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“My feet are freezing,” complained Tom as he and Garren walked down the road.
“It’s for your own safety,” Garren replied. “You would have been captured before we were halfway there.”
“I could have kept my socks and trainers on. No one goes around looking at people’s feet.”
“Blue stockings with images of oddly shaped yellow faces on them, and red and white slippers are enough to capture anyone’s attention at several yards. Now remain quiet before your complaining calls similar attention. The two men who passed us on the brow of the hill were guardians.”
“You said hello to them,” Tom said, looking over his shoulder to see if the men had turned to follow.
“Yes, I know them. They were in my order when I was at the monastery,” Garren replied indifferently.
“Why did they go bad?” Tom asked.
“I don’t think they did,” said Garren. “I think they are enchanted. When Balfour came to Iragoth, I was on an errand in Tolph, a small village several leagues to the north. When I returned three months later, Balfour was in charge of the monastery. The brethren became his security force. Fortunately, I ran into some of them before I reached the monastery. It was after curfew, and they tried to arrest me,” Garren smiled at Tom. “They didn’t manage it.”
They walked on in silence for a while. Tom had been made to wear a brown woollen robe over his clothes. Garren had insisted that he would stick out like a troll at a tea party if he wandered around the village in his own, rather odd-looking attire. So, with his jeans rolled up to the knees, the robe was donned over the top of his hoody, and to complete the ensemble, his socks and trainers had been replaced with a pair of sandals. But with snow packed hard underfoot, by the prolific passing of pedestrians, it made for painfully cold feet.
Either side of the track were small, single-floor dwellings made of wood and rendered with clay and stones. Most had glass in the windows, though a few of the older, shabbier looking ones just had openings with a muslin screen to let in a little light and keep out even less draught. The cottages were all thatched with chimneys standing high above them, most of which were belching grey smoke into the overcast sky.
There were a lot of people going about their business. This road seemed to be the main thoroughfare. There were small groups of people chatting to each other as they made their way, some were standing in doorways talking. Some were pulling carts laden and covered with tarpaulins, others empty having already delivered their loads or on their way to collect new ones. A few people were carrying bundles of sticks for kindling, and one or two were accompanied by animals, a pig, a goat, a... something that looked like a dog but had a bird’s head. But as Tom looked closer at the people themselves, he noticed that many of them were not people at all; or at least not human. From under the hoods of their cloaks, long pointed ears could be seen on some, or a distinct green pallor to the skin accompanied by piercing red eyes on others. Some were short, only about three feet with large heads and long beards. He was amazed at their strange appearance and the variety of species all going about their daily lives as if it were perfectly natural, which of course, to the locals, it was.
“Stop staring,” Garren whispered.
“Sorry,” Tom said, looking down at the road and remembering his aching feet.
“Try to act as if you belong here,”
“I’ll try, but we don’t exactly get such weird looking people in Marsham High Street; well, apart from a few Punks, oh and the odd Goth.”
“Try to take it all in your stride, you’ll get used to it soon enough. We are almost there now.”
Tom thought they must be getting to the centre of the village. The buildings were beginning to change. The squat little cottages were now becoming larger and grander looking. These buildings were made out of stone, and many had an upper floor. The thatch had been replaced by wooden tiles with several chimneys instead of just the one. Many of these larger buildings had shop frontages, displaying their goods to passers-by. Bells could be heard tinkling as doors were opened for shoppers to come and go. Though most of the shops were decorated with brightly coloured paper chains and wreaths of holly with red berries and painted pine cones, there was very little in the way of stock in the windows.
“I’m sorry, but the last pheasant went yesterday,” said a voice from a butcher’s shop as they passed its opening door. A disgruntled customer harrumphed out as the shopkeeper called, “I can get you a brace of wood pigeon.”
Garren sighed. “Almost all of the food is being sent to the monastery as tribute to Balfour. Before he forced his way in and deposed the elders, we used to be self-sustaining. We grew our food and raised our own cattle. Now they just take it from the village. They take so much, the storerooms must be brimming with food. Anyone who refuses to pay tribute is arrested or just disappears. It’s not going to be a very happy holiday this year.”
“Do you have Christmas here, then?” asked Tom.
“We have a winter festival of thanks for the passing year where families and friends meet to celebrate another year together and exchange gifts. I’ve never heard it called Krismus, though.”
