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- Herausgeber: David Fickling Books
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
The seventh-born rat of the seventh-born litter is always a rat in want of adventure.Tilbury Twitch-Whiskers is no exception.He just doesn't know it yet . . .The curse of a legendary diamond hangs heavy over the Dockland Rats - and it becomes clear only Tilbury can break the curse and save ratkind from disaster. To carry out his destiny, this timid young rat must leave the comfort of home for the very first time . . .Tilbury's quest takes him to new lands, where huge cats and unfamiliar rats rule the streets and skies. Tilbury must risk everything to return the cursed jewel to its rightful owner . . . and along the way, he just might discover what true treasure is.
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Dear Reader,
The story within these pages is one of adventure, bravery and hope. It is a story of the Dockland Rats that live alongside the Thames as it twists and turns through the city of London. Their fate is bound to a cursed black diamond stolen from a far-off land, from a time gone by. But this could be a story about you and me too, for humans are not so dissimilar from rats; fierce and brave, quick to love and quick to fight, capable of both great generosity and greed, both honesty and deceit.
Ultimately this is a story about finding the truth.
But what even is the truth?
We all have our own version, as no one wants to be the villain of their own story.
And sometimes we choose to believe the stories that others weave around us, for it can feel safer to be wrapped in the comfort of home, than to search for answers in the unknown.
This is such a tale, about a young rat named Tilbury.
And in a world of so many different stories, maybe the greatest truth of all is when we know the truth of our own selves.
CONTENTS
For Victoria Birkett, my agent, who has guided my little ship through stormy waters and found a harbour for my own stories, in a world of so many stories.
PROLOGUE
The Seventh, Seventh-Born
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the seventh-born rat of the seventh-born litter is a rat in want of adventure.
Tilbury Twitch-Whiskers was no exception.
He just didn’t know it yet.
Mrs Twitch-Whiskers, upon the birth of the seventh rat baby of her seventh litter, looked at the little squirming infant and wept salt tears. For he was so much smaller than all the others. His skin was so pale and thin that she could see his little pink heart beating inside his chest. And she never wanted that little heart to stop. So she announced to anyone that would listen that Tilbury was actually her eighth-born ratling, and that her seventh-born had already been taken by a marauding crow. Indeed, a marauding crow had taken nearly all of Mrs Twitch-Whiskers’ seventh litter, except for little Tilbury and his fierce sister, Nimble-Quick. Tilbury had entwined his tail around Nimble-Quick’s, holding her tightly, as she fought back at the crow.
Maybe this was why Tilbury and his sister became so close, because they had clung to each other during this terrible moment and survived.
‘Tilbury is my eighth-born ratling,’ insisted Mrs Twitch-Whiskers. ‘But he has a weak heart and a weak chest and must stay with me.’
No one challenged her on this, because it is also a truth universally acknowledged that a rat in want of adventure does not last very long in the world.
Piers Piccadilly, the seventh-born rat of the seventh-born litter of Peter and Penelope Piccadilly, was accidentally swallowed whole by a seagull when he chewed his way into a discarded ice-cream cone. Millicent Morden, the seventh-born rat of the seventh-born litter of Merry-Weather and Marylebone Morden, was struck by lightning when she tap-danced across the lead roof of St Paul’s.
It was no surprise to find that Mrs Twitch-Whiskers forbade little Tilbury to venture to the outside world. In fact, she told him so many tales of all the terrible things that could befall him, that it was no surprise either that Tilbury grew up to be a nervous little rat, scared of his own shadow. So, he spent his days inside the chandlery of Tilbury Docks, and his little nose never smelled the outside air. He only ever saw the sky through the glass pane of a window.
But an adventurous spirit cannot be contained, for if adventuring cannot be undertaken in the outside world, then the curiosity and imaginings of such a mind are turned inwards and can be the beginning of some of the greatest adventures of all time.
PART ONE
THE DOCKLANDS
CHAPTER ONE
The Chandlery, Tilbury Docks
‘Tilbury, sit still or this needle will pierce right through you.’ Mrs Twitch-Whiskers held the needle deftly in her paw, but little Tilbury wriggled and fidgeted, impatient to leave. He had important things to do today. She pushed more featherdown into the lining of his jacket and stitched the pieces together, making sure it fitted him perfectly. ‘Remember that weak bones need protection,’ she fussed. ‘If you tripped over your tail, you could break your little legs.’
