe, old chap,” Bramble called from the hallway. “Are you begging for treats again?” A second later she came through the doorway and spotted the fox. “You!” she thundered, the sound of her voice making the fox flinch. “I can’t believe it! Get out of here!”
The fox cowered, hesitated, and finally dashed back into the conservatory and out into the garden.
“Don’t let me catch you in here again, or I’ll make gloves out of you!” Bramble yelled from the open doorway. “Honestly, it’s enough to drive a person mad,” she said, turning back towards Portia.
“A fox!” Portia said, still in shock, as Bramble came back into the living room.
“Yes. Well, more or less,” said Bramble evasively. Her gaze wandered to a closed door next to one of the bookshelves. Marlowe trotted over to her, and she scratched him between 25his ears, still shaking her head in disbelief. “You got a bit of a fright there, didn’t you, boy?”
“What’s going on in here?” Rose asked as she came into the living room, carrying a teapot and cups on a tray.
“A fox!” Portia cried. “Right here! In the living room!” It was unbelievable. She had never seen a fox so close up before. “Does that happen often?”
The aunts’ house was becoming more exciting by the minute, but Rose didn’t seem pleased by the fox’s visit either. She flashed Bramble a worried look, but her partner merely tightened her mouth into a thin line in response.
“Welcome to the countryside,” Bramble said curtly, pushing Marlowe to one side and taking the tray from Rose’s hands.
By the evening, Portia could no longer say which part of the house she loved most. For a while, it was a neck-and-neck race between the kitchen, the conservatory and the living room. In the end, however, she decided it had to be her own room. “We’re just down the hall, in case you need anything,” said Rose when it was time to go to bed. She gave Portia a hug. “We’re so happy you’re here.”
“So am I,” said Portia. The aunts had welcomed her so kindly—now she understood why her mum had always loved spending her summers here in Afallon.
“Sweet dreams,” said Rose, turning to go.
“Don’t let the dog in!” thundered Bramble from the other end of the hall.26
Rose rolled her eyes, yet couldn’t help but smile. “Goodnight,” she said, and Portia wished her the same. When Rose closed the door, Portia finally got to take a good look at her new room.
The guest bedroom wasn’t big. In fact it was rather cosy. A reading lamp shaped like a bellflower sat on a table beside her bed, and there was a white wooden chest of drawers for her to put her clothes in. The room was at the rear of the house, and Portia was certain that she’d be able to see the river from her window in the morning.
She turned on the lamp and opened her suitcase. Her pyjamas were right on top. She picked them up, and then stopped short—underneath them lay her mum’s favourite poncho. Staring at the carefully folded material, Portia suddenly felt a bit of a lump in her throat. She remembered the last time her mum had worn it.
It was the morning she cancelled their holiday. Portia had been tiptoeing around the flat for the past fortnight, bringing her mum breakfast in the morning and tea in the evening. This routine was nothing new to her. Most of the time Gwen was a cheerful, positive person, but every now and then she would be hit by a wave of sadness. If they were lucky the emotional storm would pass after a few days, but often it would loom overhead for weeks—and that’s how it was this time around.
When Portia had walked into the living room that Monday before they were supposed to leave for their trip, Gwen was sitting on the windowsill. She was wearing the poncho, a big purple woollen one. Portia sat down and 27snuggled up against her mum, who put an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. The poncho felt warm and soft against Portia’s cheek.
Andalusia isn’t happening, I’m afraid, her mother had said quietly.
Disappointment burned in Portia’s throat, but she wouldn’t let it show. Never mind, she had replied. We’ll just go next year.
Her mum had pulled her into a hug and kissed the top of her head. My brave Lion-Girl.
Portia had been sure she’d managed to hide her disappointment from her mum. But now it seemed as if Gwen must have felt it and packed the poncho for her as consolation.
Oh, Mum, thought Portia. She slipped into her pyjamas and wrapped the poncho around her shoulders. The wool smelt faintly of Gwen’s perfume. Portia pressed it to her nose and took a deep breath, trying to imagine what her mother was doing right at that moment. She hoped she was feeling better. That she was remembering to make herself breakfast, and perhaps to leave the house every now and then to get some fresh air.
Not for the first time that day, she wondered whether she should’ve stayed in London. But her mother had insisted that she should have a fun summer holiday. Portia ran her hand over the poncho and trusted that her mum wouldn’t miss it too much.
