The butler escorted Darkus into Towering Heights. It was a cathedral of white, punctuated by polished steel, glossy black fixtures, and red fabric. It reminded Darkus of a modern art gallery. He was led to a sweeping staircase with a bloodred carpet and ebony banister, and they climbed up two flights of stairs to the third floor, passing landings displaying globular sculptures of glass and aluminum.

The butler pointed at a door on the landing ahead of him, and Darkus stepped up to it as the butler melted backward and disappeared. Darkus knocked on the door, his heart in his mouth. There was no response, so he gently pushed and the door swung open.

“Hello?” The room was dark.

“I knew you’d come,” a voice said from the darkness.

“You did?” Darkus strained to see who was speaking.

A spotlight flickered on, lighting a Persian rug in the center of the room.

“I could tell from the first time our eyes met that you’d follow me to the ends of the earth.”

Novak Cutter stepped into the spotlight.

She was wearing a white floor-length dress, her platinum curls sculpted around her face and an ostrich feather boa draped over her shoulders. She placed the back of her delicate hand on her forehead, letting the feather boa slide to the floor.

Relieved, Darkus came forward into the room and picked it up. He opened his mouth to speak.

“No,” she whispered, covering his mouth with her hand. “Don’t say it. There can never be anything between us. I’m promised to another.”

“What?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love me.” Novak clutched her hands to her chest as if her heart were trying to fly away.

“Sorry, but”—Darkus dropped the boa and stepped backward—“y-y-you’ve got the wrong—”

“You heartless beast.” She looked straight at him. “Your eyes”—she reached out her arms—“they call out to me.”

“They do?” Darkus shuffled backward toward the door. “It’s not on purpose.”

“You can’t leave.” Novak collapsed to her knees and began to weep.

“Um, please don’t cry.” Darkus looked about nervously. “I’m sure you’re very nice . . . but, er, I don’t know you.”

“I’m Novak Cutter,” she sobbed.

“I know your name.”

“You picked up my card?”

Darkus nodded and wondered whether now would be a good time to bring up the beetles.

“And you came here.” Novak eyes sparkled with tears. “Why?” she whispered.

“This may sound strange . . .”

“You don’t need to explain,” she said, shuffling closer. “You’ve come to set me free from this prison.”

“Are you a prisoner?” Darkus looked about in alarm. The room was dark, the curtains closed. He couldn’t see if there were bars on the windows.

“Let’s run away together, to Africa. We’ll hunt lions and sleep out under the stars,” Novak said in a dreamy voice, moving closer, still on her knees.

“Why are you talking all crazy?”

“Oh, my darling!” She threw her arms around Darkus’s legs. “You love me. I know you do!”

Flustered, Darkus tried to step out of her grasp, lost his balance, and fell to the floor.

“Let go! What are you doing?”

“Say you love me!” she cried out, clinging to his ankles.

“No. I won’t. Stop it!” Darkus shouted crossly. “I don’t love you.” He tried to crawl away. “I was going to ask for your help, but you’re obviously bonkers.”

“There’s no need to be rude,” Novak said sharply, letting go of him. She got up and brushed herself off. “You could have at least had the decency to pretend you loved me.”

“But I don’t love you!”

“I heard you the first time.” She turned away. “There’s no need to rub it in.”

Darkus had never been so confused.

“When I saw you across the street, looking all lovesick—”

“I wasn’t lovesick.”

“I thought you’d come to see me because I blew you that kiss. I even put on my best dress.” She smoothed down the satin of her skirt. “I saw you hide in the hedge when those weird men came. I thought it ever so romantic. That’s why I sent Gerard to let you in.”

“Gerard?”

“Our butler,” said Novak. “I thought you’d come to tell me that you loved me.” She picked up her feather boa.

“That’s not why I’m here . . .”

“Obviously.”

“It’s your mum, you see; she wants to buy these beetles from my neighbors and—”

“She doesn’t see children—doesn’t even like them.” Novak walked to the door. “But I’ll let Gerard know that it’s her you want to see.”

“No, wait,” Darkus called after her. “It’s you I came to see.”

Novak gave an exasperated sigh and spun round. “Make your mind up.”

Darkus got to his feet. “I need your help.”

“Really?” Novak said sarcastically.