Tilbury waited while his mother fastened the front of his jacket. It was made from soft brown velvet that she had traded from the Rubbish-Tip Rats. His little trousers were padded with featherdown too. Mrs Twitch-Whiskers had indulged in her love of bling, and had made them from silver sequined material, safe in the knowledge that no sharp-eyed magpies could reach him indoors. In fact, the only parts of Tilbury’s body now exposed were his paws, his tail and his head.
‘Don’t forget your hat,’ she said.
Tilbury picked up the padded hat and pulled it over his head, wriggling his ears free. The hat was made from a tough brown leather and lined with soft fleece. His mother tied the ribbons underneath his chin and patted his head, checking the padding was thick enough to protect him. She stood back and admired her work. Her tailoring skills were well known amongst the Dockland Rats, and she traded her magnificent sartorial creations at the monthly market. For it is also well known that rats have a good eye for neat needlework and can be a little vain when it comes to fashion.
‘There now. Off you go and make sure you come to no harm. And stay inside,’ she called after him as she did every day. ‘For a rat with weak bones and a weak heart must not go seeking grand adventures of his own. You could catch your death of cold.’
And little Tilbury duly paid attention to his mother’s words. For the world outside was vast and terrifying. And besides, the chandlery held everything little Tilbury could ever want to know.
Tilbury lived with his large, unruly extended family in the attic rooms above the chandlery at Tilbury Docks, where the city of London ends, and the Thames reaches out into the sea. Ma and Pa, his brother and sisters, and aunts and uncles and all his cousins lived there. The broken windowpane that had perilously let in the marauding crow had since been blocked with pieces of wood and old carpet. So, the attic rooms were now snug and dry, but most importantly, safe.
Aunt Swinney, Uncle Tubs and their children lived in the grand doll’s house, Aunt Lily-Mae slept with her family in the old suitcase, Uncle Eddy and the cousins made their home in the wardrobe amongst the moth-eaten clothes, and Cousin Jak lived in the old trunk full of books.
Tilbury’s ma and pa had taken up residence in an old saggy sofa. It was big enough for all the forty-two children from their seven litters, and yet small enough to feel cosy and like home. Being from the seventh-born litter, Tilbury and Nimble-Quick were the youngest and smallest in the family, but they quarrelled and played, fought and frolicked with their older brothers and sisters like any large family. The cushions of the saggy sofa were stuffed with goose feathers, and there, curled up with his sleeping siblings, was the warmest place Tilbury could be on a cold winter’s day.
And today was one of those days, at the end of winter when the sky is the colour of forget-me-nots and ice crystals grow their own pattern of flowers on the windowpane.
But little Tilbury was not in bed with the others.
Tilbury had plans.
‘Come on, Nimble-Quick,’ he called. ‘Today’s the big day.’
Nimble-Quick raised her head from the sibling pile. ‘Is it morning already?’
‘Come on,’ said Tilbury, impatiently. ‘We’re going to make rat history.’
Nimble-Quick yawned and stretched. ‘Coming.’
Their mother insisted on dressing Nimble-Quick in a red woollen smock with white lacing. She licked her paws and smoothed down her youngest daughter’s fur. ‘No ratling of mine leaves the attic ungroomed,’ she scolded.
But Nimble-Quick had no interest in fashion and wriggled away as soon as she could. She grabbed her sewing bag and hurried after Tilbury.
‘Where are you going with that bag?’ called Ma.
‘I have some embroidery to finish on a dress,’ said Nimble-Quick.
Ma frowned. Nimble-Quick often neglected her sewing, even though she was deft with a needle. Ma couldn’t help thinking there was some other purpose to the sewing bag today. The rat-ling was definitely up to no good. ‘Look out for your brother,’ Ma insisted. ‘For the cold will snap his bones.’
Tilbury and Nimble-Quick set off, but then Tilbury turned back. ‘I almost forgot,’ he said. He pulled a large piece of cheese from the food store and put it in the rucksack too. ‘I promised Marmalade Paws his favourite snack.’
The two siblings slipped through a gap in the wainscot, their feet pattering on the dusty wood. Then they squeezed through a crack in the chimney brickwork and scrambled down, their claws and tails gripping onto the uneven chimney walls.