“We have a holiday called Christmas. We spend weeks getting ready for it, have parties and buy presents,” Tom replied. Then, suddenly remembering, “Only this year, I’m going to miss it.”
“Let’s see what the Sage has to say about that, shall we. Here we are.”
Tom found himself and his companion outside one of the little thatched cottages. For a moment, he looked at it before his senses sorted out the images and told his brain that it was not entirely as it should be. It had the same thickly thatched roof with the tall chimney gently sending clouds of smoke into the sky. It had the same little glazed windows set into the daubed walls and the same heavy wooden door. Then he realised that not only was the smoke rising from the chimney purple but where it met the heavily snow-laden clouds, it made a hole straight through them like in the centre of a smoke ring. Through it, a shaft of bright sunlight radiated down on the little cottage and its pretty front garden. The garden was full of flowering rose bushes, dahlias and hydrangeas. Beds of pansies and marigolds lay either side of the crazy paved path that snaked from the white garden gate to the front door, nestling between two hanging baskets overflowing with colourful blooms. What made the cottage look even more out of place was that it sat in the middle of the main street dwarfed by the taller commercial, snow-covered buildings on either side of it.
“That’s Rita for you,” said Garren, seeing Tom’s utter confusion. “She never did like winter. Come on!” He opened the gate and stepped into the pleasant sunshine. Tom followed, his feet tingling in the warmth. They walked down the winding path leading to the front door where on a doormat in front of the door was an enormous tabby cat basking in the sun.
“Good afternoon, Frank,” said Garren. The cat sat up and looked to see who had disturbed its snooze, flicking its tail in mild annoyance. “Would you be kind enough to tell your mistress we would like to see her?”
Tom sniggered.
With a final flick of its tail, the cat got up and disappeared through a cat flap in the door. Garren began to admire the garden.
“Aren’t you going to knock then?” asked Tom.
“No,” Garren replied. “Frank has gone to get her.”
“The cat!” exclaimed Tom.
“Yes, the cat,” replied Garren.
The door opened a little to reveal half a face peering out and, nearer the floor, a whole feline face doing much the same thing.
“Who is it?” came a frail voice.
“It’s Garren, Rita. We urgently require your counsel.”
The door shut, and the sound of a heavy chain could be heard being unhooked from the door frame. The door opened again all the way this time revealing the whole face and indeed, the rest of the person. She was a little less than five feet tall, more than amply proportioned with curly white hair that still had an overlooked curler in the side. She took up most of the doorway, where she stood bolt upright with arms folded across a pinny displaying a faded seaside scene with the words ‘It’s Great at Grand Earmouth’ above. Below her apron was a green tartan skirt that came to just below her knees, thick, wrinkled stockings that looked as though they may have been screwed on and red tartan zip-up booty slippers. And just for that finishing touch of class, a pink cardigan over the top of it all.
“Oh, you do, do you?” she said.
“Yes,” replied Garren. “I believe it to be of the gravest importance.”
“What sweeties you brought me?” she barked, not budging a millimetre.
“I’m sorry,” said Garren, a little taken aback. “We came straight here. I didn’t...”
“What! No Jelly Puppies?”
“Er, no.”
“No Liquorice Fizbangs?”
“Sorry.”
“Not even a Hummingbug?”
“’Fraid not.”
“Pity, I like Hummingbugs,” she said. “Goodbye!” and slammed the door shut. As he heard the sound of the heavy chain being fastened, Tom had an idea.
“Wait,” he called. “I think I might have something.”
The door opened again, and Rita reappeared with a hopeful look on her face. Tom flung the duffel bag containing his jacket, socks and trainers on to the front step. He undid the cord that kept it fastened and rummaged around inside. Rita had her hands clasped in front of her, her head bobbing about like an expectant pigeon trying to see what treat was going to emerge from the brown leather bag.
“I’ve had two or three, but you’re welcome to the rest,” Tom said, producing a packet of strong mints from the bag and handing them to the old lady. She immediately made a grab for them and inspected them carefully. When the old lady worked out how to get one out, she sniffed it before popping it into her mouth. For a moment she sucked on it loudly, eyes gazing skywards. Then after due consideration, her face lit up with a big toothless grin.