“Yes.” Darkus stepped toward her. “Please listen. My dad has”—he chose his words carefully—“disappeared, and I think the reason might be to do with these beetles I found living next door to me, and your mother wants to buy them, and—”

“Beetles? Yuck!” Novak wrinkled her tiny nose. “Nasty, dirty, creepy-crawly things.”

“These beetles are special, and if they have anything to do with my dad’s disappearance, I’ve got to protect them.” Darkus could see he was losing her attention. “I was hoping you might be able to find out more about them, or even persuade your mother to leave the beetles alone.”

Novak let out a mean peal of laughter. “Open your eyes, boy.”

“I have a name.”

“What is it?”

“Darkus.”

“Well then, Darkus”—Novak sashayed over to the light switch—“look around you.” The walls, previously hidden in shadow, were suddenly brightly illuminated.

Darkus pivoted. He was in an oak-paneled library filled with leather-bound books and solid wooden furniture. An imposing portrait hung above the fireplace, a studded leather armchair beside it. On the mantelpiece was a lump of amber. At its heart was a beetle with horns; it looked like a miniature bull.

Novak followed his eyes. “That’s Onthophagus taurus.”

“A what?”

“It’s a species of dung beetle that can pull a load over a thousand times its own body weight”—Novak sounded bored—“which is like you pulling six London buses. It’s the strongest insect in the world.”

“He’s magnificent,” Darkus replied. “It’s a shame he’s dead.”

“Mater caught it on one of her beetle safaris in Africa. She had it dipped in resin and made into a trophy.”

“Who is Mater?”

“Don’t you go to school?” Novak sneered. “Mater is Latin for Mother. Lucretia Cutter doesn’t like to be referred to as Mother, unless it is in the Latin form.”

“You don’t call her Mum?”

“No,” Novak replied, making it clear that was the end of the conversation.

Darkus changed the subject. “She goes on beetle safaris?” He wondered if a beetle safari was like an insect hunt.

“Once a year,” Novak said. “She always comes back with new species for her personal collection.”

“Is that the one at the Natural History Museum?” Darkus asked.

“Ha! No. She sponsors that one; she doesn’t own it. As the sponsor, she can control who gets to see it and find out what their research is about. This is where she keeps her private collection.”

“Who’s that?” Darkus pointed at the portrait.

“That is Sir Charles Darwin by Gracen and Gracen. It’s made of the thorax and wing casings of scarab beetles.” Novak sounded like she was reading from a textbook. “In those drawers”—she pointed to a deep cabinet that stretched along the only wall without books—“is the Carson Coleoptera Collection from 1903, containing beetles from East Asia.”

Darkus pulled open one of the thin wooden drawers. Inside, hundreds of brightly colored beetles were lined up next to one another. Each had a pin stuck through its right elytron, like the specimen trays in the museum.

“The carpet and curtains”—Novak was relishing her TV voice-over persona and speaking in an exaggerated singsong tone—“are made of silk from worms, and stained red by the blood of the cochineal bug, which isn’t a beetle, although many people think that it is.”

Darkus looked around. This room, with its heavy red curtains and brown leather armchairs, was grander than the room at the museum, but really it was the same—a room filled with dead beetles.

“Each leather-bound volume in this, the personal library of Lucretia Cutter”—Novak was dancing around the room now—“is part of a rare scientific collection of books mapping the history of beetle evolution.”

“So many dead beetles,” Darkus said quietly.

“Yeah, it gives me the creeps,” Novak said in her normal voice. “But I would rather they were dead than alive.”

“How can you say that?” Darkus asked, surprised. “Beetles are amazing.”

Novak screwed up her face. “No. They are all creepy and crawly and gross.”

“You aren’t looking at them properly.”

“I see quite enough of beetles every day, thank you very much.”

“Dead ones?”

“Of course dead ones, stupid.” Novak sighed, exasperated.

“But I don’t understand. Why’d you bring me here if you don’t like it?”

“Because all the rooms above this floor are out of bounds to visitors, and Mater is downstairs with guests. This was the only room I could use without her knowing.”

“If she already has all these beetles, why does she want more?”

“I don’t know.” Novak shrugged. “Mater is a serious collector. She’s obsessed. I have a lesson every day about insects. She says it’s important for my future that I know all about them. That’s how I know their Latin names.”

“What’s she going to do with my beetles? Is she going to stick pins in them and put them in drawers?”

“Don’t know. Probably.” Novak gave a curt nod. “Unless it’s for work.”

“She’s a beetle killer?”