Down,
down,
down,
down,
down …
Through the darkness.
All the way to the chandlery basement.
Tilbury sat still in the old basement fireplace and sniffed the air. The grate hadn’t been used for over a hundred years and it was full of soot and sticks and feathers from ancient crows’ nests.
It was always dusty and musty in the basement. The air was still, and shafts of sunlight sliced through the dust from the grille high above at ground level. Humans hardly ever came down to the basement. It was filled with wondrous things. There were nuts and bolts and fine wire. There were ball bearings, clips and screws, pins, spring barrels, cogs and wheels. It was an emporium of mechanical delights that offered Tilbury inventions of endless possibilities.
Today, he and Nimble-Quick would attempt something that hadn’t been done in Dockland Rat history in nearly two hundred years.
‘Come on,’ Tilbury called to Nimble-Quick.
Tilbury stepped out into the basement, and as he did, a large ginger paw curled around his tail and lifted him high up in the air.
And little Tilbury found himself face to face with an extraordinarily large ginger tomcat, its smile showing yellowed, but very sharp, teeth.
CHAPTER TWO
Marmalade Paws
‘Marmalade!’ said Tilbury.
‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ said the tomcat.
Tilbury tickled Marmalade under his chin and a great rumbling purr came from the large cat’s throat.
Marmalade Paws was huge. He was kept by the chandlery owner to chase mice and rats, but the only running he ever did was to the sound of the tin-opener, opening his dinner. He loved to lie in the dust and catch the sun’s rays.
‘I’ve brought you some cheese,’ said Tilbury, opening his rucksack.
Marmalade closed his eyes and sniffed. ‘Mmm! Stinking Bishop, my favourite.’
‘I’ll bring more tomorrow,’ said Tilbury.
‘You’re so very kind,’ said Marmalade, taking the lump of cheese gently in his mouth.
Tilbury left Marmalade licking the cheese off his whiskers.
Nimble-Quick scuttled past Marmalade, keeping a wary eye on him. ‘Ma wouldn’t approve,’ she said. ‘That beast could bite your head off in a second.’
‘Marmalade wouldn’t do that,’ said Tilbury. ‘He’s my friend.’
‘Cats are no friend to us,’ hissed Nimble-Quick. ‘We are ancient enemies.’
Tilbury stopped beside the leg of a workbench. ‘Marmalade says he doesn’t like killing things. He says it makes him feel queasy.’
‘It’s their instinct to kill,’ snapped Nimble-Quick. She looked back at Marmalade who had rolled on to his back to turn his fluffy tummy to the morning rays of sun. ‘Besides, you shouldn’t let anyone know you can speak Sphinx.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Other rats will talk. It’s just not normal.’
‘I don’t see why it’s so bad to learn the language of cats,’ said Tilbury. ‘Maybe if we understood each other, we could get along better.’
‘Right! Little brother,’ said Nimble-Quick, rolling her eyes. ‘I won’t actually need a cosy chat with a cat before I’m its breakfast.’
‘Besides,’ continued Tilbury, ‘Marmalade teaches me Olde Sphinx too, the language of the great king cats. He says lions and tigers are so big that they even eat humans. Imagine how big they must be!’
Nimble-Quick shuddered. ‘I’d rather not imagine. Cats are quite big enough. And I still say you can never trust a cat, not even Marmalade.’
‘Come on,’ said Tilbury. ‘We are about to make rat history. No rat has ever flown since the Great Bartholomew created his Silk Wing.’
‘We’re not technically flying,’ said Nimble-Quick. ‘We’re gliding. We can’t take off from the ground without something to launch ourselves upward. Bartholomew’s Silk Wing could take off from the ground by itself.’
Tilbury sighed. He often dreamed of making such a machine. Legends were told about the Silk Wing, a flying machine that could take rats up into the air. Many stories had grown into myth and legend about its maker, for Bartholomew had been born nearly two hundred years ago, a long time for humans, and seemingly longer for rats whose lifespans are so much shorter than that of people. It was said that the Silk Wing and the detailed plans to build it had been destroyed by Bartholomew himself. And Bartholomew, being a seventh-born rat of a seventh-born litter, had come to a sticky end, at the very pointy end of a jewel-encrusted dagger.