“Come in, come in young man,” she said, elbowing Garren out of the way. “What a thoughtful young man, coming to see a poor crippled old lady.” She took hold of Tom’s left arm with a grip that almost made his eyes water and proceeded to drag him into the cottage. Garren slipped in behind them, narrowly avoiding getting the door slammed in his face.
“Come along, my dear. You must have some nettle tea. I grows the nettles me-self, you know.” Tom looked at Garren, who surreptitiously shook his head.
“No, thank you, Mrs...er.”
“You can call me Aunty, dear.”
“Er... no, thank you...Aunty, we have just had some.”
“Oh, well what about a nice slice of Aunty’s homemade cake?” As he stole a glance at Garren, the old lady pushed Tom down into a padded chair by the fire. Garren shrugged.
“Thank you,” he said uncertainly.
The strange little lady bustled off into another room muttering to herself about ‘the lovely minty sweeties’ as she went.
The room the visitors were in took up one half of the dwelling. It had windows facing the front, side and rear, all leaded with stained glass in the upper half. Inside, the small room was tidy but very full. There was just one armchair, which currently contained Tom. It was placed near to the fireplace which was on the only wall without a window. As Tom looked through the flames, he could see into the room behind where the wrinkled stockings and tartan slippers were shuffling about. Over the fire, a cauldron bubbled and it was from this that the purple smoke came and disappeared up the chimney.
The living room was dominated by a large dining table with six carved legs, around which were four high backed dining chairs. Under one window, a sideboard stood with a large collection of various sized porcelain cats on a white lace doily. Either side of the chimney breast were shelves, floor to ceiling. On one side, the shelves were all neatly stacked with books, some of them looked ancient. On the other side were jars, some glass, some earthenware and wooden boxes, all carefully labelled, though Tom could not understand the writing. There were also several small tables supporting various items carefully placed on more white lace doilies. One had a marble bowl, about ten inches across and filled with water. Another taller one had a brass telescope. A third supported a small wooden chest and another a candelabra. On the table next to Tom’s chair sat a large old book with a lacey bookmark hanging from its pages. In the corner, a grandfather clock steadily kept time with its big brass pendulum swinging to and fro in sync with its deep tick-tock. On the wall above the fireplace hung a mirror in an ornate gilt frame, chipped in places.
“She is the wise one who is going to help us?” Tom asked incredulously.
“Don’t be fooled,” said Garren. “She is not as she appears. She is a most insightful and powerful witch, and she is also over three hundred years old.”
“Witch!” Tom exclaimed but was cut off before he could say anymore.
“It’s not very polite to discuss a lady’s age, young Garren,” Rita said, shuffling back into the room carrying a tray with a pink cake, three plates and a knife. She placed them on the table and cut a slice.
“We need to talk to you about this young man, Rita,” said Garren.
“All in good time,” she said, taking the cake to Tom. “Trouble with the young, always in a hurry. There’s all day tomorrow not touched yet, you...” handing Tom the plate she caught his eye and stopped. “Oh,” she said. Releasing the plate, she grasped the boy’s head in her strong hands and pulled it into the light. With her face only a few inches from his, she stared into his eyes for a moment before releasing him. “Well, I’ll go sit in my cauldron!” she exclaimed.
“What’s the matter?” cried Tom alarmed.
“You’re ’im, en’t you?”
“Who?” shouted Tom.
“Half a mo,” said the witch. “Best make sure. There’s a test.” She went to the sideboard, opened one of the drawers, and emerged after a quick rummage with what looked like two marbles attached to a length of string.
“Petrified Snotling’s eyes,” she said. “Repel each other in the presence of magic. That’s why Snotlings always avoid anything magical if they can help it; otherwise their eyeballs try to escape through their ears, and they can’t run in a straight line without doing ‘emselves a mischief. Look!” She went over to Garren and dangled them over his head. They hung there, motionless. “Let’s have some juice then,” she said.
Garren turned his mind to the book on the little table. The jewel at the head of his staff lit up, and the book rose silently into the air. At the same time, the marbles tried to fly away from each other, pulling the string taut in the old lady’s hand. The staff's glow faded, the string holding the eyes went limp, and the book, missing the table, landed with a thud on the floor.