She sighed, turned off the main light and climbed into bed. Kneeling on the duvet, she looked out of the window. Outside, it was already getting dark—too dark to make out 28anything in the back garden. The stars were hiding behind clouds, and the willows were no more than vague shapes lining the river. But there was something strange, too.
Portia squinted. A shadowy shape was moving across the grass down below. She leant forward. The fox flitted through the beam of light falling from her window, and then disappeared into the shrubbery. Portia frowned. It really was persistent! Could its den be nearby?
Anyway, her feet were getting cold. Portia huddled under the duvet, and fished out of her backpack the book she had started reading on the train. The down crackled softly as she nestled against her pillow, the poncho still wrapped around her shoulders.
Portia had no idea what had woken her up. All she knew was that she was suddenly sitting bolt upright in her bed. It was still pitch black outside. She frowned. So strange! Had she had a nightmare?
She rubbed her eyes. Now that she was awake, she might just as well go to the loo. She had probably overdone it with the third cup of tea, but it had been so satisfying pouring milk into the china cups. Barefoot, she stepped out of her room onto the dark landing and groped blindly along the wall next to the door, but couldn’t find the light switch. She was drowsily making her way down the landing when she heard a noise downstairs. She froze. There it was again—the low creaking of a door.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dark by now, and she could make out the outline of the banister. She crept over to the 29top of the stairs and stood, listening intently. But the house was still. She had just decided that the noise must have been old Marlowe lolloping about, when a shadow flitted past the bottom of the stairs. The fox!
All at once, Portia was wide awake. For a second she considered waking her aunts, but her curiosity won out. She tiptoed down the steps. When she got to the bottom, she could hear noises coming from the living room: a scratching sound at first, followed by the thud of a book hitting the floor. What on earth was that fox up to in there?
Sneaking to the open living-room door, she peeked inside. Blueish moonlight was filtering in through the windows at the other end of the room, but even so Portia could barely make out a thing. All she could see were the dark shapes of the armchairs. The noises were coming from the next room now—the one she hadn’t been into yet. She padded across the thick carpet and gave the door next to the bookshelf a gentle push.
She heard the sound of rustling paper. Something was moving in the shadows, rooting around the top of a wooden table—something with a bushy tail.
Portia was still peering into the darkness when she heard paws scrabbling on the floorboards behind her. Then Marlowe bolted past her into the room, barking. The next thing she knew, someone had reached over her shoulder and switched on the lights. Portia’s heart skipped a beat—but that was nothing in comparison to the fox’s reaction: the instant the lights clicked on, the animal froze, its tail bristling like a bottlebrush. It was standing in the middle of a desk, surrounded by a mess of crumpled paper and open drawers.30
“Oh, no, you don’t,” growled Bramble, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. She barged past Portia and charged into the study like a warhorse. The fox crouched down, flattened his ears and hissed, but Bramble wasn’t fazed. She lunged forward and almost managed to grab the intruder, but the fox was quick. At the very last second it ducked under her arm and shot out of the study as if the devil himself was after it.
Bramble swore. Then they heard a scream coming from the hall. The lights in the living room came on to reveal Rose, her hand on the switch.
“For heaven’s sake, what is going on here?” she asked, tying the belt of her dressing gown.
The fox, Portia was about to say, but Bramble beat her to it. “Crwydriadgoch,” she blustered in Welsh.
It didn’t mean anything to Portia, but Rose looked shocked and did her eyebrow thingy.
“What in the world did he want?” she wondered aloud, clearly astonished.
“To steal something, as usual,” snorted Bramble. “That scoundrel will give me a heart attack one day.”
“Bramble,” Rose said soothingly, but Bramble wouldn’t calm down.
“I’ve had it. The next time he dares to show his face here, I’ll get the shotgun from the attic. You know what, actually, give me the phone.”
“Who do you want to call at this hour?”
“Pest control? A hunter? How should I know?” roared Bramble.31
Marlowe nuzzled his angry mistress’s leg, and Rose rubbed her back, making shushing noises until Bramble closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath.
“I’m too old for this nonsense,” she muttered, before starting to clear up the chaos on the desk.
Rose checked her watch. “I’ll make some tea. The sun will be up in half an hour, and I’d say we won’t be getting any more sleep tonight anyway.”