Nimble-Quick reached into her sewing bag and pulled out the piece of sewing she had been working on. It was a garment made of fine sky-blue silk. It was gossamer thin, very light and strong, sewn together with gold thread. She took off her woollen smock and pulled on the garment, pushing her paws and feet through the sleeves and trouser legs. It clung close to her body, but two broad sheets of silk were attached from her paws to her feet, so that when she opened her arms wide, it looked like she had wings.
‘I’m going to call it a bird-suit,’ she said, flapping her arms.
‘Do you think it will work?’ asked Tilbury.
‘Only one way to find out,’ said Nimble-Quick. ‘Come on, let’s get on with it.’
Tilbury nodded and scuttled under the workbench. He came back out pushing the latest invention he had been working on. It was a large mechanical catapult, with a rachet system of cogs and wheels to pull a piece of rubber tubing back and stay taut. A small hook allowed the catapult to be released.
‘You don’t have to do it,’ said Tilbury. ‘Ma would be so mad at us if you got killed doing this.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Nimble-Quick. ‘Besides, we’ve put plenty of sacking down.’
Tilbury looked along the basement floor to the piles of sacking and sawdust that they had placed for a soft landing. He had experimented by catapulting a small block of wood into the air to estimate where Nimble-Quick might land. ‘OK, let’s do this.’
Tilbury turned the handle and the rachet system of the catapult pulled the rubber tubing back until it was fully stretched. He tested it for tautness and checked the angle, so that Nimble-Quick would be launched upwards. ‘It’s ready,’ he said. He pulled off his tough leather hat. ‘Have this just in case.’
Nimble-Quick put on the hat, climbed onto the platform and leaned back against the rubber tubing. She kept her paws by her side and focused on the soft landing.
‘Ready?’ said Tilbury.
Nimble-Quick took a deep breath. ‘Ready.’
Three …
Two …
One …
Tilbury released the hook.
There was a moment of silence, then a gigantic …
PING!
… and Nimble-Quick shot like an arrow, into the air.
Higher and higher and higher went Nimble-Quick. Her paws were pressed against her sides, but as soon as she reached the top of her arc of trajectory, she spread her arms outwards, and the bird-suit’s wings opened wide.
And she flew.
‘It’s worked,’ yelled Tilbury.
‘Woohoo!’ called Nimble-Quick, soaring away from him.
He expected his sister to glide down to the pile of sacking, but the bird-suit caught a draught of air that wafted through the grilles at the top of the basement window, and Nimble-Quick soared on and on, past the soft landing, over the workshop counters and then down, down, down.
Tilbury heard a shriek of panic and he saw Nimble-Quick flapping like an injured bird before she dropped out of sight.
There was a yowl and a screech and then deathly hush, as Marmalade Paws streaked across the floor.
‘Nimble-Quick!’ called Tilbury, running to the place where she had come down. ‘Are you all right?’
There was no answer. Nimble-Quick lay on her back, her eyes staring upwards.
‘No, no, no, no, no!’ shrieked Tilbury. ‘Nimble-Quick, say something!’
But Nimble-Quick wasn’t moving at all.
CHAPTER THREE
The Shape of a Feather
‘Oh, Nimble-Quick!’ wailed Tilbury. ‘Don’t be dead. This is all my fault.’
But when he bent down to his sister, a huge grin spread across her face.
‘Nimble-Quick? Are you OK?’ he said.
Nimble-Quick turned to look at him. ‘Oh, Tilbury. That was the most wonderful feeling in the world. I flew! I really flew!’
‘You’re not hurt?’ said Tilbury. ‘You missed the soft landing I put out for you.’
Nimble-Quick got to her feet and rubbed her bottom. ‘Luckily I landed on Marmalade’s tummy instead. I gave him quite a shock.’
‘We mustn’t tell Mother,’ whispered Tilbury.
Nimble-Quick took Tilbury by the paws. ‘Definitely not. She would stop us at once. Oh, Tilbury. Come on.’ Her whiskers quivered in excitement. ‘Flying is the most wonderful feeling in the whole wide world. I want to do it all over again.’
Tilbury spent the morning catapulting Nimble-Quick into the air. Each time, Tilbury made small adjustments to the tension on the rubber band so that he could predict Nimble-Quick’s landing.