“You really are stupid,” Novak giggled.

Darkus smiled. “Thanks.”

“Mater owns Cutter Couture. You know, with the scarab logo?”

Darkus nodded. “Bertolt told me about it, but what’s fashion got to do with beetles?”

“Who’s Bertolt?”

“My friend.”

“Oh.” Novak sniffed. “Cutter Couture is the biggest fashion brand in the world. It makes designer clothes and things, and the secret ingredients of all Mater’s products come from insects. But that’s boring. The best bit is that she’s started putting her money into films. She’s a movie producer now, and I’m going to be a huge movie star. I’ve already done my first film, and I’ve been nominated for an award.”

“Really?”

“Don’t I look like a star?” Novak turned away, looked over her shoulder, and gave him a dazzling Hollywood smile. She held the well-practiced pose for an alarming length of time.

“I suppose.” Darkus scratched his head and looked around the room. “But I don’t understand what this has to do with my beetles.”

“Who cares? Beetles are boring.” Novak walked over to the window. “Darkus is a good name for a love interest. I don’t suppose you’re a stable boy. Stable boys always rescue fair maidens in the stories, and then they turn out to be princes.”

“No. I go to school, like all boys.” Darkus snorted.

“Are you sure you don’t want to kiss me?” Novak said, hiding her face behind a curtain and peeping out.

“Yes.”

“Not even just a little bit?”

“Look, you’re really nice and everything, but—”

“Oh, you’re so dull!” Novak slapped her hands down on her dress in frustration. “Why are you still here?”

Darkus persevered. “Those weird men you saw—they’re the ones with all the beetles in their house. They’ve come here to sell the insects to your mother.”

“It must be an unusual infestation,” Novak said, surprised. “Mater’s not in the pest control business.”

“She visited them,” Darkus said, “that day you saw me in the window—”

“I wondered why we were on that horrible street.”

“—and you dropped your card for me.”

“You make it sound as if I were in love with you.” Novak bristled. “I’m not. I’m practicing being in love. There’s a difference.” She clenched her fists. “It’s important for my acting, and you don’t even have the decency to play along!” She stamped away and threw herself into the enormous armchair. “You obviously don’t think I’m a bit pretty, ’cause all you want to talk about is icky bugs.”

“Please don’t get upset.” Darkus approached her chair. “I’m just looking for my dad.”

“Well, I don’t know where he is.”

“The thing is, these beetles . . . I think they’re somehow linked to my dad’s disappearance. They’re different from normal beetles—they’re special—and that’s why I want to protect them. One of them, Baxter, is my best friend.”

“Your best friend is a beetle?” Novak scoffed.

“Yes. Would you like to meet him?” Darkus knelt down at her feet, took off his backpack, and pulled out Baxter’s jam jar.

“It’s alive!” Novak shrank back into the chair. “Oh no! I don’t like it. Get it away from me.”

Darkus unscrewed the lid, putting Baxter on the flat of his hand. “He’s harmless.”

Baxter lifted his elytra and flew straight back into the jar.

“It flew,” Novak said, amazed. “I’ve never seen a beetle fly before.” She leaned forward.

“Usually, he sits on my hand quite happily,” Darkus said, puzzled.

“Perhaps he doesn’t like me,” Novak said mournfully.

“It’s probably this room.” Darkus looked around. “It’s full of dead beetles. You wouldn’t like to be in a room full of dead people, would you?”

Novak shook her head.

“It’s all right, Baxter. Novak is a friend.” Darkus turned the jar on its side and put his hand out. Baxter didn’t move. “Come out and say hello, and then you can go straight back into the jar and I’ll put you safely away in my bag. I promise.”

Novak laughed as Darkus talked to the beetle but stopped when Baxter walked forward and stepped onto his hand.

“Beetles can’t understand humans,” she said, astonished.

“That’s right,” Darkus said, bringing his hand before Novak. “Ordinary beetles can’t, but I told you—these aren’t ordinary beetles.” Darkus ran his finger over Baxter’s glistening wing cases. “Say hello to Baxter.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Pretend you’re in a movie, and Baxter is a handsome soldier returning from battle.”

“But he’s a beetle.” Novak was appalled. “A big spiky gross one.”

“Call yourself an actor?”

Novak pouted. “All right, give me a moment.” She sank back into the chair, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Opening her eyes again, she sat up and, lowering her head and looking through fluttering eyelashes, said in an American accent: “What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, Corporal Baxter. I have heard many great things about your bravery in battle.”