“How did the fox get in, by the way?” asked Portia.
“Oh, I must have forgotten to lock the kitchen door,” Rose said breezily. Portia frowned. She distinctly remembered Rose locking the door. And now that she thought about it, she felt certain that the door to the study had been closed as well. Could foxes turn door handles?
Rose went out into the hall, but Portia hung back. Something was going on here, and she needed to ask Bramble about it. But as she came to the study doorway again, she stopped short. Unaware she was being watched, Bramble was bent over the desk, feeling carefully along its edge with her fingertips. What was she up to? Then Portia saw the edge of the desk come away in Bramble’s hand. A secret drawer slid out from its hiding place. Bramble took something out, and for a moment Portia saw a silvery object twinkling between her fingers, before she sighed with relief and put the shiny object back in its place.
Curious. Very curious, Portia thought. She tiptoed away before Bramble slid the drawer back into place, but she had memorized the exact spot she needed to push to open it.
Pendragon Books
BEN
Ben Rees stood on a ladder, arranging cookbooks on the top shelf of a rather crowded bookcase. The ladder was a bit wobbly, but he was used to it. Steadying himself against the bookcase, he pushed a book into a narrow gap with his free hand.
A few years earlier, his parents had taken over Pendragon Books from his grandfather, painted the shopfront blue and hung a string of lights in the window.
Like his mother, Megan, before him, Ben had grown up in that bookshop. He had learnt to read in the armchair in the back corner. Megan loved to talk about how he had spent hours sitting there, poring over picture books. At first, his legs had been so short they dangled over the seat of the chair.
Ben had been helping in the shop since he was six years old, sorting donated books and dusting shelves. He also drew pictures for the signs on the shelves: little pots for cookbook corner, bloody knives for the crime section, hearts for romance novels and dragons for the fantasy collection.
He didn’t exactly have to help, but he loved that bookshop, and he could hardly wait to get there after school. The smell 33of paper, the cracked book spines and the sea of printed words made him feel at home.
The shop wasn’t very busy today—no customers apart from the red-haired man, who stopped by from time to time, standing flicking through a novel. Ben was just stepping off the ladder when the bell above the door jingled and his mother called out “Croeso!” which means “Welcome” in Welsh.
Ben went over to a pile of boxes filled with books to fetch a few more to add to the shelves. When he came back to cookbook corner, he noticed a girl he’d never seen before in the crime section. Kids didn’t wander into the shop all that often. Most of them got their books from the school library, if they read at all. This girl didn’t look like she was planning on returning home empty-handed, though. She was about Ben’s age, in trainers, jeans and a blue T-shirt with a pink flamingo on the front. Her black hair danced around her freckly face in wild curls.
Ben carried on shelving books, watching the new girl out of the corner of his eye. What sort of books was she interested in? he wondered. He got his answer when she pulled a Miss Marple mystery from the shelf. Not his thing. Just then, she glanced over and saw him looking at her. She lowered the book and raised an eyebrow.
Ben spun around as fast as lightning and knelt over one of the boxes. His heart was racing, and he felt angry with himself. Serves you right, he thought. You shouldn’t have been staring like that. He fished a tattered copy of All My Chickens from the box but stayed crouched down in his corner, rummaging through the books, hoping that the girl would 34forget all about him. He was relieved when a few minutes had passed without anyone speaking to him. But then he heard his mum’s voice.
“Ben? Come over here, would you?”
Ben turned around, and his heart sank into his trainers. His mother was behind the counter and the curly-haired girl was waiting in front of it.
Great. Ben knew exactly what would happen next. He went over to the counter, hoping his nervousness didn’t show on his face.
“This is my son, Ben,” said Megan, beaming from ear to ear. “Ben, this is Portia. She’s spending her summer holiday at Afallon.”
The girl smiled at him. He could feel his face turning red, his cheeks burning. He hated these moments.
Megan was constantly trying to set him up with other children. She meant well, of course—she was just worried that Ben spent too much time by himself. He didn’t play football or go to birthday parties. It wasn’t even that the other kids were deliberately excluding him—they just never even thought of him when making plans. And as far as Ben was concerned, that was fine by him.
At school, he kept a low profile. During class, he never spoke if he didn’t have to, and at break, he would sneak off to the library where he would sit and read, write or draw.