Nimble-Quick found that she could steer herself with her tail, and also soften her landing by back-beating her arms at the last moment. She even learned that she could land on her feet rather than in a crumpled heap in the sacking and sawdust that Tilbury had laid out for her.
‘It really is the most peculiar thing,’ said Nimble-Quick, ‘but if I angle my paws in such a way, I can feel the air catch under the wing to lift me upwards.’
Tilbury’s whiskers quivered with excitement. ‘With a few more adjustments, I think we may discover the secret of flight.’
Nimble-Quick’s eyes shone. ‘You must have a go. You have to feel what it is to be a bird.’
Tilbury shook his head. ‘Ma says I’ve got weak bones and a weak heart. I don’t think I would survive such excitement.’
‘Have a go,’ pleaded Nimble-Quick. She slipped out of the bird-suit and pulled on her woollen smock, passing the suit to Tilbury.
Tilbury ran his little paws across the fine silk and shook his head. ‘It’s too big for me anyway,’ he said. He sighed. ‘Imagine if Bartholomew had left his plans for the Silk Wing. I wonder how he flew from the ground without a catapult to help.’
‘How do birds do it?’ said Nimble-Quick. ‘Some of them are heavier than us, but they fly.’
‘They’ve got wings,’ said Tilbury.
‘I know,’ said Nimble-Quick. ‘But just now I had wings, but I couldn’t take off from the ground, I could only glide.’
Tilbury opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Nimble-Quick had a point. He didn’t know the answer to her question, and his mind began to spin and spin. Maybe if he studied the birds, the answer would hold the secret to the makings of the Silk Wing.
‘Come on,’ said Nimble-Quick. ‘I’m starving, and Ma will be worrying where we are.’
Tilbury pushed his catapult invention under a workbench and glanced across the floor. Marmalade Paws had curled up in an old wicker basket, keeping well away from Tilbury and Nimble-Quick, just in case another flying rat should land on his tummy.
Tilbury followed Nimble-Quick back to the fireplace, where he picked up one of the old crow’s feathers. It was a long primary feather from the tip of a wing, and totally covered in soot, but Tilbury held it in his teeth as he scrambled back up the chimney to the attic rooms.
‘There you are,’ said Ma. She looked at the musty feather that Tilbury carried. ‘Don’t go bringing that thing into our home.’ She closed her eyes at the memory of the marauding crow that had taken some of her children. ‘Take it away, Tilbury.’
Tilbury took it to his favourite place by the attic window where he loved to sit and watch the world. He was sheltered by a cardboard box so that passing crows and gulls couldn’t spy him there. He held the crow’s feather in front of him and studied it. It was so light, yet strong, and Tilbury marvelled that a bird could grow such a beautiful, intricate, yet simple piece of engineering. But it couldn’t be just that it was light that helped birds to fly. He turned the feather over in his paws and noticed the feather didn’t lie flat but was curved. He gently blew on the feather and noticed how the feather strained to lift from his paw, as if it wanted to rise into the air. Maybe the shape of the feather was important to flight too. And Tilbury’s curious mind began thinking about the flow of air over the curved surface of the feather, and his imagination began to soar.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Cursed Night
‘I’ve brought snacks,’ said Nimble-Quick joining him.
Tilbury sniffed. ‘Mmm! Smoked Cheddar, my favourite.’
Pa was a cheese merchant, and he collected and sold his cheeses at the monthly market, and so their stores of food always included cheeses of all sorts. Sometimes the ripest Camembert stank out the attic rooms. Aunt Swinney would often complain about the stink and keep a large clothes peg to put over her nose just to make a point.
From Tilbury’s viewpoint at the attic window, he and Nimble-Quick could see up the Thames towards the sprawling city of London. Tilbury’s family, and his aunts and uncles and cousins, were Dockland Rats that lived at Tilbury Docks. The river connected them to the other Dockland Rats upriver, past Canary Wharf and Tower Hamlets all the way to Walton-on-Thames. The Dockland Rats had grown with the ever-expanding city of London throughout the centuries. Once a month, after a full moon, they traded their wares with each other on the shoreline of the Thames at low tide. Food, drink and clothes were bartered on the riverbanks. But above all else, Dockland Rats coveted jewels and precious stones for their hoardings, for a rat’s standing and influence could be measured by the size and quality of their jewel collection. The trading ships that came to the Docklands provided rich pickings for jewels to be acquired from the human world.