“If you’ve lost my place, I’ll brain you,” said the witch and giving her hand a little wave made the book jump back on to the table, settling itself with a faint indignant grumble. “Now let’s have a try on you.” She went over to Tom, who watched tentatively as the disembodied eyes stared back at him. But before she got them into place over his head, the eyes crossed and started to spin on their strings, and finally, they sprang out of the old lady’s crooked fingers. As they strained on the string, they began to revolve in the air above the boy, getting faster and faster.
“Oh ‘eck,” said the witch, crouching behind Tom’s chair. “Watch out!”
The orbs were rotating so fast they were a blur as the hum of the air being forced out of their way grew to a high pitched whine. The force of the pirouetting peepers was too much for the string, and it broke sending the disembodied eyeballs flying through the air with the velocity of bullets. One hit the brass telescope right in the eyepiece, shattering it. The other shot through the front window and embedded itself in one of a brace of wood pigeons that the disgruntled shopper was carrying home after deciding that they were, after all, better than nothing.
“Well that settles it then,” said the old lady, peering out from behind the chair. She returned to the table and resumed cutting the cake.
“Settles what?” Tom pushed.
“It means, my lovely, that you are the one who is going to save us from the great evil.”
“Wha... Me... I can’t... But...Evil... No...” Tom stammered.
“Nicely put dear,” said Rita, picking up two plates of cake. Garren held out a hand to take one, but ignoring him completely, she put one on the floor and sat on the dining chair facing Tom. “Frank, cakie,” she called and began munching the other helping.
The tabby cat jumped down from the sideboard where he sat with his porcelain pussy pals, and strolled over to the plate with his tail in the air, looking smugly at Garren as he passed. He was about to tuck into the cake when the old Grandfather clock in the corner began to make a noise. The cat looked up from his plate, ran over and sat down directly in front of the clock. It was approaching the top of the hour, and the gears inside were turning ready to start the hourly chime. Cogs whirred. Gears clicked. Wheels turned and just as everyone expected to hear the deep resounding chime - a little door opened in the wooden case, just above the clock face and a tiny battered stuffed bird popped out and feebly cheeped four times before disappearing back into the body of the clock. The cat stood up on his hind legs, hopped about for a second waving his front paws around, before doing a complete backflip. Then, with the show over for another hour, he returned to his cake.
“Oh, he loves that old clock, he does,” cooed the old woman. “Does that every time. Don’t know what he would do if he ever caught that cuckoo.”
Tom looked at Garren, exasperated.
“Rita,” said Garren gently.
The old woman sighed and put her plate on the table. Tom and Garren heard a soft click as the witch reached underneath the table and triggered some hidden mechanism. She pulled on the middle leg on her side of the table, and it pivoted from the bottom, revealing a hollow centre. Rita plunged her hand into the top of the leg, emerging with several rolls of parchment.
“Rita,” said Garren, shocked. “Those aren’t the lost scrolls of the ancients, are they?”
“Nope,” said the witch, indignantly. “I never lost ’em. I thinks of ’em more as the pinched scrolls of the Ancients.”
“You are so bad, you know that, don’t you?” Garren said. “Everyone has been looking for those scrolls for over two hundred years.”
“Just keeping ’em safe,” she answered. “Now, how much does he know?
“Almost nothing,” Garren replied. “Although he does appear to have a natural talent for magic.”
“Hmm, he would,” the old lady mumbled unrolling the scroll. “Better start from the beginning then.” Turning her attention to the boy, she cleared her throat and began.
“Many thousands of millennia ago, before any living creature walked these lands, before grass carpeted the plains or trees sprang from the ground, there was no magic. The world was all barren and not a very nice place at all. Then from the fires in the depths of the world, the first spark of mystical energy came together with indestructible elements, bonded and began to grow, getting stronger and stronger. Eventually, they grew into an egg out of which, after many hundreds of years the first dragon emerged. Illemborn she was called. Illemborn burrowed and clawed her way through the ground, finally emerging here, at the foot of Mount Iragoth. She brought magic with her into the world, spreading its life-giving influence across the land. Illemborn, it is written, spread her great wings, and the ground turned green with lush grass. Much nicer. She shaped the lands and made sure that everything was just right for the little critters to evolve into the bigger critters. When she was satisfied everything was just right, and she weren’t needed no more, she left for the stars to take magic to other worlds.
“In the thousands of centuries that followed a great race of people evolved known as the Ancient Ones. In their long reign over this world, they became very well versed in magic and became the Guardians of the immense power that came into the world with the great dragon.