“Is there really no one at school you might want to be friends with?” his mother often prodded. “They can’t all be that bad, can they? Why don’t you just give it a shot?”35
Ben promised her every time to do just that. What he didn’t tell his mother was that he had a hard time looking the kids at school in the face—he always felt they were expecting something from him, waiting for him to say some secret code word that he didn’t know. Or perhaps they were just waiting for him to say something stupid and make a fool of himself.
Books were easier—when he was reading, he had loads of amazing friends. He journeyed to Mount Doom with Frodo and Sam, discovered Hogwarts’s secret passageways with Harry Potter and rode to Bolvangar on an armoured polar bear’s back. His life wasn’t boring at all, but somehow it was impossible to convince his mum of that. She might have given up pestering him to join the football team, but she still never missed an opportunity to set him up with a potential friend. Which was mortifying for Ben, and must also have been awkward for… what was her name again? Portia. She surely had better things to do than make a conversation with a perfect stranger. But apparently, she was too polite to let on.
“Hi,” said Portia.
Ben managed to mumble a quiet “Hello”. Brilliant. Now her smile did look a little forced. If only he could go back to his box of books.
Megan seemed completely unaware of the awkwardness of the situation. “How long will you be staying in Afallon?” she asked.
Portia turned towards her. “Two weeks.”
“Ah, how lovely,” Megan said. “Then you’ve got enough time to explore the area. Have you already made plans?”
“We’re going to Conwy today, actually.”36
“Ah! To the pier?”
“To the castle.”
Megan was still holding Portia’s book in her hands, and Ben was hoping that she’d finally ring it up and wrap it—but no such luck.
“That should be exciting,” she continued chatting. “Are you interested in Welsh history?”
“I don’t know much about it yet. But my mum says some of the oldest places in all of Britain are here in Wales,” Portia replied.
“That’s true,” said Megan. “Did you know that there’s a stone circle nearby? It’s even older than Conwy Castle, isn’t it, Ben?”
Ben cast his mum a pleading look. It was painfully obvious what she had in mind: trying to get him and this girl to go off somewhere together. And if that didn’t work, she’d send him to Afallon on some made-up pretext. He would go along with it, for her sake, but his heart sank as he realized that his visits to the cottage weren’t going to be much fun for a while.
Ben really liked the Afallon women. He had read all of Bramble’s books, and he had even shown her some of his drawings. Bramble had asked to keep one of them—a Nazgûl dragon from Middle Earth—and Ben had taken that as huge praise. In return, she had gifted him a book filled with pictures of dragons, knights and castles for his birthday.
“A stone circle?” Portia asked.
“Oh, yes, up by the lake. Why don’t you head out there with Ben some time—he knows the area quite well.”37
Bingo, thought Ben.
Portia hesitated for a split second, and then she smiled at him. “Sounds good. If you’re up for it?”
Megan nodded encouragingly.
“Okay,” he said, resigned to his fate. He would spend a morning taking Portia up the lake. They’d chat a load of nonsense on the way. Ben would show her the five knee-high stones his mum had so generously called a “stone circle”. She would be disappointed, having expected something like Stonehenge. And then Ben would finally have his peace and quiet again.
Unless, of course, Portia found a last-minute excuse to not hang out with him—arguably the ideal scenario.
“If you’re interested in the real Wales, you really must see that stone circle,” Megan said as she punched the book’s price into the cash register. “That castle is really a foreign imposition, built by the English to keep us Welsh in check.”
Ben bent down to pick up a box of books next to the counter, and as he straightened up, he noticed something peculiar: the red-haired man, half hidden by the shelves, was watching the counter closely. No, wait, that wasn’t quite right. He was watching Portia.
“Hey, Ben?” his mum called. Ben winced. The red-haired man dropped his gaze and disappeared between the shelves. “Why don’t you two make a plan right away?”
All right, Mum, Ben thought. Best to jump in at the deep end. “Are you busy tomorrow morning?” he asked Portia.
“No, that’s cool, tomorrow morning is great.” Portia raised an eyebrow. “Eleven o’clock okay?”38
Ben nodded.
“Fabulous,” Megan exclaimed, clearly satisfied. “Ben can come pick you up from Afallon.” She handed Portia the wrapped book. “Have lots of fun in Conwy then. And tell Rose and Bramble I said hi, okay?”
“Will do.” Portia turned to Ben one last time. “See you tomorrow, then?”