Nimble-Quick sighed. ‘There’s such a big world out there, and I can’t wait to explore. I’ve only been as far as Tower Bridge with Ma and Pa to the markets. Oh, I’d love to ride the London Eye. Imagine having a swim in the Serpentine or seeing the horses at Buckingham Palace.’
Little Tilbury stayed silent, for he felt his heart ache whenever Nimble-Quick spoke about leaving Tilbury Docks. He and Nimble-Quick were six months old, and when a ratling reached a year of age, he or she would set out on a full moon to seek their fortune. But Tilbury knew he would never leave the chandlery at Tilbury Docks. Ma said he would not live long in the outside world where there were dangers at every corner.
‘You should come to the next market,’ said Nimble-Quick. ‘You’d love the cheeses, the fruits, the fine clothes. Why, last time we saw a travelling flea circus, called The Plague. And, oh …’ she paused. ‘You’d love the jewels. Ma said she wants an emerald for our hoarding, but Pa says he’d have to sell a year’s cheese to buy it. He says he’ll trade his Spanish cheese for a piece of turquoise stone instead.’
Tilbury listened to Nimble-Quick rattle off the precious stones and jewels she wanted to buy. All Dockland Rats kept their jewel hoardings safe, but the most precious gems of all were protected by the Elders in the Tower of London, high in the dusty attic rooms.
‘Pa says he’s seen the Morning Star,’ said Nimble-Quick. ‘He said he saw it when he delivered his vintage cheese hamper to the Elders.’
The Morning Star was a big diamond that had been captured by a rat many years ago from one of the many trader sailing ships from the Far Shores. The Elders kept other gems too, from the Sacred Heart, a large ruby, to the Summer Sky, a small, perfectly cut sapphire. It was the Elders who held the old knowledge and the Elders who ruled with wisdom and justice over the Dockland Rats.
But little Tilbury held no fascination for jewels or sparkly things. They did not excite his curious mind that yearned to find out how the world fitted together and how things worked.
But there was one exception, one jewel that he did want to know about.
It was a jewel that fascinated and connected all the Dockland Rats.
A black diamond.
The Cursed Night.
It was a diamond that had been seized by the Great Bartholomew on his travels to the Far Shores.
It was held within a gilded cage beneath the Tilbury Docks, a cage so intricately designed by Bartholomew himself that no rat since had been able to open it.
The cage was only exposed for one hour either side of the lowest of low tides, showing the mysterious black diamond inside.
The Cursed Night held both a curse and a prophecy.
And it was said, that to look into the cut surface of the diamond was to look into the deepest darkest reaches of your soul.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Gilded Cage
‘Imagine seeing the Cursed Night,’ said Tilbury. He frowned. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to see the actual diamond.’ He shuddered at the thought of seeing deep into his soul. ‘But I’d like to see the Gilded Cage.’
Nimble-Quick took his paw. ‘The black diamond holds the curse inside it.’
Tilbury shivered. The curse had hung like a storm cloud over the Dockland Rats ever since Bartholomew had taken the diamond one moonlit night and brought it back from the Far Shores. Legend told that the diamond cursed anyone who desired it. Its magic could summon enemies and turn friend to foe. Rats would fight for it and die for it. Its evil shadow cast such greed and treachery that it could darken even the kindest of hearts. It was said that the one who desired and possessed it held power over all. Bartholomew had bitterly regretted bringing the Cursed Night back to the Docklands, and so he had made an elaborate gilded metal cage of puzzle-locks to keep the diamond safe within, so that no one could possess it for themselves.
‘I’ve heard Ma and Pa say the curse is getting stronger, pulling evil closer,’ whispered Nimble-Quick. ‘They say our enemies are gathering. They seek the diamond too.’
‘But we have no enemies,’ squeaked Tilbury. ‘Do we?’
Nimble-Quick pulled Tilbury closer. ‘Oh, Tilbury, there is much talk at the market that the Underground Rats have been seen in daylight.’
Tilbury clutched his tail. ‘But the Underground Rats were banished to the Everdark long ago, for trying to steal the Elders’ gemstones.’