Baxter lowered his horn.

“He bowed!” Novak looked at Darkus in surprise.

“He’s returning your greeting.” Darkus smiled.

“Will he fly for me, do you think?” Novak asked, excited.

“I don’t see why not.” Darkus whispered to the beetle, waving his index finger in a pattern in the air. Baxter spread his wings and jumped into flight, making a noisy circuit of the room, the vibration of his wings throbbing like a distant engine.

Novak laughed with delight. “Can I touch him?”

“I’m sure he won’t mind.” Darkus grinned as the beetle landed on his hand.

Novak reached out and gave Baxter’s thorax a gentle stroke before touching the tip of his horn. “Ouch! It’s like a needle!” she exclaimed, holding out her hand in front of Darkus’s. “Can I hold him?”

Baxter was already crawling onto Novak’s palm.

“I think he likes you.”

“Really?” Novak smiled at Darkus. “Gosh, he’s heavy, isn’t he?”

Lifting his elytra, Baxter opened his flying wings and jumped into the air. He zoomed in a figure eight around Darkus and Novak, returning to her outstretched hand.

“He does like me!” laughed Novak happily.

Darkus held the jar on its side and Baxter crawled in. “So, you see, my best friend is a beetle,” he said, putting the jar into his backpack. “Now do you believe that I need your help?”

“Yes, but I can’t help you. I mean, what can I do?”

“Do you know if your mother knows my dad? His name is Bartholomew Cuttle. He works at the National History Museum.”

Novak shrugged. “She does know people at the museum, but I don’t know who they are. I’ve never heard that name before, and I’d remember it, because it sounds like mine.” She looked at him curiously. “Is Cuttle your surname too?”

Darkus nodded. “Cutter. Cuttle.” He sounded the names out. “Your name sounds sharper.”

“Cutter’s not Mater’s real name. Did you know that?”

Darkus shook his head. “What’s her real name?”

“Lucy Johnstone. Isn’t that a nice, friendly-sounding name? She changed her name to Lucretia Cutter before I was born, when she set up her business. ‘Cutter’ is what they call a tailor who invents patterns for clothes. It’s good for a fashion designer, but I think Lucy Johnstone is much prettier.”

“Well, whether your mother knows my dad or not, I still need to find out why she wants those beetles, and what she plans to do with them.”

“Is Mater your enemy?” Novak asked, frowning.

Darkus felt his cheeks grow hot as he tried to answer. “I don’t know. Maybe if you explained to her why she shouldn’t kill the beetles . . .”

Novak shook her head. “Nothing stops her from getting what she wants. Look at how amazing Baxter is. If she knew he were here, she’d make him into a trophy, just like poor Onthophagus taurus.”

A chill traveled down Darkus’s spine as he realized the danger he was putting Baxter in, bringing him into this house.

“I should go.” He pulled his backpack on. “Look, I understand why you can’t help us, but I’ll be your friend for life if you can help me and Baxter get out of here without being seen.”

“I’ve never had a friend.” Novak sounded the word out like it was new to her.

“You must have school friends.”

“I don’t go to school.” She shook her head. “I have a tutor, Ms. Boyle.”

“Well, I’m your friend now, and Baxter is your friend, too,” Darkus said, “and if you help me get out of here, we’ll have a secret as well, which makes us even better friends.”

“A secret? Oh yes, I like that.” Novak leapt to her feet. “Friends are better than love interests.”

“Much.”

“If Mater knew we were friends, she would forbid it.” Novak’s eyes were shining.

“Why?”

“She says I don’t need friends because everyone will want to be my friend when I’m famous.”

“That’s not friendship.”

“Do you think being famous is silly?”

“A person ought to be famous for doing something really good or really difficult, like climbing Mount Everest or landing on Mars,” replied Darkus. “If you were a famous explorer, I’d think you were amazing.”

“How about a spy?” Novak asked, looking mischievous.

“A spy?”

“You want to find out what Mater and your neighbors are planning?”

Darkus nodded.

“Well, only a world-famous spy can help you, then.” She shot him a look loaded with mystery, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled on a large red book. The section of shelves that made up that part of the wall slid backward.

“You have secret passages in your house?” Darkus’s jaw dropped open.

“They aren’t secret if you know they’re there,” Novak said, stepping into the gap between the shelves.