“Okay,” he said, feeling incredibly stupid. Portia waved goodbye before stepping outside. The bell rang, the door swung shut, and she was gone. Ben sighed.
“Well?” Megan said, smiling. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ben frowned in disagreement. The bell rang again as the red-haired man left the shop too.
“Now, don’t look so glum. You’ll see—once you’re out and about, I’m sure you’ll have fun. Portia seems really nice.”
“Mmm,” he replied. It was hard to stop himself contradicting his mum, but he knew if they got into an argument, she’d just end up lecturing him about how it wasn’t healthy to be a loner. How he needed friends his age. How he’d miss out on all sorts of important experiences if all he did was sit there with his head in a book.
Ben knew his mum wished he was more like other kids, and for her sake he wished he was different too. But every time he tried to behave the way she thought he should, his stomach tied itself in knots.
Dad had never tried to push him into making friends with other kids. Ben knew his mother was only acting out of love for him, and yet… at moments like these, Ben wished his dad were still around. Dad had always understood him.39
Sadness settled on his shoulders like a heavy blanket, as it so often did since his father had passed away.
“Ben…” Megan began, but just then something smacked against the shop window with a thump. They both spun around.
“What on earth was that?” Megan wondered aloud, while Ben was already on his way over to the door. Stepping outside, he immediately saw what had happened: a dishevelled blackbird was lying on the pavement, right in front of the shop. It must have smashed into the window at full speed.
Ben ran over to the bird and squatted down to discover that it was still alive. The blackbird was trying to flutter away, but one of its wings was sticking out at a funny angle.
His chest tightened in pain. That poor bird! Where had it been flying to? He looked up and noticed a sparkle in the windowpane—and then the reflection of the red-haired man, watching him from the other side of the street.
Megan appeared next to Ben. “Goodness me! The poor thing.”
Ben was only half listening. He turned around just in time to see the red-haired man disappear around the street corner. For a moment it seemed as if a cloud of golden dust was hanging in the air in his wake. Then Ben blinked, and the cloud was gone. He must have been mistaken.
Peculiar Events
PORTIA
Later that afternoon, Portia sat in the living room at Afallon, drumming her fingers on the arm of her wing-backed chair. She had just got off the phone with her mum, and it had been nice to hear her voice—most of all because Gwen had sounded like she was in good spirits again, up for anything. Portia had told her all about the trip to Conwy: the old town filled with the smell of sea salt and spindrift, the giant seagulls, the narrow lanes and the fish and chips she and the aunts had enjoyed on the harbourside.
The day had been a busy one, and Portia hadn’t had much time to ponder the events of the previous night, but now her gaze wandered to the closed door of Bramble’s study.
Thoughts of the fox had been flitting through her mind all day. The aunts had dodged all her questions about the incident, which obviously piqued her curiosity even more.
Portia got up from her chair and went over to the study door. She was alone in the house—Rose had retreated to her writing shed in the garden to work on an editing project, and Bramble was walking Marlowe—so no one would know if she went into the study now.41
Forget it. It’s a stupid idea, Portia told herself. But then again, it wasn’t like Bramble and Rose had explicitly forbidden her to go into the room. And hadn’t Rose told her to make herself at home? So, what harm could it possibly do if she took a quick look?
Portia peeked through the open conservatory door to make sure that neither aunt was around, and then she stepped into Bramble’s study.
Bramble had an old-fashioned desk: a bureau with a front that folded down to give a writing surface, revealing lots of compartments and drawers behind it. Unlike her car, her workspace was neat and tidy. Notebooks were lined up along the open compartments, a fountain pen and pencils had been tucked into two mugs, and a Welsh dictionary sat at the edge of the desktop. An empty vase stood on top of the bureau next to a shoebox.
Portia placed both hands on the desktop. That’s where the fox had been, and that’s where Bramble had been poking around right after chasing it away. Curiosity killed the cat, said the voice of reason in her head, but she ignored it. The mystery surrounding the fox in the study was just too intriguing.
She felt along the desktop edge with her fingertips until she found a thin join in the polished wood. A smile crept over her face. Bingo. She pushed lightly against it and heard a clicking noise. When she pulled back her hand, the secret compartment slid out from the desktop.
“Abracadabra,” Portia whispered. In the secret drawer, she found a flat metal box. Her heart beating with excitement, 42
