Miss Spinnaker’s mother leads them into a round kitchen with a huge fireplace that yawns like a big sooty mouth along one wall. Something that smells like soup is simmering in the blackened iron cauldron, and there is a lump of spickleseed bread wrapped in cloth in a basket on the worn wooden table.

‘You poor popkins must be hungry,’ she says in her high, raspy voice. She ties a grubby apron around her waist and unhooks a big ladle from near the fireplace.

Buster opens his mouth to speak, but Polly cuts him off. ‘No, just tired, Mrs … um … Spinnaker?’

‘Call me Flora, dear,’ Miss Spinnaker’s mother says, smiling her toothless smile and stroking Polly’s head with her big, rough hand.

‘Er … Flora,’ Polly tries out. It feels very weird to call her teacher’s mother by her first name.

‘Yes, bed for these two,’ Miss Spinnaker says firmly. She gestures to the shiny brass clock on the mantlepiece, shaped like a bortal, and Polly sees it is already well past midnight. Suddenly every bone in her body aches from tiredness and she misses her mother more than ever. It’s been a very long day.

‘Beds are ready,’ comes a deep, rolling voice from the hall, and Polly turns to the doorway to catch a glimpse of Miss Spinnaker’s father.

But when he steps into the kitchen, she gasps.

Polly looks at Miss Spinnaker, then at Buster. His mouth has dropped open, too.

‘Polly, Buster,’ Miss Spinnaker says, in a strange voice Polly hasn’t heard her use before, ‘this is Mortimer. My stepfather.’

Mortimer crosses the kitchen in three enormous paces and scoops Polly up into his big hairy arms. Then he kisses her loudly on both cheeks.

Polly feels her body grow stiff as a board. Miss Spinnaker’s stepfather is a monster.

‘Wonderful to meet you!’ he says grandly, a huge smile stretching out his big rubbery lips. Then he wraps his arms around Miss Spinnaker and Buster and gives them both a monster-sized hug, too.

Polly can’t speak. All her words are caught up in a knot in the back of her throat and all she can do is smile awkwardly.

‘All right, bedtime now,’ Miss Spinnaker says, noticing Polly’s discomfort. She untangles herself from Mortimer’s enthusiastic embrace. ‘There will be plenty of time for everyone to get to know each other tomorrow.’

She takes Polly and Buster’s hands and leads them out of the kitchen to a little room just off the hallway. Inside are two single beds, side by side, with a rickety wooden table in between. A pretty, tasselled lamp gives out a soft golden glow.

Buster climbs into one narrow bed, and Polly climbs into the other. Miss Spinnaker pulls the patchwork blanket up to Polly’s chin, then perches on the end of her bed.

Even though Polly can barely keep her eyes open, her mind is racing.

‘Your stepfather is a monster? But that’s … that’s impossible!’

Miss Spinnaker leans over and smoothes Polly’s knotty hair off her forehead. Polly can smell the midnight air in her robes.

‘Polly,’ Miss Spinnaker says, in her gentlest voice. ‘You should know, more than anyone, it doesn’t matter who you love. Just as long as you love.’

She smiles, but there is a trace of sadness in her eyes that Polly doesn’t understand. ‘Now, off to sleep,’ she says, and leans over to switch off the lamp. ‘We have lots to do tomorrow.’

‘Can we please let my mum know I’m OK?’ Polly asks in a little voice. The hall light spills into the room and Polly can still make out her teacher’s kind face in the shadows.

‘Of course,’ Miss Spinnaker reassures her. ‘I’ll send her a message on a nighthawk tonight and she’ll get it as soon as she wakes.’

Miss Spinnaker turns to check on Buster but he is already fast asleep. She pulls his blanket up a little higher so that it covers his shoulders, then turns to head out of the room. ‘Goodnight, my lovelies,’ she says from the doorway.

‘Wait!’ says Polly.

Miss Spinnaker sighs. ‘Polly, it’s late,’ she says, ‘and I’m very tired.’

‘Sorry,’ Polly mumbles. ‘But my mum always kisses me goodnight and says the Gorvan Spell. Do you think you could …?’

Miss Spinnaker wanders back over to Polly. She plants a gentle kiss on her forehead, then whispers,

Then she touches the three points of Polly’s face – her forehead, her nose and her chin – with her two middle fingers. ‘You know the gorvan’s not real, don’t you?’ she says.

‘I know,’ says Polly, shrugging. ‘I just like my mum to say it to me. It reminds me of my dad. He used to say it every night when he tucked me in to bed.’

‘Mine too,’ says Miss Spinnaker, smiling. ‘Now, it really is time for you to sleep. Your friend over here obviously has no trouble in that department.’ She gestures towards Buster, who is snoring loudly.

Polly giggles. ‘I know. He doesn’t seem to worry about stuff as much as I do.’

‘That’s OK. That just means you have a good imagination,’ Miss Spinnaker tells her. ‘Now, how about you listen to Buster’s snores and imagine you’re on a boat on a rumbling sea, rocking you to sleep. Can you try that?’

‘I’ll try,’ says Polly, and she closes her eyes.

She listens to Miss Spinnaker leave the room and does her best to bring the image of a rumbling sea into her mind.

But it is no use. Sleep just won’t come.