“They built the monastery around the place where Illemborn tunnelled to the surface, a deep hole leading to the fires at the centre of the world; the Well of Fire it’s called. It’s the only place where a genuinely magical object can be destroyed.
“The Ancients also discovered the terrible secrets of pure magic. They found how it could be used to level mountains, command the elements, destroy whole worlds, snuff out life and create it again with the wave of a hand and it terrified them. They saw in a jiffy how, in the wrong hands it could be used to bring slavery, misery and death. And indeed, it wasn’t long before one of them gave in to temptation and tried to use the power for his own ends. But it consumed him, darkness took him over, and he almost destroyed this world. Baphomet was his name.
“The Ancients did everything they could to try and stop him, and many of ’em lost their lives in the war that followed. But, eventually, a great hero came to their aid, ended the war and stopped the ‘Fury’, as they called ’im. They couldn’t destroy the beggar, you see, ’im bein’ so strong, so they imprisoned him in a silver sphere and hid it deep underground. The location was kept secret, and it was protected with spells and enchantments so it could never be found.
“Well after that they knew something had to be done to ensure the same thing never happened again. The Ancients summoned the Great Dragon and told her what’d been goin’ on.
“So, Illemborn created a book, the Dragon’s Tome, to hold the secrets of the most powerful magic and enchanted it so that it could never be read without a key. The Tome was kept here at Iragoth, and the key was split into thirteen pieces, one for each of the thirteen elders. They all had to be in agreement before the power of the Tome could be used.
“All was just dandy for many centuries until the new races began to come here from your world, where men became aware of magical beings and persecuted them out of fear. There were so many humans in your world that in the end, the peace-loving immortals left and came here.
“By this time most of the Ancients had left to explore the stars and other realms. The few who remained became more and more concerned that the new races would find the Tome, unlock the secrets and succumb to the evil that almost destroyed the world all those years ago. So they decided to lock away the book in the stone vaults beneath the monastery and hide the key where they were sure no one would ever find it; in the body of a righteous host, on your world.
“Now, a few years ago, the Tome was discovered by a stranger. He couldn’t read the terrible secrets it contained, but he was able to siphon off some of its power, giving him the oomph to take over the monastery and enslave the population of our little town. Since then, Balfour has been obsessed with finding the key that was hidden all that time ago. He suspects it was hidden in your world, but he lacks these few scrolls of Ancient records, what I’s managed to keep hidden from him here. They would tell him what to look for and how to use it.”
“But how does this affect me?” asked Tom.
“The prophecy,” the witch replied, unrolling the scroll.
“In the earliest years of Frock in the third age of Capricorn,” she read, “Tomar, the Great Knight of ancient battles, and bearer of the Key of Iragoth will come in childhood innocence, bringing light to the great darkness that shrouds the world. Slavery will be ended, famine will cease, the imprisoned shall be released... and so on, you know the usual saviour of the world stuff.”
“But I still don’t get what this has to do with me?” said Tom.
“Oh blimey, he ain’t the brightest star in the sky, is he?” said the witch to Garren. “You’re the Great Knight, you prune.”
“Me!” exclaimed Tom, jumping up out of his chair and startling Frank, who leapt on to Garren’s lap. “I’m not a knight. My name is Knight, Thomas Knight. I’ve never been in any ancient battles, and the only key I’ve got is to our front door.”
“Well,” said the witch, irritably. “These prophecies are open to interpretation, you know. And anyway, these Ancients might have been bloomin’ clever with the magic and all that, but their spelling was atrocious. No, honestly. You need a degree in cryptography just to read the damn thing. Tomar, Thomas it’s close enough,” she shrugged.
“Rita, the prophesy stated that the saviour would come in the age of Capricorn, we are still in Sagittarius. Are you absolutely sure he is the one?” Garren asked.
“Yes. Definitely. Absolutely. He passed the test. Look at my telescope,” she declared. “Anyway, the first year of Capricorn is only a week away. The Ancients were never known for the accuracy of their calendars.” She paused, and her face began to look worried. “But there is always the possibility that our current predicament is not the darkness they foretold, but just the prelude to it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Garren alarmed.
“I’ve read and re-read the ancient scriptures, and I’ve never been truly convinced that Balfour is the great evil. I can feel it in my old bones. Something is coming. Something much worse. And it chills me to my very soul.”
