Somewhere, in one of the big houses on the other side of town, Gruntilda Bunt stood in the middle of a large room made from rusty old train carriages.
‘One, two, three and up,’ the troll-girl puffed. ‘One, two, three and up.’ She was doing knee bends and arm twirls. ‘Can I stop now?’ she called in her snickery little voice. ‘Moomsie? Can I stop now?’
The door burst open and the shape of a tall, thin troll-woman emerged from the next room.
‘WHAT?’
‘My arms are pooped,’ Gruntilda whinged. Her twiggy hair creaked as she bobbed up and down. ‘Look!’ She gave a little yelp as she spun her bony arms to show just how tired she was.
The troll in the doorway scowled, then smiled the kind of smile you’d see on a slurch right before it ate you.
‘Dunklin’, you have to make sure you’re the best at the pan-troll-mime auditions or Moomsie won’t love you any more … You don’t want Moomsie not to love you, do you?’
Gruntilda shook her head.
‘THEN SHUT UP AND PRACTISE!’