‘They are getting bolder,’ said Nimble-Quick gravely. ‘They have been seen in the outside world. They are drawn to the power of the black diamond too. There is darkness inside the diamond. It’s rising like the tide.’
Tilbury felt his chest tighten. ‘But the Cursed Night is safe inside the Gilded Cage. Isn’t it?’
‘It still has the power to curse us,’ whispered Nimble-Quick. ‘Pa says a wave of its evil is washing over the city. Only last month three rats from Millwall Dock were so busy fighting over a diamond ring they found in the mud that they didn’t hear a loose dog. It killed them all. And don’t forget, Cousin Jak’s wife was driven so insane with greed that she saved her jewel hoardings instead of her ratlings when their home flooded in Tobacco Dock.’
Tilbury clutched his paws together. Cousin Jak had lived alone since that terrible day. ‘But the prophecy says there will come a warrior rat to open the cage and return the diamond to the Far Shores. Only then will we be released from the curse.’
Nimble-Quick nodded. ‘Bartholomew’s design must be ever so clever if no rat has been able to open it in two hundred years.’
Tilbury sighed. ‘I’d love to see it.’ His paws twitched at the thought of seeing something made by Bartholomew himself.
Nimble-Quick was silent for a while, staring out of the window. Then she turned to him and lowered her voice. ‘I’ve seen it,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve seen the Gilded Cage.’
Tilbury turned to her. It wasn’t like Nimble-Quick to tell lies, but she could tell a good story and embellish the truth. ‘When have you seen it?’ he asked. ‘We’re not allowed to see it until we’re a year old, and Pa says the only way into the Great Hall is along the mud of the shoreline at low tide to get beneath the old wharf.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ whispered Nimble-Quick. ‘I’ve been in the Great Hall. The walls are green and dripping in slime, and the Gilded Cage is embedded in a stone pillar.’ She leaned forward. ‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Tilbury, shuffling away from her. ‘The Keeper guards the entrance at low tide. You wouldn’t get past the Keeper.’
But Nimble-Quick crept towards him. ‘I’ve found another way in.’
‘Impossible,’ whispered Tilbury.
‘I have,’ said Nimble-Quick. ‘There’s a drain from the basement that leads beneath the wharf. And there are rotten wooden slats where you can see into the Great Hall. Candles burn in glass bottles that hang from the ceiling, and the Gilded Cage gleams with gold.’
‘Really?’ said Tilbury.
‘Really!’ said Nimble-Quick, her eyes shining.
Tilbury grasped Nimble-Quick’s paws. ‘Oh, Nimble-Quick. Tell me what it’s like,’ he urged. His mind spun with the excitement of hearing about one of Bartholomew’s greatest inventions.
‘You have to come with me,’ she said.
Tilbury shook his head. ‘And leave the chandlery? Oh, Nimble-Quick, Ma says I would surely die. You must tell me all about it. Describe it for me.’
Ma’s voice rang out. ‘NIMBLE-QUICK! TILBURY! Where are you?’
Tilbury’s little heart sank, for the answer he so desperately wanted to hear would have to wait.
CHAPTER SIX
The Secret of Flight
‘NIMBLE-QUICK! TILBURY!’
Ma found them next to the attic window. ‘There you are. Come on, Nimble-Quick. It’s foraging time.’ She passed Nimble-Quick her travelling cloak and sack. ‘There’s a new delicatessen that’s opened, and Pa thinks he knows a way in. He has his eyes on a piece of Bitto Storico, a cheese made from the milk of cows that graze the pastures of one single valley in Italy.’
Nimble-Quick pulled on the brown coat. It was unlike Ma’s other dazzling needlework creations. It was unremarkable, and that is exactly what it was intended to be. For a rat in a travelling cloak goes unseen by human eyes. Rats can pass as shadows, as windblown paper or swirls of dust, and indeed never be seen at all by the human world.
Ma turned to Tilbury. ‘We’ll be back after sundown,’ she said. ‘Aunt Swinney and Uncle Tubs will be around if you need anything.’
Tilbury nodded, but he had no intention of going to see his aunt and uncle. Last time he went, Aunt Swinney had made Tilbury sweep the floors and tidy the beds, and all for a mouldy crust of bread. He curled up beneath his box by the window and stared out. Gulls were wheeling high against the crisp blue winter sky. He could hear their mewling calls. Their feathers looked impossibly white and bright in the strong sunshine. Then, far, far below, he could see his family spreading out across the dock on their foraging trip, tiny scurrying dots keeping to the dark shadows.