A silence descended on the room for a moment, everyone avoiding looking at everyone else. Then suddenly the witch sprang up and said, “Are you sure you won’t have some tea? It won’t take a jiffy.”
The two guests declined, and Tom asked again about the key he was supposed to have.
“Don’t you understand,” said the old lady. “The key don’t fit no lock. It’s like a cypher or code, but a magical one. It was hidden in your world in a place where it could not be found; inside a human. Down the centuries the key has passed from one person to another, without them ever knowing about it. The key is inside your head, deary. You are the key.”
Tom sat back down, flabbergasted. “I’m the key,” he said, trying to convince himself. “But I don’t know anything.”
“And you won’t till you come into contact with the Tome,” said Garren. Then turning to Rita. “What should we do?”
“Well it’s no use killing him, the key will just move on,” she said, ignoring the boy’s gulp. “We can’t send him back to his own world. The only thing we have going for us is that Balfour don’t know what he’s a looking for. I reckons that if we can get the Tome away from him and use it to open the portal back to nipper’s world, we could send both of them through it. Balfour would lose his power and young Tomar here, could hide the book on his side where no one knows of its existence.”
“Aren’t you worried I might use it like that Bathmat bloke?” asked the boy.
“No, if you were a wrong un, the key would never have chosen you. As far as that’s concerned I would trust you with anything, even Frank.” The tabby looked at her and meowed his objection.
“How are we going to get it away from him?” asked Garren.
“I’m just your ideas witch, how you do it is your own affair. But that is what you are going to have to do and do it quick an’ all. It’s only a matter of time before he works out what the key is.”
“Is there no other way?” Garren said, hopefully.
“Yes,” replied Rita with a smile. “Get the book and get the boy and chuck ’em both in the well and everyone would be safe.”
“Stuff that!” said Tom loudly. “If there are so many upset people around, why not get them to rebel, storm the monastery and take the book?”
“We don’t know who is on his side,” said Garren. “If he gets tipped off, he would be able to crush us all in an instant. No, the fewer people who know about this, the better. There is a way we can get into the monastery, or at least there was, I don’t know if he has discovered it. It won’t be easy.” He got up.
“Rita, can I use your mirror?”
“This is not the time to check your hair,” said Tom. He had not expected Garren to be vain.
Rita nodded. Garren stood before the mirror with his staff in his hand.
“Valcris Kalmar, hear me,” he said, looking at the mirror. At once, his staff illuminated the mirror, and Garren’s reflection shimmered for a moment in a haze of mist that existed only in the glass. Then as Garren’s face was completely obscured by the fog, another face materialised. It was thin and pale and belonged to a young man of about twenty, with short curly black hair.
“Garren,” said the face. “How are you, my old friend?” The accent was Eastern European, Tom was sure.
“Greetings Val,” Garren replied. “Are you busy at the moment?”
“Not at all, my friend. I’m just doing the washing up.” He held up two wet rubber-gloved hands.
“Got a bit of a quest on, wondered if you were interested?” said Garren.
“Ah,” the face in the mirror beamed. “Dangerous?”
“Very.”
“Wonderful! Put me down for it.”
“Thank you, old friend. Can you contact our other friends, and if they are willing, we shall meet tonight in the tavern?” said Garren.
“Consider it done. Till tonight then.” With a wave of a soapy yellow hand, the mist engulfed Valcris, and Garren’s face reappeared in the mirror.
“Cool! You got video phones,” said Tom, impressed.
“Thank you, Rita,” Garren said, ignoring the strange reference. “Come, Tom, we have to prepare.”
“You take care, and remember what I said, there may be worse things to come before we get out of this,” said Rita, showing them to the door.
“Thank you,” Tom said.
“What a polite boy,” said the witch, touching him on the cheek with a gnarled old hand. “Dress warmly, won’t you. Garren, don’t you go forgetting my Hummingbugs next time.”
The two robed figures made their way out into the sunshine and along the path to the gate. Once through the gate and back into the cold, snowy street, they turned and waved at the witch, then went back the way they came.
“Well Frank, this is it. There goes our last hope for the evil yet to come. One thing is for sure: when it gets here it’ll make Balfour look like a stroppy schoolgirl... Tut, he is so young, poor lad.”
“Meow,” said Frank.