He had no home to go to. Sometimes he stayed with an aunt. But not often.
He had reached the wide landing where a grand staircase led down into the hall. Blessed was sitting at the top of the stairs, still howling.
Billy sat beside the dog and put one hand on its plump back. ‘What’s the matter, Blessed?’ The words came out in a series of little grunts and sniffs. A language that Blessed could understand.
The old dog stopped howling. ‘Boy came,’ he said. ‘Bad thing. Wrong.’
‘What boy? Why was it wrong?’ asked Billy.
Blessed considered this question. He seemed to be having some difficulty with his reply. At last he grunted, ‘Boy came from nowhere. With ball, very small. Shiny. Blessed not like this ball. It bad magic.’
Billy was perplexed. ‘Was it Tancred?’ he asked. ‘Boy with lots of yellow hair?’
‘No. Boy was like that one.’ Blessed stared down the hall.
Following the dog’s gaze, Billy was surprised to see Charlie Bone quietly closing the door into the west wing.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Billy called.
Charlie looked up, startled. ‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘Just looking for Tancred.’
‘Blessed said another boy was here; a boy like you.’
‘Blessed’s got a vivid imagination.’ Charlie began to cross the hall.
‘He says there was a ball. It was small and shiny and he didn’t like it.’
‘I think Blessed was dreaming,’ said Charlie, climbing the stairs towards Billy.
Billy looked at the old dog. ‘Blessed doesn’t lie,’ he said. ‘Dogs can’t.’
‘They can dream, can’t they? Come on, Billy. We’d better get back to our homework or we’ll get detention.’
‘Go back to Cook,’ Billy told the dog. ‘Go on, Blessed. No more howling.’
Blessed gave a sullen grunt and began to flop down the stairs, while Billy and Charlie ran back to the King’s room.
When homework was over, Charlie had half a mind to go and visit Henry. He didn’t like leaving him alone in the tower, nearly a hundred years from where he was supposed to be. Of course, he wasn’t quite alone, but Mr Pilgrim hardly counted. Charlie badly needed to confide in someone.
When he reached the dormitory, he found Fidelio filling his cupboard with the clothes from his bag. There were two boys from Drama in the room and Charlie couldn’t risk being overheard. ‘I want to ask you something,’ he whispered to his friend. ‘Can we go somewhere else?’
‘The art room,’ Fidelio said softly.
As they came out of the dormitory, they walked straight into Billy Raven.
‘Billy gives me the creeps these days,’ Fidelio whispered as they sped down the corridor. ‘I used to feel sorry for him, but I don’t like the way he watches people.’
‘Someone’s got to him,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t know who it is, but they’re making him spy for them. I don’t think Billy can help it.’
They had reached the art room.
‘Light’s still on,’ Charlie commented. ‘But no one’s here.’
‘Mr Boldova might come back,’ warned Fidelio. ‘We’d better hide over there.’
A large painting of trees had been propped against two easels near the wall, and the boys managed to squeeze behind it and squat on the floor. In a hushed voice, Charlie began to tell his friend about the sudden appearance of Henry, the boy with the Time Twister, who had vanished nearly a hundred years ago. However, as soon as he mentioned the voices in the photograph, Fidelio clutched his arm.
‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘D’you mean you can hear what’s going on in photos?’
Charlie nodded. He had never told Fidelio about his peculiar talent. ‘I don’t like people to know,’ he muttered.
‘I don’t think I would either,’ said Fidelio. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul. Go on about Henry. Where is he now?’
‘I took him up to the top of the music tower. I couldn’t think of anywhere else.’
‘What about Mr Pilgrim?’
‘He won’t even notice Henry, and if he does . . .’ Charlie hesitated, ‘I don’t think he’ll harm him.’
‘Hm. I wonder! You can’t tell with Mr Pilgrim,’ murmured Fidelio. ‘So, what are you going to do with this long-lost great-great-uncle?’
‘I thought I’d try and smuggle him home at the weekend. But first I’ve got to get some food to him.’
‘Lunch break would be best,’ said Fidelio. ‘He can have my meat – if it’s not mince; and you can sneak up to the tower while I . . .’ He broke off suddenly, as a face appeared at the top of the tree painting.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Emma Tolly.
Charlie was tempted to tell her; she was, after all, a friend, as well as endowed, but something held him back. ‘We’re just talking,’ he said. ‘Can’t get any peace in the dorm.’
‘I know,’ Emma sighed. ‘I came to finish a drawing.’
‘We were just going,’ said Fidelio.
The two boys wriggled out from behind the painting.
Just as they were leaving the art room, Charlie caught sight of a large sketch book, lying open on a table. He stared at it, and moved closer.
‘It’s mine,’ said Emma. ‘Just sketches, nothing special.’
But they were special. Both pages of the open book were covered with pictures of birds: birds in flight; swooping, hovering, soaring and diving. They were so real, Charlie felt that if he touched them he would feel real feathers.
‘They’re brilliant,’ he murmured.
‘Brilliant,’ Fidelio repeated.
‘Thank you!’ Emma gave one of her shy smiles.
All at once, the door behind them opened, and a voice said, ‘What’s going on in here?’
Mr Boldova appeared. You could tell he was an art teacher because his clothes were covered in splashes of paint. Even his green cape, which he often forgot to wear, had little flecks of colour on the sleeves. Mr Boldova always looked as if he had just been on holiday. He had bright hazel eyes, a very healthy complexion, and long brown hair tied in a ponytail.
‘I was showing my work to Charlie and Fidelio,’ Emma said confidently. ‘We were just going.’
‘That’s all right, Emma.’ The art teacher beamed at them all.
It was impossible to be afraid of Mr Boldova. He never gave detention, never punished pupils for untidiness, forgetfulness or even being late. The only thing that made him angry was bad art. He gave Charlie a searching look and said, ‘Ah, Charlie Bone.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Charlie. ‘Goodnight, sir.’
The three children slipped past him and ran for their dormitories. It was already five minutes to lights out. Matron would be on the warpath, and Matron was not an understanding person. She was, in fact, Charlie’s great-aunt, Lucretia Yewbeam.
As they dashed into their dormitory, the boys heard Miss Yewbeam shouting at some poor girl who had lost her slippers.
‘We’ll just make it before she gets here,’ said Fidelio, rushing to the bathroom.
Billy Raven was sitting up in bed. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked Charlie.