He sighed. He was used to being alone, but Nimble-Quick’s description of the Gilded Cage in the Great Hall tugged at him. There would come a time, when Nimble-Quick reached a year of age, when she would go with all the year-old ratlings to see the Cursed Night at the Darkening Ceremony.
The Darkening Ceremony was an age-old tradition. Before leaving home, each young rat was given the chance to try to open the Gilded Cage, to see if they were the warrior rat that would release the Cursed Night. Some rats believed the Gilded Cage would never be opened. But the ceremony gave a chance to dress up in finery, eat and drink with friends and pay respects to the Elders who protected the prophecy. It was also a rite of passage for each young rat to say goodbye to their family as they ventured out on their own.
Tilbury sighed again and crawled from his box to stand at the window and press his face to the glass. This was the closest he would come to being outside. He closed his eyes and felt the coldness of the world beyond the chandlery press against his cheek.
The big wide world was waiting for Nimble-Quick, but not for him.
THUMP!
Tilbury’s eyes snapped open. A huge herring gull had spied him and landed at the window ledge outside and was pecking at the glass, trying to get him.
Close up, it was much bigger than Tilbury had imagined. All feathers, beak and great big feet. It fixed Tilbury with its bright yellow eye, hitting its beak repeatedly at the window.
Peck. Peck. Peck.
It flapped its wings to balance on the narrow ledge. Tilbury could see all the way down its large open mouth. There was plenty of room in there for a small rat like him. But Tilbury didn’t step away. He was watching the bird’s wings. It wasn’t just the feathers he was interested in, but the shape of the wing. The whole wing held the same shape as the flight feather. It curved upwards and then down. He walked along the window trying to get a different angle of the gull. He understood, then, that he needed to make a wing of silk with the same curve as the gull’s wing. He stood on tiptoes trying to get a better view, and all the time the gull called and kept up its frenzied flapping attack at the window.
‘TILBURY!’
Tilbury found himself knocked off his feet and dragged back into the attic room by his tail. Aunt Swinney had hold of him and pulled him into the shadows. ‘For the love of Bartholomew,’ she screeched, ‘are you trying to get us all killed?’
‘The answer’s in the wing,’ announced Tilbury. ‘The secret of flight.’
Uncle Tubs peered at him and shook his head. ‘Strange little ratling, aren’t you! There’s always one in every litter.’
‘I need to go back and see the bird,’ said Tilbury.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ snapped Aunt Swinney, tightening her grip. ‘Just wait till your ma and pa hear about this. You’re staying here with me.’ And she marched Tilbury inside the doll’s house. ‘Now, don’t be idle. I need these floors mopped, and when you’re done you can polish the crystals on the chandelier. I don’t want to see a speck of dust.’
Tilbury’s heart sank. Ma would be really cross. She might even forbid him from sitting in his favourite place by the window. For the first time in his life, Tilbury felt trapped. And worse still, he was now stuck in Aunt Swinney’s house and had to mop the floors until sundown.
CHAPTER SEVEN
King of All Kings
It was fortunate for Tilbury that his family returned from their foraging trip in high spirits. When Aunt Swinney frogmarched him home, he received a quick telling-off from Ma and Pa, but their attention was swiftly drawn back to their bulging foraging sacks.
Aunt Swinney’s whiskers quivered. ‘No discipline,’ she squeaked. ‘It’s no wonder Tilbury’s turned out like he has.’
Ma narrowed her eyes at Aunt Swinney. ‘There is nothing wrong with Tilbury.’
Aunt Swinney sniffed. ‘If that bird had got through the window, we’d have all been in trouble. But it seems the Twitch-Whiskers family think they’re better than everyone else.’
Ma showed her teeth. ‘Well, that’s rich coming from you, dear Swinney. It’s only silver plates and bowls for your family.’
But Pa stepped between Ma and Aunt Swinney. He held out a piece of chocolate wrapped in foil. ‘For you, dear Swinney,’ he said with his most winning smile. ‘A cherry liqueur chocolate to say thank you for looking out for our Tilbury today.’
